CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME 
 OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT 
 FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY 
 
 HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PQ 2168.A3 1914 
 
 Father Goriot / 
 
 3 1924 027 727 423 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027727423 
 

There was a splendid carriage waiting , . . and she got into it 
 
FATHER GORIOT 
 
 BY 
 
 HONORE DE BALZAC 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1914 
 
 EM. 
 
FATHER GpRIOT 
 
 To the great and illustrious Geoffroy Salnt-Hilaire, a token ot 
 admiration for his works and genius. 
 
 De Balzac. 
 
 Mme. Vauquer (nee de Conflans) is an elderly person, who 
 for the past forty years has kept a lodging-house in the Rue 
 Neuye-Sainte-Genevieve, in the district that lies between^iSe 
 Latin Quarter and the Paubourg Saint-Marcel. Her house 
 ■ (known in the neighljorhood as the Maison Vauquer) re- 
 ceived men and women, old and young, and no word has ever 
 been breathed against her respectable establishment; but, at 
 the same time, it must be said that as a matter of fact no 
 young woman has been under her roof for thirty years, and 
 that if a young man stays there for any length of time it 
 is a sure sign that his allowance must be of the slenderest. 
 In 1819, however, the time when this drama opens, there 
 was an almost penniless young girl among Mme. Vauquer's 
 boarders.- 
 
 That word drama has been somewhat discredited of late; 
 it has been overworked and twisted to strange uses in these 
 days of dolorous literature; but it must do service again 
 here, not because this story is dramatic in the restricted 
 sensfe of the word, but because some tears may perhaps be 
 shed intra et extra muros before it is over. 
 
 Will any one without the walls of Paris understand it!\ 
 It is open to doubt. , The only audience who could appre-^ 
 date the results of close observation, the careful reproduc- 
 tion of minute detail and local color, are dwellers between 
 the heights of Montrouge and Montmartre, in a vale of 
 
 (1) 
 
8 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 crumbling stucco watered by streams of black mud, a vale 
 of sorrows wnieh are real and of joys too often hollow; but 
 this audience is so accustomed to terrible sensations, that 
 only some unimaginable and well-nigh impossible woe could 
 produce any lasting impression there. Now and again there 
 are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of the compli- 
 cation of virtues and vices that bring them about, that ego- 
 tism and selfishness are forced to pause and are moved to 
 pity; but the impression that they receive is like a luscious 
 fruit, soon consumed. CJ|fcation, like the car of Jugger- 
 naut, is scarcely stayed J^^tibly in its progress by a heart 
 less easy to break than the others that lie in its couuse ; this 
 al^tis broken, and Civilization continues on her course tri- 
 u^piant. And you, too, will do the like; you who with 'this 
 booK in YO-U.r white hand w ill sink back among the cushions 
 of your armchair, and say to yourself, "Perhaps this may 
 amuse me." You will read the story of Father Goriot's secret 
 woes, and, dining thereafter with an unspoiled appetite, will 
 lay the blame of your insensibility upon the writer, and ac- 
 cuse him of exaggeration, of writing romances. Ah! once 
 for all, this drama is neither a fiction nor a romance ! All 
 ^s true, — so true, that every one can discern the elements of 
 the tragedy in his own house, perhaps in his own heart. 
 
 The lodging-house is Mme. Vauquer's own property. It is 
 still standing at the lower end of the Eue Neuve-Sainte-Gene- 
 vifeve, just where the road slopes so sharply down to the Euq 
 de I'Arbalete, that wheeled traffic seldom passes that way, 
 because it is so stony and steep. This position is sufficient 
 to account for the silence prevalent in the streets shut in be- 
 tween the dome of the Pantheon and the dome of the Val-de- 
 Grace, two conspicuous public buildings which give a yel- 
 "lowish tone to the landscape and darken the whole district 
 that lies beneath the shadow of their leaden-hued cupolas. 
 
 In that district the pavements are clean and dry, there is 
 neither mud nor water in the gutters^ grass grows in the 
 chinks of the walls. The most heedless passer-by feels the 
 depressing influences of a place where the "ound of wheels ;| 
 
FATHER GORIOT 8 
 
 creates a sensation; there is a grim look about the houses, 
 a suggestion of a jail about those high garden walls. A 
 Parisian straying into a suburb apparently composed of lodg- 
 ing-houses and public institutions would see poverty and dul- 
 ness, old age lying down to die, and joyous youth condemned 
 to drudgery. It is the ugliest quarter of Paris, and, it may 
 be added, the least known. But, before all things, the Rue 
 Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve is like a bronze frame for a picture 
 for which the mind cannot be too well prepared by the contem- 
 plation of sad hues and sober images. Even so, step by step 
 the daylight decreases, and the cicerone's droning voice grows 
 hollower as the traveler descends into the Catacombs. The 
 comparison holds good! Who shall say which is more 
 ghastly, the sight of the bleached skulls or of dried-up human 
 hearts ? 
 
 The front of the lodging-house is at right angles to the 
 road, and looks out upon a little garden, so that you see the 
 side of the house in section, as it were, from the Rue Neuve- 
 Sainte-Genevieve. Beneath the wall of the house front there 
 lies a channel, a fathom wide, paved with cobble-stones, and 
 beside it runs a graveled walk bordered by geraniums and 
 oleanders and pomegranates set in great blue and white 
 glazed earthenware pots. Access into the graveled walk is 
 afforded by a door, above which the words Maisok Vauquek 
 may be read, and beneath, in rather smaller letters, "Lodgings 
 for both sexes, etc." 
 
 During the day a glimpse into the garden is easily ob- 
 tained through a wicket to which a bell is attached. On 
 the opposite wall, at the further end of the graveled walk, 
 a green marble arch was painted once upon a time by a 
 local artist, and in this semblance of a shrine a statue repre- 
 senting Cupid is installed; a Parisian Cupid, so blistered 
 and disfigured that he looks like a candidate for one of the/ 
 adjacent hospitals, and miffht suggest an allegory to lovers 
 of symbolism. The half-obliterated inscription on the 
 pedestal beneath determines the date of this work of art, for 
 
4 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 it bears witness to the widespread enthusiasm felt for Vol- 
 taire on his return to Paris in 1777 : 
 
 "Whoe'er thou art, thy master see; 
 He is, or was, or ought to be." 
 
 At night the wicket gate is replaced by a solid door. The 
 little garden is no wider than the front of the house; it 
 is shut in between the wall of the street and the partition 
 wall of the neighboring house. A mantle of ivy conceals the 
 bricks and attracts the eyes of passers-by to an effect which 
 is picturesque in Paris, for each of the walls is covered with 
 trellised vines that yield a scanty dusty crop of fruit, and fur- 
 nish besides a subject of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and 
 her lodgers; every year the widow trembles for her vintage. 
 
 A straight path beneath the walls on either side of the 
 garden leads to a clump of lime-trees at the further end of 
 it; Zme-trees, as Mme. Vauquer persists in calling them, in 
 jipite of the fact' that she was a de Conflans, and regardless 
 of repeated corrections from her lodgers. 
 
 The central space between the walls is filled with arti- 
 chokes and rows of pyramid fruit-trees, and surrounded by 
 a border of lettuce, pot-herbs, and parsley. Under the lime- 
 trees there are a few green-painted garden seats and a. 
 wooden table, and hither, during the dog-days, such of the 
 lodgers as are rich enough to indulge in a cup of coffee come 
 to take their pleasure, though it is hot enough to roast eggs 
 even in the shade. 
 
 The house itself is three stories high, without counting the- 
 attics u!nder the roof. It is built of rough stone, and covered 
 with the yellowish stucco that gives a mean appearance to 
 almost every house in Paris. There are five windows in each 
 story in the front of the house ; all the blinds visible through 
 the small square panes are drawn up awry, so that the lines 
 are all at, cross purposes. At the side of the house there are 
 but two windows on each floor, and the lowest of all are 
 adorned with a heavy iron grating. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 5 
 
 Behind the house a yard extends for some twenty feet, a 
 space inhabited by a happy family of pigs, poultry, and rab- 
 bits; the wood-shed is situated on the further side, and on 
 the wall between the wood-shed and the kitchen window 
 hangs the meat-safe, just above the place where the sink 
 discharges its greasy streams. The cook sweeps all the ref- 
 use out through a little, door into the Rue Neuve-Sainte- 
 Genevieve, and frequently cleanses the yard with copious 
 supplies of water, under pain of pestilence. 
 
 The house might have been built on purpose for its pres- 
 ent uses. Access is given by a French window to the first 
 room on the ground floor, a sitting-room which looks out 
 upon the street through the two barred windows already men- 
 tioned. Another door opens out of it into the dining-room, 
 which is separated from the kitchen by the well of the stair- 
 case, the steps being constructed partly of wood, partly of 
 tiles, which are colored and beeswaxed. Nothing pan be more 
 depressing than the sight of that sitting-room. The furni- 
 ture is covered with horse hair woven in alternate dull and 
 glossy stripes. There is a round table in the middle, with 
 a purplish-red marble top, on which there stands, by way of 
 ornament, the inevitable white china tea-service, covered with 
 a half-effaced gilt network. The floor is sufficiently uneven, 
 the wainscot rises to elbow height, and the rest of the wall 
 space is decorated with a varnished paper, on which the prin- 
 cipal scenes from Telemaque are depicted, the various classi- 
 cal personages being colored/^The subject between the two 
 windows is the banquet given by Calypso to the son of Ulysses, 
 displayed thereon for the admiration of the boarders, and 
 has furnished jokes these forty years to the young men who 
 show themselves superior to their position by making fun 
 of the dinners to which poverty condemns them. The hearth 
 is always so clean and neat that it is evident that a lire is 
 only kindlid there on great occasions; the stone chimney- 
 piece is adorned by a couple of vases filled with faded arti- 
 ficial floVers imprisoned under glass shades, on either side 
 of a bluish marble clock in the very worst taste. 
 
e FATHER GORIOT 
 
 The first room exhales an odor for which there is no name 
 in the language, and which should be called the odeur de 
 pension. The damp atmosphere sends a chill through you 
 as you breathe it; it has a stuffy, musty, and rancid quality; 
 it permeates your clothing; after-dinner scents seem to be 
 mingled in it with smells from the kitchen and scullery and 
 the reek of a hospital. It might be possible to describe it if 
 some one should discover a process by which to distil from 
 the atmosphere all the nauseating elements with which it is 
 charged by the catarrhal exhalations of every individual 
 lodger, young or old. Yet, in spite of these stale horrors, the 
 sitting-room is as charming and as delicately perfumed as 
 a boudoir, when compared with the adjoining dining-room. 
 
 The paneled walls of that apartment were once painted 
 some color, now a matter of conjecture, for the surface is 
 incrusted with accumulated layers of grimy deposit, which 
 cover it with fantastic outlines. A collection of dim-ribbed 
 glass decanters, metal discs with a satin sheen on them, and 
 piles of blue-edged earthenware plates of Touraine ware cover 
 the sticky surfaces of the sideboards thart line the room. In a 
 corner stands a box containing a set of numbered pigeon- 
 holes, in which the lodgers' table ,napkins, more or less soiled 
 and stained with wine, are kept. Here you see that inde- 
 structible furniture never met with elsew;here, which finds its 
 way into lodging-houses much as the wrecks of our civiliza- 
 tion drift into hospitals for incurables. You expect in such- 
 places as these to find the weather-house whence a Capuchin 
 issues on wet days ; you look to find the execrable engravings 
 which spoil your appetite, framed every one in a black var- 
 nished frame, with a gilt beading round it; you know the 
 sort of tortoise-shell clock-case, inlaid with brags; the green 
 stove, the Argand lamps, covered with oil and dust, have 
 met your eyes before. The oilcloth w;hich- covers the long , 
 table is so greasy that a waggish externe will wrik his name 
 on the surface, using his thumb-nail as a style. The chairs 
 are broken-down invalids; the wretched little hempen mafi^ 
 slip away from under your feet without slipping away f 
 
FATHER GORIOT T 
 
 good; and finally, the foot-warmers are miserable wrecks, 
 hingeless, charred, broken away about the holes. It would 
 yte impossible to give an idea of the old, rotten, shaky, cranky, 
 worm-eaten, halt, maimed, one-eyed, rickety, and ramshackle 
 bondition of the furniture without an exhaustive descrip- 
 tion, which would delay the progress of the story to an extent 
 that impatient people would not pardon. The red tiles of 
 the floor are full of depressions brought about by scouring and 
 periodical renewings of color. In short, there is no illusory 
 grace left to the poverty that reigns here; it is dire, parsi- 
 monious, concentrated, threadbare poverty; as yet it has not 
 sunk into the mire, it is only splashed by it, and though not 
 in rags as yet, its clothing is ready to drop to pieces. 
 
 This apartment is in all its glory at seven o'clock in 
 the morning, when Mme. Vauquer's eat appears, announc- 
 ing the near approach of his mistress, and jumps upon the 
 sideboards to sniff at the milk in the bowls, each protected 
 by a plate, while he purrs his morning greeting to the world. 
 A moment later the widow shows her face; she is tricked 
 out in a net cap attached to a false front set on awry, and 
 shuffles into the room in her slipshcjd fashion. She is an oldish 
 woman, with a bloated countenance; and a nose like a parrot's 
 beak set in the middle of it;, her fat little hands (she is as 
 sleek as a church rat) and her shapeless, slouching figure 
 are in keeping with the room that reeks of misfortune, where 
 hope is reduced to speculate for the meanest stakes. Mme. 
 Vauquer alone can breathe that tainted air without being dis- 
 heartened by it. Her face is as fresh as a frosty morning 
 in autumn; there are wrinkles about the .eyes that vary in 
 their expression from the set smile of a ballet-dancer to the 
 /dark, suspicious scowl of a discounter of bills; in short, she 
 yis at once the embodiment and interpretation of her lodging- 
 touse, as surely as her lodging-hou^e implies the existence 
 'of its mislfess. You can no more imagine the one without 
 the other, than you can think of a jail without a turnkey. The 
 unwholesome corpulence of the little woman is produced by 
 the life she leads, just as typhus fever is bred in the tainted 
 
8 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 air of a hospital. The very knitted woolen petticoat that she 
 wears beneath a skirt made of an old gown, with the wad- 
 ding protruding through the rents in the material, is a sort 
 of epitome of the sitting-room, the dining-room, and the 
 little garden ; it discovers the cook ; it foreshadows the lodgers; 
 — ^the picture of the house is completed by the portrait of its; 
 mistress. 
 
 Mme. Vauquer at t^e age of fifty is like all women who 
 'Tiave seen a deal of trouble." She has the glassy eyes and 
 innocent air of a trafficker in flesh and blood, who will wax 
 virtuously indignant to obtain a higher price for her ser- 
 vices, but who is quite ready to betray a Georges or a Pichegru, 
 if a Georges or a Pichegru were in hiding and still to be be- 
 trayed, or for any other expedient that may alleviate her 
 lot. Still, "she is a good woman at bottom," said the lodgers, 
 who believed that the widow was wholly dependent upon the 
 money that they paid her, and sympathized when they heard 
 her cough and groan like one of themselves. 
 
 What had M. Vauquer been ? The lady was never very ex- 
 plicit on this head. How had she lost her money ? "Through 
 trouble," was her answer. He had treated her badly, had left 
 her nothing but her eyes to cry over his cruelty, the house 
 she lived in, and the privilege of pitying nobociy, because, so 
 she was wont to say, she herself had been through every pos- 
 sible misfortune. 
 
 Sylvie, the stout cook, hearing her mistress' shufBing foot- 
 steps, hastened to serve the lodgers' breakfasts. Beside those 
 who lived in the house, Mme. Vauquer took boarders who 
 came for their meals; but these exf ernes usually only came 
 to dinner, for which they paid thirty francs a month. 
 
 At the time when this story begins, the lodging-house con- 
 tained seven inmates. The best rooms in the house were on 
 the first story, Mme. Vauquer herself occupying the least 
 important, while the rest were let to a Mme. Couture, the 
 widow of a commissary-general in the service of the Ke- 
 public. With her lived Vietorine Taillefer, a schoolgirl, to 
 •whom she filled the place of mother. These two ladies paid 
 eighteen hundred francs a jear. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 9 
 
 The two sets of rooms on the second floor were respectively 
 occupied by an old man named Poiret and a man of forty 
 or thereabouts, the wearer of a black wig and dyed whiskers, 
 who gave out that he was a retired merchant, and was ad- 
 dressed as M. Vautrin. Two of the four rooms on the third 
 floor were also let — one to an elderly spinster, a Mile. Michon- 
 neau, and the other to a retired manufacturer of vermicelli, 
 Italian paste and starch, who "allowed the others to address 
 him as "Father Goriot." The remaining rooms were allotted 
 to various birds of passage, to impecunious students, who, 
 like "Father Goriot" and Mile. Michohneau, could only mus- 
 ter forty-five francs a month to pay for their board and lodg- 
 ing. Mme. Vauquer had little desire for lodgers of this sort ; 
 they ate too much bread, and she only took them in default 
 of better. 
 
 At that time one of the rooms was tenanted by a law stu- 
 dent, a young man from the neighborhood of Aiigoul^me, 
 one of a large family who pinched and starved themselves 
 to spare twelve hundred francs a year for him. Misfortune 
 had accustomed Eugeag^deEastignag, for that was his name, 
 to work. He belonged to^tJie number of young men who 
 know as children that their parents' hopes are centered on, 
 them, and deliberately prepare themselves for a great career, 
 subordinating their studies from the first to this eiid, care- . 
 fully watching the indications of the course of events, calcu- 
 lating the probable turn that affairs will take, that they may 
 be the first to profit by .them. But for his observant cu- 
 riosity, and the skill with which he managed to introduce 
 himself into the salons of Paris, this story would not have 
 been colored by the tones of truth which it certainly owes 
 to him, for they are entirely due to his penetrating sagacity 
 and desire to fathom the mysteries of an appalling condition 
 of things, which was concealed as carefully by the victim 
 as by those who had brought it to pass. 
 
 Above the third story there was a garret where the linen 
 was hung to dry, and a couple of attics. Christophe, the 
 man-of-all-work, slept in one^ and Sylvie, the stout cook, in 
 
10 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 the other. Beside the seven inmates thus enumerated, taking 
 one year with another, some eight law or medical students 
 dined in the house, as well as two or three regular comers 
 who lived in the neighborhood. There were usually eighteen 
 people at dinner, and there was room, if need be, for twenty 
 at Mme. Vauquer's table; at breakfast, however, only the 
 seven lodgers appeared. It was almost like a family party. 
 ■'Every one came down in dressing-gown and slippers, and 
 the conversation usually turned on anything that had hap- 
 pened the evening before; comments on the dress or appear- 
 ance of the dinner contingent were exchanged in friendly 
 confidence. 
 
 These seven lodgers were Mme. Vauquer's spoiled children. 
 Among them she distributed, with astronomical precision, 
 the exact proportion of respect and attention due to the vary- 
 ing amounts they paid for their board. One single consider- 
 ation influenced all these human beings thrown together by 
 chance. The two second-floor lodgers only paid seventy-two 
 francs a month. Such prices as these are confined to the 
 Faubourg Saint-Marcel and the district between La Bourbe 
 and the Salpetriere ; and, as might be expected, poverty, more 
 or less apparent, weighed upon them all, Mme. Couture being 
 the sole exception to the rule. 
 
 The dreary surroundings were reflected in the costumes 
 of the inmates of the house; all were alike threadbare. The 
 color of the men's coats was problematical; such shoes, in 
 more fashionable quarters, are only to be seen lying in the 
 gutter; the cuffs and collars were worn and frayed at the 
 edges; every limp article of clothing looked like the ghost 
 of its former self. The women's dresses were faded, old- 
 fashioned, dyed and re-dyed ; they wore gloves that were glazed 
 .with hard wear, much-mended lace, dingy ruffles, crumpled 
 muslin fichus. So much for their clothing; but, for the 
 most part, their frames were solid enough ; their constitutions 
 had weathered the storms of life ; their cold, hard faces were 
 worn like coins that have been withdravm from circ^ulation,- 
 but there were greedy teeth behind the withered lips.y Dramas 
 
FATHER GORIOT 11 
 
 brought to a close or still in progress are foreshadov/ed by 
 the sight of such actors as these, not the dramas that are 
 played before the footlights and against a background of 
 painted canvas, but dumb dramas of life, frost-bound dramas 
 that sere hearts like fire, dramas that do not end with the 
 actors' lives. 
 
 Mile. Michonneau, that elderly young lady, screened her 
 ;Weak eyes from the daylight by a soiled green silk shade with 
 a rim of brass, an object fit to scare away the Angel of Pity 
 himself. Her shawl, with its scanty, draggled fringe, might 
 have covered a skeleton, so meagre and angular was the form 
 beneath it. Yet she must have been pretty and shapely once. 
 What corrosive had destroyed the feminine outlines? Was it 
 trouble, or vice, or greed? Had she loved too well? Had 
 she been a second-hand clothes dealer, a frequenter of the 
 backstairs of great houses, or had she been merely a courtesan ? 
 Was she expiating the flaunting triumphs of a youth over- 
 crowded with pleasures by an old age in which she wms 
 shunned by every passer-by? Her vacant gaze sent a. chili 
 through you; her shriveled face seemed like a menace. Her 
 voice was like the shrill, thin note of the grasshopper sound- 
 ing from the thicket when winter is at hand. She said that 
 she had nursed an old gentleman, ill of catarrh of the blad- 
 der, and left to die by his children, who thought that he had 
 nothing left. His bequest to her, a life annuity of a thousand 
 francs, was periodically disputed by his heirs, who mingled 
 slander with their persecutions. In spite of the ravages of 
 conflicting passions, her face retained some traces of its 
 former fairness and fineness of tissue, some vestiges of the 
 physical charms of her youth stUl survived. 
 
 M. Poiret was a sort of automaton. He might be seen 
 any day sailing like a gray shadow along the walks of the 
 Jardin des Plantes, on his head a shabby cap, a cane with an 
 old yellow ivory handle in the tips of his thin fingers; the 
 outspread skirts of his threadbare overcoat failed to conceal 
 his meagre figure ; his breeches hung loosely on his shrunken 
 limbs ; the thin, blue-stockinged legs trembled like those of a 
 
12 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 drunken man; there was a notable breach of continuity be- 
 tween the dingy white waistcoat and crumpled shirt frills and 
 the cravat twisted about a throat like a turkey gobbler's J 
 altogether, his appearance set people wondering whether this 
 outlandish ghost belonged to the audacious race of the sons 
 of Japhet who flutter about on the Boulevard Italien. What 
 kind of toil could have so shriveled him? "What devouring 
 passions had darkened that bulbous countenance, which would 
 have seemed out&geous as a caricature ? What had he been ? 
 Well, perhaps he had been part of the machinery of justice, 
 a clerk in the ofBce to which the executioner sends in his ac- 
 counts, — so much for providing black veils for parricides, so 
 much for sawdust, so much for pulleys and cord for the knife. 
 Or he might have been a receiver at the door of a public 
 slaughter-house, or a sub-inspector of nuisances. Indeed, the 
 man appeared to have been one of the beasts of burden in our 
 great social mill; one of those Parisian Batons whom their 
 Bertrands do not even know by sight ; a pivot in the obscure 
 machinery that disposes of misery and things unclean; one 
 of those men, in short, at sight of whom we are prompted 
 to remark that, "After all, we cannot do withoiit them." 
 
 Stately Paris ignores the existence of these faces bleached 
 by moral or physical suffering ; but, then, Paris is in truth an 
 ocean that no line can plumb. You may survey its surface 
 and describe it ; but no matter what pains you take with your 
 investigations and recognizances, no matter how numerous 
 and painstaking the toilers in this sea, there will always be 
 lonely and unexplored regions in its depths, caverns unknown, 
 flowers and pearls and monsters of the deep overlooked or 
 forgotten by the divers of literature. The Maison Vauquer 
 is one of these curious monstrosities. 
 
 r Two, however, of Mme. Vauquer's boarders formed a strik- 
 ing contrast to the rest. There was a sickly pallor, such as 
 is often .seen in anaemic _girls, in Jfflle. Victorine Taillefer'^j 
 face; and her unvai-ying expression of sadness, like her em- 
 barrassed manner and pinched look, was in keeping with the 
 general wretchedness of the establishment in the Eue Neuve- 
 
 \ 
 
FATHER GORIOT 13 
 
 Sainte-Genevieve, which forms a background to this picture; 
 but her face was young, there was youthfulness in her voice 
 and elasticity in her movements. TMs young misfortune 
 was not unlike a shrub, newly planted in an uncongenial soil, 
 where its leaves have already begun to wither. The outlines 
 of her figure, revealed by her dress of the simplest and 
 cheapest materials, were also youthfuir"'There was the same 
 kind of charm about her too slender form, her faintly colored 
 face and light-brown hair, that modem poets find in medis3val 
 statuettes ; and a sweet expression, a look of Christian resigna- 
 tion in the dark gray eyes. She was pretty by force of con- 
 trast; if sher had been happy^he ^o^ld have_beeii_charaiing^ 
 Happines_s_is the poetry of woinan7as~EEe"{oilette is her tinsel, 
 [f tEedeligEtfiil excitement of a ball had made the pale face 
 glow with color; if the delights of a luxurious life had 
 brought the color to the wan cheeks that were slightly hol- 
 lowed already ; if love had put light into the sad eyes, then 
 Victorine might have ranked among the fairest; but she 
 lacked the two things which create_ woman ,a .se.cojid_tirae — 
 .prettv ^dresses and lo ve-fefters. 
 
 A book might have been made of her story. Her father 
 was persuaded that he had sufficient reason for declining to 
 acknowledge her, and allowed her a bare six hundred francs, 
 a year; he had further taken measures to disinherit his 
 daughter, and had converted all his real estate into personalty, 
 that he might leave it undivided to his son. Victorine's 
 mother had died broken-hearted in Mme. Couture's house; 
 and the latter, who was a near relation, had taken charge of 
 the little orphan. Unluckily, the widow of the commissary- 
 general to the armies of the Eepublic had nothing in the 
 world but her jointure and her widow's pension, and some 
 day she might be obliged to leave the helpless, inexperienced' 
 girl to the mercy of the world. The good soul, therefore, 
 took Victorine to mass every Sunday, and to confession once 
 a fortnight, thinking that, in any case, she would bring up 
 her ward to be devout. She was right ; religion offered a solu- 
 tion of the problem of the young girl's future. The poor 
 
14 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 child loved the father who refused to acknowledge her. Once 
 every year she tried to see him to deliver her mother's mes- 
 sage of forgiveness, but every year hitherto she had knocked 
 at that door in vain ; her father was inexorable. Her brother, 
 her only means of communication, had not come to see her for 
 four years, and had sent her no assistance; yet she prayed to 
 God to unseal her father's eyes and to soften her brother's 
 heart, and no accusations mingled with her prayers. Mme. 
 Couture and Mme. Vauquer exhausted the vocabulary of 
 abuse, and failed to find words that did justice to the banker's 
 iniquitous conduct; but while they heaped execrations on the 
 millionaire, Vietorine's words were as gentle as the moan of 
 the wounded dove, and affection found expression even in the 
 cry drawn from her by pain. 
 
 Eugene de Eastignac was a thoroughly southern type; he 
 had a fair complexion, blue eyes, black hair. In his figure, 
 manner, and his whole bearing it was easy to see that he either 
 came of a noble family, or that, from his earliest childhood, 
 he had been gently bred. If he was careful of his wardrobe, 
 only taking last year's clothes into daily wear, still upon occa- 
 sion he could issue forth as a young man of fashion. Ordi- 
 narily he wore a shabby coat and waistcoat, the limp black 
 cravat, untidily knotted, that students affect, trousers that 
 matched the rest of his costume, and boots that had been re- 
 soled. 
 
 Vautrin (the man of forty with the dyed whiskers) marked 
 a transition stage between these two young people and tha^ 
 others. He was the kind of man that calls forth the remark: 
 "He looks a jovial sort!" He had broad shoulders, a well- 
 developed chest, muscular arms, and strong square-fisted 
 hands; the joints of his fingers were covered with tufts of 
 fiery red hair. His face was furrowed by premature wrin- 
 kles; there was a certain hardness about it in spite of his| 
 bland and insinuating manner. His bass voice was by no' 
 means unpleasant, and was in keeping with his boisterous 
 laughter. He was always obliging, always in good spirits: if 
 anything went wrong with one of the locks, he would soon 
 
, FATHER GORIOT 15 
 
 unscrew it, take it to pieces, file it, oil and clean and set it in 
 order, and put it back in its place again : "I am an old hand 
 at it," he used to say. Not only so, he knew all about ships, 
 the sea. Prance, foreign countries, men, business, law, great 
 houses and prisons, — there was nothing that he did not know. 
 If any one complained rather more than usual, he would 
 oifer his services at once. He had several times lent money 
 to Mme. Vauquer, or to the boarders; but, somehow, those 
 whom he obliged felt that they would sooner face death than' 
 fail to repay him; a certain resolute look, sometimes seen on! 
 his face, inspired fear of him, for all his appearance of easy 
 good-nature. In the way he spat there was an imperturbable 
 coolness which seemed to indicate that this was a man who 
 would not stick at a crime to extricate himself from a false 
 position. His eyes, like those of a pitiless judge, seemed to 
 go to the very bottom of all questions, to read all natures, 
 all feelings and thoughts. His habit of life was very regular ; 
 he usually went out after breakfast, returning in time for 
 dinner, and disappeared for the rest of the evening, letting 
 himself in about midnight with a latch key, a privilege that 
 Mme. Vauquer accorded to no other boarder. But then he 
 was on very good terms with the widow; he used to call her 
 "mamma," and put his arm round her waist, a piece of flat- 
 tery perhaps not appreciated to the full ! The worthy woman 
 might imagine this to be an easy feat; but, as a matter of 
 fact, no arm but Vaiitrin's was long enough to encircle her. 
 It was a characteristic trait of his generously to pay fifteen 
 francs a month for the cup of coilee with a dash of brandy 
 in it, which he took after dinner. Less superficial observers 
 than young men engulfed -by the whirlpool of Parisian life, 
 or old men, who took no interest in anything that did not 
 directly concern them, would not have stopped short at the 
 vaguely unsatisfactory impression that Vautrin made upon' 
 them. He, knew or guessed the concerns of every one about 
 him; but none of them had been able to penetrate his 
 thoughts, or to discover his occupation. He had deliberately 
 made his apparent good-nature, his unfailing readiness to , 
 
16 FATHER rtORIOT 
 
 oblige, and his high spirits into a barrier between himself 
 and the rest of them, but not seldom he gave glimpses of ap- 
 palling depths of character. He seemed to delight in 
 scourging the upper classes of society with the lash of his 
 tongue, to take pleasure in convicting it of inconsistency, in 
 mocking at law and order with some grim jest worthy of 
 Juvenal, as if some grudge against the social system rankled 
 in him, as if there were some mystery carefully hidden away 
 in his life. 
 
 Mile. Taillefer felt attracted, perhaps unconsciously, by 
 the strength of the one man, and the good looks of the other ; 
 her stolen glances and secret thoughts were divided between 
 them; but neither of them seemed to take any notice of her, 
 although some day a chance might alter her position, and 
 she would be a wealthy heiress. For that matter, there was 
 not a soul in the house who took any trouble to investigate 
 the various chronicles of misfortunes, real or imaginary, re- 
 lated by the rest. Bach one regarded the others with indiffer- 
 ence, tempered by suspicion; it was a natural result of their 
 relative positions. Practical assistance not one of them could 
 give, this they all knew, and they had long since exhausted 
 their stock of condolence over previous discussions of their 
 grievances. They were in something the same position as an 
 elderly couple who have nothing left to say to each other. The 
 routine of existence kept them in contact, but they were parts 
 of a mechanism which wanted oil. There was not one of 
 them but would have passed a blind man begging in the 
 street, not one that felt moved to pity by a tale of misfortune, 
 not one who did not see in death the solution of the all-ab- 
 sorbing problem of misery which left them cold to the most 
 terrible anguish in others. 
 
