“Perhaps I have done wrongly,” she said, “to show a warm interest in M.
de Rubempré, which he, as well as the stupid people here in the town,
has misinterpreted. This morning Lucien threw himself here at my feet
with a declaration, and Stanislas happened to come in just as I told the
boy to get up again. A woman, under any circumstances, has claims which
courtesy prescribes to a gentleman; but in contempt of these, Stanislas
has been saying that he came unexpectedly and found us in an equivocal
position. I was treating the boy as he deserved. If the young
scatterbrain knew of the scandal caused by his folly, he would go, I
am convinced, to insult Stanislas, and compel him to fight. That would
simply be a public proclamation of his love. I need not tell you that
your wife is pure; but if you think, you will see that it is something
dishonoring for both you and me if M. de Rubempré defends her. Go at
once to Stanislas and ask him to give you satisfaction for his insulting
language; and mind, you must not accept any explanation short of a full
and public retraction in the presence of witnesses of credit. In this
way you will win back the respect of all right-minded people; you will
behave like a man of spirit and a gentleman, and you will have a right
to my esteem. I shall send Gentil on horseback to the Escarbas; my
father must be your second; old as he is, I know that he is the man to
trample this puppet under foot that has smirched the reputation of a
Nègrepelisse. You have the choice of weapons, choose pistols; you are an
admirable shot.”
“I am going,” said M. de Bargeton, and he took his hat and his walking
cane.
“Good, that is how I like a man to behave, dear; you are a gentleman,”
said his wife. She felt touched by his conduct, and made the old man
very happy and proud by putting up her forehead for a kiss. She felt
something like a maternal affection for the great child; and when the
carriage gateway had shut with a clang behind him, the tears came into
her eyes in spite of herself.
“How he loves me!” she thought. “He clings to life, poor, dear man, and
yet he would give his life for me.”
It did not trouble M. de Bargeton that he must stand up and face his
man on the morrow, and look coolly into the muzzle of a pistol pointed
straight at him; no, only one thing in the business made him feel
uncomfortable, and on the way to M. de Chandour’s house he quaked
inwardly.
“What shall I say?” he thought within himself; “Naïs really ought to
have told me what to say,” and the good gentleman racked his brains to
compose a speech that should not be ridiculous.
But people of M. de Bargeton’s stamp, who live perforce in silence
because their capacity is limited and their outlook circumscribed, often
behave at great crises with a ready-made solemnity. If they say little,
it naturally follows that they say little that is foolish; their extreme
lack of confidence leads them to think a good deal over the remarks that
they are obliged to make; and, like Balaam’s ass, they speak marvelously
to the point if a miracle loosens their tongues. So M. de Bargeton
bore himself like a man of uncommon sense and spirit, and justified the
opinion of those who held that he was a philosopher of the school of
Pythagoras.
He reached Stanislas’ house at nine o’clock, bowed silently to Amélie
before a whole room full of people, and greeted others in turn with
that simple smile of his, which under the present circumstances seemed
profoundly ironical. There followed a great silence, like the pause
before a storm. Châtelet had made his way back again, and now looked in
a very significant fashion from M. de Bargeton to Stanislas, whom the
injured gentleman accosted politely.
Châtelet knew what a visit meant at this time of night, when old M. de
Bargeton was invariably in his bed. It was evidently Naïs who had set
the feeble arm in motion. Châtelet was on such a footing in that house
that he had some right to interfere in family concerns. He rose to his
feet and took M. de Bargeton aside, saying, “Do you wish to speak to
Stanislas?”
“Yes,” said the old gentleman, well pleased to find a go-between who
perhaps might say his say for him.
“Very well; go into Amélie’s bedroom,” said the controller of excise,
likewise well pleased at the prospect of a duel which possibly might
make Mme. de Bargeton a widow, while it put a bar between her and
Lucien, the cause of the quarrel. Then Châtelet went to M. de Chandour.
“Stanislas,” he said, “here comes Bargeton to call you to account, no
doubt, for the things you have been saying about Naïs. Go into your
wife’s room, and behave, both of you, like gentlemen. Keep the thing
quiet, and make a great show of politeness, behave with phlegmatic
British dignity, in short.”
In another minute Stanislas and Châtelet went to Bargeton.
“Sir,” said the injured husband, “do you say that you discovered Mme. de
Bargeton and M. de Rubempré in an equivocal position?”
