Father Goriot
amounts to more than three hundred thousand----”
Eugene heard all this, and could not answer a word; his tongue seemed
to be glued to the roof of his mouth, an irresistible drowsiness was
creeping over him. He still saw the table and the faces round it, but it
was through a bright mist. Soon the noise began to subside, one by one
the boarders went. At last, when their numbers had so dwindled that the
party consisted of Mme. Vauquer, Mme. Couture, Mlle. Victorine, Vautrin,
and Father Goriot, Rastignac watched as though in a dream how Mme.
Vauquer busied herself by collecting the bottles, and drained the
remainder of the wine out of each to fill others.
“Oh! how uproarious they are! what a thing it is to be young!” said the
widow.
These were the last words that Eugene heard and understood.
“There is no one like M. Vautrin for a bit of fun like this,” said
Sylvie. “There, just hark at Christophe, he is snoring like a top.”
“Good-bye, mamma,” said Vautrin; “I am going to a theatre on the
boulevard to see M. Marty in _Le Mont Sauvage_, a fine play taken
from _Le Solitaire_.... If you like, I will take you and these two
ladies----”
“Thank you; I must decline,” said Mme. Couture.
“What! my good lady!” cried Mme. Vauquer, “decline to see a play founded
on the _Le Solitaire_, a work by Atala de Chateaubriand? We were so fond
of that book that we cried over it like Magdalens under the _line-trees_
last summer, and then it is an improving work that might edify your
young lady.”
“We are forbidden to go to the play,” answered Victorine.
“Just look, those two yonder have dropped off where they sit,” said
Vautrin, shaking the heads of the two sleepers in a comical way.
He altered the sleeping student’s position, settled his head more
comfortably on the back of his chair, kissed him warmly on the forehead,
and began to sing:
“Sleep, little darlings;
I watch while you slumber.”
“I am afraid he may be ill,” said Victorine.
“Then stop and take care of him,” returned Vautrin. “‘Tis your duty as
a meek and obedient wife,” he whispered in her ear. “The young fellow
worships you, and you will be his little wife--there’s your fortune for
you. In short,” he added aloud, “they lived happily ever afterwards,
were much looked up to in all the countryside, and had a numerous
family. That is how all the romances end.--Now, mamma,” he went on, as
he turned to Madame Vauquer and put his arm round her waist, “put on
your bonnet, your best flowered silk, and the countess’ scarf, while I
go out and call a cab--all my own self.”
And he started out, singing as he went:
“Oh! sun! divine sun!
Ripening the pumpkins every one.”
“My goodness! Well, I’m sure! Mme. Couture, I could live happily in a
garret with a man like that.--There, now!” she added, looking round for
the old vermicelli maker, “there is that Father Goriot half seas over.
_He_ never thought of taking me anywhere, the old skinflint. But he will
measure his length somewhere. My word! it is disgraceful to lose his
senses like that, at his age! You will be telling me that he couldn’t
lose what he hadn’t got--Sylvie, just take him up to his room!”
Sylvie took him by the arm, supported him upstairs, and flung him just
as he was, like a package, across the bed.
“Poor young fellow!” said Mme. Couture, putting back Eugene’s hair that
had fallen over his eyes; “he is like a young girl, he does not know
what dissipation is.”
“Well, I can tell you this, I know,” said Mme. Vauquer, “I have taken
lodgers these thirty years, and a good many have passed through my
hands, as the saying is, but I have never seen a nicer nor a more
aristocratic looking young man than M. Eugene. How handsome he looks
sleeping! Just let his head rest on your shoulder, Mme. Couture. Pshaw!
he falls over towards Mlle. Victorine. There’s a special providence for
young things. A little more, and he would have broken his head against
the knob of the chair. They’d make a pretty pair those two would!”
“Hush, my good neighbor,” cried Mme. Couture, “you are saying such
things----”
“Pooh!” put in Mme. Vauquer, “he does not hear.--Here, Sylvie! come and
help me to dress. I shall put on my best stays.”
“What! your best stays just after dinner, madame?” said Sylvie. “No, you
can get some one else to lace you. I am not going to be your murderer.
It’s a rash thing to do, and might cost you your life.”
“I don’t care, I must do honor to M. Vautrin.”
“Are you so fond of your heirs as all that?”
“Come, Sylvie, don’t argue,” said the widow, as she left the room.
“At her age, too!” said the cook to Victorine, pointing to her mistress
as she spoke.
Mme. Couture and her ward were left in the dining-room, and Eugene
slept on Victorine’s shoulder. The sound of Christophe’s snoring echoed
through the silent house; Eugene’s quiet breathing seemed all the
quieter by force of contrast, he was sleeping as peacefully as a child.
Victorine was very happy; she was free to perform one of those acts of
charity which form an innocent outlet for all the overflowing sentiments
of a woman’s nature; he was so close to her that she could feel the
throbbing of his heart; there was a look of almost maternal protection
and conscious pride in Victorine’s face. Among the countless thoughts
that crowded up in her young innocent heart, there was a wild flutter of
joy at this close contact.
“Poor, dear child!” said Mme. Couture, squeezing her hand.
The old lady looked at the girl. Victorine’s innocent, pathetic face,
so radiant with the new happiness that had befallen her, called to
mind some naive work of mediaeval art, when the painter neglected the
accessories, reserving all the magic of his brush for the quiet,
austere outlines and ivory tints of the face, which seems to have caught
something of the golden glory of heaven.
