Melmoth Reconciled | Page 4

impassive face, and the thin red line of the
lips that seemed made to suck the blood of corpses; and you can guess at once at the
black gaiters buttoned up to the knee, and the half-puritanical costume of a wealthy
Englishman dressed for a walking excursion. The intolerable glitter of the stranger's eyes
produced a vivid and unpleasant impression, which was only deepened by the rigid
outlines of his features. The dried-up, emaciated creature seemed to carry within him
some gnawing thought that consumed him and could not be appeased.
He must have digested his food so rapidly that he could doubtless eat continually without
bringing any trace of color into his face or features. A tun of Tokay vin de succession
would not have caused any faltering in that piercing glance that read men's inmost
thoughts, nor dethroned the merciless reasoning faculty that always seemed to go to the
bottom of things. There was something of the fell and tranquil majesty of a tiger about
him.
"I have come to cash this bill of exchange, sir," he said. Castanier felt the tones of his
voice thrill through every nerve with a violent shock similar to that given by a discharge
of electricity.
"The safe is closed," said Castanier.
"It is open," said the Englishman, looking round the counting-house. "To-morrow is
Sunday, and I cannot wait. The amount is for five hundred thousand francs. You have the
money there, and I must have it."
"But how did you come in, sir?"
The Englishman smiled. That smile frightened Castanier. No words could have replied
more fully nor more peremptorily than that scornful and imperial curl of the stranger's
lips. Castanier turned away, took up fifty packets each containing ten thousand francs in
bank-notes, and held them out to the stranger, receiving in exchange for them a bill
accepted by the Baron de Nucingen. A sort of convulsive tremor ran through him as he
saw a red gleam in the stranger's eyes when they fell on the forged signature on the letter
of credit.
"It . . . it wants your signature . . ." stammered Castanier, handing back the bill.
"Hand me your pen," answered the Englishman.
Castanier handed him the pen with which he had just committed forgery. The stranger
wrote John Melmoth, then he returned the slip of paper and the pen to the cashier.
Castanier looked at the handwriting, noticing that it sloped from right to left in the
Eastern fashion, and Melmoth disappeared so noiselessly that when Castanier looked up
again an exclamation broke from him, partly because the man was no longer there, partly
because he felt a strange painful sensation such as our imagination might take for an

effect of poison.
The pen that Melmoth had handled sent the same sickening heat through him that an
emetic produces. But it seemed impossible to Castanier that the Englishman should have
guessed his crime. His inward qualms he attributed to the palpitation of the heart that,
according to received ideas, was sure to follow at once on such a "turn" as the stranger
had given him.
"The devil take it; I am very stupid. Providence is watching over me; for if that brute had
come round to see my gentleman to-morrow, my goose would have been cooked!" said
Castanier, and he burned the unsuccessful attempts at forgery in the stove.
He put the bill that he meant to take with him in an envelope, and helped himself to five
hundred thousand francs in French and English bank-notes from the safe, which he
locked. Then he put everything in order, lit a candle, blew out the lamp, took up his hat
and umbrella, and went out sedately, as usual, to leave one of the two keys of the strong
room with Madame de Nucingen, in the absence of her husband the Baron.
"You are in luck, M. Castanier," said the banker's wife as he entered the room; "we have
a holiday on Monday; you can go into the country, or to Soizy."
"Madame, will you be so good as to tell your husband that the bill of exchange on
Watschildine, which was behind time, has just been presented? The five hundred
thousand francs have been paid; so I shall not come back till noon on Tuesday."
"Good-bye, monsieur; I hope you will have a pleasant time."
"The same to you, madame," replied the old dragoon as he went out. He glanced as he
spoke at a young man well known in fashionable society at that time, a M. de Rastignac,
who was regarded as Madame de Nucingen's lover.
"Madame," remarked this latter, "the old boy looks to me as if he meant to play you some
ill turn."
"Pshaw! impossible; he is too stupid."

"Piquoizeau," said the