“Listen to me,” said Asie, “and that will sober you.--Though you do not love Madame du Val-Noble, you love your daughter, I suppose?” “My daughter?” Peyrade echoed with a roar. “Yes, Mademoiselle Lydie.” “What then?” “What then? She is no longer in the Rue des Moineaux; she has been carried off.” Peyrade breathed a sigh like that of a soldier dying of a mortal wound on the battlefield. “While you were pretending to be an Englishman, some one else was pretending to be Peyrade. Your little Lydie thought she was with her father, and she is now in a safe place.--Oh! you will never find her! unless you undo the mischief you have done.” “What mischief?” “Yesterday Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre had the door shut in his face at the Duc de Grandlieu’s. This is due to your intrigues, and to the man you let loose on us. Do not speak, listen!” Asie went on, seeing Peyrade open his mouth. “You will have your daughter again, pure and spotless,” she added, emphasizing her statement by the accent on every word, “only on the day after that on which Monsieur Lucien de Rubempre walks out of Saint-Thomas d’Aquin as the husband of Mademoiselle Clotilde. If, within ten days Lucien de Rubempre is not admitted, as he has been, to the Grandlieus’ house, you, to begin with, will die a violent death, and nothing can save you from the fate that threatens you.--Then, when you feel yourself dying, you will have time before breathing your last to reflect, ‘My daughter is a prostitute for the rest of her life!’ “Though you have been such a fool as give us this hold for our clutches, you still have sense enough to meditate on this ultimatum from our government. Do not bark, say nothing to any one; go to Contenson’s, and change your dress, and then go home. Katt will tell you that at a word from you your little Lydie went downstairs, and has not been seen since. If you make any fuss, if you take any steps, your daughter will begin where I tell you she will end--she is promised to de Marsay. “With old Canquoelle I need not mince matters, I should think, or wear gloves, heh?----Go on downstairs, and take care not to meddle in our concerns any more.” Asie left Peyrade in a pitiable state; every word had been a blow with a club. The spy had tears in his eyes, and tears hanging from his cheeks at the end of a wet furrow. “They are waiting dinner for Mr. Johnson,” said Europe, putting her head in a moment after. Peyrade made no reply; he went down, walked till he reached a cab-stand, and hurried off to undress at Contenson’s, not saying a word to him; he resumed the costume of Pere Canquoelle, and got home by eight o’clock. He mounted the stairs with a beating heart. When the Flemish woman heard her master, she asked him: