he could play the part of Ate, the
goddess of vengeance, as Carlos said. And so she was by turns enchanting
and odious to the banker, who lived only for her. When the Baron had
been worked up to such a pitch of suffering that he wanted only to be
quit of Esther, she brought him round by a scene of tender affection.

Herrera, making a great show of starting for Spain, had gone as far
as Tours. He had sent the chaise on as far as Bordeaux, with a servant
inside, engaged to play the part of master, and to wait for him
at Bordeaux. Then, returning by diligence, dressed as a commercial
traveler, he had secretly taken up his abode under Esther's roof,
and thence, aided by Asie and Europe, carefully directed all his
machinations, keeping an eye on every one, and especially on Peyrade.

About a fortnight before the day chosen for her great entertainment,
which was to be given in the evening after the first opera ball, the
courtesan, whose witticisms were beginning to make her feared, happened
to be at the Italian opera, at the back of a box which the Baron--forced
to give a box--had secured in the lowest tier, in order to conceal his
mistress, and not to flaunt her in public within a few feet of Madame de
Nucingen. Esther had taken her seat, so as to "rake" that of Madame de
Serizy, whom Lucien almost invariably accompanied. The poor girl made
her whole happiness centre in watching Lucien on Tuesdays, Thursdays,
and Saturdays by Madame de Serizy's side.

At about half-past nine in the evening Esther could see Lucien enter
the Countess' box, with a care-laden brow, pale, and with almost drawn
features. These symptoms of mental anguish were legible only to Esther.
The knowledge of a man's countenance is, to the woman who loves him,
like that of the sea to a sailor.

"Good God! what can be the matter? What has happened? Does he want to
speak with that angel of hell, who is to him a guardian angel, and who
lives in an attic between those of Europe and Asie?"

Tormented by such reflections, Esther scarcely listened to the music.
Still less, it may be believed, did she listen to the Baron, who held
one of his "Anchel's" hands in both his, talking to her in his horrible
Polish-Jewish accent, a jargon which must be as unpleasant to read as it
is to hear spoken.

"Esther," said he, releasing her hand, and pushing it away with a slight
touch of temper, "you do not listen to me."

"I tell you what, Baron, you blunder in love as you