“A word with you, Castanier,” said Melmoth when the piece was at an end, and the attendant was fastening Mme. de la Garde’s cloak.

The corridor was crowded, and escape impossible.

“Very well, what is it?”

“No human power can hinder you from taking Aquilina home, and going next to Versailles, there to be arrested.”

“How so?”

“Because you are in a hand that will never relax its grasp,” returned the Englishman.

Castanier longed for the power to utter some word that should blot him out from among living men and hide him in the lowest depths of hell.

“Suppose that the devil were to make a bid for your soul, would you not give it to him now in exchange for the power of God?  One single word, and those five hundred thousand francs shall be back in the Baron de Nucingen’s safe; then you can tear up your letter of credit, and all traces of your crime will be obliterated.  Moreover, you would have gold in torrents.  You hardly believe in anything perhaps?  Well, if all this comes to pass, you will believe at least in the devil.”

“If it were only possible!” said Castanier joyfully.

“The man who can do it all gives you his word that it is possible,” answered the Englishman.

Melmoth, Castanier, and Mme. de la Garde were standing out in the Boulevard when Melmoth raised his arm.  A drizzling rain was falling, the streets were muddy, the air was close, there was thick darkness overhead; but in a moment, as the arm was outstretched, Paris was filled with sunlight; it was high noon on a bright July day.  The trees were covered with leaves; a double stream of joyous holiday makers strolled beneath them.  Sellers of licorice water shouted their cool drinks.  Splendid carriages rolled past along the streets.  A cry of terror broke from the cashier, and at that cry rain and darkness once more settled down upon the Boulevard.

Mme. de la Garde had stepped into the carriage.  “Do be quick, dear!” she cried; “either come in or stay out.  Really, you are as dull as ditch-water this evening—­”

“What must I do?” Castanier asked of Melmoth.

“Would you like to take my place?” inquired the Englishman.

“Yes.”

“Very well, then; I will be at your house in a few moments.”

“By the bye, Castanier, you are rather off your balance,” Aquilina remarked.  “There is some mischief brewing; you were quite melancholy and thoughtful all through the play.  Do you want anything that I can give you, dear?  Tell me.”

“I am waiting till we are at home to know whether you love me.”

“You need not wait till then,” she said, throwing her arms round his neck.  “There!” she said, as she embraced him, passionately to all appearance, and plied him with the coaxing caresses that are part of the business of such a life as hers, like stage action for an actress.

“Where is the music?” asked Castanier.