 The happiest of these hapless beings was certainly Mme. 
 Vauquer, who reigned supreme over this hospital supported 
 •by voluntary contributions. For her, the little garden, which 
 silence, and cold, and rain, and drought combined to make 
 as dreary as an Asian steppe, was a pleasant shaded nook; 
 the gaunt yellow house, the musty odors of a back shop had 
 
FATHER GORIOT 1"? 
 
 charms for her, and for her alone. Those cells belonged to 
 her. She fed those convicts condemned to penal servitude 
 for life, and her authority was recognized among them. 
 Where else in Paris would they have found wholesome food 
 in sufficient quantity at the prices she charged them, and 
 rooms which they were at liberty to make, if not exactly ele- 
 gant or comfortable, at any rate clean and healthy? If she 
 had committed some flagrant act of injustice, the victim 
 would have borne it in silence. 
 
 Such a gathering contained, as might have been expected, 
 the elements out of which a complete society might be con- 
 structed. And, as in a school, as in the world itself, there 
 was among the eighteen men and women who met round the 
 dinner table a poor creature, despised by all the others, con- 
 demned to be the butt of all their jokes. At the beginning 
 of Eugene de Eastignac's second twelvemonth, this figure 
 suddenly started out into bold relief against the background 
 of human forms and faces among which the law student was 
 yet to live for another two years to come. This laughing- 
 stock was the retired vermicelli-merchant. Father Goriot, upon 
 whose face a painter, like the historian, would have concen- 
 trated all the light in his picture. 
 
 How had it come about. that the boarders regarded him 
 with a half -malignant contempt? Why did they subject the 
 oldest among their number to a kind of persecution, in which 
 there was mingled some pity, but no respect for his misfor- 
 tunes ? Had he brought it upon himself by some eccentricity 
 or absurdity, which is less easily forgiven or forgotten than 
 more serious defects? The quggtion strikes at the root of_ 
 many a social injustice. Perhaps it is only human nature 
 to inflict suffering on anything that will endure suffering,-- 
 whether by reason of its genuine humility, or indifference, 
 or sheer helplessness. Do we not, one and all, like to feef 
 our strength even at the expense of some one or of some-, 
 thing? The poorest sample of humanity, the street afaS, 
 Vill pnll the bell handle at every street door in bitter weather, 
 and scramble up to write his name on the unsullied marble 
 of a monument. 
 
18 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 In the year 1813, at the age of sixty-nine or thereabouts, 
 "Father Goriot" had sold his business and retired — to Mme. 
 Vauquer's boarding-house. When he first came there he 
 had taken the rooms now occupied by Mme. Couture ; he had 
 paM twelve hundred francs a year like a man to whom five 
 louis more or less was a mere trifle. For him Mme. Vauquer 
 had made various improvements in the three rooms destined 
 for his use, in consideration of a certain sum paid in advance, 
 so it was said, for the miserable furniture, that is to say, for 
 some yellow cotton curtains, a few chairs of stained wood 
 covered with Utrecht velvet, several wretched colored prints 
 in frames, and wall papers that a little suburban tavern 
 would have disdained. Possibly it was the careless generosity 
 with which Father Goriot allowed himself to be overreached at 
 this period of his life (they called him Monsieur Goriot very 
 respectfully then) that gave Mme. Vauquer the meanest 
 opinion of his business abilities; she looked on him as an 
 imbecile where money was concerned. v 
 
 Goriot had brought with him a considerable wardrobe, the 
 gorgeous outfit of a retired tradesman who denies himself 
 nothing. Mme. Vauquer's astonished eyes beheld no less than 
 eighteen cambric-fronted shirts, the splendor of their fine- 
 ness being enhanced by a pair of pins each bearing a large 
 diamond, and connected by a short chain, an ornament which 
 adorned the vermicelli-maker's shirt front. He usually wore 
 a coat of corn-flower blue; his rotund and portly person was 
 still further set off by a clean white waistcoat, and a gold 
 chain and seals which dangled over that broad expanse. 
 When his hostess accused him of being "a bit of a beau," he 
 smiled with the vanity of a citizen whose foible is gratified. 
 His cupboards {ormoires, as he called them in the popular 
 dialect) were filled with a quantity of plate that he brought 
 with him. The widow's eyes gleamed as she obligingly helpe|v; 
 him to unpack the soup ladles, table-spoons, forks, cruef-' 
 stands, tureens^ dishes, and breakfast services — all of silve% 
 which were duly arranged upon the shelves, besides a fe^ 
 more or less handsome pieces of plate, all weighing no incon- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 19 
 
 siderable number of ounces; lie could not bring himself to 
 part with these gifts that reminded him of past domestic 
 festivals. 
 
 "This was my wife's present to me on the iirst anniversary 
 of our wedding day," he said to Mme. Vauquer, as he put 
 away a little silver posset dish, with two turtle-doves billing 
 on the cover. "Poor dear ! she spent on it all the money she 
 had saved before we married. Do you kuow, I would sooner 
 scratch the earth with my nails for a living, madame, than 
 part with that. But I shall be able to take my coifee out of 
 it every morning for the rest of my days, thank the Lord ! I 
 am not to be pitied. There's not much fear of my starving 
 for some time to come." 
 
 Finally, Mme. Vauquer's magpie's eye had discovered and 
 read certain entries in the list of shareholders in the funds, 
 and, after a rough calculation, was disposed to credit Goriot 
 (worthy man) with something like ten thousand francs a 
 year. Prom that day forward Mme. Vauquer {nee De Con- 
 flans), who, as a matter of fact, had seen forty-eight sum- 
 mers, though she would only own to thirty-nine of them — 
 Mme. Vauquer had her own ideas. Though Goriot's eyes 
 seemed to have shrunk in their sockets, though they were 
 weak and watery, owing to some glandular afiEection which 
 compelled him to wipe them continually, she considered him 
 to be a very gentlemanly and pleasant'looking man. Moi^- 
 over, the widow saw favorable indications of character in the 
 well-developed calves of his legs and in his square-shaped 
 nose, indications still further borne out by the worthy man's 
 full-moon countenance and look of stupi^^good-nature. This, 
 in all probability, was a stfOfigly^ilt ammalTwhose brains 
 mostly consisted in a capa£ity_for^iEeetioni__IIis hair, worr 
 in aiUs de pigeon, an"3auIy'pow3ered every morning by the 
 barber from the Ecole Polytechnique, described five points 
 on his low forehead, and made an elegant setting to his faqe. 
 Though his manners were somewhat boorish, he was always 
 as neat as a new pin and he took his smiif in a lordly wav, 
 like a man who knows that his snuff-box is always likely to 
 
20 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 be filled with maccaboy; so that when Mme. Vanquer lay 
 down to rest on the day of M. Goriot's installation, her heart, 
 like a larded partridge, sweltered before the fire of a burning 
 desire to shake oif the shroud of Vauquer and rise again as 
 Goriot. She would marry again, sell her boarding-house, give 
 her hand to this fine flower of citizenship, become a lady of 
 consequence in the quarter, and ask for subscriptions for 
 charitable purposes ; she would make little Sunday excursions 
 to Choisy, Soisy, Gentilly; she would have a box at the the- 
 atre when she liked, instead of waiting for the author's tickets 
 that one of her boarders sometimes gave her, in July; the 
 whole Eldorado of a little Parisian household rose up before 
 Mme. Vauquer in her dreams. Nobody knew that she herself 
 possessed forty thousand francs, accumulated sou by sou, that 
 was her secret ; surely as far as money was concerned she was 
 a very tolerable match. "And in other respects, I am quite 
 his equal," she said to herself, turning as if to assure herself 
 of the charms of a form that the portly Sylvie found moulded 
 iin down feathers every morning. 
 
 For three months from that day Mme. Veuve Vauquer 
 availed herself of the services of M. Goriot's coiffeur, and 
 went to some expense over her toilette, expense justifiable 
 on the ground that she owed it to herself and her establish- 
 ment to pay some attention to appearances when such highly- 
 respectable persons honored her house with their presence. 
 She expended no small amount of ingenuity in a sort of 
 weeding process of her lodgers, announcing her intention of 
 receiving henceforward none but people who were in every 
 way select. If a stranger presented himself, she let him 
 know that M. Goriot, one of the best known and most highly- 
 respected merchants in Paris, had singled out her boarding- 
 house for a residence. She drew up a prospectus headed 
 Maisoit Vadqueh, in which it was asserted that hers was 
 "one of the oldest and most highly recommended hoarding-; 
 houses in the Latin Quarter." "From the windows of the 
 house," thus ran the prospectus, "there is a charming view 
 of the ValMe des Gobelins (so there is — from the third floor), 
 
FATHER GORIOT 21 
 
 and a beautiful garden, extending down to an avenue of lin- 
 dens at the further end." Mention was made of the bracing 
 air of the place and its quiet situation. 
 
 It was this prospectus that attracted Mme. la Comtesse de 
 I'Ambermesnil, a widow of six-and-thirty, who was awaiting 
 the final settlement of her husband's affairs, and of another 
 matter regarding a pension due to her as the wife of a gen- 
 eral who had died "on the field of battle." On this Mme. 
 Vauquer saw to her table, lighted a fire baily in the sitting- 
 room for nearly six months, and kept the promise of her 
 prospectus, even going to some expense to do so. And the 
 Countess, on her side, addressed Mme. Vauquer as "my dear," 
 and promised her two more boarders, the Baronne de Vau- 
 merland and the widow of a colonel, the late Comte de Pic- 
 quoisie, who were about to leave a boarding-house in the 
 Marais, vrhere the terms were higher than at the Maison 
 'Vauquer. Both these ladies, moreover, would be very well 
 to do when the people at the War Office had come to an end 
 of their formalities. "But Government departments are al- 
 ways so dilatory," the lady added. 
 
 After dinner the two widows went together up to Mme. 
 Vauquer's room, and had a snug little chat over some cordial 
 and various delicacies reserved for the mistress of the house. 
 Mme. Vauquer's ideas as to Goriot were cordially approved 
 by Mme. de FAmbermesnil ; it was a capital notion, which 
 for that matter she had guessed from the very first; in her 
 opinion the vermicelli maker was an excellent man. 
 
 "Ah ! my dear lady, such a well-preserved man of his age, 
 as sound as my eyesight — a man who might make a woman 
 happy!" said the widow. 
 
 The good-natured Countess turned to the subject of Mme. 
 Vauquer's dress, which was not in harmony with her proj- 
 ects. "You must put yourself on a war footing," said she. 
 
 After much serious consideration the two widows went 
 shopping together — ^they purchased a hat adorned with 
 ostrich feathers and a cap at the 'Palais Eoyal, and the 
 Countess took her friend to the Magasin de la Petite Jean- 
 
22 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 nette, where they chose a dress and a scarf. Thus equipped 
 for the campaign, the widow looked exactly like the prize 
 animal hung out for a sign above an a la mode beef shop; 
 but she herself was so much pleased with the improvement, 
 as she considered it, in her appearance, that she felt that she 
 lay under some obligation to the Countess; and, though by 
 no means open-handed, she begged that lady to accept a hat 
 that cost twenty francs. The fact was th^t she needed thej 
 Countf'ss' services on the delicate mission of sounding Goriot ; 
 the Cc^ntess must sing her praises in his ears. Mme. de 
 I'Amb^rmesnil lent herself very good-naturedly to this ma- 
 noeuvre, began her operations, and succeeded in obtaining a 
 private interview; but the overtures that she made, with a 
 view to securing him for herself, were received with embar- 
 rassment, not to say a repulse. She left him, revolted by his 
 coarseness. 
 
 "My angel," said she to her dear friend, "you will make 
 nothing of that man yonder. He is absurdly suspicious, and 
 he is a mean curmudgeon, an idiot, a fool; you would never 
 be happy with him." 
 
 After what had passed between M. Goriot and Mme. de 
 I'Ambermesnil, the Countess would no longer live under the 
 same roof. She left the next day, forgot to pay for six 
 months' board, and left behind her her wardrobe, cast-off 
 clothing to the value of five francs. Eagerly and persistently 
 as Mme. Vauquer sought her quondam lodger, the Comtesse 
 de I'Ambermesnil was never heard of again in Paris. The 
 widow often talked of this deplorable business, and regretted 
 her own too confiding disposition. As a matter of fact, she 
 was as suspicious as a cat; but she was like many other people, 
 who cannot trust their own kin and put themselves at the 
 mercy of the next chance comer — an odd but common phe- 
 nomenon, whose causes may reariily be traced to the depths 
 of the human heart. • ■' 
 
 Perhaps there are people whoT hat they have nothing 
 
 more to look for from those with hey live; they have 
 
 shown the emptiness of their hear,.. , their housemates, 
 
FATHER GORIOT 23 
 
 and in theit secret selves they are conscious that they are 
 severely judged, and that they deserve to be judged severely; 
 but still they feel an unconquerable craving for praises that 
 they do not hear, or they are consumed by a desire to appear 
 to possess, in the eyes of a new audience, the qualities which 
 they have not, hoping to win the admiration or affection of 
 '•Strangers at the risk of forfeiting it again some day. Or, 
 ,onee more, there, are other mercenary natures who never do a 
 kindness to a friend or a relation simply because these have 
 a claim upon them, while a service done to a stranger brings 
 its reward to self-love. Such natures feel but little affec- 
 tion for those who are nearest to them; they keep their kind- 
 ness for remoter circles of acquaintance, and show most to 
 those who dwell on its utmost limits. Mme. Vauquer be- 
 longed to both these essentially mean, false, and execrable 
 
 "If I had been here at the time," Vautrin would say at the 
 end of the story, "I would have shown her up, and that mis- 
 fortune would not have befallen you. I know that kind of 
 phiz !" 
 
 Like all narrow natures, Mme. Vauquer was wont to con- 
 fine her attention to events, and did not go very deeply into 
 the causes that brought them about; she likewise preferred 
 to throw the blame of her own mistakes on other people, so 
 she chose to consider that the honest vermicelli maker was 
 responsible for her misfortune. It had opetied her eyes, so 
 she said, with regard to him. As soon as she saw that her 
 blandishments were in vain, and that her outlay on her 
 toilette was money thrown away, she was not slow to 
 discover the reason of his indifference. It became plain to 
 her at once that there was some other attraction, to use her 
 own expression. In short, it was evident that the hope she 
 had so fondly cherished was,^ baseless delusion, and that 
 she would "never make an^hing out of that man yonder," 
 in the Countess' forcible pilose. The Countess seemed to 
 have been a judge of character. Mme. Vauquer's aversion 
 was naturally more energetic than her friendship, for her 
 
24 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 hatred was not in proportion to her love, but to her disag 
 pointed expectations. The human heart may find here ani 
 there a resting-place short of the highest height of afEectiofj 
 but we seldom stop in the steep, downward slope of hatrei 
 StiU, M. Goriot was a lodger, and the widow's wounded self 
 love could not vent itself in an explosion of wrath; like.i 
 monk harassed by the prior of his convent, she was forced 
 to stifle her sighs of disappointment, and to gulp down her 
 craving for revenge. Little minds find gratification for theii 
 feelings, benevolent or otherwise, by a constant exercise of 
 petty ingenuity. The widow employed her woman's maM 
 to devise a system of covert persecution. She began byf 
 course of retrenchment — various luxuries which had found 
 their way to the table appeared there no more. 
 
 "No more gherkins, no more anchovies; they have made 
 (I fool of me !" she said to Sylvie one morning, and they m- 
 turned to the old bill of fare. 
 
 The thrifty frugality necessary to those who mean to make 
 their way in the world had become an inveterate habit of 
 life with M. Goriot. Soup, boiled beef, and a dish of veg| 
 tables had been, and always would be, the dinner he like! 
 best, so Mme. Vauquer found it very difficult to annoy | 
 boarder whose tastes were so simple. He was proof against 
 her malice, and in desperation she spoke to him and of hii| 
 slightingly before the other lodgers, who began to amu| 
 themselves at his expense, and so gratified her desire for r| 
 venge. 
 
 Towards the end of the first year the widow's suspicions 
 had reached such a pitch that she began to wonder how it 
 was that a retired merchant with a secure income of seven 
 or eight thousand livres, the owner of such magnificent plai« 
 and jewelry handsome enough for a kept mistress, should k 
 living in her house. Why should he devote so small a paa 
 portion of his money to his expenses? Until the first yeffli 
 was nearly at an end, Goriot had dined out once or twiffl 
 every week, but these occasions came less frequently, and at la|t 
 he was scarcely absent from the dinner-table twice a monii 
 
FATHER (50RI0T 2S 
 
 It was hardly to be expected that Mme. Vauquer should re- 
 gard the increased regularity of her boarder's habits with 
 complacency, when those little excursions of his had been 
 so much to her interest. She attributed the change not so 
 much to a gradual diminution of fortune as to a spiteful 
 wish to annoy his hostess. It is one of the most detestable 
 habits of a Liliputian mind to credit other people with its 
 own malignant pettiness. 
 
 Unluckily, towards the end of the second year, M. Goriot's 
 conduct gave some color to the idle talk about him. He 
 asked Mme. Vauquer to give him a room on the second iloor, 
 and to make a corresponding reduction in her charges. Ap- 
 parently, such strict economy was called for, that he did with- 
 out a fire all through the winter. Mme. Vauquer asked to 
 be paid in advance, an arrangement to which M. Goriot con- 
 sented, and thenceforward she spoke of him as "Father 
 Goriot." 
 
 What had brought about this decline and fall ? Conjecture 
 was keen, but investigation was difSeult. Father Goriot was 
 not, communicative; in the sham countess' phrase, he was "a 
 curmudgeon." Empty-headed people who babble about their 
 own affairs because they have nothing else to occupy them, 
 naturally conclude that if people say nothing of their do- 
 ings it is because their doings will not bear being talked 
 about; so the highly respectable merchant became a scoun- 
 1 drel, and the late beau was an old rogue. Opinion fluctuated. 
 Sometimes, according to Vautrin, who came about this time 
 ito live in the Maison Vauquer, Father Goriot was a man who 
 went on 'Change and dablled (to use the sufficiently ex- 
 pressive language of the Stock Exchange) in stocks and 
 I shares after he had ruined himself by heavy speculation. 
 Sometimes it was held that he was one of those petty gam- 
 (blers who nightly play for small stakes until they win a few 
 I francs. A theory that he was a detective in the employ of 
 ithe Home Office found favor at one time, but Vautrin urged 
 Ithat "Goriot was not sharp enough fpr one of that sort." 
 ilThere were yet other solutions; Father Goriot was a skinflint. 
 
26 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 a shark of a money-lender, a man who lived by selling lottery 
 tickets. He was by turns all the most mysterious brood of 
 vice and shame and misery; yet, however vile his life might 
 be, the feeling of repulsion which he aroused in others was 
 not so strong that he must be banished from their society — -. 
 he paid his way. Besides, Goriot had his uses, every one 
 vented his spleen or sharpened his wit on him ; he was pelted 
 with jokes and belabored with hard words. The general 
 consensus of opinion was in favor of a theory which seemed 
 the most likely; this was Mme. Vauquer's view. According 
 to her, the man so well preserved at his time of life, as sound 
 as her eyesight, with whom a woman might be very happy, 
 was a libertine who had strange tastes. These are the facts 
 upon which Mme. Vauquer's slanders were based. 
 
 Early one morning, some few months after the departure 
 of the unlucky Countess who had managed to live for six 
 months at the widow's expense, Mme. Vauquer (not yet 
 dressed) heard the rustle of a silk dress and a young woijian's 
 light footstep on the stair-; some one was going to Goriot'l 
 room. He seemed to expect the visit, for his door stood ajar. 
 The portly Sylvie presently came up to tell her mistress that 
 a girl too pretty to be honest, "dressed like a goddess," and 
 not a speck of mud on her laced cashmere boots, had glided 
 in from the street like a snake, had found the kitchen, and 
 asked for M. Goriot's room. Mme. Vauquer and the cook, 
 listening, overheard several words affectionately spoken dur- 
 ing the visit, which lasted for some time. When M. Goriot 
 went downstairs with the lady, the stout Sylvie forthwith 
 took her basket and followed the lover-like couple, under pre- 
 text of going to do her marketing. 
 
 "M. Goriot must be awfully rich, all the same, madame,'f 
 she reported on her return, "to keep her in such style. Just 
 imagine it! There was a splendid carriage waiting at the 
 corner of the Place de I'Estrapade, and she got into it." 
 
 While they were at dinner that evening, Mme. Vauquei; 
 went to the window and drew the curtain, as the sun was 
 shining into Goriot's eyes. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 27 
 
 "You are beloved of fair ladies, M. Goriot — ^the sun seeks 
 you out," she said, alluding to his visitor. "Peste! you have 
 good taste ; she was very pretty." 
 
 "That was my daughter," he said, with a kind of pride 
 in his voice, and the rest chose to consider this as the fatuity 
 of an old man who wishes to save appearances. 
 
 A month after this visit M. Goriot received another. The 
 same daughter who had come to see him that morning came 
 again after dinner, this time in evening dress. The boarders, 
 in deep discussion in the dining-room, caught a glimpse of a 
 lovely, fair-haired woman, slender, graceful, and much too 
 distinguished-looking to be a daughter of Father Goriot's. 
 
 "Two of them !" cried the portly Sylvie, who did not recog- 
 nize the lady of the first visit. 
 
 A few days later, and another young lady — a tall, well- 
 moulded brunette, with dark hair and bright eyes — came to 
 ask for M. Goriot. 
 
 "Three of them !" said Sylvie. 
 
 Then the second daughter, who had first come in the morn- 
 ing to see her father, came shortly afterwards in the evening. 
 She wore a ball dress, and came in a carriage. 
 
 "Four of them !" commented Mme. Vauquer and her plump 
 handmaid. Sylvie saw not a trace of resemblance between 
 this great lady and the girl in her simple morning dress who 
 had entered her kitchen on the occasion of her first visit. 
 
 At that time Goriot was paying twelve hundred francs a 
 year to his landlady, and Mme. Vauquer saw nothing out of 
 the common in the fact that a rich man had four or five mis- 
 tresses; nay, she thought it very knowing of him to pass 
 them off as his daughters. She was not at all inclined to 
 draw a hard-and-fast line, or to take umbrage at his sending 
 for them to the Maison Vauquer; yet, inasmuch as these visits 
 explained her boarder's indifference to her, she went so far 
 (at the end of the second year) as to speak of him as an 
 "ugly old wretch." When at length her boarder declined to 
 nine hundred francs a year, she asked him very insolently 
 w!hat he took her house to be. after meeting one of these 
 
28 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 ladies on the stairs. Father Goriot answered that the lady 
 was his eldest daughter. 
 
 "So you have two or three dozen daughters, have you?" 
 said Mme. Vauquer sharply. 
 
 "I have only two," her boarder answered meekly, like a 
 ruined man who is broken in to all the cruel usage of mis- 
 fortune. 
 
 Towards the end of the third year Father Goriot reduced Mrf 
 expenses still further; he went up to the third story, and now 
 paid forty-five francs a month. He did without snuff, told 
 his hairdresser that he no longer required his services, and 
 gave up wearing powder. When Goriot appeared for the 
 first time in this condition, an exclamation of astonishment 
 broke from his hostess at the color of his hair — a dingy olive 
 gray. He had grown sadder day by day under the influence 
 of some hidden trouble ; among aU the faces round the table, 
 his was the most woe-begone. There was no longer any 
 doubt. Goriot was an elderly libertine, whose eyes had only 
 been preserved by the skill of the physician from the malign 
 influence of the remedies necessitated by the state of his 
 health. The disgusting color of his hair was a result of his 
 excesses and of the drugs which he had taken that he might 
 continue his career. The poor old man's mental and physi- 
 cal condition afforded some grounds for the absurd rubbish 
 talked about him. When his outfit was worn out, he re- 
 placed the fine linen by calico at fourteen sous the ell. His 
 diamonds, his gold snuff-box, watch-chain and trinkets, dis- 
 appeared one by one. He had left off wearing the corn- 
 floi^Ster blue coat, and was sumptuously arrayed, summer as 
 winter, in a coarse chestnut-brown coat, a plush waistcod^ 
 and doeskin breeches. He grew thinner and thinner; his 
 legs were shrunken, his cheeks, once so puffed out by con- 
 tented bourgeois prosperity, were covered with wrinkles, and 
 the outlines of the jawbones were distinctly visible; there 
 were deep furrows in his forehead. In the fourth year of 
 his residence in the Eue Neuve-Sainte-Genevi^ve he was no' 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 29 
 
 Be liij longer like his former self. The hale vermiceUi manufae- 
 
 jturer, sixty-two years of age, who had looked scarce forty, 
 
 " !■ the stout, comfortable, prosperous tradesman, with an almost 
 
 bucolic air, and such a brisk demeanor that it did you good 
 
 ^ ™ to look at him ; the man with something boyish in his smile, 
 
 Mi« had suddenly sunk into his dotage, and had become a feeble, 
 
 vacillating septuagenarian. 
 
 The keen, bright blue eyes had grown dull, and faded to a 
 Atdl steel-gray color ; the red inflamed rims looked as though 
 fi anil they had shed tears of blood. He excited feelings of repul- 
 8i4lsion in some, and of pity in others. The young medical stu- 
 nices,! dents who came to the house noticed the drooping of his 
 id k I lower lip and the conformation of the facial angle; and, 
 itonisli after teasing him for some time to no purpose, they declared 
 dbgjithat cretinism was setting in. 
 
 teii One evening after dinner Mme. Vauquer said half ban- 
 id the 111 teringly to him, "So those daughters of yours don't come to 
 longHisee you any more, eh?" meaning to imply her doubts as to 
 (esbiihis paternity; but Father Goriot shrank as if his hostess had 
 jtleuitouched him with a sword-point. 
 
 j{jteot' "They come sometimes," he said in a tremulous voice. 
 jjgjUoli "Aha! you still see them sometimes?" cried the students. 
 ljj{j,j,^"Bravo, Father Goriot!" 
 
 jjjjpi The old man scarcely seemed to hear the witticisms at his 
 
 jpiipxpense that followed on the words; he had relapsed into 
 
 .( ||the dreamy state of mind that these superficial observers 
 
 ,. j| );ook for senile torpor, due to his lack of intelligence. If 
 
 ^^jj, j;hey had only known, they might have been deeply interested 
 
 j],j0' the problem of his condition; but few problems were more 
 
 j'^^j)bscure. It was easy, of course, to find out whether Go4pt 
 
 ^^^li^jiad really been a vermicelli manufacturer; the amount of 
 
 lis fortune was readily discoverable ; but the old people, who 
 
 '(P-ere most inquisitive as to his concerns, never went beyond 
 
 |he limits of the Quarter, and lived in the lodging-house 
 
 puch as oysters cling to a rock. As for the rest, the current 
 
 f life in Paris daily awaited them, and swept them away 
 
 ,dth it; so soon as they left the Eue ISTeuve-Sainte-Gene- 
 
 isli 
 
30 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 viSve, they forgot the existence of the old man, their butt 
 at dinner. For those narrow souls, or for careless youth, the 
 misery in Father Goriot's withered face and its dull apathy 
 were quite incompatible with wealth or any sort of intelligence. 
 As for the creatures whom he called his daughters, all Mme. 
 Vauquer's boarders were of her opinion. With the faculty 
 for severe logic sedulously cultivated by elderly women dur- 
 ing long evenings of gossip till they can always find an hy- 
 pothesis to fit all circumstances, she was wont to reason 
 thus: 
 
 "If Father Goriot had daughters of his own as rich as those 
 ladies who came here seemed to be, he would not be lodging 
 in my house, on the third floor, at forty-five francs a month; 
 and he would not go about dressed like a poor inan." 
 
 'No objection could be raised to these inferences. So by 
 the end of the month of N'ovember 1819, at the time when 
 the curtain rises on this drama, every one in the house had 
 i!ome to have a very decided opinion as to the poor old man. 
 He had never had either wife or daughter; excesses had re- 
 educed him to this sluggish condition; he was a sort of 
 human moUusk who should be classed among the caTpulidce, 
 so said one of the dinner contingent, an employe at the Mu- 
 seum, who had a pretty wit of his own. Poiret was an eagle, 
 a gentleman, compared with Goriot. Poiret would join the 
 talk, argue, answer when he was spoken to; as a matter of 
 fact, his talk, arguments, and responses contributed notMng 
 to the conversation, for Poiret had a habit of repeating what 
 the others said in different words; still,' he did join in the 
 talk; he was alive, and seemed capable of feeling; while 
 Father Goriot (to quote the Museum official again) was in- 
 variably at zero — Eeaumur. 
 
 Eugene de Eastignae had just returned to Paris in a state 
 of mind not unknown to young men who are eonsciousjof 
 unusual powers, and to those whose faculties are so stimii^ 
 lated by a difficult position, that for the time being they rise 
 above the ordinary level. 
 
 Eastignac's first year of study for the preliminary ex- 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 3J 
 
 aminations in law had left him free to see the sights of 
 Paris and to enjoy some of its amusements. A student ha? 
 not much time on his hands if he sets himself to learn the 
 repertory of every theatre, and tg study the ins and outs of 
 the labyrinth of Paris. To know its customs; to learn the 
 language, and become familiar with the amusements of the 
 capital, he must explore its recesses, good and bad, follow 
 the studies that please him best, and form some idea of the 
 treasures contained in galleries and museums. 
 
 At this stage of his career a student grows eager and ex- 
 cited about all sorts of follies that seem to him to be of im- 
 mense importance. He has his hero, his great mun, a pro- 
 fessor at the College de France, paid to talk down to the 
 level of hie audience. He adjusts his cravat, and strikes 
 rarious attitudes for the benefit of the women in the first 
 galleries at the Opera-Comique. As he passes through all^ 
 these successive initiations, and breaks out of his sheath, 
 the horizons of life widen around him, and at length he 
 grasps the plan of society with the different human strata of 
 which it is composed. 
 
 If he begins by admiring the procession of carriages on 
 sunny afternoons in the Champs-Elysees, he soon reaches the 
 further stage pf envpng their owners. Unconsciously, Eu- 
 gene had served his apprenticeship before he went back to 
 Angonleme for the long vacation after taking his degrees as 
 bachelor of arts and bachelor of law. The illusions of child- 
 hood had vanished, so also had the ideas he brought with 
 him from the provinces; he had returned thither with an 
 intelligence developed, with loftier ambitions, and saw things 
 as they were at home in the old manor house. His father 
 and mother, his two brothers and two sisters, with an aged 
 aunt, whose whole fortune consisted in annuities, lived on 
 the little estate of Eastignac. The whole property brought 
 in about three thousand francs; and though the amount 
 varied with the season (as must always be the case in a vine- 
 growing district), they were obliged to spare an unvarying 
 twelve hundred francs out of their income for him. He saw 
 
i'i FATHER GORIOT 
 
 how constantly the poverty, which they had generously 
 hidden from him, weighed upon them ;- he could not help com- 
 paring the sisters, who had seemed so beautiful to his boyish 
 eyes, with women in Paris, who had realized the beauty of his 
 idreams. The uncertain future of the whole family depended 
 upon him. It did not escape his eyes that not a crumb was 
 wasted in the house, nor that the wine they drank was made 
 from the second pressing ; a multitude of small things, which 
 it is useless to speak of in detail here, made him burn to dis-i 
 tinguish himself, and his ambition to succeed increased ten- 
 fold. 
 
 ~~~ He meant, like all great souls, that his success should be 
 owing entirely to his merits; but his was pre-eminently a 
 southern temperament, the execution of his plans was sure 
 to be marred by the vertigo that seizes on youth when youth 
 sees itself alone in a wide sea, uncertain how to spend its 
 energies, whither to steer its course, how to adapt its sails to 
 the winds. At first he determined to fling himself heart and 
 soul into his work, but he was diverted from this purpose 
 by the need of society and connections ; thenhe saw how great 
 an influence women exert in social life, and suddenly made 
 up his mind to go out into this world to seek a protectress 
 there. Surely a clever and high-spirited young man, whose 
 wit and courage were set off to advantage by a graceful figure, 
 and the vigorous kind of beauty that readily strikes a woman's 
 imagination, need not despair of finding a protectress. These 
 ideas occurred to him in his country walks #ith his sisters, 
 whom he had once joined so gaily. The girls thought him 
 very much changed. 
 
 His aunt, Mme. de Marcillac, had been presented at court, 
 and had moved among the brightest heights of that lofty 
 region. Suddenly the young man's ambition discerned in 
 those recollections of hers, which had been like nursery fairy 
 tales to her nephews and nieces, the elements of a social suc- 
 cess at least as important as the success which he had 
 achieved at the ficole de Droit. He began to ask his aunt 
 about those relations; some of the old ties might still hol3 
 
FATHER GORIOT 33 
 
 good. After much shaking of the branches of the family 
 tree, the old lady came to the conclusion that of all persons 
 who could be useful to her nephew among the selfish genus 
 of rich relations, the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was the least 
 likely to refuse. To this lady, therefore, she wrote in the 
 old-fashioned style, recommending Eugene to her; pointing 
 out to her nephew that if he succeeded in pleasing Mme. de 
 Beauseant, the Vicomtesse would introduce him to other re-) 
 lations. A few days after his return to Paris, therefore, Eas- 
 tignac sent his aunt's letter to Mme. de Beauseant. The Vi- 
 comtesse replied by an invitation to a ball for the following 
 evening. This was the position of affairs at the Maison 
 Vauquer at the end of November 1819. 
 
 A few days later, after Mme. de Beaus6ant's ball, Eugene 
 came in at two o'clock in the morning. The persevering stu- 
 dent meant to make up for the lost time by working until 
 daylight. It was the first time that he had attempted to 
 spend the night in this way in that silent quarter. The spell 
 of a factitious energy was upon him; he had beheld the 
 pomp and splendor of the world. He had not dined at the 
 Maison Vauquer; the boarders probably would think that 
 he would walk home at daybreak from the dance, as he had 
 done sometimes on former occasions, after a fete at the 
 Prado, or a ball at the Od6on, splashing his silk stockings 
 thereby, and ruining his pumps. 
 
 It so happened that Christophe took a look into the street 
 before drawing the bolts of the door; and Eastignac, coming 
 in at that moment, could go up to his room without making 
 any noise, followed by Christophe, who made a great deal. Eu- 
 gene exchanged his dress suit for a shabby overcoat and slip- 
 pers, kindled a fire with some blocks of patent fuel, and pre- 
 pared for his night's work in such a sort that the faint sounds 
 he made were drowned by Christophe's heavy tramp on the 
 stairs. '- 
 
 Eugene sat absorbed in thought for a few moments before 
 plunging into his law books. He had just become aware of 
 the fact that the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was one of the 
 
«4 Jfi'ATHER GORIOT 
 
 queens of fashion, that her house was thought to be the 
 pleasantest in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And not only 
 so, she was, by right of her fortune, and the name she bore, 
 one of the most conspicuous figures in that aristocratic world. 
 Thanks to the aunt, thanks to Mme. de Marcillac's letter 
 of introduction, the poor student had been kindly received 
 in that house before he knew the extent of the favor thus 
 shown to him. It was almost like a patent of nobility to 
 be admitted to those gilded salons; he had appeared in the 
 most exclusive circle in Paris, and now all doors were open 
 for him. Eugene had been dazzled at first by the brilliant 
 assembly, and had scarcely exchanged a few words with the 
 Vicomtesse; he had been content to single out a goddess 
 among this throng of Parisian divinities, one of those women 
 who are sure to attract a young man's fancy. ? 
 
 The Comtesse Anastasie de Eestaud was tall and grace- 
 fully made; she had one of the prettiest figures in Paris. 
 Imagine a pair of great dark eyes, a magnificently moulded 
 hand, a shapely foot. There was a fiery energy in her move- 
 ments; the Marquis de EonqueroUes had called her "a thor- 
 oughbred," but this fineness of nervous organization had 
 brought no accompanying defect; the outlines of her form 
 were full and rounded, without any tendency to stoutness, 
 "A thoroughbred," "a pure pedigree," these figures of speech 
 have replaced the "heavenly angel" and Ossianic nomencla- 
 ture; the old mythology of love is extinct, doomed to perish 
 by modern dandyism. But for Eastignac, Mme. Anastasie de 
 Eestaud was the woman for whom he had sighed. He had 
 contrived to write his name twice upon the list of partners 
 upon her fan, and had snatched a few words with her during 
 the first quadrille. 
 
 — ' ''Where shall I meet you again, madame?" he asked ab- 
 ruptly, and the tones of his voice were full of the vehement 
 energy that women like so well. 
 
 "Oh, everywhere !" said she, "in the Bois, at the BoufEons, 
 in my own house." 
 
 With the impetuosity of his adventurous southern temper, 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 35 
 
 he did all he could to cultivate an acquaintance with thia 
 lovely countess, making the best of his opportunities in 
 the quadrille and during a waltz that she gave him. When 
 he had told her that he was a cousin of Mme. de Beauseant's, 
 the Countess, whom he took for a great lady, asked him to 
 call at her house, and after her parting smile, Eastignac felt 
 convinced that he must make this visit. He was so luclty as 
 to light upon some one who did not laugh at his ignorance, 
 a fatal defect among the gilded and insolent youth of that 
 period; the coterie of Maulincourts, Maximes de Trailles, 
 de Marsays, EonqueroUes, Ajuda-Pintos, and Vandenesses 
 who shone there in all the glory of coxcombry a^mong the 
 best-dressed women of fashion in Paris — Lady Brandon, the 
 Duehesse de Langeais, the Comtesse de Kergarouet, Mme. 
 de Serizy, the Duehesse de Carigliano, the Comtesse Perraud, 
 Mme. de Lanty, the Marquise d'Aiglemont, Mme. Firmiani, 
 the Marquise de Listomere and the Marquise d'Espard, the 
 Duehesse de Maufrigneuse and the Grandlieus. Luckily, 
 therefore, for him, the novice happened upon the Marquis 
 de Montriveau, the lover of the Duehesse de Langeais, a gen- 
 eral as simple as a chUd; from him Eastignac learned that 
 the Comtesse lived in the Eue du Helder. 
 
 Ah, what it is to be young, eager to see the world, greedily 
 on the watch for any chance that brings you nearer the 
 woman of your dreams, and behold two houses open their 
 doors to you ! To set foot in the Vicomtesse de Beauseant's 
 house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; to fall on your knees 
 before a Comtesse de Eestaud in the Chauss6e d'Antin; to 
 look at one glance across a vista of Paris drawing-rooms, 
 conscious that, possessing sufficient good looks, you may hope 
 to find aid and protection there in a feminine heart! To 
 feel ambitious enough to spurn the tight-rope on which you 
 must walk with the steady head of an acrobat for whom a 
 fall is impossible, and to find in a charming woman the best 
 of all balancing poles. 
 
 He sat there with his thoughts for a while. Law on the one 
 hand, and Poverty on the other, beholding a radiant vision 
 
3« FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 of a woman rise above the diill, smouldering fire. Who wronld 
 not have paused and questioned the future as Eugene was 
 doing ? who would not have pictured it full of success ? His 
 wandering thoughts took wings; he was transported out of 
 the present into that blissful future ; he was sitting by Mme. 
 ide Eestaud's side, when a sort of sigh, like the grunt of an 
 overburdened St. Joseph, broke the silence of the night. It 
 vibrated through the student, who took the sound for a death- 
 groan. He opened his door noiselessly, went out upon the 
 landing, and saw a thin streak of light under Father Goriot's 
 door. Eugene feared that his neighbor had been taken ill; 
 he went over and looked through the keyhole; the old man 
 was busily engaged in an occupation so singular and so sus- 
 picious that Eastignae thought he was only doing a piece of 
 necessary service to society to watch the self-styled vermiceUi 
 maker's nocturnal industries. 
 
 The table was upturned, and Goriot had doubtless in some 
 way secured a silver plate and cup to the bar before knotting 
 a thick rope round them; he was pulling at this rope with 
 such enormous force that they were being crushed and twisted 
 out of shape ; to all appearance he meant to convert the richly 
 wrought metal into ingots. 
 
 "Pestef what a man!" said Eastignae, as he watched 
 Goriot's muscular arms; there was not a sound in the room 
 while the old man, with the aid of the rope, was kneading the 
 silver like dough. '"Was he then, indeed, a thief, or a re- 
 ceiver of stolen goods, who affected imbecility and de- 
 crepitude, and lived like a beggar that he might carry on 
 his pursuits the more securely ?" Eugene stood for a moment 
 revolving these questions, then he looked again through the 
 keyhole. c 
 
 Father Goriot had unwound his coil of rope; he had cov- 
 ered the table with a blanket, and was now employed in roll- 
 ing the flattened mass of silver into a bar, an operation which 
 he performed with marvelous dexterity. 
 
 "Why, he must be as strong as Augustus, King of Poland !" 
 said Eiag^ne to himself when the bar was nearly finished. ? 
 
FATHER GORIOT 3T 
 
 Father Goriot looked sadly at his handiwork, tears fell 
 from his eyes, he blew out the dip which had served him for 
 a light while he manipulated the silver, and Eugene heard 
 him sigh as he lay down again. 
 
 "He is mad," thought the student. 
 
 "Poor child!" Father Goriot said aloud. Rastignae, hearing 
 those words, concluded to keep silence; he would not hastily 
 condemn his neighbor. He was just in the doorway of his 
 room when a strange sound from the staircase below reached 
 his ears ; it might have been made by two men coming up in 
 list slippers. Eugene listened ; two men there certainly were, 
 he could hear their breathing. Yet there had been no sound 
 of opening the street door, no footsteps in the passage. Sud- 
 denly, too, he saw a faint gleam of light on the second story ; 
 it came from M. Vautrin's room. 
 
 "There are a good many mysteries here for a lodging- 
 house!" he said to himself. 
 
 He went part of the way downstairs and listened again. 
 The rattle of gold reached his ears. In another moment the 
 light was put out, and again he distinctly heard the breath- 
 ing.of two men, but no sound of a door being opened or shut. 
 The two men went downstairs, the faint sounds growing 
 fainter as they went. 
 
 "Who is there?" cried Mme. Vauquer out of her bedroom 
 window. 
 
 "I, Mme. .Vauquer," answered Vautrin's deep bass voice. 
 "I am coming in." 
 
 "That is odd ! Christophe drew the bolts," said Eugene, 
 going back to his room. "You have to sit up at night, it 
 seems, if you really mean to know all that is going on about 
 you in Paris." 
 
 These incidents turned his thought from his ambitious 
 dreams ; he betook himself to his work, but his thought wan- 
 dered back to Father Goriot's suspicious occupation ; Mme. de 
 Eestaud's face swam again and again before his e5res like a 
 vision of a- brilliant future, and at last he lay down and 
 slept with clenched fists. When a young man makes up hia 
 
38 FATHER GOKlOT 
 
 mind that he will work all night, the chances are that seven 
 times out of ten he will sleep till morning. Such vigils do 
 not begin before we are turned twenty. 
 
 The next morning Paris was wrapped in one of the dens6 
 fogs that throw the most punctual people out in their calcula- ' 
 tions as to the time; even the most business-like folk fail to 
 keep their appointments in such weather, and ordinary mor- 
 tals wake up at noon and fancy it is eight o'clock. On this 
 morning it was half-past nine, and Mme. Vauquer still lay 
 abed. Christophe was late, Sylvie was late, but the two sat 
 comfortably taking their coffee as usual. It was Sylvie's cus- 
 tom to take the cream off the milk destined for the boarders' 
 breakfast for her own, and to boil the remainder for some 
 time, so that madame should not discover this illegal exaction. 
 
 "Sylvie," said Christophe, as he dipped a piece of toast into 
 the coffee, "M. Vautrin, who is not such a bad sort, all the 
 same, had two people come to see him again last night. If 
 madame says anything, mind you say nothing about it." 
 
 "Has he given you something?" 
 
 "He gave me a five-franc piece this month, which is as 
 good as saying, 'Hold your tongue.' " 
 
 "Except him and Mme. Couture, who don't look twice at 
 every penny, there's no one ia the house that doesn't try to 
 get back with the left hand all that they give with the right 
 at New Year," said Sylvie. 
 
 "And, after all," said Christophe, "what do they give you? 
 A miserable five-franc piece. There is Father Goriot, who haii 
 cleaned his shoes himself these two years past. There is that 
 old beggar Poiret, who goes without blacking altogether; he 
 would sooner drink it than put it on his boots. Then there 
 is that whipper-snapper of a student, who gives me a couple 
 of francs. Two francs will not pay for my brushes, and he 
 sells his old clothes, and gets more for them than they are 
 iworth. Oh! they're a shabby lot!" 
 
 "Pooh!" said Sylvie, sipping her coffee, "our places are 
 the best in the Quarter, that I know. But about that great 
 big chap Vautrin, Christophe ; has any one told you anything 
 about himP' 
 
FATHER GORIOT 39 
 
 "Yes. I met a gentleman in the street a few days ago; 
 he said to me, 'There's a gentleman in your place, isn't there? 
 a tall man that dyes his whiskers?' I told him, 'No, sir; 
 they aren't dyed. A gay fellow like him hasn't the time to 
 do it.' And when I told M. Vautrin ahout it afterwards, 
 he said, 'Quite right, my boy. That is the way to answer 
 them. There is nothing more unpleasant than to have your 
 little weaknesses known ; it might spoil many a match.' " ' 
 
 "Well, and for my part," said Sylvie, "a man tried to hum- 
 bug me at the market wanting to know if I had seen him put 
 on his shirt. Such bosh! There," she cried, interrupting 
 herself, "that's a quarter to ten striking at the Val-de-Griee, 
 and not a soul stirring !" 
 
 "Pooh ! they are all gone out. Mme. Couture and the girl 
 went out at eight o'clock to take the wafer at Saint-Etienne. 
 Father Goriot started off somewhere with a parcel, and the 
 student won't be back from his lecture till ten o'clock. I saw 
 them go while I was sweeping the stairs; Father Goriot 
 knocked up against me, and his parcel was as hard as iron. 
 What is the old fellow up to, I wonder? He is as good as a 
 plaything for the rest of them ; they can never let him alone ; 
 but he is a good man, all the same, and worth more than all of 
 them put together. He doesn't give you much himself, but he 
 sometimes sends you with a message to ladies who fork out 
 famous tips; they are dressed grandly, too." 
 
 "His daughters, as he calls them, eh? There are a dozen 
 of them." 
 
 "I have never been to more than two — ^the two who came 
 here." 
 
 "There is madame moving overhead; I shall have to go, 
 or she will raise a fine racket. Just keep an eye on the milky^ 
 Christophe; don't let the caf get at it." 
 
 Sylvie went up to her mistress' room. 
 
 "Sylvie! How is this? It's nearly ten o'clock, and you 
 let me sleep on like a dormouse! Such a thing has never 
 happened before." 
 
 "it's the fog; it i«< that thick, you could cut it with a 
 knife." 
 
40 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "But how about breakfast ?" 
 
 "Bah! the boarders are possessed, I'm sure. They all 
 cleared out before there was a wink of daylight." 
 
 "Do speak properly, Sylvie," Mme. Vauquer reto.-ted ; "say 
 a blink of daylight." 
 
 "Ah, well, madame, whichever you please. Anyhow, you 
 can have breakfast at ten o'clock. La Michonnette and 
 Poiret have neither of them stirred. There are only those 
 two upstairs, and they are sleeping like the logs they are." 
 
 "But, Sylvie, you put their names together as if " 
 
 "As if what?" said Sylvie, bursting into a guflitw. "The 
 two of them make a pair." 
 
 "It is a strange thing, isn't it, Sylvie, how M. Vautrin got 
 in last night after Christophe had bolted the door?" 
 
 "Not at all, madame. Christophe heard M. Vautrin, and 
 went down and undid the door. And here are you imagining 
 that " 
 
 "Give me my bodice, and be quick and get breakfast ready. 
 Dish up the rest of the mutton with the potatoes, and you 
 can put the stewed pears on the table, those at five a penny." 
 
 A few moments later Mme. Vauquer came down, just in 
 time to see the cat knock down a plate that covered a bowl 
 of milk, and begin to lap in all haste. 
 
 "Mistigris!" she cried 
 
 The eat fled, but promptly returned to rub against her 
 ankles. 
 
 "Oh! yes, you can wheedle, you old hypocrite!" she said. 
 "Sylvie! Sylvie!" 
 
 "Yes, madame; what is it?" 
 
 "Just see what the cat has done !" 
 
 "It is all that stupid Christophe's fault. I told him to 
 stop and lay the table. What has become of him ? Don't you 
 worry, madame ; Father Goriot shall have it. I will fill it up 
 with water, and he won't know the difference ; he never notices 
 anything, not even what he eats." 
 
 "I wonder where the old heathen can have gone?" said 
 Mme. Vauquer, setting the plates round the table. 
 
FATHER GOKIOT 41 
 
 "Who knows? He is up to all sorts of tricks." 
 "I have overslept myself," said Mme. Vauquer. 
 "But madame looks as fresh as a rose, all the same." 
 The door bell rang at that moment, and Vautria came 
 through the sitting-room, singing loudly: 
 
 " 'Tis the same old story everywhere, 
 A roving heart and a roving glance . . 
 
 "Oh! Mamma Vauquer! good-morning!" he cried at the 
 eight of his hostess, and he put his arm gaily round her waist. 
 
 "There ! have done " 
 
 " 'Impertinence !' Say it !" he answered. "Come, say it ! 
 Now, isn't that what you really mean? Stop a bit, I will 
 help you to set the table. Ah ! I am a nice man, am I not ? 
 
 "For the locks of brown and the golden hair 
 A sighing lover - . . 
 
 "Oh ! I have just seen something so funny 
 
 .... led by chance." 
 
 "What?" asked the widow. 
 
 "Father Goriot in the goldsmith's shop in the Eue Dauphine 
 at half-past eight this morning. They buy old spoons and 
 forks and gold lace there, and Goriot sold a piece of silver 
 plate for a good round sum. It had been twisted out of shape 
 very neatly for a man that's not used to the trade." 
 
 "Eeally? You don't say so?" 
 
 'TTes. One of my friends is expatriating himself; I had 
 been to see him off on board the Eoyal Mail steamer, and 
 was coming back here. I waited after that to see what Father 
 Goriot would do; it is a comical affair. He came back to 
 , this quarter of the world, to the Rue des Gres, and went into 
 a money-lender's house; everybody knows him, Gobseck, a 
 stuck-up rascal, that would make dominoes out of his father's 
 bones; a Turk, a heathen, an old Jew, a Greek; it would be 
 
42 FATHER GOKIOT 
 
 a difficult matter to rob Mm, for he puts all Ms coin into 
 the Bank." 
 
 "Then what was Father Goriot doing there?" 
 
 "Doing?" said Vautrin. "Nothing; he was bent on hia 
 own undoing. He is a simpleton, stupid enough to ruia 
 himself by running after " 
 
 "There he is !" cried Sylvie. 
 
 "Christophe," cried Father Goriot's voice, "come upstairs 
 with me." 
 
 Christophe went up, and shortly afterwards came down 
 again. 
 
 "Where are you going?" Mme. Vauquer asked of her ser- 
 vant. 
 
 "Out on an errand for M. Goriot." 
 
 'TVhat may that be?" said Vautrin, pouncing on a letteB 
 in Christophe's hand. "Mme. la Comtesse Anastasie de 
 Restaud/' he read. "Where are you going with it ?" he added, 
 ns he gave the letter back to Christophe. 
 
 "To the Eue du Helder. I have orders to give this into 
 her hands myself." 
 
 "What is there inside it?" said Vautrin, holding the letter 
 up to the light. "A banloiote? No." He peered into the 
 envelope. "A receipted account !" he cried. "My word ! 'tis 
 a gallant old dotard. Off with you, old chap," he said, bring- 
 ing down a hand on Christophe's head, and spinning the man 
 round like a thimble; "you will have a famous tip." 
 
 By this time the table was set. Sylvie was boiling the milk, 
 Mme. Vauquer was lighting a fire in the stove with some as- 
 sistance from Vautrin, who kept on humming to himself: 
 
 "The same old story everywhere, 
 A roving heart and a roving glance." 
 
 When everything was ready, Mme. Couture and Mile. 
 TaUlefer came in. 
 
 "Where have you been this morning, fair lady ?" said Mme; 
 Vauquer, turning to Mme. Couture. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 43 
 
 "We have just been to say our prayers at Saint-Etienne 
 du Mont. To-day is the day when we must go to see M. 
 Taillefer. Poor little thing ! She is trembling like a leaf," 
 Mme. Couture went on, as she seated herself before the fire 
 and held the steaming soles of her boots to the blaze. 
 
 "Warm yourself, Victorine," said Mme. Vauquer. 
 
 "It is quite right and proper, mademoiselle, to pray to 
 Heaven to soften your father's heart,". said Vautrin, as he 
 drew a chair nearer to the orphan girl ; "but that is not 
 enough. What you want is a friend who will give the mon- 
 ster a piece of his mind; a barbarian that has three millions 
 (so they say), and will not give you a dowry; and a pretty 
 girl needs a dowry nowadays." 
 
 "Poor child !" said Mme. Vauquer. "Never mind, my pet, 
 your wretch of a father is going just the way to bring trouble 
 upon himself." 
 
 Victorine's eyes filled with tears at the words, and the 
 widow checked herself at a sign from Mme. Couture. 
 
 "If we could only see him !" said the Commissary-General's 
 widow; "if I could speak to him myself and give him hia 
 wife's last letter ! I have never dared to run the risk of send- 
 ing it by post ; he knew my handwriting " 
 
 " 'Oh woman, persecuted and injured innocent !' " ex- 
 claimed Vautrin, breaking in upon her. "So that is how 
 you are, is it? In a few days' time I will look into your af- 
 fairs, and it will be aU right, you shall see." 
 
 "Oh ! sir," said Victorine, with a tearful but eager glance 
 at Vautrin, who showed no sign of being touched by it, "if 
 you know of any way of communicating with my father, 
 please be sure and tell him that his afEection and my mother's 
 honor are more to me than all the money in the world. If 
 you can induce him to relent a little towards me, I will pray 
 to God for you. You may be sure of my gratitude " 
 
 "The same old story everywhere," sang Vautrin, with a 
 satirical intonation. At this juncture, Goriot, Mile. Michon- 
 neau, and Poiret came downstairs together ; possibly the scent 
 of the gravy which Sylvie was making to serve with the mut< 
 
41 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 ton had announced breakfast. The seven people thus as- 
 sembled bade each other good-morning, and took their places 
 at the table ; the clock struck ten, and the student's footstep 
 was heard outside. 
 
 "Ah! here you are, M. Eugene," said Sylvie; "every one 
 is breakfasting at home to-day." 
 
 The student exchanged greetings with the lodgers, and sat 
 down beside Goriot. 
 
 "I have just met with a queer adventure," he said, as he 
 helped himself abundantly to the mutton, and cut a slice of i 
 bread, which Mme. Vauquer's eyes gauged as usual. 
 
 "An adventure?" queried Poiret. 
 
 "Well, and what is there to astonish you in that, old boy?" 
 Vautrin asked of Poiret. "M. Eugene is cut out for that 
 kind of thing." 
 
 Mile. Taillefer stole a timid glance at the young student. 
 
 "Tell us about 3-our adventure !" demanded M. Vautrin. 
 
 'TTesterday evening I went to a ball given by a cousin of 
 mine, the Vicomtesse de Beauseant. She has a magnificent 
 house ; the rooms v/ere htmg with silk — in short, it was a 
 splendid affair, and I was as happy as a king " 
 
 "Fisher," put in Vautrin, interrupting. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" said Eugene sharply. 
 
 "I said 'fisher,' because kingfishers see a good deal more fun 
 than kings." 
 
 "Quite true ; I would much rather be the little careless bird 
 than a king," said Poiret the ditto-ist, "because " 
 
 "In fact" — the law-student cut him short — "I danced with 
 one of the handsomest women in the room, a charming 
 countess, the most exquisite creature I have ever seen. There 
 was peach blossom in her hair,- and she had the loveliest bou- 
 quet of flowers — real flowers, that scented the air ^but 
 
 there! it is no use trying to describe a woman glowing with 
 the dance. You oiight to have seen her! Well, and this 
 morning I met this divine countess about nine o'clock, on foot 
 in the Rue des Gres. Oh ! how my heart beat ! I began to 
 think " 
 
FATHER GORIOT 45 
 
 "That she was coming here," said Vautrin, with a keen look 
 at the student. "I expect that she was going to call on old 
 Gobseck, a money-lender. If ever you explore a Parisian, 
 woman's heart, you will find the money-lender first, and the 
 lover afterwards. Your countess is called Anastasie de 
 Kestaud, and she lives in the Eue du Helder." 
 
 The student stared hard at Vautrin. Father Goriot raised 
 his head at the words, and gave the two speakers a glance so 
 full of intelligence and uneasiness that the lodgers beheld him 
 with astonishment. 
 
 "Then Christophe was too late, and she must have gone to 
 him !" cried Goriot, with anguish in his voice. 
 
 "It is just as I guessed," said Vautrin, leaning over to 
 whisper in Mme. Vauquer's ea;r. 
 
 Goriot went on with his breakfast, but seemed unconscious 
 of what he was doing. He had never looked more stupid 
 nor more taken up with his own thoughts than he did at that 
 moment. 
 
 "Who the devil could have told you her name, M. Vau- 
 trin?" asked Eugene. 
 
 "Aha! there you are!" answered Vautrin. "Old Father 
 Goriot there knew it quite well ! and why should not I know it 
 too?" 
 
 "M. Goriot ?" the student cried. 
 
 "What is it ?" said the old man. "So she was very beauti- 
 ful, was she, yesterday night?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 " "Mme. de Eestaud." 
 
 "Look at the old wretch," said Mme. Vauquer, speaking to 
 Vautrin ; "how his eyes light up !" 
 
 "Then does he really keep her ?" said MUe. Michonneau, in 
 a whisper to the student. 
 
 "Oh ! yes, she was tremendously pretty," Eugene answered. 
 Father Goriot watched him with eager eyes. "If Mme. de 
 Beauseant had not been there, my divine countess would have 
 been the queen of the ball ; none of the younger men had eyes 
 for any one else. I was the twelfth on her list, and she 
 
46 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 danced every quadrille. The other women were furious. 
 She must have enjoyed herself, if ever creature did! It is 
 a true saying that there is no more beautiful sight than a 
 frigate in full sail, a galloping horse, or a woman dancing." 
 
 "So the wheel turns," said Vautrin; "yesterday night at 
 a duchess' ball, this morning in a money-lender's office, on 
 the lowest rung of the ladder — just like a Parisienne! If 
 their husbands cannot afford to pay for their frantic extrava- 
 gance, they will sell themselves. Or if they cannot do that, 
 they will tear out their mothers' hearts to find something to 
 pay for their splendor. They will turn the world upside 
 down. Just a Parisienne through and through!" 
 
 Father Goriot's face, which had shone at the student's words 
 like the sun on a bright day, clouded over all at once at this 
 cruel speech of Vautrin's. 
 
 "Well," said Mme. Vauquer, "but where is your adventure? 
 Did you speak to her? Did you ask her if she wanted to 
 study law?" 
 
 "She did not see me," said Eugene. "But only think of 
 meeting one of the prettiest women in Paris in the Eue des 
 Gres at nine o'clock ! She could not have reached home after 
 the ball till two o'clock this morning. Wasn't it queer? 
 There is no place like Paris for this sori of adventures." 
 
 "Pshaw! much funnier things than that happen here!" 
 exclaimed Vautrin. 
 
 Mile. Taillefer had scarcely heeded the talk, she was so 
 absorbed by the thought of the new attempt that she was 
 about to make. Mme. Couture made a sign that it was time 
 to go upstairs and dress ; the two ladies went out, and Father 
 Goriot followed their example. 
 
 "Well, did you see ?" said Mme. Vauquer, addressing Vau- 
 trin and the rest of the circle. "He is ruining himself for 
 those women, that is plain." 
 
 "Nothing will ever make me believe that that beautiful 
 Comtesse de Kestaud is anything to Father Goriot," cried the 
 student. 
 
 "Well, and if you don't." broke in Vautrin, "we are not 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 47 
 
 Bet on convincing you. You are too young to know Paris 
 thoroughly yet; later on you wiU find out that there are what 
 we call men with a passion " 
 
 Mile. Michonneau gave Vautrin a quick glance at these 
 words. They seemed to be like the sound of a trumpet to a 
 trooper's horse. "Aha !" said Vautrin, stopping in his speech 
 to give her a searching glance, "so we have had our little ex- 
 periences, have we?" 
 
 ) The old maid lowered her eyes like a nun who sees a 
 statue. 
 
 "Well," he went on, "when folk of that kind get a notion 
 into their heads, they cannot drop it. They must drink the 
 water from some particular spring — ^it is stagnant as often as 
 not; but they will sell their wives and ffimilies, they will sell 
 their own souls to the devil to get it. For some this spring 
 is play, or the stock-exchange, or music, or a collection of 
 pictures or insects ; for others it is some woman who can give 
 them the dainties they like. You might offer these last all 
 the women on earth — ^they would turn up their noses; they 
 wiU have the only one who can gratify their passion. It often 
 happens that the woman does not care for them at all, and 
 treats theili cruelly; they buy their morsels of satisfaction 
 very dear ; but no matter, the fools are never tired of it ; they 
 will take their last blanket to the pawnbroker's to give their 
 last five-franc piece to her. Father Goriot here is one of that 
 sort. He is discreet, so the Countess exploits him — just the 
 way of the gay world. The poor old fellow thinks of her and 
 of nothing else. In all other respects you see he is a stupid 
 animal; but, get him on that subject, and his eyes sparkle like 
 diamonds. That secret is not diflBeult to guess. He took 
 some plate himself this morning to the melting-pot, and I saw 
 him at Daddy Gobseck's in the Eue des Gres. And now, 
 mark what follows — ^he came back here, and gave a letter for 
 the Comtesse de Eestaud to that noodle of a Christophe, who 
 showed us the address; there was a receipted bill, inside it. 
 It is clear that it was an urgent matter if the Countess also 
