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Scenes from a Courtesan's Life. Honore de Balzac
Читать онлайн.Название Scenes from a Courtesan's Life
Год выпуска 0
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Автор произведения Honore de Balzac
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Public Domain
“To be sure,” said the man.
Paccard, nicknamed The Old Guard, Old Wide-Awake, or The Right Man – a man with legs of iron, arms of steel, Italian whiskers, hair like an artist’s, a beard like a sapper’s, and a face as colorless and immovable as Contenson’s, kept his spirit to himself, and rejoiced in a sort of drum-major appearance which disarmed suspicion. A fugitive from Poissy or Melun has no such serious self-consciousness and belief in his own merit. As Giafar to the Haroun el Rasheed of the hulks, he served him with the friendly admiration which Peyrade felt for Corentin.
This huge fellow, with a small body in proportion to his legs, flat-chested, and lean of limb, stalked solemnly about on his two long pins. Whenever his right leg moved, his right eye took in everything around him with the placid swiftness peculiar to thieves and spies. The left eye followed the right eye’s example. Wiry, nimble, ready for anything at any time, but for a weakness of Dutch courage Paccard would have been perfect, Jacques Collin used to say, so completely was he endowed with the talents indispensable to a man at war with society; but the master had succeeded in persuading his slave to drink only in the evening. On going home at night, Paccard tippled the liquid gold poured into small glasses out of a pot-bellied stone jar from Danzig.
“We will make them open their eyes,” said Paccard, putting on his grand hat and feathers after bowing to Carlos, whom he called his Confessor.
These were the events which had led three men, so clever, each in his way, as Jacques Collin, Peyrade, and Corentin, to a hand-to-hand fight on the same ground, each exerting his talents in a struggle for his own passions or interests. It was one of those obscure but terrible conflicts on which are expended in marches and countermarches, in strategy, skill, hatred, and vexation, the powers that might make a fine fortune. Men and means were kept absolutely secret by Peyarde, seconded in this business by his friend Corentin – a business they thought but a trifle. And so, as to them, history is silent, as it is on the true causes of many revolutions.
But this was the result.
Five days after Monsieur de Nucingen’s interview with Peyrade in the Champs Elysees, a man of about fifty called in the morning, stepping out of a handsome cab, and flinging the reins to his servant. He had the dead-white complexion which a life in the “world” gives to diplomates, was dressed in blue cloth, and had a general air of fashion – almost that of a Minister of State.
He inquired of the servant who sat on a bench on the steps whether the Baron de Nucingen were at home; and the man respectfully threw open the splendid plate-glass doors.
“Your name, sir?” said the footman.
“Tell the Baron that I have come from the Avenue Gabriel,” said Corentin. “If anybody is with him, be sure not to say so too loud, or you will find yourself out of place!”
A minute later the man came back and led Corentin by the back passages to the Baron’s private room.
Corentin and the banker exchanged impenetrable glances, and both bowed politely.
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