But this was the result.
Five days after Monsieur de Nucingen’s interview with Peyrade in the Champs Elysees, a man of about fifty called in the morning, stepping out of a handsome cab, and flinging the reins to his servant. He had the dead-white complexion which a life in the “world” gives to diplomates, was dressed in blue cloth, and had a general air of fashion—almost that of a Minister of State.
He inquired of the servant who sat on a bench on the steps whether the Baron de Nucingen were at home; and the man respectfully threw open the splendid plate-glass doors.
“Your name, sir?” said the footman.
“Tell the Baron that I have come from the Avenue Gabriel,” said Corentin. “If anybody is with him, be sure not to say so too loud, or you will find yourself out of place!”
A minute later the man came back and led Corentin by the back passages to the Baron’s private room.
Corentin and the banker exchanged impenetrable glances, and both bowed politely.
“Monsieur le Baron,” said Corentin, “I come in the name of Peyrade——”
“Ver’ gott!” said the Baron, fastening the bolts of both doors.
“Monsieur de Rubempre’s mistress lives in the Rue Taitbout, in the apartment formerly occupied by Mademoiselle de Bellefeuille, M. de Granville’s ex-mistress—the Attorney-General——”