 went herself to the old money lender. Father Goriot has 
 
48 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 financed her handsomely. There is no need to tack a tale to- 
 gether; the thing is self-evident. So that shows you, sir stu- 
 dent, that all the time your Countess was smiling, dancing, 
 flirting, swaying her peach-flower crowned head, with her 
 gown gathered into her hand, her slippers were pinching her, 
 as they say; she was thinking of her protested bills, or her 
 lover's protested bills." 
 
 "You have made me wild to know the truth," cried Eu- 
 gene ; "I will go to call on Mme. de Eestaud to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes," echoed Poiret; "you must go and call on Mme. de 
 Eestaud." 
 
 "And perhaps you will find Father Goriot there, who will 
 take payment for the assistance he politely rendered." 
 
 Engene looked disgusted. "Why, then, this Paris of yours 
 ia a slough." 
 
 "And an uncommonly queer slough, too," replied Vautrin. 
 "The mud splashes you as you drive through in your car- 
 riage — ^you are a respectable person; you go afoot and are 
 splashed — ^you are a scoundrel. You are so unlucky as to 
 walk off with something or other belonging to somebody else, 
 and they exhibit you as a curiosity in the Place du Palais- 
 de- Justice; you steal a million, and you are pointed out in 
 every salon as a model of virtue. And you pay thirty mill- 
 ions for the police and the courts of justice, for the mainte- 
 nance of law and order! A pretty state of things it is!" 
 
 "What," cried Mme. Vauquer, "has Father Goriot really'^ 
 melted down his silver posset-dish?" 
 
 "There were two turtle-doves on the lid, were there not?" 
 asked Eugene. 
 
 "Yes, that there were." 
 
 "Then, was he fond of it ?" said Eugene. "He cried while 
 he was breaking up the cup and plate. I happened to see 
 him by accident." 
 
 "It was dear to him as his own life," answered the wido%; 
 
 "There ! you see how infatuated the old fellow is !" cried 
 Vautrin. "The woman yonder can coax the soul out of him." 
 
 The student went up to his room. Vautria went out, and 
 
 > 
 
FATHER GORIOT 40 
 
 a few moments later Mme. Couture and Vietorine drove away 
 in a eab which Sylvie had called for them. Poiret gave his 
 arm to Mile. Miehonneau, and they went together to spend 
 the two sunniest hours of the day in the Jardin des Plantes. 
 
 "Wellj those two are as good as married," was the portly 
 Sylvie's comment. "They are going out together to-day for 
 the first time. They are such a couple of dry sticks that if 
 they happen to strike against each other they will draw sparks 
 like flint and steel." 
 
 "Keep clear of Mile. Michonneau's shawl, then," said Mme. 
 Vauquer, laughing; "it would flare up like tinder." 
 
 At four o'clock that evening, when Goriot came in, he 
 saw, by the light of two smolcy lamps, that Vietorine's eyes 
 were red. Mme. Vauquer was listening to the history of the 
 visit made that morning to M. Taillefer; it had been made 
 in vain. Taillefer was tired of the annual application made 
 by his daughter and her elderly friend; he gave them a per- 
 sonal interview in order to arrive at an understanding with 
 them. 
 
 "My dear lady," said Mme. Couture, addressing Mme. 
 Vauquer, "just imagine it; he did not even ask Vietorine to 
 sit down, she was standing the whole time. He said to me 
 quite coolly, without putting himself in a passion, that we 
 might spare ourselves the trouble of going there; that the 
 young lady (he would not call her his daughter) was injur- 
 ing her cause by importuning him {importuning ! once a year, 
 the wretch!) ; that as Vietorine's mother had nothing when 
 he married her, Vietorine ought not to expect anything from 
 him; in fact, he said the most cruel things, that made the 
 poor child burst out crying. The little thing threw herself 
 at her father's feet and spoke up bravely; she said that she 
 only persevered in her visits for her mother's sake; that she 
 would obey him without a murmur, but that she begged him 
 to read her poor dead mother's farewell letter. She took it 
 up and gave it to him,- saying the most beautiful things in 
 the world, most beautifully expressed; I do not Imow where 
 she learned them; God must have put them into her head, 
 
50 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 for the poor child was inspired to speak so nicely that it made 
 me cry like a fool to hear her talk. And what do you think the 
 monster was doing all the time ? Cutting his nails ! He took 
 the letter that poor Mme. Taillef er had soaked with tears, and 
 flung it on to the ehimney-pieee. 'That is all right,' he said. 
 He held out his hands to raise his daughter, hut she covered 
 them with kisses, and he drew them away again. Scandalous, 
 isn't it ? And his great booby of a son came in and took no 
 Inotice of his sister." 
 
 "What inhuman wretches they must be!" said Father 
 Goriot. 
 
 "And then they both went out of the room," Mme. Couture 
 went on, without heeding the worthy vermicelli maker's ex- 
 clamation ; "father and son bowed to me, and asked me to ex- 
 cuse them on account of urgent business ! That is the his- 
 tory of our call. Well, he has seen his daughter at any rate. 
 How he can refuse to acknowledge her I cannot think, for they 
 are as like as two peas." 
 
 The boarders dropped in one after another, interchanging 
 greetings and the empty jokes that certain classes of Parisians 
 regard as humorous and witty. Dulness is their prevailing 
 ingredient, and the whole point consists in mispronouncing 
 a word or in a gesture. This kind of argot is always chaEg- 
 ing. The essence of the jest consists in some catchword sug- 
 gested by a political event, an incident in the police courts, 
 a street song, or a bit of burlesque at some theatre, and for- 
 gotten in a month. Anything and everything serves to keep 
 up a game of battledore and shuttlecock with words and ideas. 
 The diorama, a recent invention, which carried an optical^ 
 illusion a degree further than panoramas, had given rise to 
 a mania among art students for ending every word with rama. 
 The Maison Vauquer had caught the infection from a young 
 artist among the boarders. 
 
 "Well, Monsieur-r-r Poiret," said the employe from the 
 Museum, "how is your health-orama ?" Then, without wait- 
 ing for an answer, he turned to Mme. Couture and Victorin^/ 
 with a "Ladies, you seem melancholy." 
 
FATHER GORIOT 51 
 
 "Is dinner ready?" cried Horace Bianchon, a medical stu- 
 dent, and a friend of Eastignac'S; "my stomach is sinking 
 usque ad talones." 
 
 "There is an uncommon frozerama outside," said Vautrin. 
 "Make room there, Father Goriot! Confound it, your foot 
 covers the whole front of the stove." 
 
 "Illustrious M. Vautrin," put in Bianchon, "why do you 
 say frozerama? It is incorrect; it should be frozenrama." 
 
 "No, it shouldn't," said the official from the Museum; 
 "frozerama is right by the same rule that you say 'My feet are 
 froze.'" 
 
 "Ah! ah!" 
 
 "Here is his Excellency the Marquis de Eastignac, Doctor 
 of the Law of Contraries," cried Bianchon, seizing Eugene 
 l)y the throat, and almost throttling him. 
 
 "Hallo there ! hallo !" 
 
 Mile. Miehonneau came noiselessly in, bowed to the rest 
 of the party, and took her place beside the three women with- 
 out saying a word. 
 
 "That old bat always makes me shudder," said Bianchon 
 in a low voice, indicating Mile. Miehonneau to Vautrin. "I 
 have studied Gall's system, and I am sure she has the bump of 
 Judas." 
 
 "Then you have seen a case before ?" said Vautrin. 
 
 "Who has not?" answered Bianchon. 'TJpon my word, 
 that ghastly old maid looks just like one of the long worms 
 that will gnaw a beam through, give them time enough." 
 
 "That is the way, young man," returned he of the forty 
 years and the dyed whiskers : 
 
 "The rose has lived the life of a rose— 
 A morning's space." 
 
 "Aha J here is a magnificent soupe-au-rama" cried Poiret 
 as Christophe came in bearing the soup with cautious heed. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," said Mme. Vauquer; "it is soupe 
 uux choux." 
 
52 FATHEK GORIOT 
 
 All the young men roared with laughter. 
 
 "Had you there, Poiret !" 
 
 "Poir-r-r-rette ! she had you there!" 
 
 "Score two points to Mamma Vauquer," said Vautrin. 
 
 "Did any one notice the fog this morning?'' asked the of- 
 ficial. 
 
 "It was a frantic fog," said Bianchon, "a fog unparalleled, 
 doleful, melancholy, sea-green, asthmatieal — a Goriot of a 
 fog!" 
 
 "A Goriorama," said the art student, "because you 
 couldn't see a thing in it." 
 
 "Hey ! Milord GaSriotte, they air talking about yoo-o-ou !" 
 
 Father Goriot, seated at the lower end of the table, close to 
 the door through which the servant entered, raised his face; 
 he had smelt at a scrap of bread that lay under his table nap- 
 kin, an old trick acquired in his commercial capacity, that 
 still showed itself at times. 
 
 "Well," Madame Vauquer cried in sharp tones, that rang 
 above the rattle of spoons and plates and the sound of other 
 voices, "and is there anything the matter with the bread?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever, madame," he answered; "on the con- 
 trary, it is made of the best quality of corn; flour from 
 iEtampes." 
 
 "How could you tell?" asked Eugene. 
 
 "By the color, by the flavor." 
 
 "You knew the flavor by the smell, I suppose," said Mme. 
 Vauquer. "You have grown so economical, you will find out 
 how to live on the smell of cooking at last." 
 
 "Take out a patent for it, then," cried the Museum ofiicial; 
 "you would make a handsome fortune." 
 
 "Never mind him," said the artist; "he does that sort of 
 thing to delude us into thinking that he was a vermicelli 
 maker." 
 
 "Your nose is a corn-sampler, it appears?" inquired the 
 ofiicial. 
 
 "Com what?" asked Bianchon. 
 
 "Corn-el." 
 
FATHER GOBIOT 53 
 
 «Com-et." 
 
 "Com^elian," 
 
 "Corn-ice." 
 
 "Corn-ueopia." 
 
 "Corn-crake." 
 
 "Corn-cockle." 
 
 "Corn-orama." 
 
 The eight responses came like a rolling fire from every 
 part of the room, and the daughter that followed was the more 
 uproarious because poor Father Goriot stared at the others 
 with a puzzled look, like a foreigner trying to catch the mean- 
 ing of words in a language which he does not understand. 
 
 "Corn? . . ." he said, turning to Vautrin, his next 
 neighbor. 
 
 "Corn on your foot, old man !" said Vautrin, and he drove 
 Father Goriot's cap down over his eyes by a blow on the 
 crown. 
 
 The poor old man thus suddenly attacked was for a mo- 
 ment too bewildered to do anything. Christophe carried off 
 his plate, thinking that he had finished his soup, so that when 
 Goriot had pushed back his cap from his eyes his spoon en- 
 countered the table. Every one burst out laughing. "You 
 are a disagreeable joker, sir," said the old man, "and if you 
 take any further liberties with me " 
 
 "Well, what then, old boy ?" Vautrin. interrupted. 
 
 "Well, then, you shall pay dearly for it some day " 
 
 "Down below, eh?" said the artist, "in the little dark 
 corner where they put naughty boys." 
 
 "Well, mademoiselle," Vautrin said, turning to Victorine, 
 "you are eating nothing. So papa was refractory, was he?" 
 
 "A monster I" said Mme. Couture. 
 
 "Mademoiselle might make application for aliment pend- 
 ing her suit ; she is not eating anything. Eh ! eh ! just see 
 how Father Goriot is staring at Mile. Victorine." 
 
 The old man had forgotten his dinner, he was so absorbed 
 in gazing at the poor girl ; the sorrow in her face was unmis- 
 
64 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 takable, — ^the slighted love of a child whose father would not 
 recognize her. 
 -^ "We are mistaken about Father Goriot, my dear boy," said 
 Eugene in a low voice. "He is not an idiot, nor wanting in 
 energy. Try your Gall system on him, and let me know what 
 you think. I saw him crush a silver dish last night as if it 
 had been made of wax; there seems to be something extra- 
 ordinary going on in his mind just now, to judge by his face. 
 'His life is so mysterious that it must be worth studying. Oh I 
 you may laugh, Bianehon; I am not joking." 
 
 "The man is a subject, is he?" said Bianehon; "all right I 
 I will dissect him, if he will give me a chance." 
 
 "No; feel his bumgs." 
 
 "Hm ! — his stupidity might perhaps be contagious." 
 
 The next day Eastignac dressed himself very elegantly, and 
 about three o'clock in the afternoon went to call on Mme. de 
 Eestaud. On the way thither he indulged in the wild intoxi- 
 cating dreams which fill a young head so full of delicious 
 excitement. Young men at his age take no account of ob- 
 stacles nor of dangers; they see success in every direction; 
 imagination has free play, and turns their lives into a ro- 
 mance; they are saddened or discouraged by the collapse of 
 one of the wild visionary schemes that have no existence save 
 in their heated fancy. If youth were not ignorant and timid, 
 civilization would be impossible. 
 
 Eugene took unheard-of pains to keep himself in a spot- 
 less condition, but on his way through the streets he begai? 
 to think about Mme. de Eestaud and what he should say ta 
 her. He equipped himself with wit, rehearsed repartees in 
 the course of an imaginary conversation, and prepared cer- 
 tain neat speeches &. la Talleyrand, conjuring up a series of 
 small events which should prepare the way for the declaration 
 on which he had based his future ; and during these musings 
 the law student was bespattered with mud, and by the time 
 he reached the Palais Eoyal he was obliged to have his boots 
 blacked and his trousers brushed. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 55 
 
 "If I ^man^ rich," he said, as he changed the five-franc piece 
 he had brought with him in case anything might happen, "I 
 would take a cabj then I could think at my ease." 
 
 At last he reached the Eue du Helder, and asked for the 
 Comtesse de Eestaud. He bore the contemptuous glances 
 of the servants, who had seen him cross the court on foot, 
 with the cold fury of a man who knows that he will succeed - 
 some day. He understood the meaning of their glances at 
 once, for he had felt his inferiority as soon as he entered the 
 court, where a smart cab was waiting. All the delights of 
 life in Paris seemed to be implied by this visible and manifest 
 sign of luxury and extravagance. A fine horse, in magnificent 
 harness, was pawing the ground, and all at once the law stu- 
 dent felt out of humor with himself. Every compartment 
 in his brain which he had thought to find so full of wit was 
 bolted fast ; he grew positively stupid. He sent up his name 
 to the Countess, and waited in the ante-chamber, standing 
 on one foot before a window that looked out upon the court; 
 mechanically he leaned his elbow against the sash, and stared 
 before him. The time seemed long; he would have left the 
 house, but for the southern tenacity of purpose which works 
 miracles when it is single-minded. 
 
 "Madame is in her boudoir, and cannot see any one at 
 present, sir," said the servant. "She gave me no answer ; but 
 if you will go into the dining-room, there is some one already 
 there." 
 
 Eastignac was impressed with a sense of the formidable j 
 power of the lackey who can accuse or condemn his masters 
 by a word; he coolly opened the door by which the man had 
 just entered the ante-chamber, meaning, no doubt, to show 
 these insolent flunkeys that he was familiar with the house;, 
 but he found that he had thoughtlessly precipitated himself 
 into a small room full of dressers, where lamps were standing, 
 and hot- water pipes, on which towels were being dried ; a dark 
 passage and a back staircase lay beyond it. Stifled laughter 
 from the ante-chamber added to his confusion. 
 
 "This way to the drawing-room, sir," said the servant, with 
 
56 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 the exaggerated respect ■which seemed to be one more jest at 
 his expense. 
 
 Eugene turned so quickly that he stumbled against a bath. 
 By good luck, he managed to keep his hat on his head, and 
 saved it from immersion in the water ; but just as he turned, 
 a door opened at the further end of the dark passage, dimly 
 lighted by a small lamp. Eastignac heard voices and the 
 sound of a kiss; one of the speakers was Mme. de Eestaud, 
 the other was Father Goriot. Eugene followed the servant 
 through the dining-room into the drawing-room; he went 
 to a window that looked out into the courtyard, and stood 
 there for a while. He meant to know whether this Goriot was 
 really the. Goriot that he knew. His heart beat unwontedly 
 fast; he remembered Vautrin's hideous insinuations. A well- 
 dressed young man suddenly emerged from the room almost 
 as Eugene entered it, saying impatiently to the servant who 
 stood at the door: "I am going, Maurice. Tell Madame la 
 Comtesse that I waited more than half an hour for her." 
 
 Whereupon this insolent being, who, doubtless, had a right 
 to be insolent, sang an Italian trill, and went towards the 
 window where Eugene was standing, moved thereto quite as 
 much by a desire to see the student's face as by a wish to look 
 out into the courtyard. 
 
 ''But M. le Comte had better wait a moment longer; ma- 
 dame is disengaged," said Maurice, as he returned to the 
 ante-chamber. 
 
 Just at that moment Father Goriot appeared close to the 
 gate; he had emerged from a door at the foot of the back 
 staircase. The worthy soul was preparing to open his um- 
 brella regardless of the fact that the great gate had opened ' 
 to admit a tilbury, in which a young man with a ribbon at 
 his button-hole was seated. Father Goriot had scarcely time 
 to start back and save himself. The horse took fright at the 
 umbrella, swerved, and dashed forward towards the flight of 
 steps. The young man looked round in annoyance, saw 
 Father Goriot, and greeted him as he went out with con- 
 strained courtesy, such as people usually show to a money'- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 57 
 
 lender so long as they require his services, or the sort of 
 respect they feel it necessary to show for some one whose repu- 
 tation has been blown upon, so that they blush to acknowledge 
 his acquaintance. Father Goriot gave him a little friendly 
 pod and a good-natured smUe. All this happened with 
 lightning speed. Eugene was so deeply interested that he 
 forgot that he was not alone till he suddenly heard the 
 Countess^ voice. 
 
 "Oh! Maxime, were you going away?" she said reproach- 
 fully, with a shade of pique in her manner. The Countess 
 had not seen the incident nor the entrance of the tilbury. 
 Eastignac turned abruptly and saw her standing before him, 
 coquettishly dressed in a loose white cashmere gown with 
 knots of rose-colored ribbon here and there; her hair was 
 carelessly coiled about her head, as is the wont of Parisian 
 women in the morning; there was a soft fragrance about her 
 — doubtless she was fresh from a bath; — her graceful form 
 seemed more flexible, her beauty more luxuriant. Her eyes 
 glistened. A young man can see everything at a glance; he 
 feels the radiant influence of woman as a plant discerns and 
 absorbs its nutriment from the air ; he did not need to touch 
 her hands to feel their cool freshness. He saw faint rose tints 
 through the cashmere of the dressing gown; it had fallen 
 slightly open, giving glimpses of a bare throat, on which the 
 student's eyes rested. The Countess had no need of the ad- 
 ventitious aid of corsets; her girdle defined the outlines of 
 her slender waist; her throat was a challenge to love; her 
 feet, thrust into slippers, were daintily small. As Maxime 
 took her hand and kissed it, Eugene became aware of Max- 
 ime's existence, and the Countess saw Eugene. 
 
 "Oh! is that you, M. de Eastignac? I am very glad to 
 see you," she said, but there was something in her manner 
 that a shrewd observer would have taken as a hint to depart. 
 
 Maxime, as the Countess Anastasie had called the young 
 man with the haughty insolence of bearing, looked from 
 Eugene to the lady, and from the lady to Eugene; it was 
 fiufficiently evident that he wished to be rid of the latter. An 
 
58 FATHER GOBIOT 
 
 exact and faithiul rendering of the glance might be given in , 
 the words : "Look here, my dear ; I hope you intend to send 
 this little whipper-snapper about his business." 
 
 The Countess consulted the young man's face with an intent 
 submissiveness that betrays all the secrets of a woman's heart, 
 and Eastignae all at once began to hate him violently. To 
 begin with, the sight of the fair carefully arranged curls on 
 the other's comely head had convinced him that his own crop 
 ;was hideous; Maxime's boots, moreover, were elegant and 
 spotless, while his own, in spite of all his care, bore some 
 traces of his recent walk; and, finally, Maxime's overcoat 
 fitted the outline of his figure gracefully, he looked like a 
 pretty woman, while Eugene was wearing a black coat at 
 half -past two. The quick-witted child of the Charente felt the 
 disadvantage at which he was placed beside this tall, slender 
 dandy, with the clear gaze and the pale face, one of those men 
 who would ruin orphan children without scruple. Mme. de 
 Eestaud fled into the next room without waiting for Eugene 
 to speak; shaking out the skirts of her dressing-gown in her 
 flight, so that she looked like a white butterfly, and Maxime 
 hurried after her. Eugene, in a fury, followed Maxime and 
 the Countess, and the three stood once more face to face by 
 the hearth in the large drawing-room. The law student felt 
 quite sure that the odious Maxime found him in the way, and 
 even at the risk of displeasing Mme. de Eestaud, he meant 
 to annoy the dandy. It had struck him all at once that he 
 had seen the young man before at Mme. de Beauseant's ball; 
 he guessed the relation between Maxime and Mme. de Ees- 
 taud; and with the youthful audacity that commits prodi- 
 gious blunders or achieves signal success, he said to himself, 
 "This is my rival; I mean to cut him out." 
 
 Eash resolve ! He did not know that M. le Comte Maxime 
 de Trailles woidd wait till he was insulted, so as to fire first 
 and kill his man. Eugene was a sportsman and a good shot, 
 but he had not yet hit the bull's eye twenty times out of 
 twenty-two. The young Count dropped into a low chair by 
 the hearth, took up the tongs, and made up the fire so vio- 
 
FATHER GORIOT , 6i 
 
 inflection in her husband's voice, and knew that it would 
 not be safe to retire to the boudoir ; like all women who are 
 compelled to study their husbands' characters in order to have 
 their own way, and whose business it is to know exactly how 
 far they can go without endangering a good understanding, 
 she was very careful to avoid petty collisions in domestic life. 
 It was Eugene who had brought about this untoward inci- 
 dent; so the Countess looked at Maxime and indicated the 
 law student with an air of exasperation. M. de Trailles 
 addressed the Count, the Countess, and Eugene with the 
 pointed remark, "You are busy, I do not want to interrupt 
 you; good-day," and he went. 
 
 "Just wait a moment, Maxime I" the Count called after 
 him. 
 
 "Come and dine with us," said the Countess, leaving 
 Eugene and her husband together once more. She followed 
 Maxime into the little drawing-room, where they sat together 
 sufficiently long to feel sure that Eastignac had taken his 
 leave. 
 
 The law student heard their laughter, and their voices, and 
 the pauses in their talk; he grew malicious, exerted his con- 
 versational powers for M. de Eestaud, flattered him, and drew 
 him into discussions, to the end that he might see the 
 Countess again and discover the nature of her relations with' 
 Father Goriot. This Countess with a husband and a lover, 
 for Maxime clearly was her lover, was a mystery. What was 
 the secret tie that bound her to the old tradesman? This 
 mystery he meant to penetrate, hoping by its means to gain 
 a sovereign ascendency ever this fair typical Parisian. 
 
 "Anastasie !" the Count called again to his wife. 
 
 "Poor Maxime!" she said, addressing the young man. 
 "Come, we must resign ourselves. This evening " 
 
 "I hope, Kasie," he said in her ear, "that you will give 
 orders not to admit that youngster, whose eyes light up like 
 live coals when he looks at you. He will make you a declara- 
 tion, and compromise you, and then you will compel me to 
 kill him." 
 
62 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "Are you mad, Maxime?" she said, "A young lad of a 
 student is, on the contrary, a capital lightning-conductor; ii 
 not that so? Of course, I mean to make Restaud furiously 
 jealous of him." 
 
 Maxime burst out laughing, and went out, followed by the 
 Countess, who stood at the window to watch him into his 
 carriage; he shook his whip, and made His horse prance. She 
 only returned when the great gate had been closed after him, 
 
 "What do you think, dear ?" cried the Count, her husband, 
 "this gentleman's family estate is not far from Verteuil, on 
 the Charente; his great-uncle and my grandfather were 
 acquainted." 
 
 "Delighted to find that we have acquaintances in com- 
 mon," said the Countess, with a preoccupied manner. 
 
 "More than you think," said Eugene, in a low voice. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked quickly. 
 
 "Why, only just now," said the student, "I saw a gentle- 
 man go out at the gate. Father Goriot, my next door neigh- 
 bor in the house where I am lodging." 
 
 At the sound of this name, and the prefix that embellished 
 it, the Count, who was stirring the fire, let the tongs fall as 
 though they had burned his fingers, and rose to his feet. 
 
 "Sir," he cried, "you might have called him 'Monsieur 
 Goriot'!" 
 
 The Countess turned pale at first at the sight of her hus- 
 band's vexation, then she reddened; clearly she was embar- 
 rassed, her answer was made in a tone that she tried to make 
 natural, and with an air of assumed carelessness: ' 
 
 "You could not know any one who is dearer to us 
 both . . ." 
 
 She broke off, glanced at the piano as if some fancy had 
 ; crossed her mind, and asked, "Are you fond of music, M. 
 de Eastignac?" 
 
 "Exceedingly," answered Eugtoe, flushing, and discon- 
 certed by a dim suspicion that he had somehow been guilty 
 of a clumsy piece of folly. 
 
 "Do you sing?" she cried, going to the piano, and, sitting 
 
FATHER GORIOT f,3 
 
 down before it, she swept her fingers over the keyboard from 
 end to end. K-r-r-r-ah! 
 
 "No, madame." 
 
 The Comte de Eestaiid walked to and fro. 
 
 "That is a pity; you are without one great means of sue- 
 eess. — Ca-ro, ca-a-ro, ca-a-Orro, non du-hi-ta-re" sang the 
 Countess. 
 
 Eugene had a second time waved a magic wand when he 
 Tittered Goriot's name, but the effect seemed to be entirely, 
 opposite to that produced by the formula "related to Mme. 
 de Beaus^ant." His position was not unlike that of some 
 visitor permitted as a favor to inspect a private collection of 
 curiosities, when by inadvertence he comes into collision with 
 a glass case full of sculptured figures, and three or four 
 heads, imperfectly secured, fall at the shock. He wished the 
 earth would open and swallow him. Mme. de Kestaud's ex- 
 pression was reserved and chilly, her eyes had grown indiffer- 
 ent, and sedulously avoided meeting those of the unlucky 
 student of law. 
 
 "Madame," he said, "you wish to talk with M. de Eestaud ; 
 permit me to wish you good-day " 
 
 The Countess interrupted him by a gesture, saying hastily, 
 "Whenever you come to see us, both M. de Eestaud and I 
 shall be delighted to see you." 
 
 Eugene made a profound bow and took his leave, followed 
 by M. de Eestaud, who insisted, in spite of his remonstrances, 
 (m accompanying him into the hall. 
 
 "Neither your mistress nor I are at home to that gentle- 
 man when he calls," the Count said to Maurice. 
 
 As Eugene set foot on the steps, he saw that it was raining. 
 
 "Come," said he to himself, "somehow I have Just made 3 
 mess of it, I do not know how. And now I am going to spoil ' 
 my hat and coat into the bargain. I ought to stop in my cor- < 
 ner, grind away at law, and never look to be anything but a 
 boorish country magistrate. How can I go into society, when 
 to manage properly you want a lot of cabs, varnished boots, 
 gold watch chains, and all sorts of things; you have to wear 
 
64 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 white doeskin gloves that cost six francs in the morning, and 
 primrose kid gloves every evening? A fig for that old hum- 
 bug of a Goriot!" 
 
 When he reached the street door, the driver of a hackney 
 coach, who had probably just deposited a wedding party at 
 their door, and asked nothing better than a chance of making 
 a little money for himself without his employer's knowledge, 
 ,saw that Eugene had no umbrella, remarked his black coat, 
 kWhite waistcoat, yellow gloves, and varnished boots, and 
 'stopped and looked at him inquiringly. Eugene, in the blind 
 desperation that drives a young man to plunge deeper and 
 deeper into an abyss, as if he might hope to find a fortunate 
 issue in its lowest depths, nodded in reply to the driver's 
 signal, and stepped into the cab ; a few stray petals of orange 
 blossom and scraps of wire bore witness to its recent occupa- 
 tion by a wedding party. 
 
 ''Where am I to drive, sir?" demanded the man, who, bj 
 this time, had taken off his white gloves. 
 
 "Confound it!" Eugene said to himself, "I am in for it 
 now, and at least I will not spend cab-hire for nothing! — 
 Drive to the Hotel Beauseant," he, said aloud. 
 
 "Which?" asked the man, a portentous word that reduced 
 Eugene to confusion. This young man of fashion, species 
 mcerta, did not know that there were two Hotels Beauseant ; 
 he was not aware how rich he was in relations who did not 
 care about him. 
 
 "The Vicomte de Beauseant, Eue " 
 
 "De Grenelle," interrupted the driver, with a jerk of his 
 head. "You see, there are the h6teis of the Marquis and 
 Comte de Beauseant in the Eue Saint-Dominique," he added, 
 drawing up the step. 
 
 "I know aU about that," said Eugene, severely. — "Every- 
 i^body is laughing at me to-day, it seems !" he said to himself, 
 'as he deposited his hat on the opposite seat. "This escapade 
 will cost me a king's ransom, but, at any rate, I shall call on 
 my so-called cousin in a thoroughly aristocratic fashion. 
 Goriot has cost me ten francs already, the old scoundrel. My 
 
FATHER GORIOT 65 
 
 word '( I will tell Mme. de Beauseant about my adventure ; 
 perhaps it may amuse her. Doubtless she will know the secret 
 of the criminal relation between that handsome woman and 
 . the old rat without a tail. It would be better to find favor in 
 my cousin's eyes than to come in contact with that shameless 
 woman, who seems to me to have very expensive tastes. Surely 
 the beautiful Vicomtesse's personal interest would turn the 
 scale for me, when the mere mention of her name produces 
 such an effect. Let us look higher. If you set yourself to 
 carry the heights of heaven, you must face God." ^Q^ 
 
 The innumerable thoughts that surged through his brain 
 might be summed up in these phrases. He grew calmer, and 
 recovered something of his assurance as he watched the fall- 
 ing rain. He told himself that though he was about to 
 squander two of the precious five-franc pieces that remained 
 to him, the money was well laid out in preserving his coat, 
 boots, and hat; and his cabman's cry of, "Gate, if you 
 please," almost put him in spirits. A Swiss, in scarlet and 
 gold, appeared, the great door groaned on its hinges, and 
 Eastignac, with sweet satisfaction, beheld his equipage pass 
 under the archway and stop before the flight of steps beneath 
 the awning. The driver, in a blue-and-red greatcoat, dis- 
 mounted and let down the step. As Eugene stepped out of 
 the cab, he heard smothered laughter from the peristyle. 
 Three or four lackeys were making merry over the festal ap- 
 pearance of the vehicle. In another moment the law student 
 was enlightened as to the cause of their hilarity; he felt the 
 full force of the contrast between his equipage and one of 
 the smartest broughams in Paris ; a coachman, with powdered 
 hair, seemed to find it difiBcult to hold a pair of spirited 
 horses, who stood chafing the bit. In Mme. de Kestaud's 
 courtyard, in the Chauss6e d'Antin, he had seen the neat turn- 
 out of a young man of six-and-twenty; in the Faubourg 
 Saint-Germain he found the luxurious equipage of a man of,, 
 rank ; thirty thousand francs would not have purchased it.,, 
 
 "Who can be here ?" said Eugene to himself. He began to 
 understand, though somewhat tardily, that he must not expect 
 
fi6 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 to find many women in Paris who were not already appw- 
 priated, and that the capture of one of these queens would 
 be likely to cost something more than bloodshed. "Confound 
 it all ! I expect my cousin also has her Maxima." 
 
 He went up the steps, feeling that he was a blighted being. 
 The glass door was opened for him; the servants were as 
 solemn as jackasses under the curry comb. So far, Eugene 
 had only been in the ballroom on the ground floor of the 
 Hotel Beauseant; the fete had followed so closely on the invi- 
 tation, that he had not had time to call on his cousin, and 
 had therefore never seen Mme. de Beauseant's apartments; 
 he was about to behold for the first time a great lady among 
 the wonderful and elegant surroundings that reveal her char- 
 acter and reflect her daily life. He was the more curious, 
 because Mme. de Eestaud's drawing-room had provided him 
 with a standard of comparison. 
 
 At half -past four the Vieomtesse de Beauseant was visible. 
 Five minutes earlier she would not have received her cousin, 
 but Eugene knewjiothing of the recognized routine of various 
 houses in Paris/IIe was conducted up the wide, white-painted, 
 crimson-carpeted staircase, between the gilded balusters and 
 masses of flowering plants, to Mme. de Beauseant's apart- 
 ments. , He did not know the rumor current about Mme. de 
 Beauseant, one of the biographies told, with variations, in 
 whispers, every evening in the salons of Pari&. 
 
 For three years past her name had been spoken of in con- 
 nection with that of one of the most wealthy and distinguished 
 Portuguese nobles, the Marquis d'Ajuda-Pinto. It was one 
 of those innocent liaisons which possess so much charm for 
 the two thus attached to each other that they find the pres- 
 ence of a third person intolerable. The Vieomte de Beauseant, 
 therefore, had himself set an example to the rest of the world 
 by respecting, with as good a grace as might be, this mor- 
 ganatic union. Any one who came to call on the Vieomtesse 
 in the early days of this friendship was sure to find the Mar- 
 quis d'Ajuda-Pinto there. As, under the circumstances, Mme. 
 de Beauseant could not very well shut her door against these 
 
FATHER GORIOT & 
 
 visitors, she gave them such a cold reception, and showed 
 BO much interest in the study of the ceiling, that no one could 
 fail to understand how much he bored her; and when i* be- 
 came known in Paris that Mme. de Beaus^ant was bored by 
 callers between two and four o'clock, she was left in perfect; 
 solitude during that interval. She went to the Bouffons or to 
 the Opera with M. de Beauseant and M. d'Ajuda-Pinto ; and 
 M. de Beauseant, like a well-bred man of the world, always 
 left his wife and the Portuguese as soon as he had installed 
 them. But M. d'Ajuda-Pinto must marry, and a Mile., de 
 Eochefide was the young lady. In the whole fashionable 
 world there was but one person who as yet knew nothing of 
 the arrangement, and that was Mme. de Beauseant. Some 
 of her friends had hinted at the possibility, and she had 
 laughed at them, believing that envy had prompted those 
 ladies to try to make mischief. And now, though the bans 
 were about to be published, and although the handsome 
 Portuguese had come that day to break the news to the 
 Vicomtesse, he had not found courage as yet to say one word 
 about his treachery. How was it? Nothing is doubtless 
 more difficult than the notification of an ultimatum of this 
 kind. There are men who feel more at their ease when they 
 stand up before another man who threatens their lives with 
 sword or pistol than in the presence of a woman who, after 
 two hours of lamentations and reproaches, falls into a dead 
 swoon and requires salts. At this moment, therefore, M. 
 d'Ajuda-Pinto was on thorns, and anxious to take his leave. 
 He told himself that in some way or other the news would 
 reach Mme. de Beauseant; he would write, it would be much 
 better to do it by letter, and not to utter the words that should 
 stab her to the heart. 
 
 So when the servant announced M. Eugene de Eastignac, 
 the Marquis d'Ajuda-Pinto trembled with Joy. To be sure, a 
 loving woman shows even more ingenuity in inventing doubts 
 of her lover than in varying the monotony of his happiness; 
 and when she is about to be forsaken, she instinctively inter- 
 prets every gesture as rapidly as Virgil's courser detected 
 
68 FAIHEli GOEIOT 
 
 the presence of his companion by snuffing the breeze. It 
 was impossible, therefore, that Mme. de Beaus6ant should not 
 detect that involuntary thrill of satisfaction; slight though 
 it was, it was appalling in its artlessness. 
 
 Eugene had yet to learn that no one in Paris should pre- 
 sent himself in any house without first making himself ac- 
 quainted with the whole history of its owner, and of its 
 owner's wife and family, so that he may avoid making any 
 of the terrible blunders which in Poland draw forth the pict- 
 uresque exclamation, "Harness five bullocks to your cart!" 
 probably because you will need them all to pull you out of the 
 quagmire into which a false step has plunged you. If, down 
 to the present day, our language has no name for these con- 
 versational disasters, it is probably because they are believed 
 to be impossible, the publicity given in Paris to every scandal 
 is so prodigious. After the awkward incident at Mme. de 
 Eestaud's, no one but Eugene could have reappeared in his 
 character of bullock-driver in Mme. de Beauseant's drawing- 
 room. But if Mme. de Eestaud and M. de TraUles had found 
 him horribly in the way, M. d'Ajuda hailed his coming with 
 relief. 
 
 / "Good-bye," said the Portuguese, hurrying to the door, aa 
 Eugene made his entrance into a dainty little pink-and-gray 
 drawing-room, where luxury seemed nothing more than good 
 taste. 
 
 "Until this evening," said Mme. de Beauseant, turning her 
 head to give the Marquis a glance. "We are going to the 
 Bouffons, are we not?" 
 
 "I cannot go," he said, with his fingers on the door handle. 
 
 Mme. de Beauseant rose and beckoned to him to return. 
 She did not pay the slightest attention to Eugene, who stood 
 there dazzled by the sparkling marvels around him ; he began 
 to think that this was some story out of the Arabian Nights 
 made real, and did not know where to hide himself, when the 
 woman before him seemed to be unconscious of his existence. 
 The Vicomtesse had raised the forefinger of her right hand, 
 and gracefully signed to the Marquis to seat himself beside 
 
FATHER GORIOT | -fift^ 
 
 her. The Marquis felt the imperious sway of passion'^in her 
 gesture; he came back towards her. Eugene watched him, 
 not without a feeling of envy. 
 
 "That,is the owner of the brougham !" he said to himself. ' 
 "But i^t necessary to have a pair of spirited horses, servants^ 
 in livery, and torren,ts of gold to draw a glance from a woman,'' 
 here in Parisfi^^ _.. 
 
 The demon of luxury gnawed at Ms heart, greed burned 
 in his veins, his throat was parched with the thirst of gold?-^ 
 
 He had a hundred and thirty francs every quarter. His 
 father, mother, brothers, sisters, and aunt did not spend 
 two hundred francs a month among them. This swift com- 
 parison between his present condition and the aims he had 
 in view helped to benumb his faculties. 
 
 "Why not?" the Vicomtesse was saying, as she smiled at 
 the Portuguese. "Why cannot you come to the Italiens?" 
 
 "Affairs! I am to dine with the English Ambassador." 
 
 "Throw him over." 
 
 When a man once enters on a course of deception, he is 
 compelled to add lie to lie. M. d'Ajuda therefore said, smil- 
 ing, "Do you lay your commands on me?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly." 
 
 "That was what I wanted to have you say to me," he 
 answered, dissembling his feelings in a glance which would 
 have reassured any other woman. 
 
 He took the Vicomtesse's hand^ kissed it, and went, 
 
 Eugene ran his fingers through his hair, and constrained 
 himself to bow. He thought that now Mme. de Beauseant 
 would give him her attention; but suddenly she sprang for- 
 ward, rushed to a window in the gallery, and watched M. 
 d'Ajuda step into his carriage ; she listened to the order that 
 he gave, and heard the Swiss repeat it to the coachman: 
 
 "To M. de Eochefide's house." 
 
 Those words, and the way in which M. d'Ajuda flung him- 
 self back in the carriage, were like a lightning flash and a 
 thunderbolt for her; she walked back again with a deadly 
 fear gnawing at her heart The most terrible catastrophes 
 
70 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 only hap geB^agigflg-tlte-h«igh^B. The Vicomtesse went to 
 her'lyvmrooin, sat down at a table, and took up a sheef of 
 dainty notepaper. 
 
 "When, instead of dining with the English Ambassador," 
 she wrote, "you go to the Eochefides, you owe me an explana^ 
 tion, which I am waiting to hear." 
 
 She retraced several of the letters, for her hand was 
 trembling so that they were indistinct; then she signed the 
 note with an initial C for "Claire de Bourgogne," and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 "Jacques," she said to the servant, who appeared immedi- 
 ately, "take this note to M. de Eoeheflde's house at half -past 
 seven and ask for the Marquis d'Ajuda. If M. d'Ajuda is 
 there, leave the note without waiting for an answer ; if he is 
 not there, bring the note back to me." 
 
 "Madame la Vicomtesse, there is a visitor in the drawing- 
 room." 
 
 "Ah! yes, of course," she said, opening the door. 
 
 Eugene was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, but at 
 last the Vicomtesse appeared ; she spoke to him, and the trem- 
 ulous tones of her voice vibrated through his heart. 
 
 "Pardon me, monsieur," she said ; "I had a letter to write. 
 N"ow I am quite at liberty." 
 
 She scarcely knew what she was saying, for even as she 
 spoke she thought, "Ah ! he means to m.arry Mile, de Eoche- 
 fide? But is he still free? This evening the marriage shall 
 be broken off, or else. . . . But before to-morrow I shall 
 know." 
 
 "Cousin . . ." the student replied. 
 
 "Eh?" said the Countess, with an insolent glance that 
 sent a cold shudder through Eugene; he understood what 
 that "Eh ?" meant ; he had learned a great deal in three 
 hours, and his wits were on the alert. He reddened : 
 
 "Madame . . ." he began ; he hesitated a moment, and 
 then went on. "Pardon me ; I am in such need of protectioi|i 
 that the merest scrap of relationship could do me no harm." 
 
FATHEE GOEIOT 71 
 
 Mme. de Beauseant smiled, but there was sadness in her 
 smile ; even now she felt forebodings of the coming pain, the 
 air she breathed was heavy with the storm that was about to 
 burst. 
 
 "If you knew how my family are situated," he went on, 
 "you would love to play the part of a beneficent fairy god- 
 mother who graciously clears the obstacles from the path of 
 her protege." 
 
 "Well, cousin," she said, laughing, "and how can I be of 
 service to you?" 
 
 "But do I know even that ? I am distantly related to you, 
 and this obscure and remote relationship is even now a perfect 
 godsend to me. You have confused my ideas; I cannot re- 
 member the things that I meant to say to you. I know no 
 ane else here in Paris. . . . Ah ! if I could only ask you 
 to counsel me, ask you to look upon me as a poor child who 
 would fain cling to the hem of your dress, who would lay down 
 his life for you." 
 
 "Would you kiU a man for me?" — — '"" " ^ ^^ 
 
 "Two," said Eugene. 
 
 "You, child. "Yes, you are a child," she said, keeping back 
 the tears that came to her eyes ; "you would love sincerely." 
 
 "Oh!" he cried, flinging up his head. 
 
 The audacity of the student's answer interested the 
 Vieomtesse in him. The southern brain was beginning to 
 scheme for the first time. Between Mme. de Eestaud's blue 
 boudoir and Mme. de Beauseant's rose-colored drawing-roomC 
 he had made a three years' advance in a kind of law which is' 
 not a recognized study in Paris, although it is a sort of higher 
 jurisprudence, and, when well understood, is a highroad to 
 success of every kind. 
 
 "Ah ! this is what I meant to say !" said Eugene. "I met 
 Mme. de Eestaud at your ball, and this morning I went to 
 see her." 
 
 "You must have been very much in the way," said Mme. 
 de Beauseant, smiling as she spoke. 
 
 "Yes, indeed. I am a novice, and my blunders wiU set 
 
72 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 every one against me, if you do not give me your counsel. I 
 believe that in Paris it is very difficult to meet with a youig, 
 beautiful, and wealthy woman of fashion who would be willing 
 to teach me, what you women can explain so well — life. I 
 shall find a M. de Trailles everywhere. So I have come to 
 you to ask you to give me a key to a puzzle, to entreat you 
 to tell me what sort of blunder I made this morning. I men- 
 tioned an old man " 
 
 "Madame la Duchesse de Langeais," Jacques cut the stu- 
 dent short; Eugene gave expression to his intense annoyance 
 by a gesture. 
 
 "If you mean to succeed," said the Vicomtesse in a low 
 voice, "in the first place you must not be so demonstrative." 
 
 "Ah! good morning, dear," she continued, and rising and 
 crossing the room, she grasped the Duchess' hands as affec- 
 tionately as if they had been sisters; the Duchess responded 
 in the prettiest and most gracious way. 
 
 "Two intimate friends!" said Eastignac to himself. 
 "Henceforward I shall have two protectresses; those two 
 women are great friends, no doubt, and this newcomer will 
 doubtless interest herself in her friend's cousin." 
 
 "To what happy inspiration do I owe this piece of good 
 fortune, dear Antoinette?" asked Mme. de Beauseant. 
 
 "Well, I saw M. d'Ajuda-Pinto at M. de Eochefide's door, 
 BO I thought that if I came I should find you alone." 
 
 Mme. de Beauseant's mouth did not tighten, her color did 
 not rise, her expression did not alter, or rather, her brow 
 seemed to clear as the Duchess uttered those deadly words. 
 
 "If I had known that you were engaged " the speaker 
 
 added, glancing at Eug'Jne. 
 
 "This gentleman is M. Eugene de Eastignac, one of my 
 cousins," said the Vicomtesse. "Have you any news of (Jen- 
 eral de Montriveau?" she continued. "Serizy told me yes- 
 terday that he never goes anywhere now; has he been to see 
 you to-day?" 
 
 It was believed that the Duchess was desperately in love 
 with Mi de Montriveau, and that he was a faithless lover; she 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 73 
 
 felt the question in her very heart, and her face flushed as 
 she answered : 
 
 "He was at the Elysee yesterday." 
 
 "In attendance?" 
 
 "Claire," returned the Duchess, and hatred overflowed in 
 the glances she threw at Mme. de Beauseant; "of course you 
 know that M. d'Ajuda-Pinto is going to marry Mile, de 
 Eochefide ; the bans will be published to-morrow." 
 
 This thrust was too cruel; the Vicomtesse's face grew 
 white, but she answered, laughing, "One of those rumors that 
 fools amuse themselves with. What should induce M. 
 d'Ajuda to take one of the noblest names in Portugal to the 
 Eochefides? The Eochefides were only ennobled yesterday." 
 
 "But Bertha will have two hundred thousand livres a year, 
 they say." 
 
 "M. d'Ajuda is too wealthy to marry for money." 
 
 "But, my dear. Mile, de Eochefide is a charming girl." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "And, as a matter of fact, he is dining with them to-day; 
 the thing is settled. It is very surprising to me that you 
 should know so little about it." 
 
 Mme. de Beauseant turned to Eastignae. "What was the 
 blunder that you made, monsieur?" she asked. "The poor 
 boy is only just launched into the world, Antoinette, so that 
 he understands nothing of all this that we are speaking of. 
 Be merciful to him, and let us finish our talk to-morrow. 
 Everything will be announced to-morrow, you know, and your 
 kind informal communication can be accompanied by official 
 confirmation." 
 
 The Duchess gave Eugene one of those insolent glances 
 that measure a man from head to foot, and leave him crushed 
 and annihilated. 
 
 "Madame, I have unwittingly plunged a dagger into Mme. 
 de Eestaud's heart; unwittingly — therein lies my oifence," 
 said the student of law, whose keen brain had served him 
 sufficiently well, for he had detected the biting epigrams that 
 lurked beneath this friendly talk. "You continue to receive. 
 
74 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 possibly you fear, those who know the amount of pain that 
 they deliberately inflict; but a clumsy blunderer who has no 
 idea how deeply he wounds is looked upon as a fool who does 
 not know how to make use of his opportunities, and every 
 one despises him." 
 
 Mme. de Beaus6ant gave the student a glance, one of those 
 glances in which a great soul can mingle dignity and grati- 
 tude. It was like balm to the law student, who was still 
 smarting under the Duchess' insolent scrutiny; she had 
 looked at him as an auctioneer might look at some article 
 to appraise its value. 
 
 "Imagine, too, that I had just made some progress with the 
 Comte de Eestaud; for I should tell you, madame," he went 
 on, turning to the Duchess with a mixture of humility and 
 malice in his manner, "that as yet I am only a poor devil of a 
 student, very much alone in the world, and very poor " 
 
 "You should not tell us that, M. de Eastignac. We women 
 never care about anything that no one else will take." 
 
 "Bah!" said Eugene. "I am only two-and-twenty, and I 
 must make up my mind to the drawbacks of my time of Ufe. 
 Besides, I am confessing my sins, and it would be impossible 
 to kneel in a more charming confessional; you commit your 
 sins in one drawing-room, and receive absolution for them in 
 another." 
 
 The Duchess' expression grew colder; she did not like the 
 flippant tone of these remarks, and showed that she considered 
 them to be in bad taste. by turning to the Vicomtesse with 
 — "This gentleman has only just come " 
 
 Mme. de Beauseant began to laugh outright at her cousin 
 and at the Duchess both. 
 
 "He has only just come to Paris, dear, and is in search of 
 gome one who will give him lessons in good taste." 
 
 "Mme. la Duchesse," said Eugene, "is it not natural lo wish 
 to be initiated into the mysteries which charm us?" ("Come, 
 now," he said to himself, "my language is superfinely elegant, 
 I'm sure.") 
 
 "But Mme. de Eestaud is herself, I believe^ M. de Trailles' 
 pupil," said the Duchess, 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 75 
 
 "Of that I had no idea, madame," answered the law stu- 
 dent, "so I rashly came between them. In fact, I got on very 
 well with the lady's husband, and his wife tolerated me for a 
 time until I took it into my head to tell them that I knew 
 some one of whom I had just caught a glimpse as he weiit 
 out by a back staircase, a man who had given the Countess a 
 kiss at the end of a passage." 
 
 "Who was it?" both women asked together. 
 ' "An old man who lives at the rate of two louis a month 
 in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, where I, a poor student/' 
 lodge likewise. He is a truly unfortunate creature, every- 
 body laughs at him — we all call him 'Father Goriot.' " 
 
 "Why, child that you are," cried the Vieomtesse, "Mme. 
 de Eestaud was a Mile. Goriot !" 
 
 "The daughter of a vermicelli manufacturer," the Duchess 
 added; "and when the little creature went to Court, the 
 daughter of a pastry-cook was presented on the same day. Do 
 you remember, Claire ? The King began to laugh, and made 
 some joke in Latin about flour. People — what was it? — 
 people " 
 
 "Ejusdem farince," said Eugene. 
 
 "Yes, that was it," said the Duchess. 
 
 "Oh! is that her father?" the law student continued, 
 aghast. 
 
 "Yes, certainly; the old man had two daughters; he dotes 
 on them, so to speak, though they will scarcely acknowledge 
 him." ■ "~~-*^ 
 
 "Didn't the second daughter marry a banker with a German 
 name?" the Vieomtesse asked, turning to Mme. de Langeais, 
 "a Baron de Nueingen ? And her name is Delphine, is it not ? 
 Isn't she a fair-haired woman who has a side-box at the 
 Opera? She comes sometimes to the Bouffons, and laughs 
 loudly to attract attention." 
 
 The Duchess smiled, and said : 
 
 "I wonder at you, dear. Why do you take so much interest 
 in people of that kind ? One must have been as madly in love 
 as Eestaud was, to be infatuated with Mile. Anastasie and 
 
76 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 her flour sacks. Oh! he will not find her a good bargain I 
 She is in M. de Trailles' hands, and he will ruin her." 
 
 "And they do not acknowledge their father !" Eugene re- 
 "peated. 
 
 "Oh! well, yes, their father, the father, a father," replied 
 the Vieomtesse, "a kind father who gave them each five oi 
 six hundred thousand francs, it is said, to secure their happi- 
 ness by marrying them well ; while he only kept eight or ten 
 ,'thousand livres a year for himself, thinking that his daugh- 
 ters would always be his daughters, thinking that in them he 
 would live his life twice over again, that in their houses he 
 should find two homes, where he would be loved and looked 
 up to, and made much of. And in two years' time both his 
 sons-in-law had turned him out of their houses as if he were 
 one of the lowest outcasts." 
 
 — "-T ^ears came_j Lnto_Eugene's eyes. He was still under the 
 spellof youthful beliefs7*EeTiaH^ust left home, pure and 
 sacred feelings had been stirred within him, and this was his 
 firstday on the battlefield of civilization in Paris. Genuine 
 'feeling is so infectiousthatTor a moment tEe' three looked 
 at each other in silence. 
 
 L "Eh, mon Dieu!" said Mme. de Langeais; "yes, it seems 
 ^ery horrible, and yet we see such things every day. Is there 
 • not a reason for it? Tell me, dear, have you ever really 
 thought what a son-in-law is ? A son-in-law is the man for 
 whom we bring up, you and I, a dear little one, bound to us 
 very closely in innumerable ways; for seventeen years she 
 will be the joy of her family, its 'white soul,' as Lamartine 
 says, and suddenly she will become its scourge. When he 
 comes and takes her from us, his love from the very begin- 
 ning is like an axe laid to the root of all the old affection 
 in our darling's heart, and all the ties that bound her to her 
 family are severed. But yesterday our little daughter 
 /thought of no one but her mother and father, as we had no 
 thought that was not for her; by to-morrow she will have 
 become a hostile stranger. The tragedy is always going on 
 under our eyes. On the one hand you see a father who has 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 77 
 
 sacrificed himself to his son, and his daughter-in-law shows 
 him the last degree of insolence. On the other hand, it is 
 the son-in-law who turns his wife's mother out of the house. 
 I sometimes hear it said that there is nothing dramatic about 
 society in these days;, but the Drama of the Son-in-law is 
 appalling, to say nothing of our marriages, which have come 
 to be very poor farces. I can explain how it all came about 
 in the old vermicelli maker's case. I think I recollect that 
 Foriot " 
 
 "Goriot, madame." 
 
 "Yes, that Moriot was once President of his Section dur- 
 ing the EevoluiEion; He was in the secret of the famous 
 scarcity of grain, and laid the foundation of his fortune in 
 those days by selliuj ^ flo ur for., ten times, its jost- He hadj 
 as much flour as he wanted. My grandinother's steward soldi 
 him immense quantities. ISTo doubt Nbriot shared the plun- 
 der with the Committee of Public Salvation, as that sort of 
 person always did. I recollect the steward telling my grand- 
 mother that she might live at Grandvilliers in complete se- 
 curity, because her corn was as good as a certificate of civism. 
 Well, then, this Loriot, who sold corn to those butchers, 
 has never had but one passion, they say — he idolizes his 
 daughters. He settled one of them under Eestaud's roof, 
 and grafted the other into the ISTucingen family tree, the 
 Baron de Nucingen being a rich banlcer who had turned Roy- 
 alist. You can quite understand that so long as Bonaparte- 
 was Emperor, the two sons-in-law could manage to put up 
 with the old Mnety-three ; but after the restoration of the 
 Bourbons, M. de Eestaud felt bored by the old man's society, 
 and the banker was still more tired of it. His daughters were 
 still fond of him; they wanted 'to keep the goat and the 
 cabbage,' so they used to see the Joriat whenever there was 
 no one there, under pretence of affection. 'Come to-day, 
 papa, we shall have you all to ourselves, and that will be much 
 nicer !' and all that, sort of thing. As for me, dear, I believe 
 that love has second-sight : poor Kinety- three ; his heart must 
 have bled. He saw tliaiJbiaJiaughkrajffere__asl^ 
 
re FATHER GORIOT 
 
 that if they loved their husbands his visits must make mis- 
 chief. So he immolated himself. He made the sacrifice be- 
 cause he was a father; he went into voluntary exile. His 
 daughters were satisfied, so he thought that he had done the 
 best thing he could ; but it was a family crime, and father and 
 daughters were accomplices. You see this sort of thing every- 
 where. What could this old Doriot have been but a splash 
 of mud in his daughters' drawing-rooms? He would only 
 have been in the way, and bored other people, besides beiDg 
 "bored himself. And this that happened between father and 
 daughters may happen to the prettiest woman in Paris and 
 the man she loves the best; if her love grows tiresome, he 
 will go; he will descend to the basest trickery to leave her. 
 It is the same with all love and friendship. Our hea rt is 
 a treasujj;; J.fj[ou,,,pffUJ^OT}JLJt^^ you are 
 
 bankrupt. „.We-show no more mercy to the affection that 
 reveals its utmost extent than we do to another kind of prodi- 
 gal who has not a penny left. Their father had given them 
 all he had. For twenty years he had given his whole heart 
 to them; then, one day, he gave them all his fortune too. The 
 lemon was squeezed ; the girls left the rest in the gutter." 
 
 "The world is very base," said the Vicomtesse, plucking at 
 the threads of her shawl. She did not raise her head as she 
 spoke ; the words that Mme. de Langeais had meant for her 
 in the course of her story had cut her to the quick. 
 "^ "Base? Oh, no," answered the Duchess; "the world goes 
 -^its own way, that is all. If I speak in this way, it is only to 
 show that I am not duped by it. I think as you do," she 
 said, pressing the Vicomtesse's hand. "The world is a slough; 
 let ug try to live on the heights above it." 
 
 She rose to her feet and kissed Mme. de Beaus6ant on the 
 forehead as she said : "You look very charming to-day, dear. 
 I have never seen such a lovely color in your cheeks before." 
 
 Then she went out with a slight inclination of the head 
 to the cousin. 
 
 "Father Goriot is sublime !'j^_gaid--Eugene to himself, as he 
 remeniBere3"K5W he'llM'watched his neighbor work the silver 
 vessel into a shapeless mass that night. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 7S 
 
 Mme. de Beauseant did not hear him; she was absorbed in 
 her own thoughts. For several minutes the silence remained 
 unbroken till the law student became almost paralyzed with 
 embarrassment, and was equally afraid to go or stay or speak 
 a word. 
 
 "The world is basely ungrateful and ill-natured," said the 
 Vieomtesse at last. "Ko sooner does a trouble befall you 
 than a friend is ready to bring the tidings and to probe your 
 heart with the point of a dagger while calling on you to ad- 
 mire the handle. Epigrams and sarcasms already! Ah! I 
 will defend myself I" 
 
 She raised her head like the great lady that she was, and 
 lightnings flashed from her proud eyes. 
 
 "Ah !" she said, as she saw Eugene, "are you there ?" 
 
 "Still," he said piteously. 
 
 "Well, then, M. de Eastignac, deal with the world as it 
 deserves. You are determined to succeed? I will help you. 
 You shall sound the depths of corruption in woman; you 
 shall measure the extent of man's pitiful vanity. Deeply as 
 I am versed in such learning, there were pages in the book 
 of life that I had not read. Now I know all. The more cold- 
 blooded your calculations, the _f ur ther ymi will "go. " Strike- 
 ruthlessly ; you will be feared. Men and women for you must 
 be nothing more than post-horses; take a fresh relay, and 
 leave the last to drop by the roadside; in this way you will 
 reach the goal of your ambition. You will be nothing here, 
 you see, unless a woman interests herself in you ; and she must 
 be young and wealthy, and a woman of the world. Yet^ if 
 YOU have a heart, lock it carefully away lik e a treasure; do 
 not let any one suspect it, or vou will be lost: you would 
 cease to be the executioner , yo u would take the victim's p lace^ 
 Ancl if_everTOU should love, never let your secret escape youT~ 
 trust no oTieTrnTTr'ymrare verv sure oTTEe hearn5~iyhich 
 you open yourhearf. "rSajnTo^ihiStfusTevefyone ; take every 
 precaution for the sake of the love which does not exist as 
 yet. Listen, Miguel" — ^the name slipped from her so 
 naturally that she did not notice her mistake — "there is some- 
 
80 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 thing still more appalling than the ingratitude of daughters 
 who have east off their old father and wish that he were dead, 
 _|,nd that is a rivalry between two sisters. Eestaud comes 
 of a good family; his wife has been received into their circle; 
 she has been presented at court; and her sister, her wealthy 
 sister, Mme. Delphine de Nueingen, the wife of a great 
 capitalist, is consumed with envy, and ready to die of spleen. 
 There is a gulf set between the sisters — ^indeed, they are sis- 
 ters no longer — ^the two women who refuse to acknowledge 
 their father do not acknowledge each other. So Mme. de 
 Nueingen would lap all the mud that lies between the Eue 
 Saint-Lazare and the Eue de Grenelle to gain admittance 
 to my salon. She fancied that she should gain her endf 
 through de Marsay; she has made herself de Marsay's slave, 
 and she bores him. De Marsay cares very little about her. If 
 you will introduce her to me, you will be her darling, her 
 Benjamin; she will idolize you. If, after that, you can love 
 her, do so; if not, make her useful. I will ask her to come 
 once or twice to one of my great crushes, but I will never re- 
 ceive her here in the morning. I will bow to her when I see 
 her, and that will be quite sufficient. You have shut the 
 Comtesse de Eestaud's door against you by mentioning 
 Father Goriot's name. Yes, my good friend, you may call at; 
 her house twenty times, and every time out of the twenty you 
 will find that she is not at home. The servants have their or- 
 ders, and will not admit you. Very well, then, now let Father 
 Goriot gain the right of entry into her sister's house for you. 
 The beautiful Mme. de Nueingen will give the signal for a 
 battle. As soon as she singles you out, other women will ' 
 begin to lose their heads about you, and her enemies and rivals 
 and intimate friends will all try to take you from her. There 
 are women who will fall in love with a man because another 
 woman has chosen him; like the city madams, poor things, 
 who copy our millinery, and hope thereby to acquire our man- 
 ners. You will have a 'success,- and in-Paris success, is every- 
 thing;' it is the key of power. If the women credit you with 
 wit and talent, the men will follow suit so long as you do 
 
FATHER GORIOT 8i 
 
 not undeceive them yourself. There will be nothing you 
 may not aspire to; yon will go everywhere, and you will find 
 out what the world is— -,aiL-aaseiBblage--ei-4eels-andJmaves. 
 But you must be neither the one nor the other. I am giving 
 you my name like Ariadne's clue of thread to take with 
 you into this labyrinth; make no unworthy use of it," she 
 said, with a queenly glance and curve of her throat; "give 
 it back to me unsullied. And now, go ; leave me. We women 
 also have our battles to fight." 
 
 "And if you should ever need some one who would gladly 
 set a match to a train for you " 
 
 "Well?" she asked. 
 
 He tapped his heart, smiled in answer to his cousin's smile, 
 and went. 
 
 It was five o'clock, and Eugene was hungry; he was afraid 
 lest he should not be in time for dinner, a misgiving which 
 made him feel that it was pleasant to be borne so quickly 
 across Paris. This sensation of physical comfort left his 
 mind free to grapple with the thoughts that assailed him. 
 A mortification usually sends a young man of his age into 
 a furious rage; he shakes his fist at society, and vows venge- 
 ance when his belief in himself is shaken. Just then Eas- 
 tignac was overwhelmed by the words, "You have shut the 
 Countess' door against you." 
 
 "I shall call !" he said to himself, "and if Mme. de Beau- 
 seant is right, if I never find her at home — I . . . well, 
 Mme. de Eestaud shall meet me in every salon in Paris. I 
 will learn to fence, and have some pistol practice, and kill 
 that Maxime of hers !" 
 
 "And money?" cried an inward monitor. "How about 
 money, where is that to come from?" And all at once the 
 wealth displayed in the Countess de Kestaud's drawing-room 
 rose before his eyes. That was the luxury which Goriot's^ 
 daughter had Joved too well; the gilding, the ostentatious 
 splendor, the unintelligent luxury of the parvenu, the riot- 
 ous extravagance of a courtesan. Then the attractive vision 
 suddenly went under an eclipse as he remembered the stately 
 6 
 
82 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 grandeur of the Hotel de Beauseant. As his fancy wandered 
 among these lofty regions in the great world of Paris, in- 
 numerable dark thoughts gathered in his heartj_his ideas 
 widened, and his conscience grew more elastic. [He saw the 
 world as it is ; saw how the rich lived beyond the-jurisdiction 
 of law anj^miblic opinion, and found in success the ultima 
 
 \ratio mundi. j 
 
 ■*aL."Vautrih'is right, success is virtue !" he said to himself, f 
 
