And she fled into her room and locked the door.
“Dere is someting fery strange in all dat,” thought Nucingen, excited by his pillules. “Vat shall dey say at home?”
He got up and looked out of the window. “My carriage still is dere. It shall soon be daylight.” He walked up and down the room.
“Vat Montame de Nucingen should laugh at me ven she should know how I hafe spent dis night!”
He applied his ear to the bedroom door, thinking himself rather too much of a simpleton.
“Esther!”
No reply.
“Mein Gott! and she is still veeping!” said he to himself, as he stretched himself on the sofa.
About ten minutes after sunrise, the Baron de Nucingen, who was sleeping the uneasy slumbers that are snatched by compulsion in an awkward position on a couch, was aroused with a start by Europe from one of those dreams that visit us in such moments, and of which the swift complications are a phenomenon inexplicable by medical physiology.
“Oh, God help us, madame!” she shrieked. “Madame!—the soldiers—gendarmes—bailiffs! They have come to take us.”