“My children,” said Carlos, “your dream is over.--You, little one, will never see Lucien again; or if you should, you must have known him only for a few days, five years ago.” “Death has come upon me then,” said she, without shedding a tear. “Well, you have been ill these five years,” said Herrera. “Imagine yourself to be consumptive, and die without boring us with your lamentations. But you will see, you can still live, and very comfortably too.--Leave us, Lucien--go and gather sonnets!” said he, pointing to a field a little way off. Lucien cast a look of humble entreaty at Esther, one of the looks peculiar to such men--weak and greedy, with tender hearts and cowardly spirits. Esther answered with a bow of her head, which said: “I will hear the executioner, that I may know how to lay my head under the axe, and I shall have courage enough to die decently.” The gesture was so gracious, but so full of dreadful meaning, that the poet wept; Esther flew to him, clasped him in her arms, drank away the tears, and said, “Be quite easy!” one of those speeches that are spoken with the manner, the look, the tones of delirium. Carlos then explained to her quite clearly, without attenuation, often with horrible plainness of speech, the critical position in which Lucien found himself, his connection with the Hotel Grandlieu, his splendid prospects if he should succeed; and finally, how necessary it was that Esther should sacrifice herself to secure him this triumphant future. “What must I do?” cried she, with the eagerness of a fanatic. “Obey me blindly,” said Carlos. “And what have you to complain of? It rests with you to achieve a happy lot. You may be what Tullia is, what your old friends Florine, Mariette, and la Val-Noble are--the mistress of a rich man whom you need not love. When once our business is settled, your lover is rich enough to make you happy.” “Happy!” said she, raising her eyes to heaven. “You have lived in Paradise for four years,” said he. “Can you not live on such memories?” “I will obey you,” said she, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “For the rest, do not worry yourself. You have said it; my love is a mortal disease.” “That is not enough,” said Carlos; “you must preserve your looks. At a little past two-and-twenty you are in the prime of your beauty, thanks to your past happiness. And, above all, be the ‘Torpille’ again. Be roguish, extravagant, cunning, merciless to the millionaire I put in your power. Listen to me! That man is a robber on a grand scale; he has been ruthless to many persons; he has grown fat on the fortunes of the widow and the orphan; you will avenge them!