“M. Chardon,” corrected Stanislas, with ironical stress; he did not take
Bargeton seriously.
“So be it,” answered the other. “If you do not withdraw your assertions
at once before the company now in your house, I must ask you to look for
a second. My father-in-law, M. de Nègrepelisse, will wait upon you at
four o’clock to-morrow morning. Both of us may as well make our final
arrangements, for the only way out of the affair is the one that I have
indicated. I choose pistols, as the insulted party.”
This was the speech that M. de Bargeton had ruminated on the way; it
was the longest that he had ever made in life. He brought it out without
excitement or vehemence, in the simplest way in the world. Stanislas
turned pale. “After all, what did I see?” said he to himself.
Put between the shame of eating his words before the whole town, and
hideous fear, that caught him by the throat with burning fingers;
confronted by this mute personage, who seemed in no humor to stand
nonsense, Stanislas chose the more remote peril.
“All right. To-morrow morning,” he said, thinking that the matter might
be arranged somehow or other.
The three went back to the room. Everybody scanned their faces as they
came in; Châtelet was smiling, M. de Bargeton looked exactly as if he
were in his own house, but Stanislas looked ghastly pale. At the sight
of his face, some of the women here and there guessed the nature of the
conference, and the whisper, “They are going to fight!” circulated from
ear to ear. One-half of the room was of the opinion that Stanislas was
in the wrong, his white face and his demeanor convicted him of a lie;
the other half admired M. de Bargeton’s attitude. Châtelet was solemn
and mysterious. M. de Bargeton stayed a few minutes, scrutinized
people’s faces, and retired.
“Have you pistols?” Châtelet asked in a whisper of Stanislas, who shook
from head to foot.
Amélie knew what it all meant. She felt ill, and the women flocked
about her to take her into her bedroom. There was a terrific sensation;
everybody talked at once. The men stopped in the drawing-room, and
declared, with one voice, that M. de Bargeton was within his right.
“Would you have thought the old fogy capable of acting like this?” asked
M. de Saintot.
“But he was a crack shot when he was young,” said the pitiless Jacques.
“My father often used to tell me of Bargeton’s exploits.”
“Pooh! Put them at twenty paces, and they will miss each other if you
give them cavalry pistols,” said Francis, addressing Châtelet.
Châtelet stayed after the rest had gone to reassure Stanislas and his
wife, and to explain that all would go off well. In a duel between a
man of sixty and a man of thirty-five, all the advantage lay with the
latter.
Early next morning, as Lucien sat at breakfast with David, who had come
back alone from Marsac, in came Mme. Chardon with a scared face.
“Well, Lucien,” she said, “have you heard the news? Everyone is talking
of it, even the people in the market. M. de Bargeton all but killed M.
de Chandour this morning in M. Tulloy’s meadow; people are making puns
on the name. (Tue Poie.) It seems that M. de Chandour said that he found
you with Mme. de Bargeton yesterday.”
“It is a lie! Mme. de Bargeton is innocent,” cried Lucien.
“I heard about the duel from a countryman, who saw it all from his cart.
M. de Nègrepelisse came over at three o’clock in the morning to be M. de
Bargeton’s second; he told M. de Chandour that if anything happened
to his son-in-law, he should avenge him. A cavalry officer lent the
pistols. M. de Nègrepelisse tried them over and over again. M. du
Châtelet tried to prevent them from practising with the pistols, but
they referred the question to the officer; and he said that, unless they
meant to behave like children, they ought to have pistols in working
order. The seconds put them at twenty-five paces. M. de Bargeton looked
as if he had just come out for a walk. He was the first to fire; the
ball lodged in M. de Chandour’s neck, and he dropped before he could
return the shot. The house-surgeon at the hospital has just said that
M. de Chandour will have a wry neck for the rest of his days. I came to
tell you how it ended, lest you should go to Mme. de Bargeton’s or show
yourself in Angoulême, for some of M. de Chandour’s friends might call
you out.”
As she spoke, the apprentice brought in Gentil, M. de Bargeton’s
footman. The man had come with a note for Lucien; it was from Louise.
“You have doubtless heard the news,” she wrote, “of the duel between
Chandour and my husband. We shall not be at home to any one to-day. Be
careful; do not show yourself. I ask this in the name of the affection
you bear me. Do you not think that it would be best to spend this
melancholy day in listening to your Beatrice, whose whole life has been
changed by this event, who has a thousand things to say to you?”
