“I have not had the honor of being known to you, monsieur,” Corentin began, “but——”
“Excuse my interrupting you, monsieur, but——”
“But the matter in point is your marriage to Mademoiselle Clotilde de Grandlieu—which will never take place,” Corentin added eagerly.
Lucien sat down and made no reply.
“You are in the power of a man who is able and willing and ready to prove to the Duc de Grandlieu that the lands of Rubempre are to be paid for with the money that a fool has given to your mistress, Mademoiselle Esther,” Corentin went on. “It will be quite easy to find the minutes of the legal opinions in virtue of which Mademoiselle Esther was summoned; there are ways too of making d’Estourny speak. The very clever manoeuvres employed against the Baron de Nucingen will be brought to light.
“As yet all can be arranged. Pay down a hundred thousand francs, and you will have peace.—All this is no concern of mine. I am only the agent of those who levy this blackmail; nothing more.”
Corentin might have talked for an hour; Lucien smoked his cigarette with an air of perfect indifference.
“Monsieur,” replied he, “I do not want to know who you are, for men who undertake such jobs as these have no name—at any rate, in my vocabulary. I have allowed you to talk at your leisure; I am at home.—You seem to me not bereft of common sense; listen to my dilemma.”
There was a pause, during which Lucien met Corentin’s cat-like eye fixed on him with a perfectly icy stare.
“Either you are building on facts that are absolutely false, and I need pay no heed to them,” said Lucien; “or you are in the right; and in that case, by giving you a hundred thousand francs, I put you in a position to ask me for as many hundred thousand francs as your employer can find Saint-Esteves to ask for.