Then, by the time that Nucingen might flatter himself
that he was on the track of his late cashier, the said cashier, as the
Conte Ferraro, hoped to be safe in Naples. He had determined to
disfigure his face in order to disguise himself the more completely,
and by means of an acid to imitate the scars of smallpox. Yet, in
spite of all these precautions, which surely seemed as if they must
secure him complete immunity, his conscience tormented him; he was
afraid. The even and peaceful life that he had led for so long had
modified the morality of the camp. His life was stainless as yet; he
could not sully it without a pang. So for the last time he abandoned
himself to all the influences of the better self that strenuously
resisted.
"Pshaw!" he said at last, at the corner of the Boulevard and the Rue
Montmartre, "I will take a cab after the play this evening and go out
to Versailles. A post-chaise will be ready for me at my old
quartermaster's place. He would keep my secret even if a dozen men
were standing ready to shoot him down. The chances are all in my
favor, so far as I see; so I shall take my little Naqui with me, and I
will go."
"You will not go!" exclaimed the Englishman, and the strange tones of
his voice drove all the cashier's blood back to his heart.
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