“We have been toiling at my marriage for eighteen months past, and it is not yet settled,” replied Lucien. “I do not know when it can be settled; but it is not in question now, child!--It is the Abbe, I, you.--We are in real peril. Nucingen saw you----” “Yes, in the wood at Vincennes,” said she. “Did he recognize me?” “No,” said Lucien. “But he has fallen so desperately in love with you, that he would sacrifice his coffers. After dinner, when he was describing how he had met you, I was so foolish as to smile involuntarily, and most imprudently, for I live in a world like a savage surrounded by the traps of a hostile tribe. Carlos, who spares me the pains of thinking, regards the position as dangerous, and he has undertaken to pay Nucingen out if the Baron takes it into his head to spy on us; and he is quite capable of it; he spoke to me of the incapacity of the police. You have lighted a flame in an old chimney choked with soot.” “And what does your Spaniard propose to do?” asked Esther very softly. “I do not know in the least,” said Lucien; “he told me I might sleep soundly and leave it to him;”--but he dared not look at Esther. “If that is the case, I will obey him with the dog-like submission I profess,” said Esther, putting her hand through Lucien’s arm and leading him into her bedroom, saying, “At any rate, I hope you dined well, my Lulu, at that detestable Baron’s?” “Asie’s cooking prevents my ever thinking a dinner good, however famous the chef may be, where I happen to dine. However, Careme did the dinner to-night, as he does every Sunday.” Lucien involuntarily compared Esther with Clotilde. The mistress was so beautiful, so unfailingly charming, that she had as yet kept at arm’s length the monster who devours the most perennial loves--Satiety. “What a pity,” thought he, “to find one’s wife in two volumes. In one--poetry, delight, love, devotion, beauty, sweetness----” Esther was fussing about, as women do, before going to bed; she came and went and fluttered round, singing all the time; you might have thought her a humming-bird. “In the other--a noble name, family, honors, rank, knowledge of the world!--And no earthly means of combining them!” cried Lucien to himself. Next morning, at seven, when the poet awoke in the pretty pink-and-white room, he found himself alone. He rang, and Europe hurried in. “What are monsieur’s orders?” “Esther?” “Madame went off this morning at a quarter to five. By Monsieur l’Abbe’s order, I admitted a new face--carriage paid.” “A woman?”