“Luckily, my marriage is fixed for the day after to-morrow,” said David,
“and you will have an excuse for not going to see Mme. de Bargeton quite
so often.”
“Dear David,” returned Lucien, “she asks me to go to her to-day; and I
ought to do as she wishes, I think; she knows better than we do how I
should act in the present state of things.”
“Then is everything ready here?” asked Mme. Chardon.
“Come and see,” cried David, delighted to exhibit the transformation
of the first floor. Everything there was new and fresh; everything was
pervaded by the sweet influences of early married days, still crowned
by the wreath of orange blossoms and the bridal veil; days when
the springtide of love finds its reflection in material things, and
everything is white and spotless and has not lost its bloom.
“Eve’s home will be fit for a princess,” said the mother, “but you have
spent too much, you have been reckless.”
David smiled by way of answer. But Mme. Chardon had touched the sore
spot in a hidden wound which caused the poor lover cruel pangs. The cost
of carrying out his ideas had far exceeded his estimates; he could not
afford to build above the shed. His mother-in-law must wait awhile for
the home he had meant to make for her. There is nothing more keenly
painful to a generous nature than a failure to keep such promises as
these; it is like mortification to the little vanities of affection,
as they may be styled. David sedulously hid his embarrassment to spare
Lucien; he was afraid that Lucien might be overwhelmed by the sacrifices
made for his sake.
“Eve and her girl friends have been working very hard, too,” said Mme.
Chardon. “The wedding clothes and the house linen are all ready. The
girls are so fond of her, that, without letting her know about it, they
have covered the mattresses with white twill and a rose-colored
piping at the edges. So pretty! It makes one wish one were going to be
married.”
Mother and daughter had spent all their little savings to furnish
David’s home with the things of which a young bachelor never thinks.
They knew that he was furnishing with great splendor, for something
had been said about ordering a dinner-service from Limoges, and the two
women had striven to make Eve’s contributions to the housekeeping worthy
of David’s. This little emulation in love and generosity could but
bring the husband and wife into difficulties at the very outset of their
married life, with every sign of homely comfort about them, comfort that
might be regarded as positive luxury in a place so behind the times as
the Angoulême of those days.
As soon as Lucien saw his mother and David enter the bedroom with the
blue-and-white draperies and neat furniture that he knew, he slipped
away to Mme. de Bargeton. He found Naïs at table with her husband; M.
de Bargeton’s early morning walk had sharpened his appetite, and he was
breakfasting quite unconcernedly after all that had passed. Lucien saw
the dignified face of M. de Nègrepelisse, the old provincial noble, a
relic of the old French _noblesse_, sitting beside Naïs.
When Gentil announced M. de Rubempré, the white-headed old man gave him
a keen, curious glance; the father was anxious to form his own opinions
of this man whom his daughter had singled out for notice. Lucien’s
extreme beauty made such a vivid impression upon him, that he could not
repress an approving glance; but at the same time he seemed to regard
the affair as a flirtation, a mere passing fancy on his daughter’s
part. Breakfast over, Louise could leave her father and M. de Bargeton
together; she beckoned Lucien to follow her as she withdrew.
“Dear,” she said, and the tones of her voice were half glad, half
melancholy, “I am going to Paris, and my father is taking Bargeton back
with him to the Escarbas, where he will stay during my absence. Mme.
d’Espard (she was a Blamont-Chauvry before her marriage) has great
influence herself, and influential relations. The d’Espards are
connections of ours; they are the older branch of the Nègrepelisses; and
if she vouchsafes to acknowledge the relationship, I intend to cultivate
her a good deal; she may perhaps procure a place for Bargeton. At my
solicitation, it might be desired at Court that he should represent the
Charente, and that would be a step towards his election here. If he were
a deputy, it would further other steps that I wish to take in Paris.