 Arrived in the Eue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, he rushed 
 up to. his room for ten francs wherewith to satisfy the de- 
 mands of the cabman, and went in to dinner. He glanced 
 round the squalid room, saw the eighteen poverty-stricken 
 creatures about to feed like cattle in their stalls, and the 
 sight filled him with loathing. The transition was too sud- 
 den, and the contrast was so violent that it could not but act 
 as a powerful stimulant ; his ambition developed and grew be- 
 yond all bounds. On the one hand, he beheld a vision of 
 social life in its most charming and refined forms, of quick- 
 pulsed youth, of fair, impassioned faces invested with all 
 the charm of poetry, framed in a marvelous setting of lux- 
 ury or art; and, on the other hand, he saw a sombre pict- 
 ure, the miry verge beyond these faces, in which passion was 
 extinct and nothing was left of the drama but the cords and 
 pulleys and bare mechanism. Mme. de Beauseant's counsels, 
 the words uttered in anger by the forsaken lady, her petu- 
 lant offer, came to his mind, and poverty was a ready ex- 
 positor. Eastignac determined to open two parallel trenches, 
 so as to insure success; he would be a learned doctor of law 
 and a man of fashion. Clearly he was still a child ! Those 
 two lines are asymptotes, and will never meet. 
 
 "You are very dull, my lord Marquis," said Vautrin, with 
 one of the shrewd glances that seem to read the innermost 
 secrets of another mind. 
 
 "I am not in the humor to stand jokes from people who 
 call me 'my lord Marquis,' " answered Eugene. "A marquis 
 here in Paris, if he is not the veriest sham, ought to have a 
 
FATHER GORIOT 83 
 
 hundred thousand livres a year at least ; and a lodger in the 
 Maison Vauquer is not exactly Fortune's favorite." 
 
 Vautrin's glance at Rastignac was half-paternal, half-con- 
 temptuous. "Puppy !" it seemed to say ; "I should make one 
 mouthful of him !" Then he answered : 
 
 "You are in a bad humor ; perhaps your visit to the beauti- 
 ful Comtesse de Restaud was not a success." 
 
 "She has shut her door against me because I told her that 
 her father dined at our table," cried Rastignac. 
 
 Glances were exchanged all round the room ; Father Goriot 
 looked down. 
 
 "You have sent some snuff into my eye," he said to his 
 neighbor, turning a little aside to rub his hand over his face.- 
 
 "Any one who molests Father Goriot will have hence-' 
 forward to reckon with me,"j'said Eugene, looking at the 
 old man's neighbor; "he is worth all the rest of us put to- 
 gether. — I am not speaking of the ladies," he added, turning 
 in the direction of Mile. Taillefer. 
 
 Eugene's remarks produced a sensation, and his tone si- 
 lenced the dinner-table. Vautrin alone spoke. "If you are 
 going to champion Father Goriot, and set up for his re- 
 sponsible editor into the bargain, you had need be a crack 
 shot and know how to handle the foils," he said, banteringly. 
 
 "So I intend," said Eugene. 
 
 "Then you are taking the field to-day?" 
 
 "Perhaps," Rastignac answered. "But I owe no account 
 of myself to any one, especially as I do not try to find out 
 what other people do of a night." 
 
 Vautrin looked askance at Rastignac. 
 
 "If you do not mean to be deceived by the puppets, my 
 boy, you must go behind and see the whole show, and not 
 peep through holes in the curtain. That is enough," he 
 added, seeing that Eugene was about to fly into a passion. 
 "We can have a little talk whenever you like." 
 
 There was a general feeling of gloom and constraint. 
 Father Goriot was so deeply dejected by the student's remark 
 that he did not notice the change in the disposition of his 
 
84 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 fellow-lodgers, nor know that he had met with a champion 
 capable of putting an end to the persecution. 
 
 "Then, M. Goriot sitting there is the father of a countess," 
 said Mme. Vauquer in a low voice. 
 
 "And of a baroness," answered Eastignac. 
 
 "That is about all he is capable of," said Bianchon to Eas- 
 ttignac; "I have taken a look at his head; there is only one 
 [W^lip=^the bump of Paternity ; he must be an eternal father." 
 
 Eugene was too intent on his thoughts to laugh at Bian- 
 chon's joke. He determined to profit by Mme. de Beau- 
 seant's counsels, and was asking himself how he could obtain 
 the necessary money. He grew grave. The wide savannas 
 of the world stretched before his eyes; all things lay before 
 him, nothing was his. Dinner came to an end, the others 
 went, and he was left in the dining-room. 
 
 "So you have seen my daughter?" Goriot spoke tremu- 
 lously, and the sound of his voice broke in upon Eugene's 
 dreams. The young man took the elder's hand, and looked 
 at him with something like kindness in her eyes. 
 
 "You are a good and noble man," he said. "We will have 
 some talk about your daughters by and by." 
 
 He rose without waiting for Goriot's answer, and went 
 to his room. There he wrote the following letter to his 
 mother : — 
 
 "My Deak Mother, — Can you nourish your child from 
 your breast again ? I am in a position to make a rapid for- 
 tune, but I want twelve hundred francs — I must have them 
 at all costs. Say nothing about this to my father; perhaps 
 he might make objections, and unless I have the money, I 
 may be led to put an end to myself, and so escape the clutches 
 of despair. I will tell you everything when I see you. I 
 will not begin to try to describe my present situation; it 
 would take volumes to put the whole story clearly and fully. 
 I have not been gambling, my kind mother, I owe no one a 
 penny; but if you would preserve the life that you gave me, 
 you must send me the sum I mention. As a matter of fact, 
 
FATHER GORIOT So 
 
 I go to see the Vicomtesse de Beaus6ant; she is using her 
 influence for me ; I am obliged to go into society, and I have 
 not a penny to lay out on clean gloves. I can manage to 
 exist on bread and water, or go without food, if need be, but 
 1 cannot do without the tools with which they cultivate the 
 vineyards in this country. I must resolutely make up my 
 mind at once to make my way, or stick in the mire for the 
 rest of my days. I know that all your hopes are set on me, 
 and I want to realize them quickly. Sell some of your old 
 jewelry^n^Jdndjmother^ I will give you otKeFJSWBlg-very 
 soon. TTaiowenougE"orour affairs at home to know all that 
 such a sacrifice means, and you must not think that I would 
 lightly ask you to make it ; I should be a monster if I cOuld. 
 You must think of my entreaty as a cry forced from me by 
 imperative necessity. Our whole future lies in the subsidy 
 with which I must begin myi first campaign, for life in Paris 
 is one continual battle. If you cannot otherwise procure the 
 whole of the money, and are forced to sell our aunt's lace, 
 tell her that I will send her some still handsomer," and so 
 forth. 
 
 He wrote to ask each of his sisters for theirsavingS' — 
 would. they. despoiUJi£3]a^^elve_s for , him, and keeVtS^ 
 fice a , secret Jlfla.thS,JgJDmljJ To his requestheTSevT^at 
 they would not fail to respond gladly, and he added to it an 
 appeal to their delicacy by touching the chord of honor that 
 vibrates so loudly in young and highly-strung natures. 
 
 Yet when he had written the letters, he could not help feel- 
 ing misgivtags in spite of his youthful ambition; his heart 
 beat fast, and he trembled. He knew the spotless nobleness 
 of the lives buried away in the lonely maUor house ; he knew 
 what trouble and what joy his request would cause his sis- 
 ters, and how happy they would be as they talked at the bot- 
 tom of the orchard of that dear brother of theirs in Paris. 
 Visions rose before his eyes; a sudden strong light revealed 
 his sisters secretly counting over their little store, devising 
 some girlish stratagem by which the money could he sent to 
 
86 j^ FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 him incogmto, essaying, for the first time in their lives, a 
 piece of deceit that reached the sublime in its xmselfishness. 
 
 "A sister's heart is a diamond for purity, a deep sea of 
 tenderness!" he said to himself. He felt ashamed of those 
 letters. 
 
 What power there must be in the petitions put up by such 
 hearts; how pure the fervor that bears their souls to Heaven 
 in prayer ! What exquisite joy they would find in self-sacri- 
 fice! What a pang for his mother's heart if she could not. 
 send him all that he asked for! And this noble affection,' 
 these sacrifices made at such terrible cost, were to serve as 
 the j.adder by.which he me ^^ t tr "li^^'^ +" T^ a iy<iiiTi ^.Jo I^ti. 
 cijigai- A few tears, like the last grains of incense flung 
 upon the sacred altar fire of the hearth, fell from his eyes. 
 He walked up and down, and despair mingled with his emo- 
 tion. Father Goriot saw him through the half-open door. 
 
 "What is the matter, sir ?" he asked from the threshold. 
 
 "Ah ! my good neighbor, I am as much a son and brother as 
 you are a father. You do well to fear for the Comtesse Anas- 
 tasie; there is one M. Maxime de Trailles, who will be her 
 ruin." 
 
 Father Goriot withdrew, stammering some words, but Eu- 
 gene failed to catch their meaning. 
 
 The next morning Eastignac went out to post his letters. 
 Up to the last moment he wavered and doubted, but he ended 
 by flinging them into the box. "I shall succeed!" he said 
 to himself. So says the gambler; so says the great captain; 
 but the three words that have been the salvation of some few, 
 have been the ruin of many more. 
 
 A few days after this Eugene called at Mme. de Kestaud's 
 house ; she was not at home. Three times he tried the experi- 
 ment, and three times he found her doors closed against him, 
 though he was careful to choose an hour when M. de Trailles 
 was not there. The Vieomtesse was right. 
 
 The student studied no longer. He put in an appearance 
 at lectures simply to answer to his name, and after thus at- 
 testing his presence, departed forthwith. He had been 
 
FATHER GOKIOT , 87 
 
 through a reasoning process familiar to most students. He 
 had seen the advisability of deferring his studies to the last 
 moment before going up for his examinations; he made up 
 his mind to cram his second and third years' work into the 
 third year, when he meant to begin to work in earnest, and to 
 complete his studies in law with one great effort. In the 
 meantime he had fifteen months in which to navigate the 
 ocean of Paris, to spread the nets and set the lines that 
 should bring him a protectress and a fortune. Twice during 
 that week he saw Mme. de Beauseant; he did not go to her 
 house until he had seen the Marquis d'Ajuda drive away. 
 
 Victory for yet a few more days was with the great lady, 
 the most poetic figure in the Faubourg Saint-Germain ; and 
 the marriage of the Marquis d'Ajuda-Pinto with Mile, de 
 Eochefide was postponed. The dread of losing her happi- 
 ness filled those days with a fever of joy unknown before, 
 but the end was only so much the nearer. The Marquis 
 d'Ajuda and the Eochefides agreed that this quarrel and 
 reconciliation was a very fortunate thing ; Mme. de Beauseant 
 (so they hoped) would gradually become reconciled to the 
 idea of the marriage, and in the end would be brought to sac- 
 rifice d'Ajuda's morning visits to the exigencies of a man's 
 career, exigencies which she must have foreseen. In spite 
 of the most solemn promises, daily renewed, M. d'Ajuda was 
 playing a part, and the Vicomtesse was eager to be deceived. 
 "Instead of taking the leap heroically from the window, she 
 is falling headlong down the staircase," said her most inti- 
 mate friend, the Duchesse de Langeais. Yet this after-glow 
 of happiness lasted long enough for the Vicomtesse to be of 
 service to her young cousin. She had a half-superstitious 
 affection for him. Eugene had shown her sympathy and de- 
 votion at a crisis when a woman sees no pity, no real comfort 
 'in any eyes ; when if a man is ready with soothing flatteries, 
 it is because he has an interested motive. 
 
 Eastignac made up his mind that he must learn the whole 
 of Goriot's previous histoiy; he would come to his bearings 
 before attempting to board the Maison de Nueingen. The 
 results of his inquiries may be given briefly as follows : — 
 
88 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 In the days before the Eevolution, Jean-Joachim Goriot 
 was simply a workman in the employ of a vermicelli maker. 
 He was a skilful, thrifty workman, sufBciently enterprising to 
 buy his master's business when the latter fell a chance vic- 
 tim to the disturbances of 1789. Goriot established himself 
 in the Eue de la Jussienne, close to the Corn Exchange. His 
 plain good sense led him to accept the position of President 
 of the Section, so as to secure for his business the protection 
 of those in power at that dangerous epoch. This prudent 
 step had led to success ; the foundations of his fortune were 
 laid in the time ^the ScarcityLjlieaLor ar tificial). wE enTthe 
 priee^ofgTEinoJ all kindg_rosg_enormou.slyiii_Earis. People 
 used to^gHf or "BreaH at the bakers' doors ; while other per- 
 sons went to the grocers' shops and bought Italian paste foods 
 without brawling over it. It was during this year that Goriot 
 made the money,_wia£hj_ai_aTaterT^M^^^ him all 
 
 the advantage of the great capitalist over the small buyer; 
 he had, "morebverj^the usualjMeF^^qf average^biiity ;~lri8-me- 
 (liocrity was the salvation of him. He excited no one's envy ; 
 it was not even suspected that he was rich till the peril of 
 being rich was over, and all his intelligence was concentrated, 
 not on political, but on commercial speculations. Goriot was 
 an authority second to none on all questions relating to corn, 
 flour, and "middlings"; and the production, storage, and 
 quality of grain. He could estimate the yield of the harvest, 
 and foresee market prices; he bought his cereals in Sicily, 
 and imported Eussian wheat. Any one who had heard him 
 hold forth on the regulations that control the importation and 
 exportation of grain, who had seen his grasp of the subject, 
 his clear insight into the principles involved, his apprecia- 
 tion of weak points in the way that the system worked, would 
 have thought that here was the stuff of which a minister is 
 made. Patient, active, and persevering, energetic and prompt 
 in action, he surveyed his business horizon with an eagle 
 eye. Nothing there took him by surprise; he foresaw all 
 things, knew all that was happening, and kept his own coun- 
 sel; he was a diplomatist in his quick comprehension of a 
 
FATHER GORIOT 89 
 
 sitaation; and in the routine of business he was as patient 
 and plodding as a soldier on the march. But beyond this busi- 
 ness horizon he could not see. He used to spend his hours 
 of leisure on the threshold of his shop, leaning against the 
 framework of the door. Take him from his dark little count- 
 ing-house, and he became once more the rough, slow-witted 
 workman, a man who cannot understand a piece of reason- 
 ing, who is indifferent to all intellectual pleasures, and falls 
 asleep at the play, a Parisian Dolibom in short, against whose 
 stupidity other minds are powerless. 
 
 Natures of this kind are nearly all alike ; in almost all of 
 them you will find some hidden depth of sublime affection. 
 Two all-absorbing affections filled the vermicelli maker's 
 heart to the exclusion of every other feeling; into them 
 he seemed to put all the forces of his nature, as he put the 
 whole power of his brain into the corn trade. He had re- 
 garded his wife, the only daughter of a rich farmer of La 
 Brie, with a devout admiration; his love for her had been 
 boundless. Goriot had felt the charm of a lovely and sensi- 
 tive nature, which, m its delicate strength, was the very op- 
 posite of his own. Is there any instinct more deeply im- 
 planted in the heart of man than the pride of protection, 
 a protection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and de- 
 fenceless creature? Join love thereto, the warmth of grati- 
 tude that all generous souls feel for the source of their pleas- 
 ures, and you have the explanation of mai^^ strange incon- 
 gruities in human nature. ' 
 
 After seven years of unclouded happiness, Goriot lost his 
 wife. It was very unfortunate for him. She was beginning 
 to gain an ascendency over him in other ways; possibly she 
 might have brought that barren soil under cultivation, she 
 might have widened his ideas and given other directions to 
 his thoughts. But when she was dead, the instinct of father- 
 hood developed in him till it almost became a mania. All the 
 affection balked by death seemed to turn to his daughters, and 
 he fovind full satisfaction for his heart in loving them. More 
 Ox less brilliant proposals were made to him from time to 
 
90 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 time; wealthy merchants or farmers with daughters vied with 
 each other in offering inducements to him to marry again; 
 but he determined to remain a widower. His father-in-law, 
 the only man for whom he felt a decided friendship, gave 
 out that Goriot had made a vow to be faithful to his wife's 
 memory. The frequenters of the Corn Exchange, who could 
 not comprehend this sublime piece of folly, joked about it 
 among themselves, and found a ridiculous nickname for him. 
 One of them ventured (after a glass over a bargain) to call 
 him by it, and a blow from the vermicelli maker's fist sent 
 him headlong into a gutter in the Eue Oblin. He could 
 think of nothing else when his children were concerned; his 
 love for them made him fidgety and anxious; and this 
 was so well known, that one day a competitor, who wished 
 to get rid of him to secure the field to himself, told Goriot 
 that Delphine had just been knocked down by a cab. The 
 vermicelli maker turned ghastly pale, left the Exchange at 
 once, and did not return for several days afterwards; he 
 was ill in consequence of the shock and the subsequent relief 
 on discovering that it was a false alarm. This time, however, 
 the offender did not escape with a bruised shoulder; at a 
 critical moment in the man's affairs, Goriot drove him into 
 bankruptcy, and forced him to disappear from the Com Ex- 
 change. 
 
 AsT^ght have been expected, the two girls were spoiled. 
 With an income of sixty thousand francs, Goriot scarcely 
 spent twelve hundred on himself, and found all his happi- 
 ness in satisfying the whims of the two girls. . The best mas- 
 ters were engaged, that Anastasie and Delphine might be 
 endowed with all the accomplishments which distinguish 
 a good education. They had a chaperon — luckily for them, she 
 was a woman who had good sense and good taste; — ^they 
 learned to ride ; they had a carriage for their use ; they lived 
 as the mistress of a rich old lord might live; they had only 
 to express a wish, their father would hasten to give them their 
 most extravagant desires, and asked nothing of them in re- 
 turn but a kiss. Goriot had raised the two girls to the level 
 
FATHER GORIOT 91 
 
 of the angels; and, quite naturally, lie himself was left be- 
 neath them. Poor man! he loved them even for the pain 
 that they gave him. 
 
 When the girls were old enough to be married, they were 
 left free to choose for themselves. Each had half her father's 
 fortune as her dowry ; and when the Comte de Eestaud came 
 to woo Anastasie for her beauty, her social aspirations led 
 her to leave her father's house for a more exalted sphere. 
 Delphine wished for money ; she married Nucingen, a banker 
 of German extraction, who became a Baron of the Holy 
 Eoman Empire. Goriot remained a vermicelli maker as be- 
 fore. His daughters and his sons-in-law began to demur; 
 they did not like to see him still engaged in trade, though his 
 whole life was bound up with his business. For five years he 
 stood out against their entreaties, then he yielded, and con- 
 sented to retire on the amount realized by the sale of his 
 business and the savings of the last few years. It was this 
 capital that Mme. Vauquer, in the early days of his residence 
 with her, had calculated would bring in eight or ten thou- 
 sand livres in a year. He had taken refuge in her lodging- 
 house, driven there by despair when he knew that his daugh- 
 ters were compelled by their husbands not only to refuse to 
 receive him as an inmate in their houses, but even to see him 
 no more except in private. 
 
 This was all the information which Eastignac gained from 
 a M. Muret who had purchased Goriot's business, informa- 
 tion which confirmed the Duchesse de Langeais' suppositions, 
 and herewith the preliminary explanation of this obscure 
 but terrible Parisian tragedy comes to an end. 
 
 Towards the end of the first week in December Eastignac 
 received two letters — one from his mother, and one from his 
 eldest sister. His heart beat fast, half with happiness, half 
 with fear, at the sight of the familiar handwriting. Those 
 two little scraps of paper contained life or death for his hopes. 
 But while he felt a shiver of dread as he remembered their 
 dire poverty at home, he knew their love f or him so we]l _thai 
 
 he could not_ help Jeanag~tBatT5£^'^^3£?L™!'^S . JfeSL ^^^ 
 life-blood. His mother's letter ran as follows ::::r.,__ 
 
92 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 "My Deae CitilDj — I am sending yon the money that yon 
 asked for. Make a good use of it. Even to save your life 
 I eould not raise so large a sum a second time without your 
 father's knowledge, and there would be trouble about it. We 
 should be obliged to mortgage the land. It is impossible to 
 Judge of the merits of schemes of which I am ignorant; but 
 what sort of schemes can they be, that you should fear to tell 
 me about them? Volumes of explanation would not have 
 been needed ; we mothers can understand at a word, and that 
 word would have spared me the anguish of uncertainty. I ■ 
 do not know how to hide the painful impression that your 
 letter has made upon me, iny dear son. What can you have 
 felt when you were moved to send this chill of dread through 
 my heart? It must have been very painful to you to write 
 the letter that gave me so much pain as I read it. To what 
 courses are you committed ?^ You are going to appear to be 
 something that you are not, and your whole life and success 
 depends upon this ? You are about to see a society into which 
 you cannot enter without rushing into expense that you can- 
 not afford, without losing precious time that is needed for 
 your studies^ Ah! my dear Eugene, believe your mother, 
 crooked ways cannot lead to great ends, ^^^tience and en- 
 durance are the two qualities most needed in your position. 
 I am not scolding you; I do not want any tinge of bitter- 
 ness to spoil our offering. I am only talking like a mother 
 whose trust in you is as great as her foresight for you. You 
 know the steps that you must take, and I, for my part, know 
 your purity of heart, and how good your intentions are; so 
 I can say to you without a doubt, 'Go forward, beloved!' 
 If I tremble, it is because I am a mother, but my prayers 
 and bles sings wil l be with you at every step. Be very careful, 
 dear bovF You must have a man's prudence, for it lies with 
 you to snap5"the destinies of five others who are dear to you, 
 and must look to you. Yes, our fortunes depend upon you, 
 and your success is ours. We all pray to God to be with you 
 in all that you do. Your aunt Marcillac has been most 
 generous beyond words in this matter; she saw at once how 
 
FATHER GORIOT 93 
 
 ft was, even down to your gloveB. 'But I have a weakness for 
 the eldest!' she said gaily. You must love your aunt veiy 
 much, dear Eugene. I shall wait till you have succeeded 
 before telling you all that she has done for you, or her money 
 would burn your fingers. You, who are young, do not know 
 what it is to part with something that is a piece of your past I 
 But what would we not sacrifice for your sakes? Your aunt 
 says that I am to send you a kiss on the forehead from her, 
 and that kiss is to bring you luck again and again, she says. 
 She would have written you herself, the dear kind-hearted 
 woman, but she is troubled with the gout in her fingers just 
 now. Your father is very well. The vintage of 1819 has 
 turned out better than we expected. Good-bye, dear boy; I 
 will say nothing about your sisters, because Laure is writing 
 to you, and I must let her have the pleasure of giving jovr%' 
 all the home news. Heaven send that you may succeed ! Oh ! 
 yes, dear Eugene, you must succeed. I have come, through 
 you, to a knowledge of a pain so sharp that I do not think 
 I could endure it a second time. I have come to know what 
 it is to be poor, and to long for money for my children's sake. 
 There, good-bye! Do not leave us for long without news of 
 you ; and here, at the last, take a kiss from your mother." s^ 
 
 By the time Eugene had finished the letter he was in tears. ', 
 He thought of Father Goriot crushing his silver keepsake into 
 a shapeless mass before he sold it to meet his daughter's bill 
 of exchange. 
 
 '*Your mother .has broken up her jewels for you," he said 
 to himself; "your aunt shed tears over those relics of hers 
 before she sold them for your sake. What right have you 
 to heap execrations on Anastasie? You have_iQlIow€d-4ier 
 example :vou have selfishly sacr ificed'offi^s to your siva. fu- 
 ture, andlEe sacrifices her father to her lover; and of you 
 two, which is t he worse?" -----.—„ _„ ■ 
 
 He was ready to renounce his attempts; he could not bear 
 to take that money. The fires of remorse burned in his heart, 
 and gave him intolerable pain, the generous secret remorse 
 which men seldom take into account when they sit in judg- 
 
94 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 ment upon their fellow-men; but perhaps the angels in 
 heaven, beholding it, pardon the criminal whom our justice 
 condemns. Eastignae opened ^is sister's letter ; its simplicity 
 and kindness revived his heart. 
 
 "Your letter came just at the right time, dear brother. 
 Agathe and I had thought of so many different ways of spend- 
 ing our money, that we did not know what to buy with it; 
 and now you have come in, and, like the servant who upset 
 all the watches that belonged to the King of Spain, you have 
 restored harmony; for, really and truly, we did not know 
 which of all the things we wanted we wanted most, and 
 we were always quarreling about it, never thinking, dear 
 Eugene, of a way of spending our money which would satisfy 
 us completely. Agathe jumped for joy. Indeed, we have 
 been like two mad things all day, 'to such a prodigious degree' 
 (as aunt would say), that mother said, with her severe ex- 
 pression, 'Whatever can be the matter with you, mesde- 
 moiselles?' I think if we had been scolded a little, we 
 should have been still better pleased., ''A woman ought to be 
 very glad to suffer for one she loves ! yT^, however, in my in- 
 most soul, was doleful and cross in the midst of all my joy. 
 I shall make a bad wife, I am afraid, I am too fond of spend- 
 ing. I had bought two sashes and a nice little stiletto for 
 piercing eyelet-holes in my stays, trifles that I really did not 
 want, so that I have less than that slow-coach Agathe, who 
 is so economical, and hoards her money like a magpie. She 
 had two hundred francs ! And I have only one hundred and 
 fifty! I am nicely punished; I could throw my sash down 
 the well ; it will be painful to me to wear it now. Poor dear, 
 I have robbed you. And Agathe was so nice about it. She| 
 said, 'Let us send the three hundred and fifty francs in our 
 two names !' But I could not help telling you everything 
 just as it happened. 
 
 "Do you know how we managed to keep your command- 
 ments? We took our glittering hoard, we went out for a 
 walk, and when once fairly on the highway we ran all the 
 
FATHER GOKIOT 95 
 
 vr&y to Euffec, where we handed oTer the coin, without more 
 ado, to M. Grimbert, of the Messageries Eoyales. "We came 
 back again like swallows on the wing. TDon't you think that 
 happiness has made us lighter?' Agathe said. We said all 
 sorts of things, which I shall not tell yoUjTIonsTeTir le 
 _ Parisien , because they were all about you. Oh^weTove you 
 dearly, dear brother; it was all summed up in those few 
 words. As for keeping the secret, little masqueraders like 
 lus are capable of anything (according to our aunt), even of 
 holding our tongues. Our mother has been on a mysterious 
 journey to Angoulgme, and the aunt went with her, not 
 without solemn councils, from which we were shut out, and 
 M. le Baron likewise. They are silent as to the weighty 
 political considerations that prompted their mission, and con- 
 jectures are rife in the State of Eastignac. The Infantas are 
 embroidering a muslin robe with open-work sprigs for her Ma- 
 jesty the Queen; the work progresses in the most profound se- 
 crecy. There be but two more breadths to finish. A decree has 
 gone forth that no wall shall be built on the side of Verteuil, 
 but that a hedge shall be planted instead thereof. Our subjects 
 may sustain some disappointment of fruit and espaliers, but 
 strangers will enjoy a fair prospect. Should the heir-pre- 
 sumptive lack pocket-handkerchiefs, be it known unto him 
 that the dowager Lady of Marcillac, exploring the recesses of 
 her drawers and boxes (known respectively as Pompeii and 
 Herculaneum), having brought to light a fair piece of cam- 
 bric whereof she wotted not, the Princesses Agathe and Laure 
 place at their brother's disposal their thread, their needles, 
 and hands somewhat of the reddest. The two young Princes, 
 Don Henri and I>on Gabriel, retain their fatal habits of stuff- 
 ing themselves with grape-jelly, of teasing their sisters, of 
 taking their pleasure by going a-bird-nesting, and of cutting 
 Bwitches for themselves from the osier-beds, maugre the laws 
 jof the realm. Moreover, they list not to learn .naught, where- 
 fore the Papal Nuncio (called of the commonalty, M. le 
 Cure) threateneth them with excommunication, since that 
 they neglect the sacred canons of grammatical construction 
 
96 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 for the construction of other canon, deadly engines made of 
 the stems of elder. 
 
 "Farewell, dear brother, never did letter carry so many 
 wishes for your success, so much love fully satisfied. You 
 will have a great deal to tell us when you come home ! You 
 will tell me everything, won't you? I am the oldest. From 
 something the aunt let fall, we think you must have had some 
 success. 
 
 "Something was said of a lady, but nothing more was said . . . 
 
 "Of course not, in our family! Oh, by-the-by, Eug&ne, 
 would you rather that we made that piece of cambric into 
 shirts for you instead of pocket-handkerchiefs ? If you want 
 some really nice shirts at once, we ought to lose no time in 
 begimiing upon them; and if the fashion is different now 
 in Paris, send us one for a pattern; we want more particu- 
 larly to know about the cuffs. Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Take 
 my kiss on the left side of your forehead, on the temple that 
 belongs to me, and to no one else in the world. I am leaving 
 the other side of the sheet for Agathe, who has solemnly 
 promised not to read a word that I have written ; but, all the 
 same, I mean to sit by her whUe she writes, so as to be quite 
 sure that she keeps her word. — Your loving sister, 
 
 "Lauee de Kastightao." 
 
 "Yes !" said Eugene to himself. "Yes ! Success at all co sts 
 now ! Eiches could not repay such devotion as this. I wish 
 I could give them every sort of happiness ! Fifteen hundred 
 and fifty francs," he went on after a pause. "Every shot 
 must go to the mark! Laure is right. Trust a woman! I 
 have only calico shirts. Where some one else's welfare is con- 
 cerned, a young girl becomes as ingenious as a thief. Guile- 
 less where she herself is in question, and full of foresight for 
 me, — she is like a heavenly angel forgiving the strange in- 
 comprehensible sins of earth." 
 
 The world lay before him. His tailor had been summoned 
 
FATHER GORIOT 97 
 
 and sotmded, and had finally surrendered. When Rastignae 
 met M. de Trailles, he had seen at once how great a part the 
 tailor plays in a young man's career ; a tailor is either a deadly 
 enemy or a staunch friend, with an invoice for a bond of 
 friendship; between these two extremes there is, alack! no 
 middle term. In this representative of his craft Eugene dis- 
 covered a man who understood that his was a sort of paternal^ 
 function for young men at their entrance into life, who re- 
 garded himself as a stepping-stone between a youn.g man's 
 present and future. And Eastignac in gratitude made the 
 man's fortune by an epigram of a kind in which he excelled 
 at a later period of his life. 
 
 "I have twice known a pair of trousers turned out by him 
 make a match of twenty thousand livres a year !" 
 
 Fifteen hundred francs, and as many suits of clothes as he 
 chose to order ! At that moment the poor child of the South 
 felt no more doubts of any kind. The young man went down 
 to breakfast with the indefinable air which the consciousness 
 of the possession of money gives to youth. No sooner are 
 the coins slipped into a student's pocket than his wealth, in 
 imagination at least, is piled into a fantastic column, which 