“After all, he only took two glasses, mamma,” said Victorine, passing
her fingers through Eugene’s hair.
“Indeed, if he had been a dissipated young man, child, he would have
carried his wine like the rest of them. His drowsiness does him credit.”
There was a sound of wheels outside in the street.
“There is M. Vautrin, mamma,” said the girl. “Just take M. Eugene. I
would rather not have that man see me like this; there are some ways of
looking at you that seem to sully your soul and make you feel as though
you had nothing on.”
“Oh, no, you are wrong!” said Mme. Couture. “M. Vautrin is a worthy man;
he reminds me a little of my late husband, poor dear M. Couture, rough
but kind-hearted; his bark is worse than his bite.”
Vautrin came in while she was speaking; he did not make a sound, but
looked for a while at the picture of the two young faces--the lamplight
falling full upon them seemed to caress them.
“Well,” he remarked, folding his arms, “here is a picture! It would have
suggested some pleasing pages to Bernardin de Saint-Pierre (good
soul), who wrote _Paul et Virginie_. Youth is very charming, Mme.
Couture!--Sleep on, poor boy,” he added, looking at Eugene, “luck
sometimes comes while you are sleeping.--There is something touching and
attractive to me about this young man, madame,” he continued; “I know
that his nature is in harmony with his face. Just look, the head of
a cherub on an angel’s shoulder! He deserves to be loved. If I were a
woman, I would die (no--not such a fool), I would live for him.” He
bent lower and spoke in the widow’s ear. “When I see those two together,
madame, I cannot help thinking that Providence meant them for each
other; He works by secret ways, and tries the reins and the heart,” he
said in a loud voice. “And when I see you, my children, thus united by
a like purity and by all human affections, I say to myself that it is
quite impossible that the future should separate you. God is just.”--He
turned to Victorine. “It seems to me,” he said, “that I have seen the
line of success in your hand. Let me look at it, Mlle. Victorine; I am
well up in palmistry, and I have told fortunes many a time. Come, now,
don’t be frightened. Ah! what do I see? Upon my word, you will be one of
the richest heiresses in Paris before very long. You will heap riches
on the man who loves you. Your father will want you to go and live with
him. You will marry a young and handsome man with a title, and he will
idolize you.”
The heavy footsteps of the coquettish widow, who was coming down the
stairs, interrupted Vautrin’s fortune-telling. “Here is Mamma Vauquerre,
fair as a starr-r-r, dressed within an inch of her life.--Aren’t we a
trifle pinched for room?” he inquired, with his arm round the lady;
“we are screwed up very tightly about the bust, mamma! If we are much
agitated, there may be an explosion; but I will pick up the fragments
with all the care of an antiquary.”
“There is a man who can talk the language of French gallantry!” said the
widow, bending to speak in Mme. Couture’s ear.
“Good-bye, little ones!” said Vautrin, turning to Eugene and Victorine.
“Bless you both!” and he laid a hand on either head. “Take my word for
it, young lady, an honest man’s prayers are worth something; they should
bring you happiness, for God hears them.”
“Good-bye, dear,” said Mme. Vauquer to her lodger. “Do you think that M.
Vautrin means to run away with me?” she added, lowering her voice.
“Lack-a-day!” said the widow.
“Oh! mamma dear, suppose it should really happen as that kind M. Vautrin
said!” said Victorine with a sigh as she looked at her hands. The two
women were alone together.
“Why, it wouldn’t take much to bring it to pass,” said the elderly lady;
“just a fall from his horse, and your monster of a brother----”
“Oh! mamma.”
“Good Lord! Well, perhaps it is a sin to wish bad luck to an enemy,” the
widow remarked. “I will do penance for it. Still, I would strew
flowers on his grave with the greatest pleasure, and that is the truth.
Black-hearted, that he is! The coward couldn’t speak up for his own
mother, and cheats you out of your share by deceit and trickery. My
cousin had a pretty fortune of her own, but unluckily for you, nothing
was said in the marriage-contract about anything that she might come in
for.”
“It would be very hard if my fortune is to cost some one else his life,”
said Victorine. “If I cannot be happy unless my brother is to be taken
out of the world, I would rather stay here all my life.”
“_Mon Dieu!_ it is just as that good M. Vautrin says, and he is full of
piety, you see,” Mme. Couture remarked. “I am very glad to find that
he is not an unbeliever like the rest of them that talk of the Almighty
with less respect than they do of the Devil. Well, as he was saying, who
can know the ways by which it may please Providence to lead us?”
With Sylvie’s help the two women at last succeeded in getting Eugene
up to his room; they laid him on the bed, and the cook unfastened
his clothes to make him more comfortable. Before they left the room,
Victorine snatched an opportunity when her guardian’s back was turned,
and pressed a kiss on Eugene’s forehead, feeling all the joy that this
stolen pleasure could give her. Then she looked round the room, and
gathering up, as it were, into one single thought all the untold bliss
of that day, she made a picture of her memories, and dwelt upon it until
she slept, the happiest creature in Paris.
That evening’s merry-making, in the course of which Vautrin had
given the drugged wine to Eugene and Father Goriot, was his own
ruin. Bianchon, flustered with wine, forgot to open the subject of
Trompe-la-Mort with Mlle. Michonneau. The mere mention of the name would
have set Vautrin on his guard; for Vautrin, or, to give him his real
name, Jacques Collin, was in fact the notorious escaped convict.
But it was the joke about the Venus of Pere-Lachaise that finally