You, my darling, have brought about this change in my life. After this
morning’s duel, I am obliged to shut up my house for some time; for
there will be people who will side with the Chandours against us. In our
position, and in a small town, absence is the only way of softening down
bad feeling. But I shall either succeed, and never see Angoulême again,
or I shall not succeed, and then I mean to wait in Paris until the time
comes when I can spend my summers at the Escarbas and the winters in
Paris. It is the only life for a woman of quality, and I have waited
too long before entering upon it. The one day will be enough for our
preparations; to-morrow night I shall set out, and you are coming with
me, are you not? You shall start first. I will overtake you between
Mansle and Ruffec, and we shall soon be in Paris. There, beloved, is the
life for a man who has anything in him. We are only at our ease among
our equals; we are uncomfortable in any other society. Paris, besides,
is the capital of the intellectual world, the stage on which you will
succeed; overleap the gulf that separates us quickly. You must not
allow your ideas to grow rancid in the provinces; put yourself into
communication at once with the great men who represent the nineteenth
century. Try to stand well with the Court and with those in power. No
honor, no distinction, comes to seek out the talent that perishes for
lack of light in a little town; tell me, if you can, the name of any
great work of art executed in the provinces! On the contrary, see how
Jean-Jacques, himself sublime in his poverty, felt the irresistible
attraction of that sun of the intellectual world, which produces
ever-new glories and stimulates the intellect--Paris, where men rub
against one another. What is it but your duty to hasten to take your
place in the succession of pleiades that rise from generation to
generation? You have no idea how it contributes to the success of a
clever young man to be brought into a high light, socially speaking. I
will introduce you to Mme. d’Espard; it is not easy to get into her set;
but you meet all the greatest people at her house, Cabinet ministers and
ambassadors, and great orators from the Chamber of Deputies, and peers
and men of influence, and wealthy or famous people. A young man with
good looks and more than sufficient genius could fail to excite interest
only by very bad management.
“There is no pettiness about those who are truly great; they will lend
you their support; and when you yourself have a high position, your work
will rise immensely in public opinion. The great problem for the artist
is the problem of putting himself in evidence. In these ways there will
be hundreds of chances of making your way, of sinecures, of a pension
from the civil list. The Bourbons are so fond of encouraging letters and
the arts, and you therefore must be a religious poet and a Royalist poet
at the same time. Not only is it the right course, but it is the way
to get on in life. Do the Liberals and the Opposition give places and
rewards, and make the fortunes of men of letters? Take the right road
and reach the goal of genius. You have my secret, do not breathe a
syllable of it, and prepare to follow me.--Would you rather not go?” she
added, surprised that her lover made no answer.
To Lucien, listening to the alluring words, and bewildered by the rapid
bird’s-eye view of Paris which they brought before him, it seemed as if
hitherto he had been using only half his brain and suddenly had found
the other half, so swiftly his ideas widened. He saw himself stagnating
in Angoulême like a frog under a stone in a marsh. Paris and her
splendors rose before him; Paris, the Eldorado of provincial imaginings,
with golden robes and the royal diadem about her brows, and arms
outstretched to talent of every kind. Great men would greet him there as
one of their order. Everything smiled upon genius. There, there were no
jealous booby-squires to invent stinging gibes and humiliate a man of
letters; there was no stupid indifference to poetry in Paris. Paris was
the fountain-head of poetry; there the poet was brought into the light
and paid for his work. Publishers should no sooner read the opening
pages of _An Archer of Charles IX._ than they should open their
cash-boxes with “How much do you want?” And besides all this, he
understood that this journey with Mme. de Bargeton would virtually give
her to him; that they should live together.
So at the words, “Would you rather not go?” tears came into his eyes, he
flung his arms about Louise, held her tightly to his heart, and marbled
her throat with impassioned kisses. Suddenly he checked himself, as if
memory had dealt him a blow.
“Great heavens!” he cried, “my sister is to be married on the day after
to-morrow!”
That exclamation was the last expiring cry of noble and single-hearted
boyhood. The so-powerful ties that bind young hearts to home, and a
first friendship, and all early affections, were to be severed at one
ruthless blow.
“Well,” cried the haughty Nègrepelisse, “and what has your sister’s
marriage to do with the progress of our love? Have you set your mind
so much on being best man at a wedding party of tradespeople and
workingmen, that you cannot give up these exalted joys for my sake? A
great sacrifice, indeed!” she went on, scornfully. “This morning I sent
my husband out to fight in your quarrel. There, sir, go; I am mistaken
in you.”
She sank fainting upon the sofa. Lucien went to her, entreating her
pardon, calling execrations upon his family, his sister, and David.
