Father Goriot
nothing to me compared with our love; I care for nothing else, for you
are all the world to me. If I feel glad to be rich, it is for your sake.
To my shame be it said, I think of my lover before my father. Do you ask
why? I cannot tell you, but all my life is in you. My father gave me a
heart, but you have taught it to beat. The whole world may condemn me;
what does it matter if I stand acquitted in your eyes, for you have
no right to think ill of me for the faults which a tyrannous love has
forced me to commit for you! Do you think me an unnatural daughter? Oh!
no, no one could help loving such a dear kind father as ours. But how
could I hide the inevitable consequences of our miserable marriages from
him? Why did he allow us to marry when we did? Was it not his duty to
think for us and foresee for us? To-day I know he suffers as much as we
do, but how can it be helped? And as for comforting him, we could not
comfort him in the least. Our resignation would give him more pain and
hurt him far more than complaints and upbraidings. There are times in
life when everything turns to bitterness.”
Eugene was silent, the artless and sincere outpouring made an impression
on him.
Parisian women are often false, intoxicated with vanity, selfish and
self-absorbed, frivolous and shallow; yet of all women, when they love,
they sacrifice their personal feelings to their passion; they rise but
so much the higher for all the pettiness overcome in their nature, and
become sublime. Then Eugene was struck by the profound discernment and
insight displayed by this woman in judging of natural affection, when a
privileged affection had separated and set her at a distance apart. Mme.
de Nucingen was piqued by the silence,
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“I am thinking about what you said just now. Hitherto I have always felt
sure that I cared far more for you than you did for me.”
She smiled, and would not give way to the happiness she felt, lest their
talk should exceed the conventional limits of propriety. She had never
heard the vibrating tones of a sincere and youthful love; a few more
words, and she feared for her self-control.
“Eugene,” she said, changing the conversation, “I wonder whether you
know what has been happening? All Paris will go to Mme. de Beauseant’s
to-morrow. The Rochefides and the Marquis d’Ajuda have agreed to keep
the matter a profound secret, but to-morrow the king will sign the
marriage-contract, and your poor cousin the Vicomtesse knows nothing
of it as yet. She cannot put off her ball, and the Marquis will not be
there. People are wondering what will happen?”
“The world laughs at baseness and connives at it. But this will kill
Mme. de Beauseant.”
“Oh, no,” said Delphine, smiling, “you do not know that kind of woman.
Why, all Paris will be there, and so shall I; I ought to go there for
your sake.”
“Perhaps, after all, it is one of those absurd reports that people set
in circulation here.”
“We shall know the truth to-morrow.”
Eugene did not return to the Maison Vauquer. He could not forego the
pleasure of occupying his new rooms in the Rue d’Artois. Yesterday
evening he had been obliged to leave Delphine soon after midnight, but
that night it was Delphine who stayed with him until two o’clock in the
morning. He rose late, and waited for Mme. de Nucingen, who came about
noon to breakfast with him. Youth snatches eagerly at these rosy moments
of happiness, and Eugene had almost forgotten Goriot’s existence.
The pretty things that surrounded him were growing familiar; this
domestication in itself was one long festival for him, and Mme. de
Nucingen was there to glorify it all by her presence. It was four
o’clock before they thought of Goriot, and of how he had looked forward
to the new life in that house. Eugene said that the old man ought to be
moved at once, lest he should grow too ill to move. He left Delphine
and hurried back to the lodging-house. Neither Father Goriot nor young
Bianchon was in the dining-room with the others.
“Aha!” said the painter as Eugene came in, “Father Goriot has broken
down at last. Bianchon is upstairs with him. One of his daughters--the
Comtesse de Restaurama--came to see the old gentleman, and he would get
up and go out, and made himself worse. Society is about to lose one of
its brightest ornaments.”
Rastignac sprang to the staircase.
“Hey! Monsieur Eugene!”
“Monsieur Eugene, the mistress is calling you,” shouted Sylvie.
“It is this, sir,” said the widow. “You and M. Goriot should by rights
have moved out on the 15th of February. That was three days ago; to-day
is the 18th, I ought really to be paid a month in advance; but if you
will engage to pay for both, I shall be quite satisfied.”
“Why can’t you trust him?”
“Trust him, indeed! If the old gentleman went off his head and died,
those daughters of his would not pay me a farthing, and his things won’t
fetch ten francs. This morning he went out with all the spoons and
forks he has left, I don’t know why. He had got himself up to look quite
young, and--Lord, forgive me--but I thought he had rouge on his cheeks;
he looked quite young again.”
“I will be responsible,” said Eugene, shuddering with horror, for he
foresaw the end.
He climbed the stairs and reached Father Goriot’s room. The old man was
tossing on his bed. Bianchon was with him.
“Good-evening, father,” said Eugene.
The old man turned his glassy eyes on him, smiled gently, and said:
“How is _she_?”
“She is quite well. But how are you?”
“There is nothing much the matter.”
“Don’t tire him,” said Bianchon, drawing Eugene into a corner of the
room.
“Well?” asked Rastignac.
“Nothing but a miracle can save him now. Serous congestion has set in;
I have put on mustard plasters, and luckily he can feel them, they are
acting.”
“Is it possible to move him?”
“Quite out of the question. He must stay where he is, and be kept as
quiet as possible----”
“Dear Bianchon,” said Eugene, “we will nurse him between us.”
“I have had the head physician round from my hospital to see him.”
“And what did he say?”
“He will give no opinion till to-morrow evening. He promised to look in
again at the end of the day. Unluckily, the preposterous creature must
needs go and do something foolish this morning; he will not say what it
was. He is as obstinate as a mule. As soon as I begin to talk to him
he pretends not to hear, and lies as if he were asleep instead of
answering, or if he opens his eyes he begins to groan. Some time this
morning he went out on foot in the streets, nobody knows where he went,
and he took everything that he had of any value with him. He has been
driving some confounded bargain, and it has been too much for his
strength. One of his daughters has been here.”
“Was it the Countess?” asked Eugene. “A tall, dark-haired woman, with
large bright eyes, slender figure, and little feet?”
“Yes.”
“Leave him to me for a bit,” said Rastignac. “I will make him confess;
he will tell me all about it.”
“And meanwhile I will get my dinner. But try not to excite him; there is
still some hope left.”
“All right.”
“How they will enjoy themselves to-morrow,” said Father Goriot when they
were alone. “They are going to a grand ball.”
“What were you doing this morning, papa, to make yourself so poorly this
evening that you have to stop in bed?”
“Nothing.”
“Did not Anastasie come to see you?” demanded Rastignac.
“Yes,” said Father Goriot.
“Well, then, don’t keep anything from me. What more did she want of
you?”
“Oh, she was very miserable,” he answered, gathering up all his strength
to speak. “It was this way, my boy. Since that affair of the diamonds,
Nasie has not had a penny of her own. For this ball she had ordered a
golden gown like a setting for a jewel. Her mantuamaker, a woman without
a conscience, would not give her credit, so Nasie’s waiting-woman
advanced a thousand francs on account. Poor Nasie! reduced to such
shifts! It cut me to the heart to think of it! But when Nasie’s maid
saw how things were between her master and mistress, she was afraid of
losing her money, and came to an understanding with the dressmaker, and
the woman refuses to send the ball-dress until the money is paid. The
gown is ready, and the ball is to-morrow night! Nasie was in despair.
She wanted to borrow my forks and spoons to pawn them. Her husband is
determined that she shall go and wear the diamonds, so as to contradict
the stories that are told all over Paris. How can she go to that
heartless scoundrel and say, ‘I owe a thousand francs to my dressmaker;
pay her for me!’ She cannot. I saw that myself. Delphine will be there
too in a superb toilette, and Anastasie ought not to be outshone by her
younger sister. And then--she was drowned in tears, poor girl! I felt
so humbled yesterday when I had not the twelve thousand francs, that I
would have given the rest of my miserable life to wipe out that wrong.
You see, I could have borne anything once, but latterly this want of
money has broken my heart. Oh! I did not do it by halves; I titivated
myself up a bit, and went out and sold my spoons and forks and buckles
for six hundred francs; then I went to old Daddy Gobseck, and sold a
year’s interest on my annuity for four hundred francs down. Pshaw! I can
live on dry bread, as I did when I was a young man; if I have done it
before, I can do it again. My Nasie shall have one happy evening, at any
rate. She shall be smart. The banknote for a thousand francs is under
my pillow; it warms me to have it lying there under my head, for it is
going to make my poor Nasie happy. She can turn that bad girl Victoire
out of the house. A servant that cannot trust her mistress, did any one
ever hear the like! I shall be quite well to-morrow. Nasie is coming at
ten o’clock. They must not think that I am ill, or they will not go to
the ball; they will stop and take care of me. To-morrow Nasie will come
and hold me in her arms as if I were one of her children; her kisses
will make me well again. After all, I might have spent the thousand
francs on physic; I would far rather give them to my little Nasie, who
can charm all the pain away. At any rate, I am some comfort to her in
her misery; and that makes up for my unkindness in buying an annuity.
She is in the depths, and I cannot draw her out of them now. Oh! I will
go into business again, I will buy wheat in Odessa; out there, wheat
fetches a quarter of the price it sells for here. There is a law against
the importation of grain, but the good folk who made the law forgot to
prohibit the introduction of wheat products and food stuffs made from
corn. Hey! hey!... That struck me this morning. There is a fine trade to
be done in starch.”
Eugene, watching the old man’s face, thought that his friend was
light-headed.
“Come,” he said, “do not talk any more, you must rest----” Just then
Bianchon came up, and Eugene went down to dinner.
The two students sat up with him that night, relieving each other in
turn. Bianchon brought up his medical books and studied; Eugene wrote
letters home to his mother and sisters. Next morning Bianchon thought
the symptoms more hopeful, but the patient’s condition demanded
continual attention, which the two students alone were willing to
give--a task impossible to describe in the squeamish phraseology of the
epoch. Leeches must be applied to the wasted body, the poultices and
hot foot-baths, and other details of the treatment required the physical
strength and devotion of the two young men. Mme. de Restaud did not
come; but she sent a messenger for the money.
“I expected she would come herself; but it would have been a pity for
her to come, she would have been anxious about me,” said the father, and
to all appearances he was well content.