“Yes, Madame la Duchesse. My sister, in her anxiety to promote my marriage, has made great sacrifices, and I have been enabled to repurchase the lands of the Rubempres, to reconstitute the whole estate. But I have found in my Paris lawyer a very clever man, who has managed to save me from the extortionate terms that the holders would have asked if they had known the name of the purchaser.” “Is there a chateau?” asked Clotilde, with too broad a smile. “There is something which might be called a chateau; but the wiser plan would be to use the building materials in the construction of a modern residence.” Clotilde’s eyes blazed with happiness above her smile of satisfaction. “You must play a rubber with my father this evening,” said she. “In a fortnight I hope you will be asked to dinner.” “Well, my dear sir,” said the Duc de Grandlieu, “I am told that you have bought the estate of Rubempre. I congratulate you. It is an answer to those who say you are in debt. We bigwigs, like France or England, are allowed to have a public debt; but men of no fortune, beginners, you see, may not assume that privilege----” “Indeed, Monsieur le Duc, I still owe five hundred thousand francs on my land.” “Well, well, you must marry a wife who can bring you the money; but you will have some difficulty in finding a match with such a fortune in our Faubourg, where daughters do not get large dowries.” “Their name is enough,” said Lucien. “We are only three wisk players--Maufrigneuse, d’Espard, and I--will you make a fourth?” said the Duke, pointing to the card-table. Clotilde came to the table to watch her father’s game. “She expects me to believe that she means it for me,” said the Duke, patting his daughter’s hands, and looking round at Lucien, who remained quite grave. Lucien, Monsieur d’Espard’s partner, lost twenty louis. “My dear mother,” said Clotilde to the Duchess, “he was so judicious as to lose.” At eleven o’clock, after a few affectionate words with Mademoiselle de Grandlieu, Lucien went home and to bed, thinking of the complete triumph he was to enjoy a month hence; for he had not a doubt of being accepted as Clotilde’s lover, and married before Lent in 1830. On the morrow, when Lucien was smoking his cigarettes after breakfast, sitting with Carlos, who had become much depressed, M. de Saint-Esteve was announced--what a touch of irony--who begged to see either the Abbe Carlos Herrera or Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre. “Was he told downstairs that I had left Paris?” cried the Abbe. “Yes, sir,” replied the groom. “Well, then, you must see the man,” said he to Lucien. “But do not say a single compromising word, do not let a sign of surprise escape you. It is the enemy.” “You will overhear me,” said Lucien. Carlos hid in the adjoining room, and through the crack of the door he saw Corentin, whom he recognized only by his voice, such powers of transformation did the great man possess. This time Corentin looked like an old paymaster-general.