“Esther will never——­”

“That is my concern.”

“She will die of it.”

“That is the undertaker’s concern.  Besides, what then?” cried the savage, checking Lucien’s lamentations merely by his attitude.  “How many generals died in the prime of life for the Emperor Napoleon?” he asked, after a short silence.  “There are always plenty of women.  In 1821 Coralie was unique in your eyes; and yet you found Esther.  After her will come—­do you know who?—­the unknown fair.  And she of all women is the fairest, and you will find her in the capital where the Duc de Grandlieu’s son-in-law will be Minister and representative of the King of France.—­And do you tell me now, great Baby, that Esther will die of it?  Again, can Mademoiselle de Grandlieu’s husband keep Esther?

“You have only to leave everything to me; you need not take the trouble to think at all; that is my concern.  Only you must do without Esther for a week or two; but go to the Rue Taitbout, all the same.  —­Come, be off to bill and coo on your plank of salvation, and play your part well; slip the flaming note you wrote this morning into Clotilde’s hand, and bring me back a warm response.  She will recompense herself for many woes in writing.  I take to that girl.

“You will find Esther a little depressed, but tell her to obey.  We must display our livery of virtue, our doublet of honesty, the screen behind which all great men hide their infamy.—­I must show off my handsomer self—­you must never be suspected.  Chance has served us better than my brain, which has been beating about in a void for these two months past.”

All the while he was jerking out these dreadful sentences, one by one, like pistol shots, Carlos Herrera was dressing himself to go out.

“You are evidently delighted,” cried Lucien.  “You never liked poor Esther, and you look forward with joy to the moment when you will be rid of her.”

“You have never tired of loving her, have you?  Well, I have never tired of detesting her.  But have I not always behaved as though I were sincerely attached to the hussy—­I, who, through Asie, hold her life in my hands?  A few bad mushrooms in a stew—­and there an end.  But Mademoiselle Esther still lives!—­and is happy!—­And do you know why?  Because you love her.  Do not be a fool.  For four years we have been waiting for a chance to turn up, for us or against us; well, it will take something more than mere cleverness to wash the cabbage luck has flung at us now.  There are good and bad together in this turn of the wheel—­as there are in everything.  Do you know what I was thinking of when you came in?”

“No.”

“Of making myself heir here, as I did at Barcelona, to an old bigot, by Asie’s help.”

“A crime?”

“I saw no other way of securing your fortune.  The creditors are making a stir.  If once the bailiffs were at your heels, and you were turned out of the Hotel Grandlieu, where would you be?  There would be the devil to pay then.”