“Heyday! were have you come from?—who are you?—what do you want?” cried the Englishwoman, pulling the bell, which made no sound.
“The bells dey are in cotton-vool, but hafe not any fear—I shall go ‘vay,” said he. “Dat is dirty tousant franc I hafe tron in de vater. Are you dat mistress of Mensieur Lucien de Rubempre?”
“Rather, my son,” said the lady, who spoke French well, “But vat vas you?” she went on, mimicking Nucingen’s accent.
“Ein man vat is ver’ much took in,” replied he lamentably.
“Is a man took in ven he finds a pretty voman?” asked she, with a laugh.
“Permit me to sent you to-morrow some chewels as a soufenir of de Baron von Nucingen.”
“Don’t know him!” said she, laughing like a crazy creature. “But the chewels will be welcome, my fat burglar friend.”
“You shall know him. Goot night, motame. You are a tidbit for ein king; but I am only a poor banker more dan sixty year olt, and you hafe made me feel vat power the voman I lofe hafe ofer me since your difine beauty hafe not make me forget her.”
“Vell, dat is ver’ pretty vat you say,” replied the Englishwoman.
“It is not so pretty vat she is dat I say it to.”