 affords him a moral support. He begins to hold up his head 
 as he walks ; he is conscious that he has a means of bringing 
 his powers to bear on a given point; he looks you straight 
 in the face; his gestures are quick and decided; only yesterday 
 he was diffident and shy, any one might have pushed him 
 aside ; to-morrow, he will take the wall of a prime minister. 
 A miracle has been wrought in him. Nothing is beyond the 
 reach of his ambition, and his ambition soars at random ; he 
 is light-hearted, generous, and enthusiastic; in short, the 
 fledgling bird has discovered that he has wings. A poor 
 student snatches at every chance pleasure much as a dog runs 
 all sorts of risks to steal a bone, cracking it and sucking the 
 marrow as he flies from pursuit ; but a young man who can 
 rattle a few runaway gold coins in his pocket can take his 
 pleasure deliberately, can taste the whole of the sweets of 
 secure possession ; he soars far above earth ; he has forgotten 
 
98 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 what the word poverty means; all Paris is his. Those a>-» 
 days when the whole worid shines radiant with light, when 
 everything glows and sparkles before the eyes of youth, days 
 that bring joyous energy that is never brought into harness, 
 days of debts and of painful fears that go hand in hand with 
 every delight. Those who do not know the left bank of the 
 Seine between the Eue Saint-Jacques and the Rue des Saints- 
 Peres know nothing of life. 
 
 "Ah ! if the women of Paris but knew," said Eastignae, as 
 he devoured Mme. Vauquer's stewed pears (at five for a 
 penny), "they would come here in search of a lover." 
 
 Just then a porter from the Messageries Eoyales appeared 
 at the door of the room; they had previously heard the bell 
 ring as the wicket opened to admit him. The man asked for 
 M. Eugene de Eastignae, holding out two bags for him to 
 take, and a form of receipt for his signature. Vautrin's keen 
 glance cut Eugene like a lash. 
 
 "Now you will be able to pay for those fencing lessons and 
 go to the shooting gallery," he said. 
 
 "Your ship has come in," said Mme. Vauquer, eyeing the 
 bags. 
 
 Mile. Michonneau did not dare to look at the money, for 
 fear her eyes should betray her cupidity. 
 
 "You have a kind mother," said Mme. Couture. 
 
 '^ou have a kind mother, sir," echoed Poiret. 
 
 "Yes, mamma has been drained dry," said Vautrin, "and 
 now you can have your fling, go into society, and fish for 
 heiresses, and dance with countesses who have peach blossom 
 in their hair. But take my advice, young man, and don't 
 neglect your pistol practice." 
 
 Vautrin struck an attitude, as if he were facing an antag- 
 onist. Eastignae, meaning to give the porter a tip, felt in 
 his pockets and found nothing. Vautrin flung down a franc 
 ,pieee on the table. 
 
 "Your credit is good," he remarked, eyeing the student, and 
 Eastignae was forced to thank him, though, since the sharp 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 99 
 
 encounter of wits at dinner that day, after Eugene came in 
 from calling on Mme. de Beauseant, he had made up his mind 
 that Vautrin was insufferable. For a week, in fact, they 
 had both kept silence in each other's presence, and watched 
 each other. The student tried in vain to account to himself 
 for this attitude. 
 
 An idea, of course, gains in force by the energy with which 
 it is expressed ; it strikes where the brain sends it, by a law 
 as mathematically exact as the law that determines the course 
 of a shell from a mortar. The amount of impression it makes 
 is not to be determined so exactly. Sometimes, in an impress- 
 ible nature, the idea works havoc, but there are, no less, natures 
 so robustly protected, that this sort of projectile falls flat 
 and harmless on skulls of triple brass, as cannon-shot against 
 solid masonry; then there are flaccid and spongy-fibred 
 natures into which ideas from without sink like spent bullets 
 into the earthworks of a redoubt. Rastignac's head was some- 
 thing of the powder-magazine order; the least shock sufficed 
 to bring about an explosion. He was too quick, too young, 
 not to be readily accessible to ideas; and open to that subtle 
 influence of thought and feeling in others which causes so 
 many strange phenomena that make an impression upon us 
 of which we are all unconscious at the time. Kothing escaped 
 his mental vision; he was lynx-eyed; in him the mental 
 powers of perception, which seem like duplicates of the senses, 
 had the mysterious power of swift projection that astonishes 
 us in intellects of a high order — slingers who are quick to 
 dej;ect the weak spot in any armor. 
 
 In the past month Eugene's good qualities and defects had 
 rapidly developed with his character. Intercourse with the 
 world and the endeavor to satisfy his growing desires had 
 brought out his defects. But Eastignac came from the South 
 'side of the Loire, and had the good qualities of his country- 
 men. He had the impetuous courage of the South, that 
 rushes to the attack of a difficulty, as well as the southern 
 impatience of delay or suspense. These traits are held to be 
 defects in the North ; they made the fortune of Murat, but 
 
100 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 they likewise cut short his career. The moral would appear 
 to be that when the dash and boldness of the South side of 
 the Loire meets, in a southern temperament, with the guile 
 of the Iforth, the character is complete, and such a man will 
 gain (and keep) the crown of Sweden. 
 
 Eastignac, therefore, could not stand the fire from Vau- 
 trin's batteries for long without discovering whether this was 
 a friend or a foe. He felt as if this strange being was read- 
 ing his inmost soul, and dissecting his feelings, while Vautrin 
 himself was so close and secretive that he seemed to have 
 something of the profound and unmoved serenity of a 
 sphinx, seeing and hearing all things and saying nothing. 
 Eugene, conscious of that money in his pocket, grew rebel- 
 lious. 
 
 "Be so good as to wait a moment," he said to Vautrin, as 
 the latter rose, after slowly emptying his coffee-cup, sip by 
 sip. 
 
 "What for ?" inquired the older man, as he put on his large- 
 brimmed hat and took up the sword-cane that he was wont to 
 twirl like a man who will face three or four footpads without 
 flinching. 
 
 "I wUl repay you in a minute," returned Eugene. He un- 
 sealed one of the bags as he spoke, counted out a hundred and 
 forty francs, and pushed them towards Mme. Vauquer. 
 "Short reckonings make good friends" he added, turning to 
 the widow; "that clears our accounts tUl the end of the year, 
 Can you give me change for a five-franc piece ?" 
 
 "Good friends make short reckonings," echoed Poiret, with 
 a glance at Vautrin. 
 
 "Here is your franc," said Eastignac, holding out the coin 
 to the sphinx in the black wig. 
 
 "Any one might think that you were afraid to owe me a 
 trifle," exclaimed this latter, with a searching glance that 
 , seemed to read the young man's inmost thoughts ; there was 
 a satirical and cynical smile on Vautrin's face such as Eugene 
 had seen scores of times already; every time he saw it, it 
 exasperated him almost beyond endurance. 
 
FATHBE GORIOT 101 
 
 "Well ... so I am," he answered. He held both the 
 bags in his hand, and had risen to go up to his room. 
 
 Vautrin made as if he were going out through the sitting- 
 room, and the student turned to go through the second door 
 that opened into the square lobby at the foot of the staircase. 
 
 "Do you know. Monsieur le Marquis de Eastignacorama, 
 that what you were saying just now was not exactly polite?" 
 Vautrin remarked, as he rattled his sword-eane across the( 
 panels of the sitting-room door, and came up to the student. 
 
 Rastignac looked coolly at Vautrin, drew him to the foot 
 of the staircase, and shut the dining-room door. They were 
 standing in the little square lobby between the kitchen and 
 the dining-room; the place was lighted by an iron-barred 
 fanlight above a door that gave access into the garden. Sylvie 
 came out of her kitchen, and Eugene chose that moment to 
 say: 
 
 "Monsieur Vautrin, I am not a marquis, and my name is 
 not Eastignacorama." 
 
 "They will fight," said Mile. Michonneau, in an indifferent 
 tone. 
 
 "Fight!" echoed Poiret. 
 
 "Not they," replied Mme. Vauquer, lovingly fingering her 
 pile of coins. 
 
 "But there they are under the lime-trees," cried Mile. Vic- 
 torine, who had risen so that she might see out into the gar- 
 den. "Poor young man ! he was in the right, after all." 
 
 "We must go upstairs, my pet," said Mme. Couture; "it is 
 no business of ours." 
 
 At the door, however, Mme. Couture and Victorine found 
 their progress barred by the portly form of Sylvie the cook. 
 
 "What ever can have happened?" she said. "M. Vautrin 
 said to M. Eugene, Tliet us have an explanation!' then he 
 took him by the arm, and there they are, out among the arti- 
 chokes." 
 
 Vautrin came in while she was speaking. "Mamma Vau- 
 quer," he said smiling, "don't frighten yourself at all. I am 
 only going to try my pistols under the lime-trees." 
 
102 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "Oh! monsieur," cried Victorine, clasping her hands as 
 she spoke, "why do you want to kill M. Eugene?" 
 
 Vautrin stepped back a pace or two, and gazed at Victorine. 
 
 "Oh ! this is something fresh !" he exclaimed in a bantering 
 tone, that brought the color into the poor girl's face. "That 
 young fellow yonder is very nice, isn't he ?" he went on. "You 
 have given me a notion, my pretty child; I will make you 
 both happy." 
 
 Mme. Couture laid her hand on the arm of her ward, and 
 drew the girl away, as she said in her ear: 
 
 "Why, Victorine, I cannot imagine what has come over 
 you this morning." 
 
 "I don't want any shots fired in my garden," said Mme. 
 Vauquer. "You will frighten the neighborhood and bring 
 the police up here all in a moment." 
 
 "Come, keep cool. Mamma Vauquer," answered Vautrin. 
 "There, there; it's all right; we will go to the shooting-gal-' 
 lery." 
 
 He went back to Eastignac, laying his hand familiarly on 
 the young man's arm. 
 
 "When I have given you ocular demonstration of the fact 
 that I can put a bullet through the ace on a card five times 
 running at thirty-five paces," he said, "that won't take away 
 your appetite, I suppose? You look to me to be inclined to 
 be a trifle quarrelsome this morning, and as i^ you would rush 
 on your death like a blockhead." 
 
 "Do you draw back?" asked Eugene. 
 
 "Don't try to raise my temperature," answered Vautrin; "it 
 is not cold this morning. Let us go and sit over there," he 
 added, pointing to the green-painted garden seats; "no one 
 can overhear us. I want a little talk with you. You are not 
 a bad sort of youngster, and I have no quarrel with you. I 
 like you, take^rum|> — (confound itj) — ^take Vautrin's word 
 for it. What makes me like your I will tell you by-and- 
 by. Meantime, I can tell you that I know you as well as if 
 I had made you myself, as I will prove to you in a ndnute. 
 Put down your bags," he continued, pointing to the round 
 table. 
 
PATHBBt GORIOT 103 
 
 Eastignac deposited his money on the tahle, and sat down. 
 He was consumed with curiosity, which the sudden change 
 in the manner of the man before him had excited to the high- 
 est pitch. Here was a strange being who, a moment ago, 
 had talked of killing him, and now posed as his protector. 
 
 "You would like to know who I really am, what I was, and 
 what I do now," Vautrin went on. "You want to know too 
 much, yoimgster. Come ! come ! keep cool ! You will hear 
 more astonishing things than that. I have had my misfor- 
 tunes. Just hear me out first, and you shall have your turn 
 afterwards. Here is my past in three words. Who am I? 
 Vautrin. What do I do ? Just what I please. Let us change 
 the subject. You want to know my character. I am good- 
 natured to those who do me a good turn, or to those whose 
 hearts speak to mine. These last may do anything they like 
 with me ; they may bruise my shins, and I shall not tell them 
 to 'mind what they are about' ; but, nom d'une pipe, the devil 
 himself is not an uglier customer than I can be if people annoy 
 me, or if I don't happen to take to them ; and you may just 
 as well know at once that I think no more of killing a man 
 than of that," and he spat before him as he spoke. "Only 
 when it is absolutely necessary to do so, I do my best to kill 
 him properly. I am what you call an artist. I have read 
 "Bpnvenuto Cellini's Memoirs, such as you see mefland, whal; 
 is more, in Italian ! A fine-spirited fellow he was ! Froj 
 him I learned to follow the example set us by Providg 
 who strikes us down at random, and to admire the be^ 
 whenever and wherever it is found. And, setting 
 tions aside, is it not a glorious part to play, when you'MBBur- 
 self against mankind, and the luck is on your side? iwkve 
 thought a good deal about the constitution of your preJjent 
 social Dis-order. A duel is downright childish, my boy ! urt 
 nonsense and folly! When one of two living men must be 
 ^ot out of the way, none but an idiot would leave chance to 
 decide which it is to be; and in a duel it is a toss-up — ^heads 
 or tails — and there you are! Now I, for instance, can hit 
 the ace in the middle of a card five times running, 
 
104 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 send one bullet after another through the same hole, 
 and at thirty-five paces, moreover ! With that little accom- 
 plishment you might think yourself certain of killing your 
 man, mightn't you? Well, I have fired, at twenty paces, 
 and missed, and the rogue who had never handled a pis- 
 tol in his life — look here!" — (he unbottoned his waistcoat 
 jand exposed his chest, covered, like a bear' s back, with a 
 shaggy fell; the student gave a startled shudder) — "he 
 was a raw lad, but he made his mark on me," the extraor- 
 dinary man went on, drawing Eastignae's fingers over a 
 deep scar on his breast. "But that happened when I my- 
 self was a mere boy; I was one-and-twenty then (your age), 
 and I had some beliefs left — in a woman's love, and in a 
 pack of rubbish that you wiU be over head and ears in di- 
 rectly. You and I were to have fought just now, weren't we ? 
 You might have kOled me. Suppose that I were put under 
 the earth, where would you be ? You would have to clear out 
 of this, go to Switzerland, draw on papa's purse — and he has 
 none too much in it as it is. I mean to open your eyes to your 
 real position, that is what I am going to do ; but I ishall do it 
 from the point of view of a man who, after studying the world 
 very closely, sees that there are but two alternatives-— stupid 
 obedience or revolt. I obey nobody; is that clear? Now, do 
 jou know how much you will want at the pace you are going? 
 
 million ; and promptly, too, or that little head of ours will 
 
 swaying to and fro in the drag-nets at Saint-Cloud, while 
 U> gone to find out whether or no there is a Supreme 
 3eij;]|^yi will put you in the way of that million." 
 
 SlTTOpped for a moment and looked at Eugene. 
 
 "Aha ! you do not look so sourly at papa Vautrin now ! At 
 the mention of the million you look like a young girl when 
 somebody has said, 1 will come for you this evening !' and she 
 betakes herself to her toilette as a cat licks its whiskers over 
 a saucer of milk. All right. Come, now, let us go into the 
 question, young man; all between ourselves, you know. We 
 have a papa and mamma down yonder, a great-aunt, two sis- 
 ters (aged eighteen and seventeen), two young brothers (one 
 
FATHEK GORIOT 105 
 
 fifteen, and the other ten), that is about the roll-call of the 
 crew. The aunt brings up the two sisters ; the cure comes and 
 teaches the boys Latin. Boiled chestnuts are oftener on the 
 table than white bread. Papa makes a suit of clothes last 
 a long while ; if mamma has a different dress winter and sum- 
 mer, it is about as much as she has; the sisters manage as 
 best they can. I know all about it ; I have lived in the south. 
 
 "That is how things are at home. They send you twelve 
 hundred francs a year, and the whole property only brings in 
 three thousand francs all told. We have a cook and a man- 
 servant; papa is a baron, and we must keep up appearances. 
 Then we have our ambitions ; we are connected with the Beau- 
 seants, and we go afoot through the streets; we want to be 
 rich, and we have not a penny; we eat Mme. Vauquer's 
 messes, and we like grand dinners in the Faubourg Saint- 
 Germain; we sleep on a truckle-bed, and dream of a mansion ! 
 I do not blame you for wanting these things. It is not given 
 to every one to have ambition, my little trump. What sort 
 of men do the women run after ? Men of ambition. Men of 
 ambition have stronger frames, their blood is richer in iron, 
 their hearts are warmer than those of ordinary men. Women 
 feel that when their power is greatest they look their best, 
 and that those are their happiest hours ; they like power in 
 men, and prefer the strongest even if it is a power that may 
 be their own destruction. I am going to make an inventory of 
 your desires in order to put the question at issue before you. 
 Here it is: — ■w 
 
 "We are as hungry as a wolf, and those newly-cut>telth of 
 ours are sharp ; what are we to do to keep the pot boiling ? In 
 the first place, we have the Code to browse upon; it is not 
 amusing, and we are none the wiser for it, but that cannot 
 be helped. So far so good. We mean to make an advocate 
 of ourselves with a prospect of one day being made President 
 of a Court of Assize, when we shall send poor devils, our bet- 
 ters, to the galleys with a T.F.* on their shoulders, so that 
 the rich may be convinced that they can sleep in peace. There 
 • li-avawi/orcie. 
 
IGG FATHER GORIOT 
 
 is no fun in that; and you are a long while coming to it; for, 
 to begin with, there are two years of nauseous drudgery in 
 Paris, we see all the lollipops that we long for out of our 
 reach. It is tiresome to want things and never to have them. 
 If you were a pallid creature of the moUusk order, you would 
 have nothing to fear, but it is different when you have the hot 
 blood of a lion and are ready to get into a score of scrapes 
 every day of your life. This is the ghastliest form of torture 
 known in this inferno of God's making, and you will give in 
 to it. Or suppose that you are a good boy, drink nothing 
 stronger than milk, and bemoan your hard lot; you, with your 
 generous nature, will endure hardships that would drive a 
 dog mad, and make a start, after long waiting, as deputy to 
 some rascal or other in a hole of a place where the Govern- 
 ment will fling you a thousand francs a year like the scraps 
 that are thrown to the butcher's dogr? Bark at thieves, plead 
 the cause of the rich, send men of heart to the guillotine, that 
 is your work ! Many thanks ! If yon have no influence, you 
 may rot in your provincial tribunal. At thirty you will be a 
 Justice with twelve hundred francs a year (if you have not 
 flung off the gown for good before then) . By the time you 
 are forty you may look to marry a miller's daughter, an heir- 
 ess with some six thousand livres a year. Much obliged ! If 
 you have influence, you may possibly be Public Prosecutor by 
 the time you are thirty; with a salary of a thousand crowns, 
 you could look to marry the mayor's daughter. Some petty 
 piece-of political trickery, such as mistaking Villele for 
 Manuel in a bulletin (the names rhyme, and that quiets your 
 conscience), and you will probably be Procureur General by 
 the time you are forty, with a chance of becoming a deputy. 
 Please to observe, my dear boy, that our conscience will have 
 been a little damaged in the process, and that we shall endure 
 twenty years of drudgery and hidden poverty, and that our 
 sisters are wearing Dian's livery. I have the honor to call 
 your attention to another fact: to' wit, that there are but 
 twenty Procureurs G^neraux at a time in all Prance, while 
 there are some twenty thousaiui of you young men who aspire 
 
FATEEE GORIOT 107 
 
 to that elevated position; that there are some mpuntebanks 
 among you who -would sell their family to screw their, for- 
 tunes a peg higher. If this sort of thing sickens you, try 
 another course. The Baron de Eastignac thinks of becoming 
 an advocate, does he ? There's a nice prospect for you ! Ten 
 years of drudgery straight away. You are obliged to live at the 
 rate of a thousand francs a month ; you must have a library 
 of law books, live in chambers, go into society, go down on, 
 your knees to ask a solicitor for briefs, lick the dust off the 
 'floor of the Palais de Justice. If this kind of business led to 
 anything, I should not say no ; but just give me the names of 
 five advocates here in Paris who by the time that they are 
 fifty are making fifty thousand francs a year ! Bah ! I would 
 sooner turn pirate on the high seas than have my soul shrivel 
 up inside me like that. How will you_find the_capital? 
 There is but one way, majg^.auSQiai5LJd]aJiasTinbney. There 
 is no fun in it. Have you a mind to marry!" Toil hang a 
 stone round your neck; for i f you marry for mo ney, _wliat» 
 becomes of our exalted notions of honor and so forth? You 
 might as well fiy in the face of social conventions at once. 
 Is- it nothing to crawl like a serpent before your wife, to lick 
 her mother's feet, to descend to dirty actions that would sicken 
 swine — faugh ! — never mind if you at least make your fortune. 
 But you will be as doleful as a dripstone if you marry for 
 money. It is better to wrestle with men than to wrangle at 
 home with your wife. You are at the crossway of the roads of 
 life, my boy ; choose your way. 
 
 "But you have chosen already. You have gone to see your 
 cousin of Beaus6ant, and you have had an inkling of luxury ; 
 you have been to Mme. de Eestaud's house, and in Father 
 Goriot's daughter you have seen a glimpse of the Parisienne 
 for the first time. That day you came back vdth a word 
 written upon your forehead. I knew it, I could read it — 
 ^Success!' Yes, success at any price. 'Bravo,' said I to my- 
 self, 'here is the sort of Jeliow torTHSr" You wanted money. 
 Where was it to come from? You have drained your sisters' 
 little hoard (all brothers sponge more or less on their Sisters).^ 
 
108 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 Those fifteen hundred francs of yonrs (got together, God 
 knows how ! in a country where there are more chestnuts than, 
 five-franc pieces) will slip away like soldiers after pillage.,; 
 And, then, what will you do? Shall you hegin to work? 
 Work, or what you understand by work at this moment, means, 
 for a man of Poiret's calibre, an old age in Mamma Vauquer's 
 lodging-house. There are^fty thousand young men m your 
 position at this moment, aU.bent as you are on solving one and^ 
 the same problem — ^how to acquire a fortune rapidiy. You 
 are but a unit in that aggregate. "You "can guess, therefore, 
 what efforts you must make, how desperate the struggle is. 
 There are not fifty thousand good positions for you , you must 
 fight and devour one another like spiders in a pot. ^o you 
 know how a man makes his way here ? Bybrilliant^emus-or 
 by skilfur cgrropt itin."~Tou must either cut your way through 
 these "masses of men like a cannon ball, or steal among them 
 like a plague. Honesty is nothing to the purpose. Men bow 
 
 /before the power of genius; they hate it, and try to slander 
 it, because genius does not divide the spoil ; but if genius,per- 
 
 ' sists, they bow before it. To sum it all up in a phrase, if they vi 
 fail to smother genius in the mud, they fall on their Tcnees 
 and worship it. Corruption is a great power in the world, and 
 talent is scarce. So corruption is the weapon of superflufeis 
 mediocrity; you will be made to feel the point of it every-' 
 
 *vwhCTe3 You will see women who spend more than ten 
 tliousand francs a year on dress, while their husband's salary 
 (his whole income) is six thousand francs. You will see 
 officials buying estates on twelve hundred francs a year. You 
 will see women who sell themselves body and soul to drive 
 in a carriage belonging to the son of a peer of France, who 
 has a right to drive in the middle rank at Longchamp. You 
 have seen that poor simpleton of a Goriot obliged to meet 
 a bill with his daughter's name at the back of it, though her 
 husband has fifty thousand francs a year. I defy you to walk 
 a couple of yards anywhere in Paris without stumbling, on 
 some infernal complication. I'll bet my head to a head. of 
 that salad that you will stir up a hornet's nest by taking 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 109 
 
 a fancy to the first young, rich, and pretty woman you meet. 
 They are aU-dodging the law, all at loggerheads with their 
 husbands.,; If I were to begin to tell you all that vanity,, or 
 necessity ('vMue is not often mixed up in it, you may be sure), 
 all that vanity and necessity drive them to do for lovers, 
 fijiery, housekeeping, or children, I should never come to an 
 end. So an honest man is the common enem]^ 
 
 "But do you know what an'TOn^FmanTs ? Here, in Paris, 
 an honest man is th§,man who keeps his own counsel, and 
 will not divide the pll^der."* I am not speaking now of those 
 poor bond-slaves who Qo the work of the world without a re- 
 ward for their toil — dod Almighty's outcasts, I call them. 
 Among them, I grant you, is virtue in all the flower of its 
 stupidity, but poverty is no less their portion. At this mo- 
 ment, I think I see the long faces those good folk would 
 pull it God played a practical joke on them and stayed away 
 at the Last Judgment. 
 
 "Well, then, if you mean to make a fortune quickly, you 
 must either be rich to begin with, or make people believe that 
 you are rich. It is no use playing here except for high stakes ; 
 once take to low play, it is all up with you. If in the scores 
 of professions that are open to you, there are ten men who 
 rise very rapidly, people are sure to call them thieves. You 
 can draw your own conclusions. Such is life. It is no cleaner 
 than a kitchen; it reeks like a kitchen; and if you mean to 
 cook your dinner, you must expect to soil your hands; the 
 real art is in getting them clean again, and therein Ijes the , 
 whole morality of our epoch. If I take this tone in speaking 
 of the world to you, I have the right to do so ; I know it well. 
 Do you think that I am blaming it ? Par from it ; the world 
 has always been as it is now. Moralists' strictures will never 
 change it. Mankind are not perfect, but one age is more 
 or less hypocritical than another, and then simpletons say^ 
 that its morality is high or low. I do not think that the rich 
 are any worse than the poor ; man is much the same, high or 
 low, or wherever he is. In a million of these human cattle 
 there may be half a score of bold spirits who rise above the 
 
110 4, FATHER GORIOT 
 
 rest, above the laws ; I am one of them. And you, if you are 
 cleverer than your fellows, make straight to your end, and 
 hold your head high. But you must lay your account with 
 envy and slander and mediocrity, and every man's hand will 
 be against you. Napoleon met with a Minister of War, 
 Aubry by name, who all but sent him to the colonies. ■V' 
 
 "Peel your pulse. Think whether you can get up morn- 
 ing after morning, strengthened in yesterday's purpose. In 
 that case I will make you an offer that, no one would decline. 
 Listen attentively. You see, I have an idea of my own. My 
 idea is to live a patriarchal life on a vast estate, say a hun- 
 dred thousand acres, somewhere in the Southern States of 
 America. I mean to be a planter, to, have slaves, to make a 
 few ^nug millions by selling my cattle, timber, and tobacco; 
 I want to live an absolute monarch, and to do just as I please ; 
 to lead such a life as no one here in these squalid dens of lath 
 and plaster ever imagines. I am a great poet ; I do not write 
 my poems, I feel them, and act them. At this moment I 
 have fifty thousand francs, which might possibly buy forty 
 negroes. I want two hundred thousand francs, because I 
 want to have two hundred negroes to carry out my notions of 
 the patriarchal life properly. Negroes, you see, are like a sort 
 of family ready grown, and there are no inquisitive public 
 prosecutors out there to interfere with you. That invest- 
 ment in ebony ought to mean three or four million francs 
 in ten years' time. If I am successful, no one will ask me 
 who I am. I shall be Mr. Four Millions, an American citizen. 
 I shall be fifty years old by then, and sound and hearty still; 
 I shall enjoy life after my own fashion. In two words, if I 
 find you an heiress with a million, will you give me two 
 hundred thousand francs? Twenty per cent commission, 
 eh? Is that too much? Your little wife will be very much 
 I in love with you. Once married^you will_BhojE_sigiis-of un- 
 easiness and remorse; fof"areouple of weeks_you_2ilI_bfi.de- 
 pressed. ",Tten7''gQ'ffie7'mght after sundry ^ixaacingSy-comeg 
 the confession, between two kisses, 'Two hundred- thottwffid 
 francs o| debts, my darlinjti' This sort of far<se- is played 
 
FATHER GORIOT . Ill 
 
 every day in Paris, and by young men of the highest fashion. 
 When a young wife has given her heart, she will not refuse 
 her purse. Perhaps you are thinking that you will los6 the 
 money for good? Not you. You will make two hundred 
 thousand francs again by some stroke of business. With 
 your capital and your brains you should be able to accumu- 
 late as large a fortune as you could vidsh. Ergo, in six 
 months you will have made your own fortune, and your old 
 •friend Vautrin's, and made an amiable woman very happy, 
 to say nothing of your people at home, who must blow on 
 their fingers to warm them, in the winter, for lack of firewood. 
 You need not be surprised at my proposal, nor at. the demand 
 I make. Forty-seven out of every sixty great matches here 
 in Paris are made after just such a bargain as this. The 
 Chamber of Notaries compels my gentleman to " 
 
 "What must I do?" said Eastignae, eagerly interrupting 
 Vautrin's speech. 
 
 "Next to nothing," returned the other, with a slight invol- 
 untary movement, the suppressed exultation of the angler 
 when he feels a bite at the end of his line. "Follow me care- 
 fully! The heart of a girl whose life is wretched and un- 
 happy is a sponge that will thirstily absorb love ; a dry sponge 
 that swells at the first drop of sentiment. If you pay court 
 to a young girl whose existence is a compound of loneliness, 
 despair, and poverty, £ind who has no suspicion that she will 
 come into a fortune, good Lord! it is quint and quatorze 
 at piquet; it is knowing the numbers of the lottery before- 
 hand; it is speculating in the funds when you have news from 
 a sure source ; it is building up a marriage on an indestructi- 
 ble foundation. The girl may come in for millions, and she 
 will fling them, as if they were so many pebbles, at your feet. 
 'Take it, my beloved! Take it, Alfred, Adolphe, Eugene!' 
 or whoever it was that showed his sense by sacrificing 
 himself for her. And as for sacrificing himself, this is 
 how I understand it. You sell a coat that is getting 
 shabby, so that you can take her to the Gadran bleu, 
 treat her to mushrooms on toast, and then go to the Ambigu- 
 
112 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 Comique in the evening; you pawn your watch to buy her a 
 ehawl. I need not remind you of the fiddle-faddle senti- 
 mentality that goes down so well with all women; you spill 
 a few drops of water on your stationery, for instance; those 
 are the tears you shed while far away from her. You look to 
 me as if you were perfectly acquainted with the argot of the 
 heart. Paris, you see, is like a forest in the New World, 
 where you have to deal with a score of varieties of savages — 
 Illinois and Hurons, who live on the proceeds of their social 
 hunting. You are a hunter of millions; you set your snares; 
 you use lures and nets; there are many ways of hunting. 
 Some hunt heiresses, others a legacy ; some fish for souls, yet 
 others sell their clients, bound hand and foot. Every one 
 who comes back from the chase with his game-bag weU filled 
 meets with a warm welcome in good society. In justice to 
 this hospitable part of the world, it must be said that you 
 have to do with the most easy and good-natured of great 
 cities. If the proud aristocracies of the rest of Europe re- 
 fuse admittance among their ranks to a disreputable million- 
 aire, Paris stretches out a hand to him, goes to his banquets, 
 eats his dinners, and hobnobs with his infamy." 
 __ • "But where is such a girl to be found?" asked Eugene. 
 '-' "Under your eyes ; she is yours already." 
 " "Mile. Victorine?" 
 _, "Precisely." 
 
 "And what was that you said?" 
 
 "She is in love with you already, your little Baronne de 
 Eastignac !" 
 
 "She has not a penny," Eugene continued, much mystified. 
 
 "Ah! now we are coming to it! Just another word or 
 two, and it will all be clear enough. Her father, Taillefer, is 
 an old scoundrel; it is said that he murdered one of his' 
 friends at the time of the Eevolution. He is one of youi 
 comedians that sets up to have opinions of his ovni. He is a 