“I had such faith in you!” she said. “M. de Cante-Croix had an adored
mother; but to win a letter from me, and the words, ‘I am satisfied,’
he fell in the thick of the fight. And now, when I ask you to take a
journey with me, you cannot think of giving up a wedding dinner for my
sake.”
Lucien was ready to kill himself; his desperation was so unfeigned, that
Louise forgave him, though at the same time she made him feel that he
must redeem his mistake.
“Come, come,” she said, “be discreet, and to-morrow at midnight be upon
the road, a hundred paces out of Mansle.”
Lucien felt the globe shrink under his feet; he went back to David’s
house, hopes pursuing him as the Furies followed Orestes, for he had
glimmerings of endless difficulties, all summed up in the appalling
words, “Where is the money to come from?”
He stood in such terror of David’s perspicacity, that he locked himself
into his pretty new study until he could recover himself, his head was
swimming in this new position. So he must leave the rooms just furnished
for him at such a cost, and all the sacrifices that had been made for
him had been made in vain. Then it occurred to Lucien that his mother
might take the rooms and save David the heavy expense of building at the
end of the yard, as he had meant to do; his departure would be, in
fact, a convenience to the family. He discovered any quantity of urgent
reasons for his sudden flight; for there is no such Jesuit as the desire
of your heart. He hurried down at once to tell the news to his sister in
L’Houmeau and to take counsel with her. As he reached Postel’s shop, he
bethought himself that if all other means failed, he could borrow enough
to live upon for a year from his father’s successor.
“Three francs per day will be abundance for me if I live with Louise,”
he thought; “it is only a thousand francs for a whole year. And in six
months’ time I shall have plenty of money.”
Then, under seal and promise of secrecy, Eve and her mother heard
Lucien’s confidences. Both the women began to cry as they heard of the
ambitious plans; and when he asked the reason of their trouble, they
told him that every penny they possessed had been spent on table-linen,
house-linen, Eve’s wedding clothes, and on a host of things that David
had overlooked. They had been so glad to do this, for David had made a
marriage-settlement of ten thousand francs on Eve. Lucien then spoke of
his idea of a loan, and Mme. Chardon undertook to ask M. Postel to lend
them a thousand francs for a twelve-month.
“But, Lucien,” said Eve, as a thought clutched at her heart, “you will
not be here at my wedding! Oh! come back, I will put it off for a few
days. Surely she will give you leave to come back in a fortnight, if
only you go with her now? Surely, she would spare you to us for a week,
Lucien, when we brought you up for her? We shall have no luck if you are
not at the wedding.... But will a thousand francs be enough for you?”
she asked, suddenly interrupting herself. “Your coat suits you divinely,
but you have only that one! You have only two fine shirts, the other six
are coarse linen; and three of your white ties are just common muslin,
there are only two lawn cravats, and your pocket-handkerchiefs are not
good ones. Where will you find a sister in Paris who will get up your
linen in one day as you want it? You will want ever so much more. Then
you have just the one pair of new nankeen trousers, last year’s trousers
are tight for you; you will be obliged to have clothes made in Paris,
and Paris prices are not like Angoulême prices. You have only two
presentable white waistcoats; I have mended the others already. Come, I
advise you to take two thousand francs.”
David came in as she spoke, and apparently heard the last two words, for
he looked at the brother and sister and said nothing.
“Do not keep anything from me,” he said at last.
“Well,” exclaimed Eve, “he is going away with _her_.”
Mme. Chardon came in again, and, not seeing David, began at once:
“Postel is willing to lend you the thousand francs, Lucien,” she said,
“but only for six months; and even then he wants you to let him have a
bill endorsed by your brother-in-law, for he says that you are giving
him no security.”
She turned and saw David, and there was a deep silence in the room. The
Chardons thought how they had abused David’s goodness, and felt ashamed.
Tears stood in the young printer’s eyes.
“Then you will not be here at our wedding,” he began. “You are not going
to live with us! And here have I been squandering all that I had!
Oh! Lucien, as I came along, bringing Eve her little bits of wedding
jewelry, I did not think that I should be sorry I spent the money on
them.” He brushed his hand over his eyes as he drew the little cases
from his pocket.
He set down the tiny morocco-covered boxes on the table in front of his
mother-in-law.
“Oh! why do you think so much for me?” protested Eve, giving him a
divinely sweet smile that belied her words.
