ining-room, old Peyrade,
who had drunk a great deal, was swallowing the cherry off his ice. They
were drinking to the health of Madame du Val-Noble; the nabob filled his
glass with Constantia and emptied it.

In spite of his distress at the news he had to give Peyrade, Contenson
was struck by the eager attention with which Paccard was looking at
the nabob. His eyes sparkled like two fixed flames. Although it seemed
important, still this could not delay the mulatto, who leaned over his
master, just as Peyrade set his glass down.

"Lydie is at home," said Contenson, "in a very bad state."

Peyrade rattled out the most French of all French oaths with such a
strong Southern accent that all the guests looked up in amazement.
Peyrade, discovering his blunder, acknowledged his disguise by saying to
Contenson in good French:

"Find me a coach--I'm off."

Every one rose.

"Why, who are you?" said Lucien.

"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 Pey