“However, to put an end, once and for all, to your kind intervention, I would have you know that I, Lucien de Rubempre, fear no one. I have no part in the jobbery of which you speak. If the Grandlieus make difficulties, there are other young ladies of very good family ready to be married. After all, it is no loss to me if I remain single, especially if, as you imagine, I deal in blank bills to such advantage.”
“If Monsieur l’Abbe Carlos Herrera——”
“Monsieur,” Lucien put in, “the Abbe Herrera is at this moment on the way to Spain. He has nothing to do with my marriage, my interests are no concern of his. That remarkable statesman was good enough to assist me at one time with his advice, but he has reports to present to his Majesty the King of Spain; if you have anything to say to him, I recommend you to set out for Madrid.”
“Monsieur,” said Corentin plainly, “you will never be Mademoiselle Clotilde de Grandlieu’s husband.”
“So much the worse for her!” replied Lucien, impatiently pushing Corentin towards the door.
“You have fully considered the matter?” asked Corentin coldly.
“Monsieur, I do not recognize that you have any right either to meddle in my affairs, or to make me waste a cigarette,” said Lucien, throwing away his cigarette that had gone out.
“Good-day, monsieur,” said Corentin. “We shall not meet again.—But there will certainly be a moment in your life when you would give half your fortune to have called me back from these stairs.”
In answer to this threat, Carlos made as though he were cutting off a head.
“Now to business!” cried he, looking at Lucien, who was as white as ashes after this dreadful interview.