“Mamma, dear,” said David, “just tell M. Postel that I will put my name
to the bill, for I can tell from your face, Lucien, that you have quite
made up your mind to go.”
Lucien’s head sank dejectedly; there was a little pause, then he said,
“Do not think hardly of me, my dear, good angels.”
He put his arms about Eve and David, and drew them close, and held them
tightly to him as he added, “Wait and see what comes of it, and you
shall know how much I love you. What is the good of our high thinking,
David, if it does not enable us to disregard the petty ceremonial in
which the law entangles our affections? Shall I not be with you in
spirit, in spite of the distance between us? Shall we not be united in
thought? Have I not a destiny to fulfil? Will publishers come here to
seek my _Archer of Charles IX._ and the _Marguerites_? A little sooner
or a little later I shall be obliged in any case to do as I am doing
to-day, should I not? And shall I ever find a better opportunity than
this? Does not my success entirely depend upon my entrance on life in
Paris through the Marquise d’Espard’s salon?”
“He is right,” said Eve; “you yourself were saying, were you not, that
he ought to go to Paris at once?”
David took Eve’s hand in his, and drew her into the narrow little room
where she had slept for seven years.
“Love, you were saying just now that he would want two thousand francs?”
he said in her ear. “Postel is only lending one thousand.”
Eve gave her betrothed a look, and he read all her anguish in her eyes.
“Listen, my adored Eve, we are making a bad start in life. Yes, my
expenses have taken all my capital; I have just two thousand francs
left, and half of it will be wanted to carry on the business. If we give
your brother the thousand francs, it will mean that we are giving away
our bread, that we shall live in anxiety. If I were alone, I know what I
should do; but we are two. Decide for us.”
Eve, distracted, sprang to her lover’s arms, and kissed him tenderly, as
she answered through her tears:
“Do as you would do if you were alone; I will work to earn the money.”
In spite of the most impassioned kiss ever given and taken by betrothed
lovers, David left Eve overcome with trouble, and went out to Lucien.
“Do not worry yourself,” he said; “you shall have your two thousand
francs.”
“Go in to see Postel,” said Mme. Chardon, “for you must both give your
signatures to the bill.”
When Lucien and David came back again unexpectedly, they found Eve and
her mother on their knees in prayer. The women felt sure that Lucien’s
return would bring the realization of many hopes; but at the moment
they could only feel how much they were losing in the parting, and the
happiness to come seemed too dearly bought by an absence that broke up
their life together, and would fill the coming days with innumerable
fears for Lucien.
“If you could ever forget this sight,” David said in Lucien’s ear, “you
would be the basest of men.”
David, no doubt, thought that these brave words were needed; Mme. de
Bargeton’s influence seemed to him less to be feared than his friend’s
unlucky instability of character, Lucien was so easily led for good
or evil. Eve soon packed Lucien’s clothes; the Fernando Cortez of
literature carried but little baggage. He was wearing his best overcoat,
his best waistcoat, and one of the two fine shirts. The whole of his
linen, the celebrated coat, and his manuscript made up so small a
package that to hide it from Mme. de Bargeton, David proposed to send
it by coach to a paper merchant with whom he had dealings, and wrote
and advised him to that effect, and asked him to keep the parcel until
Lucien sent for it.
In spite of Mme. de Bargeton’s precautions, Châtelet found out that she
was leaving Angoulême; and with a view to discovering whether she
was traveling alone or with Lucien, he sent his man to Ruffec with
instructions to watch every carriage that changed horses at that stage.
“If she is taking her poet with her,” thought he, “I have her now.”
Lucien set out before daybreak the next morning. David went with him.
David had hired a cabriolet, pretending that he was going to Marsac on
business, a little piece of deception which seemed probable under the
circumstances. The two friends went to Marsac, and spent part of the day
with the old “bear.” As evening came on they set out again, and in the
beginning of the dawn they waited in the road, on the further side
of Mansle, for Mme. de Bargeton. When the seventy-year old traveling
carriage, which he had many a time seen in the coach-house, appeared in
sight, Lucien felt more deeply moved than he had ever been in his life
before; he sprang into David’s arms.
“God grant that this may be for your good!” said David, and he climbed
into the shabby cabriolet and drove away with a feeling of dread
clutching at his heart; he had terrible presentiments of the fate
awaiting Lucien in Paris.