“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 gentlemen 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 her 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-by, 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.