“Poor man!” said she, “he really loves.”
As he heard the words, misunderstanding their meaning, the Baron turned pale, the blood tingled in his veins, he breathed the airs of heaven. At his age a millionaire, for such a sensation, will pay as much gold as a woman can ask.
“I lofe you like vat I lofe my daughter,” said he. “An’ I feel dere”—and he laid her hand over his heart—“dat I shall not bear to see you anyting but happy.”
“If you would only be a father to me, I would love you very much; I would never leave you; and you would see that I am not a bad woman, not grasping or greedy, as I must seem to you now——”
“You hafe done some little follies,” said the Baron, “like all dose pretty vomen—dat is all. Say no more about dat. It is our pusiness to make money for you. Be happy! I shall be your fater for some days yet, for I know I must make you accustom’ to my old carcase.”
“Really!” she exclaimed, springing on to Nucingen’s knees, and clinging to him with her arm round his neck.
“Really!” repeated he, trying to force a smile.
She kissed his forehead; she believed in an impossible combination—she might remain untouched and see Lucien.
She was so coaxing to the banker that she was La Torpille once more. She fairly bewitched the old man, who promised to be a father to her for forty days. Those forty days were to be employed in acquiring and arranging the house in the Rue Saint-Georges.
When he was in the street again, as he went home, the Baron said to himself, “I am an old flat.”