beauty, and the style you have acquired at the Convent, would at once be observed in Paris.  The day when any one in the world, whoever it be,” he added in an awful voice, seconded by an awful look, “learns that Lucien is your lover, or that you are his mistress, that day will be your last but one on earth.  I have procured that boy a patent permitting him to bear the name and arms of his maternal ancestors.  Still, this is not all; we have not yet recovered the title of Marquis; and to get it, he must marry a girl of good family, in whose favor the King will grant this distinction.  Such an alliance will get Lucien on in the world and at Court.  This boy, of whom I have made a man, will be first Secretary to an Embassy; later, he shall be Minister at some German Court, and God, or I—­better still—­helping him, he will take his seat some day on the bench reserved for peers——­”

“Or on the bench reserved for——­” Lucien began, interrupting the man.

“Hold your tongue!” cried Carlos, laying his broad hand on Lucien’s mouth.  “Would you tell such a secret to a woman?” he muttered in his ear.

“Esther!  A woman!” cried the poet of Les Marguerites.

“Still inditing sonnets!” said the Spaniard.  “Nonsense!  Sooner or later all these angels relapse into being women, and every woman at moments is a mixture of a monkey and a child, two creatures who can kill us for fun.—­Esther, my jewel,” said he to the terrified girl, “I have secured as your waiting-maid a creature who is as much mine as if she were my daughter.  For your cook, you shall have a mulatto woman, which gives style to a house.  With Europe and Asie you can live here for a thousand-franc note a month like a queen—­a stage queen.  Europe has been a dressmaker, a milliner, and a stage super; Asie has cooked for an epicure Milord.  These two women will serve you like two fairies.”

Seeing Lucien go completely to the wall before this man, who was guilty at least of sacrilege and forgery, this woman, sanctified by her love, felt an awful fear in the depths of her heart.  She made no reply, but dragged Lucien into her room, and asked him: 

“Is he the devil?”

“He is far worse to me!” he vehemently replied.  “But if you love me, try to imitate that man’s devotion to me, and obey him on pain of death!——­”

“Of death!” she exclaimed, more frightened than ever.

“Of death,” repeated Lucien.  “Alas! my darling, no death could be compared with that which would befall me if——­”

Esther turned pale at his words, and felt herself fainting.

“Well, well,” cried the sacrilegious forger, “have you not yet spelt out your daisy-petals?”

Esther and Lucien came out, and the poor girl, not daring to look at the mysterious man, said: 

“You shall be obeyed as God is obeyed, monsieur.”

“Good,” said he.  “You may be very happy for a time, and you will need only nightgowns and wrappers—­that will be very economical.”