The jester thought he was jesting; he was a prophet.
Monsieur de Nucingen did not go home till Monday at about noon. But at one o’clock his broker informed him that Mademoiselle Esther van Bogseck had sold the bond bearing thirty thousand francs interest on Friday last, and had just received the money.
“But, Monsieur le Baron, Derville’s head-clerk called on me just as I was settling this transfer; and after seeing Mademoiselle Esther’s real names, he told me she had come into a fortune of seven millions.”
“Pooh!”
“Yes, she is the only heir to the old bill-discounter Gobseck.—Derville will verify the facts. If your mistress’ mother was the handsome Dutch woman, la Belle Hollandaise, as they called her, she comes in for——”
“I know dat she is,” cried the banker. “She tolt me all her life. I shall write ein vort to Derville.”
The Baron at down at his desk, wrote a line to Derville, and sent it by one of his servants. Then, after going to the Bourse, he went back to Esther’s house at about three o’clock.
“Madame forbade our waking her on any pretence whatever. She is in bed—asleep——”
“Ach der Teufel!” said the Baron. “But, Europe, she shall not be angry to be tolt that she is fery, fery rich. She shall inherit seven millions. Old Gobseck is deat, and your mis’ess is his sole heir, for her moter vas Gobseck’s own niece; and besides, he shall hafe left a vill. I could never hafe tought that a millionaire like dat man should hafe left Esther in misery!”
“Ah, ha! Then your reign is over, old pantaloon!” said Europe, looking at the Baron with an effrontery worthy of one of Moliere’s waiting-maids. “Shooh! you old Alsatian crow! She loves you as we love the plague! Heavens above us! Millions!—Why, she may marry her lover; won’t she be glad!”