“Her husband,” replied de Marsay, “lives apart from her.  He stays with his regiment and practises economy, for he has one or two little debts of his own as well, has our dear Duke.  Where do you come from?  Just learn to do as we do and keep our friends’ accounts for them.  Mlle. Diane (I fell in love with her for the name’s sake), Mlle. Diane d’Uxelles brought her husband sixty thousand livres of income; for the last eight years she has lived as if she had two hundred thousand.  It is perfectly plain that at this moment her lands are mortgaged up to their full value; some fine morning the crash must come, and the angel will be put to flight by—­must it be said?—­by sheriff’s officers that have the effrontery to lay hands on an angel just as they might take hold of one of us.”

“Poor angel!”

“Lord! it costs a great deal to dwell in a Parisian heaven; you must whiten your wings and your complexion every morning,” said Rastignac.

Now as the thought of confessing his debts to his beloved Diane had passed through d’Esgrignon’s mind, something like a shudder ran through him when he remembered that he still owed sixty thousand francs, to say nothing of bills to come for another ten thousand.  He went back melancholy enough.  His friends remarked his ill-disguised preoccupation, and spoke of it among themselves at dinner.

“Young d’Esgrignon is getting out of his depth.  He is not up to Paris.  He will blow his brains out.  A little fool!” and so on and so on.

D’Esgrignon, however, promptly took comfort.  His servant brought him two letters.  The first was from Chesnel.  A letter from Chesnel smacked of the stale grumbling faithfulness of honesty and its consecrated formulas.  With all respect he put it aside till the evening.  But the second letter he read with unspeakable pleasure.  In Ciceronian phrases, du Croisier groveled before him, like a Sganarelle before a Geronte, begging the young Count in future to spare him the affront of first depositing the amount of the bills which he should condescend to draw.  The concluding phrase seemed meant to convey the idea that here was an open cashbox full of coin at the service of the noble d’Esgrignon family.  So strong was the impression that Victurnien, like Sganarelle or Mascarille in the play, like everybody else who feels a twinge of conscience at his finger-tips, made an involuntary gesture.

Now that he was sure of unlimited credit with the Kellers, he opened Chesnel’s letter gaily.  He had expected four full pages, full of expostulation to the brim; he glanced down the sheet for the familiar words “prudence,” “honor,” “determination to do right,” and the like, and saw something else instead which made his head swim.

“MONSIEUR LE COMTE,—­Of all my fortune I have now but two hundred thousand francs left.  I beg of you not to exceed that amount, if you should do one of the most devoted servants of your family the honor of taking it.  I present my respects to you.

CHESNEL.”