“She expects me to believe that she means it for me,” said the Duke, patting his daughter’s hands, and looking round at Lucien, who remained quite grave.
Lucien, Monsieur d’Espard’s partner, lost twenty louis.
“My dear mother,” said Clotilde to the Duchess, “he was so judicious as to lose.”
At eleven o’clock, after a few affectionate words with Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, Lucien went home and to bed, thinking of the complete triumph he was to enjoy a month hence; for he had not a doubt of being accepted as Clotilde’s lover, and married before Lent in 1830.
On the morrow, when Lucien was smoking his cigarettes after breakfast, sitting with Carlos, who had become much depressed, M. de Saint-Esteve was announced—what a touch of irony—who begged to see either the Abbe Carlos Herrera or Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre.
“Was he told downstairs that I had left Paris?” cried the Abbe.
“Yes, sir,” replied the groom.
“Well, then, you must see the man,” said he to Lucien. “But do not say a single compromising word, do not let a sign of surprise escape you. It is the enemy.”
“You will overhear me,” said Lucien.
Carlos hid in the adjoining room, and through the crack of the door he saw Corentin, whom he recognized only by his voice, such powers of transformation did the great man possess. This time Corentin looked like an old paymaster-general.