“Ja—who?” said the Baron.
“Bixiou told me you shammed Englishman better than he could, and I would not believe him,” said Rastignac.
“Some bankrupt caught in disguise,” said du Tillet loudly. “I suspected as much!”
“A strange place is Paris!” said Madame du Val-Noble. “After being bankrupt in his own part of town, a merchant turns up as a nabob or a dandy in the Champs-Elysees with impunity!—Oh! I am unlucky! bankrupts are my bane.”
“Every flower has its peculiar blight!” said Esther quietly. “Mine is like Cleopatra’s—an asp.”
“Who am I?” echoed Peyrade from the door. “You will know ere long; for if I die, I will rise from my grave to clutch your feet every night!”
He looked at Esther and Lucien as he spoke, then he took advantage of the general dismay to vanish with the utmost rapidity, meaning to run home without waiting for the coach. In the street the spy was gripped by the arm as he crossed the threshold of the outer gate. It was Asie, wrapped in a black hood such as ladies then wore on leaving a ball.
“Send for the Sacraments, Papa Peyrade,” said she, in the voice that had already prophesied ill.
A coach was waiting. Asie jumped in, and the carriage vanished as though the wind had swept it away. There were five carriages waiting; Peyrade’s men could find out nothing.
On reaching his house in the Rue des Vignes, one of the quietest and prettiest nooks of the little town of Passy, Corentin, who was known there as a retired merchant passionately devoted to gardening, found his friend Peyrade’s note in cipher. Instead of resting, he got into the hackney coach that had brought him thither, and was driven to the Rue des Moineaux, where he found only Katt. From her he heard of Lydie’s disappearance, and remained astounded at Peyrade’s and his own want of foresight.