 banker — senior partner in the house of Frederic Taillefer and 
 Company. He has one son, and means to leave all he has 
 to the boy, to the prejudice of Victorine. For my part, I don't 
 
FATHER GORIOT 113 
 
 like to see mjustice of this sort. I am like Don Quixote, I 
 have a fancy for defending the weak against the strong. If 
 it should please God to take that youth away from hfm, 
 Taillefer would have only his daughter left; he would want 
 to leave his money to some one or other; an absurd notion, 
 but it is only human nature, and he is not likely to have any 
 more children, as I know. Victorine is gentle and amiable; 
 she will soon twist her father round her fingers, and set his 
 head spinning like a German top by plying him with senti- 
 ment! She will be too much touched by your devotion to' 
 forget you; you will marry her. I mean to play Providence 
 for you, and Providence is to do my will. I have a friend 
 whom I have attached closely to myself, a colonel in the 
 Army of the Loire, who has just been transferred into the 
 garde royale. He has taken my advice and turned ultra- 
 royalist; he is not one of those fools who never change their 
 opinions. Of all pieces of advice, my cherub, I would give 
 you this — -ydon't sti ck-to-yoftr-epiBieBs^amr more than to your 
 words. T f any one asks you for them, let him have "them — 
 at a price. A man who prides himself on going in a straight 
 line through life is an idiot who believes in infallibility. There 
 are no such things as principles; there are only events, and 
 there are no laws but those of expediency: a man of talent 
 accepts evpTitR-.aiid--iJM>-fljj!flMJi iata.Tip.es'iTi w hicETie finds him- 
 self ..and-turns everyt hing to his own ends li laws and nrin- 
 ciples were fixed and invariable, nations would not change 
 them as readily as we change our shirts. The individual is 
 not obliged to be more particular than the nation. A man 
 whose services to France have been of the very slightest is 
 a fetich looked on with superstitious awe because he has al- 
 ways seen everything in red; but he is good, at the most, to 
 be put into the Museum of Arts and Crafts, among the au- 
 tomatic machines, and labeled La Payette; while the prince 
 at whom everybody flings a stone, the man who despises hu- 
 manity so much that he spits as many oaths as he is asked 
 for in the face of humanity, saved Prance from being torn in 
 pieces at the Congress of Vienna ; and they who should have 
 6 
 
1.14 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 given him laurels fling mud at him. Oh ! I know something 
 of affairs, I can tell you; I have the secrets of many men! 
 Ep.ough. When I find three minds in agreement as to the 
 application of a principle, I shall have a fixed and immovable 
 opinion — I shaU have to wait a long while first. In the 
 Tribunals you will not find three judges of the same opinion 
 on a single point of law. To return to the man I was telling 
 you of. He would crucify Jesus Christ again, if I bade him. 
 At a word from his old chum Vautrin he wiU pick a quarrel 
 with a scarap that will not send so much as five francs to his 
 sister, poor girl, and" (here Vautrin rose to his feet and stood 
 like a fencing-master about to lunge) — "turn him off into 
 the dark!" he added. 
 
 'TIow frightful !" said Eugene. 'TTou do not really mean 
 it ? M. Vautrin, you are joking !" 
 
 "There ! there ! Keep cool !" said the other. "Don't behave 
 like a baby. But if you find any amusement in it, be in- 
 dignant, flare up ! Say that I am a scoundrel, a rascal, a 
 
 . rogue, a bandit; but do not call me a blackleg nor a spy! 
 
 ,,^here. out with it, fire away! I forgive you; it is quite 
 natural at your age. I was like that myself once. Only re- 
 member this, you will do worse things yourself some day. You 
 will flirt with some pretty woman and take her money. You 
 have thought of that, of course," said Vautrin, "for how are 
 -you to succeed unless love is laid under contribution? There 
 are jK Ltwo. waY S_a bout virtue, my dear student l it either is. 
 or_iLia_not. Talk of doing penance for your sins! It is a 
 nice system" of business, when' you pay for your crime by ' 
 
 —•aELSSt of contrition ! You seduce a woman that you may 
 set your foot, on- -s««h- and "iueB^aTjnnjgrTOif^the social lad- 
 der; you sow dissension among the children of a family; you 
 descend, in short, to every base action that can be committed 
 at home or abroad, to gain your own ends for your own pleas- 
 ure or your profit; and can you imagine that these are acts 
 of faith, hope, or charity? How is it that a dandy, who in 
 a night has robbed a boy of half his fortune, gets only a 
 
 - €oufle of months in prison; while a poor devil who steals a 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 115 
 
 titmkiiote for a thousand francs, vith aggravating Gircum- ^^ 
 stances, is condemned to penal servitude? Those are your 
 laws. Not a single provision but lands you in some absurdity. 
 That man with yellow gloves and a golden tongue commits 
 many a murder ; he sheds no blood, but he drains his victim's 
 veins as surely; a desperado forces open a door with a crow- 
 bar, dark deeds both of them! You yourself will do every 
 one of the things that I suggest to you to-day, bar the blood- 
 shed. Do you believe that there is any absolute standard in 
 this world ? Despise mankind and find out the meshes that 
 you can slip through in the net of the Code. The secret of a 
 great success for which you are at a loss to account is a crime 
 that has never been found out, because it was properly exe- 
 cuted." —- 
 
 "Silence, sir ! I will not hear any more ; you make me doubt 
 myself. At this moment my sentiments are all my science." 
 
 "Just as you please, my fine fellow; I did not think you 
 were so weak-minded," said Vautrin, "I shall say no more 
 about it. One last wprd, however," and he looked hard at the 
 student — "you have my secret," he said. 
 
 "A young man who refuses your offer knows that he must 
 forget it." 
 
 "Quite right, quite right; I am glad to hear you say so. 
 Somebody else might not be so scrupulous, you see. Keep in 
 mind what I want to do for you. I will give you a fort- 
 night. The offer is still open." 
 
 "What a head of iron the man has !" said Eugene to him- 
 self, as he watched Vautrin walk unconcernedly away with 
 his cane under his arm. "Yet Mme. de Beaus^ant said as 
 much more gracefully; he has only stated the case in cruder 
 language. He would tear my heart with claws of steel. What 
 made me think of going to Mme. de ISTucingen ? He guessed 
 my motives before I knew them myself. To sum it up, that 
 outlaw has told me more about virtue than all I have learned 
 from men and books. If virtue admits of no compromises, 
 I have certainly robbed my sisters," he said, throwing down 
 the bags on the table. 
 
lie FATHER GORIOT 
 
 He sat down again and fell, unconscious of his surround' 
 ings, into deep thought. 
 
 "To be faithful to an ideal of virtue ! A heroic martyr- 
 dom! Pshaw! every one believes in virtue, but who is vir- 
 tuous? Nations have made an idol of Liberty, but what 
 i,\r^nation on the face of the earth is free? My youth is still like 
 a blue and cloudless sky. If I set myself to obtain wealth 
 , or power, does it mean that I must make up my mind to lie, 
 .K'and fawn, and cringe, and swagger, and flatter, and dis- 
 K semble? To consent to be the servant of others who have 
 \^ likewise fawned, and lied, and flattered? Must I cringe to 
 ( them before I can hope to be their accomplice ? Well, then, 
 *< I decline. I mean to work nobly and with a single heart. I 
 ^ will work day and night; I will owe my fortune to nothing 
 S but my own exertions. It may be the slowest of all roads to 
 success, but I shall lay my head on the pillow at night un- 
 troubled by evil thoughts. Is there a greater or a better thing 
 than this — to look back oyer your life and know that it is 
 stainless as a lily ? I and my life are like a young man and 
 his betrothed. Vautrin has putJapfnTO^ me all that comes aft er 
 ten yea rs of marri age. The deyil !^«^ head is swimming. I 
 do" not TranFlolEinF at all ; the_heanLis a-suie gpiidg." 
 
 Eugene was roused from his musings by the voice of the 
 stout Sylvie, who announced that the tailor had come, and 
 Eugene therefore made his appearance before the man with 
 the two money bags, and was not ill pleased that it should be 
 so. When he had tried on his dress suit, he put on his new 
 morning costume, which completely metamorphosed him. 
 
 "I am quite equal to M. de Trailles," he said to himself. 
 "In short, I look like a gentleman." 
 
 '^ou asked me, sir, if I knew the houses where Mme. de 
 Nucingen goes," Father Goriot's voice spoke from the door- 
 way of Eugene's room. 
 ' "Yes." 
 
 "Very well then, she is going to the Mar^chale Carigliano's 
 ball on Monday. If you can manage to be there, I shall hear 
 from you whether my two girls enjoyed themseli^es, and how 
 they were dressed, and all about it in fact." 
 
/ 
 
 FATHER GORIOT ^^V 
 
 "How did you find that out, my good Goriot?" said Eu- 
 gene, putting a chair by the fire for his visitor. 
 
 "Her maid told me. I hear all about their doings from 
 Th^rese and Constance," he added gleefully. 
 
 The old man looked like a lover who is still young enough 
 to be made happy by the discovery of some little stratagem 
 which brings him information of his lady-love without her 
 knowledge. 
 
 "You will see them both !" he said, giving artless expression 
 to a pang of jealousy. 
 
 "I do not know," answered Eugene. "I wiU go to Mme. de 
 Beaus6ant and ask her for an introduction to the Mar^chale." 
 
 Eugene felt a thrill of pleasure at the thought of appear- 
 ing before the Vicomtesse, dressed as henceforward he always 
 meant to be. The "abysses of the human heart," in the 
 moralists' phrase, are only insidious thoughts, involuntary 
 prompting^ of personal interest. The instinct of enjoyment 
 turns the ^ca'le; those rapid changes of purpose which have 
 furnished the text for so - much rhetoric are calculations 
 prompted by the hope .of pleasure. Eastignac beholding him- 
 self well dr^sed and impeccable as to gloves and boots, forgot 
 his virtuous resolutions. Youth, moreover, when bent upon 
 wrongdoing does not dare ton5^iol3~ESseirin°tI^ jmirror-o'f 
 consciousness; mature age 'Eas seen itgelf; and therein lies . 
 the whole difference between th!eae„twQ^phaEes.«f- life. 
 
 A friendship between Eugene and his neighbor. Father 
 Goriot, had been growing up for several days past. This secret 
 friendship and the antipathy that the student had begun to en- 
 tertain for Vautrin arose from the same psychological causes. 
 The bold philosopher who shall investigate the effects of men- 
 tal action upon the physical world will doubtless find more 
 than one proof of the material nature of our sentiments in 
 the relations which they create between human beings and 
 other animals. What physiognomist is as quick to discern 
 character as a dog is to discover from a stranger's face 
 whether this is a friend or no? Those by-words — "atoms," 
 "affinities" — are facts surviving in modern languages for the 
 
lis FATHER GORIOT 
 
 confusion of philosophic wiseacres who amuse themselves by 
 winnowing the chaff of language to find its grammatical roots. 
 We feel that we are loved. Our sentiments make themselves 
 felt in everything, even at a great distance. A letter is a 
 living soul, and so faithful an echo of the voice that speaks 
 in it, that finer natures look upon a letter as one of love's 
 most precious treasures. Father Goriot's affection was of the 
 instinctive order, a canine affection raised to a sublime pitch; 
 he had scented compassion in the air, and the kindly respect 
 and youthful sympathy in the student's heart. This friend- 
 ship had, however, scarcely reached the stage at which con- 
 fidences are made. Though Eugene had spoken of his wish 
 to meet Mme. de Nucingen, it was not because he counted 
 on the old man to introduce him to her house, for he hoped 
 that his own audacity might stand him in good stead. AU 
 that Father Goriot had said as yet about his daughters had 
 referred to the remarks that the student had made so freely 
 in public on that day of the two visits. 
 
 "How could you think that Mme. de Restaud bore you a 
 grudge for mentioning my name?" he had said on the day 
 following that scene at dinner. "My, daughters are very fond 
 of me ; I am a happy father ; but my sons-in-law have behaved 
 badly to me, and rather than make trouble between my dar- 
 lings and their husbands, I choose to see my daughters se- 
 cretly. Fathers who can see their daughters at any time have 
 no idea of all the pleasure that all this mystery gives me; I 
 cannot always see mine when I wish, do you understaixd? 
 So when it is fine I walk out in the Champs-filysees, after 
 finding out from their waiting-maids whether my daughters 
 mean to go out. I wait near the entrance ; my heart beats fast 
 when the carriages begin to come; I admire them in their 
 dresses, and as they pass they give me a little smile, and it 
 seems as if everything was lighted up for me by a ray of 
 I bright sunlight. I wait, for they always go back the same 
 way, and then I see them again; the fresh air has done them 
 good and brought color into their cheeks ; all about me people 
 say, 'What a beautiful woman that is !' and it does my heart 
 good to hear them. 
 
FATHER GOKIOT M9 
 
 "Are they not my own flesh, and blood? I love the very 
 horses that draw them; I envy the little lap-dog on their 
 knees. Their happiness is my life. Every one loves after his 
 own fashion, and mine does no one any harm; why should 
 people trouble their heads about me ? I am happy in my own 
 way. Is there any 14w against going to see my girls in the 
 evening when they are going out to a ball ? And what a dis- 
 appointment it is when I get there too late, and am told that 
 'Madame has gone out !' Once I waited till three o'clock in 
 the morning for ISTasie ; I had not seen her for two whole days. 
 I was so pleased, that it was almost too much for me ! Please 
 do not speak of me unless it is to say how good my daughters 
 are to me. They are always wanting to heap presents upon 
 me, but I will not have it. 'Just keep your money,' I tell 
 them. 'What should I do with it? I want nothing.' And 
 what am I, sir, after all? An old carcase, whose soul is al- 
 ways where my daughters are. When you have seen Mme. 
 de Nucingen, tell me which you like the most," said the old 
 man after a moment's pause, while Eugene put the last 
 touches to his toilette. The student was about to go out to 
 walk in the Garden of the Tuileries until the hour when he 
 could venture to appear in Mme. de Beauseant's drawing- 
 room. '■'^ 
 
 That walk was a turning-point in Eugene's career. Sev- 
 eral women noticed him; he looked so handsome, so young, 
 and so well dressed. This almost admiring attention gave a 
 new turn to his thoughts. He forgot his sisters and the aunt ^ 
 who had robbed herself for him ; he no longer remembered his 
 own virtuous scruples. He had seen hovering above his head 
 the fiend so easy to mistake for an angel, the Devil with rain- 
 bow wings, who scatters rubies, and aims his golden shafts at 
 palace fronts, who invests women with purple, and thrones 
 with a glory that dazzles the eyes of fools till they forget the 
 simple origins of royal dominion; he had heard the rustle 
 of that Vanity whose tinsel seems to us to be the symbol of 
 power. However cynical Vautrin's words had been, they had 
 made an impression on his mind, as the sordid features of tKe 
 
120 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 old crone who whispers, "A lover, and gold in torrents," re- 
 main engraven on a young girl's memory. 
 
 Bug&ne lounged about the walks till it was nearly five 
 o'clock, then he went to Mme. de Beanseant, and received one 
 of the terrible blows against which young hearts are defence- 
 less. Hitherto the Vicomtesse had received him with the 
 kindly urbanity, the bland grace of manner that is the result 
 of fine breeding, but is only complete when it comes from the 
 heart. 
 
 To-day Mme. de Beauseant bowed constrainedly, and spoke 
 curtly : 
 
 "M. de Eastignac, I cannot possibly see you, at least not 
 at this moment. I am engaged . . ." 
 
 An observer^ and Eastignac instantly became an observer, 
 could read the whole history, the character and customs of 
 caste, in the phrase, in the tones of her voice, in her glance 
 and bearing. He caught a glimpse of the iron hand beneath 
 the velvet glove — ^the personality, the egoism beneath the man- 
 ner, the wood beneath the varnish. In short, he heard that un- 
 mistakable I THE King that issues from the plumed canopy 
 of the throne, and finds its last echo under the crest of the 
 simplest gentleman. 
 
 Eugene had trusted too implicitly to the generosity of a 
 woman; he could not believe in her haughtiness. Like all 
 the unfortunate, he had subscribed, in all good faith, the 
 generous compact which should bind the benefactor to the re- 
 cipient, and the first article in that bo nd, be^t ween two large- 
 hearted natures, is a perfect equalt^! The kindness which 
 knits two souls together is as rare;-Ttg''Hivine, and as little 
 understood as the passion of love, for both love and kindness 
 are the lavish generosity of noble natures. Eastignac was 
 (set upon going to the Duchesse de Carigliano's ball, so he 
 swallowed down this rebuff. 
 
 "Madame," he faltered out, "I would not have come to 
 trouble you about a trifling matter; be so kind as to permit^ 
 me to see you later, I can wait." ^[^ 
 
 "Very well, come and dine with me," she said, a little^con- 
 
D'ATHEE GORIOT 121 
 
 fused by the harsh way in which she had spoken, for this 
 . lady was as genuinely kind-hearted as she was high-born. 
 
 Eugene was touched by this sudden relenting, but none 
 the less he said to himself as he went away, "Crawl in the 
 dust, put up with every kind of treatment. What must the 
 rest of the world be like when one of the kindest of women 
 forgets all her promises of befriending me in a moment, and 
 tosses me aside like an old shoe ? So it is e very one for him - 
 self ?_ It is true that her house is not a shop, and I have put 
 myself in the wrong by needing her help. You should cut 
 your way through the world like a cannon ball, as Vautrin 
 said." 
 
 But the student's bitter thoughts were soon dissipated by 
 the pleasure which he promised himself in this dinner with 
 the Vicomtesse. Fate seemed to determinejhat-the-smallest 
 accidents in his life should combi ne to urge hi m i^tn n-oajpPT, 
 which the terrible sphinx of the Maison Vauquer had de- 
 scribed_as_afield of battle where you must either slay or_bg_ 
 slain, and cI iear"tirTrTOid Tji Sng~cEeafe?! Ton leave your 
 conscience"a'nryour~beart at the barriCTS, and wear a mask 
 on entering into this game ofg]im]^rnes|»^here, as in an- 
 cient Sparta, you rnTrst''^^SjyourIpika»witiiout being de- 
 tected if you would deserve the crown. 
 
 On his return he found the Vicomtesse gracious and kindly, 
 as she had always been to him. They went together to the 
 dining-room, where the Vicomte was waiting for his wife. 
 In the time of the Eestoration the luxury of the table was 
 carried, as is well known, to the highest degree, and M. de 
 Beauseant, like many jaded men of the world, had few pleas- 
 ures left but those of good cheer; in this matter, in fact, he 
 was a gourmand of the schools of Louis XVIII. and of the 
 Due d'Escars, and luxury was supplemented by splendor. Eu- 
 gene, dining for the first time in a house where the traditions 
 of grandeur had descended through many generations, had 
 never seen any spectacle like this that now met his eyes. In 
 the time of the Empire, balls had always ended with a supper, 
 because the oflScers who took part in them must be fortified 
 
122 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 for immediate service, and even in Paris might be called 
 upon to leave the ballroom for the battlefield. This arrange- 
 ment had gone out of fashion under the Monarchy, and Eu- 
 gene had so far only been asked to dances. The self-posses- 
 sion which pre-eminently distinguished him in later life al- 
 ready stood him in good stead, and he did not betray his 
 j amazement. Yet as he saw for the first time the finely 
 wrought silver plate, the completeness of every detail, the 
 sumptuous dinner, noiselessly served, it was difiicult for such 
 an ardent imagination not to prefer this life of studied and 
 refined luxury to the hardships of the life which he had 
 chosen only that morning. 
 
 His thoughts went back for a moment to the lodging-house, 
 and with a feeling of profound loathing, he vowed to himself 
 that at New Year he would go ; prompted at least as much by 
 a desire to live among cleaner surroundings as by a wish to 
 shake off Vautrin, whose huge hand he seemed to feel on his 
 shoulder at that moment. When you consider the numberless 
 forms, clamorous or mute, that corruption takes in Paris, com- 
 mon-sense begins to wonder what mental aberration prompted 
 the State to establish great colleges and schools there, and as- 
 semble young men in the capital ; how it is that pretty women 
 are respected, or that the gold coin displayed in the money- 
 changer's wooden saucers does not take to itself wings in the 
 twinkling of an eye; and when you come to think further, 
 how comparatively few cases of crime there are, and to count 
 up the misdemeanors committed by youth, is there not a cer- 
 tain amount of respect due to these patient Tantaluses who 
 wrestle with themselves and nearly always come off vic- 
 torious ? The struggles of the poor student in Paris, if skil- 
 fully drawn, would furnish a most dramatic picture of modern 
 civilization. 
 
 In vain Mme. de Beauseant looked at Eugene as if asking 
 him to speak; the student was tongue-tied in the Vicomte's 
 presence. 
 
 "Are you going to take me to the Italiens this evening?" 
 the Vicomtesse asked her husband. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 123 
 
 'TToTi cannot doubt that I should obey you with pleasure," 
 he answered, and there was a sarcastic tinge in his politeness 
 which Eugene did not detect, 'Tjut I ought to go to meet some 
 one at the Vari6t6s." 
 
 "His mistress," said she to herself. 
 
 "Then, is not A]uda coming for you this evening?" in- 
 quired the Vicomte. 
 
 "No," she answered, petulantly. 
 
 "Very well,, then, if you really must have an arm, take that 
 of M. de Eastignac." 
 
 The Vieomtesse turned to Eugene with a smile. 
 
 "That would be a very compromising step for you," she 
 said. 
 
 "'A. Frenchman loves danger, because in danger there is 
 glory,' to quote M. de Chateaubriand," said Eastignac, with a 
 bow. 
 
 A few moments later he was sitting beside Mme. de Beau- 
 seant in a brougham, that whirled them through the streets 
 of Paris to a fashionable theatre. It seemed to him that some 
 fairy magic had suddenly transported him into a box facing 
 the stage. All the lorgnettes of the house were pointed at 
 him as he entered, and at the Vieomtesse in her charming 
 toilette. He went from enchantment to enchantment. 
 
 "You must talk to me, you know," said Mme. de Beau- ^ 
 seant. "Ah ! look' ! There is Mme. de Nucingen in the third JC'S- 
 box from ours. Her sister and M. de Trailles are on the other 
 side." 
 
 The Vieomtesse glanced as she spoke at the box where Mile, 
 de Eochefide should have been; M. d'Ajuda was not there, 
 and Mme. de Beauseant's face lighted up in a marvelous way. 
 
 "She is charming," said Eugene, after looking at Mme. de 
 Ivucingen. 
 
 "She has white eyelashes." 
 
 "Yes, but she has such a pretty slender figure !" 
 
 "Her hands are large." 
 
 "Such beautiful eyes !" 
 
 "Her face is long." 
 
124 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "Yes, but length gives distinction." 
 
 *1t is lucky for her that she has some distinction in hei. 
 face. Just see how she fidgets with her opera-glass! The 
 Goriot blood shows itself in every movement," said the Vi- 
 comtesse, much to Eugene's astonishment. 
 
 Indeed, Mme. de Beauseant seemed to be engaged in mak- 
 ing a survey of the house, and to be unconscious of Mme. Nu- 
 cingen's existence; but no movement made by the latter was 
 lost upon the Vicomtesse. The housp was full of the loveliest 
 women in Paris, so that Delphine de Nucingen was not a 
 little flattered to receive the undivided attention of Mme. 
 de Beauseant's young, handsome, and well-dressed cousin, 
 who seemed to have no eyes for any one else. 
 
 "If you look at her so persistently, you will make people 
 talk, M. de Eastignac. You will never succeed if you fling 
 yourself at any one's head like that." 
 
 "My deiar cousin," said Eugene, "you have protected me 
 indeed so far, and now if you would complete your work, I 
 only ask of you a favor which will cost you but little, and be 
 of very great service to me. I have lost my heart." 
 
 "Already!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And to that woman!" 
 
 "How could I aspire to find any one else to listen to me?" 
 he asked, with a keen glance at his cousin. "Her Grace the 
 Duchesse de Carigliano is a friend of the Duchesse de Berri," 
 he went on, after a pause ; "you are sure to see her, will you 
 be so kind as to present me to her, and to take me with you 
 to her ball on Monday? I shall meet Mme. de Nucingen 
 there, and enter upon my first skirmish." 
 
 "Willingly," she said. "If you have a liking for her al- 
 ready, your affairs of the heart are Hke to prosper. That is 
 de Marsay over there in the Prineesse Galathionne's box. 
 Mme. de Nucingen is racked with jealousy. There is no bet- 
 ter time for approaching a woman, especially if she happens 
 to be a banker's wife. All those ladies of the Chaussle- 
 d'Antin love revenge." 
 
FATHER GOBIOT 125 
 
 "Then, what would you do yourself in such a ease?" 
 
 "I should sufEer in silence." 
 
 At this point the Marquis d'Ajuda appeared in Mme. de 
 Beauseant's box. 
 
 "I have made a muddle of my affairs to come to you," he 
 said, "and I am telling you about it, so that it may not be a 
 sacrifice." 
 
 Eugene saw the glow of joy on the Vieomtesse's face, and 
 knew that this was love, and learned the difference between , 
 love and the affectations of Parisian coquetry. He admired ^ 
 his cousin, grew mute, and yielded his place to M. d'Ajuda 
 with a sigh. 
 
 "How noble, how sublime a woman is when she loves 
 like that!" he said to himself. "And he could forsake her 
 for a doll ! Oh ! how could any one forsake her ?" 
 
 There was a boy's passionate indignation in his heart. He 
 could have flung himself at Mme. de Beauseant's feet; he 
 longed for the power of the devil if he could snatch her away 
 and hide her in his heart, as an eagle snatches up some white 
 yeanling from the plains and bears it to its eyrie. It was 
 humiliating to him to think that in all this gallery of fair 
 pictures he had not one picture of his own. "To have a mis-^'"'- 
 tress and an almost royal position is a sign of power," he 
 said to himself. And he looked at Mme. de Nucingen as a 
 man measures another who has insulted him. 
 
 The Vicomtesse turned to him, and the expression of her 
 eyes thanked him a thousand times for his discretion. The 
 first act came to an end just then. 
 
 "Do you know Mme. de Nucingen well enough to present 
 M. de Rastignac to her?" she asked of the Marquis d'Ajuda. 
 
 "She will be delighted," said the Marquis. The hand-' 
 some Portuguese rose as he spoke and took the student's arm, 
 and in another moment Eugene found himself in Mme. de 
 Nucingen's box. 
 
 "Madame," said the Marquis, "I have the honor of 
 presenting to you the Chevalier Eugene de Eastignac; he is a 
 cousin of Mme de Beauseant's. You have made so deep an 
 
126 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 impression upon him, that I thought I would fill up the 
 measure of his happiness by bringing him nearer to his di- 
 vinity." 
 
 Words spoken half jestingly to cover their somewhat disre- 
 spectful import; but such an implication, if carefully dis- 
 guised, never gives offence to a woman. Mme. de Nucingen 
 smiled, and offered Eugene the place which her husband had 
 just left. 
 
 "I do not venture to suggest that you should stay with me, 
 monsieur," she said. 'Those who are so fortunate as to 
 be in Mme. de Beauseant's company do not desire to leave it." 
 
 "Madame," Eugene said, lowering his voice, "I think that 
 to please my cousin I should remain with you. Before my 
 lord Marquis came we were speaking of you and of your ex- 
 ceedingly distinguished appearance," he added aloud. 
 
 M. d'Ajuda turned and left them. 
 
 "Are you really going to stay with me, monsieur?" asked 
 the Baroness. "Then we shall make each other's acquaint-, 
 anee. Mme. de Eestaud told me about you, and has made 
 me anxious to meet you." 
 
 "She must be very insincere, then, for she has shut her door 
 on me." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Madame, I will tell you honestly the reason why; but 
 I must crave your indulge ace before confiding such a secret 
 to you. I am your father's neighbor; I had no idea that 
 Mme. de Eestaud was his daughter. I was rash enough to 
 mention his name; I meant no harm, but I annoyed your 
 sister and her husband very much. You cannot think how 
 severely the Duchesse de Langeais and my cousin blamed this 
 apostasy on a daughter's part, as a piece of bad taste. I told 
 them all about it, and they both burst out laughing. Then 
 Mme. de Beaus6ant made some comparison between you and 
 your sister, speaking in high terms of you, and saying how 
 very fond you were of my neighbor, M. Goriot. And, in- 
 deed, how could you help loving him ? He adores you so pas- 
 sionately that I am jealous already. We talked about you this 
 
FATHBU GORIOT 127 
 
 morning for two hours. So this evening I was quite full of 
 all that your father had told me, and while I was dining 
 with my cousin I said that you coald not be as beautiful as 
 affectionate. Mme. de Beauseant meant to gratify such warm 
 admiration, I think, when she brought me here, telling me, 
 in her gracious way, that I should see you." V— ' 
 
 "Then, even now, I owe you a debt of gratitude, mcm- 
 sieur," said the banker's wife. "We shall be quite old friends 
 in a little while." 
 
 "Although a friendship with you could not be like an or-" 
 dinary friendship," said Eastignac ; "I should never wish to be 
 your friend." 
 
 Such stereotyped phrases as these, in the mouths of be- 
 ginners, possess an unfailing charm for women, and are iSw 
 sipid only when read coldly ; for a young man's tone, glance, 
 and attitude give a surpassing eloquence to the banal phrases. 
 Mme. de Nueingen thought that Rastignae was adorable. 
 Then, woman-like, being at a loss how to reply to the stu- 
 dent's outspoken admiration, she answered a previous re- 
 mark. 
 
 "Yes, it is very wrong of my sister to treat our poor father 
 as she does," she said; "he has been a Providence to us. It 
 was not until M. de Nucingen positively ordered me only to 
 receive him in the mornings that I yielded the point. But 
 I have been unhappy about it for a long while ; I have shed 
 many tears over it. This violence to my feelings, with my 
 husband's brutal treatment, have been the two causes of my 
 unhappy married life. There is certainly no woman in Paris 
 whose lot seems more enviable than mine, and yet, in reality, 
 there is not one so much to be pitied. You will think I must 
 be out of my senses to talk to you like this; but you know 
 my father, and I cannot regard you as a stranger." 
 
 "You will find no one," said Eugene, "who longs as eagerly 
 as I do to be yours. What do all women seek ? Happiness." 
 (He answered his own question in low, vibrating tones.) 
 And if happiness for a woman means that she is to be loved 
 and adored, to have a friend to whom she can pour out her 
 wishes, her fancies, her sorrows and joys ; to whom she can lay 
 
128 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 bare her heart and soul, and all her fair defects and her grar 
 cioTis virtues, without fear of a betrayal; believe me, the deyo- 
 tion and the warmth that never fails can only be found in 
 the heart of a young man who, at a bare sign from you, would 
 go to his death, who neither knows nor cares to know any- 
 thing as yet of the world, because you will be all the world to 
 him. I myself, you see (you will laugh at my simplicity), 
 \have just come from a remote country district; I am quite 
 new to this world of Paris ; I have only known true and loving 
 hearts ; and I made up my mind that here I shoiild find no 
 love. Then I chanced to meet my cousin, and to see my cousin's 
 heart from very near ; I have divined the ineshaustible treas- 
 ures of passion, and, like Cherubino, I am the lover of all 
 women, until the day comes when I find the woman to whom 
 I may devote myself. As soon as I saw you, as soon as I 
 came into the theatre this evening, I felt myself borne to- 
 wards you as if by the current of a stream. I had so often 
 thought of you already, but I had never dreamed that you 
 would be so beautiful ! Mme. de Beaus6ant told me that I 
 must not look so much at you. She does not know the charm 
 of your red lips, your fair face, nor see how soft your eyes 
 are. ... I also am beginning to talk nonsense; but let 
 me talk." 
 
 Nothing pleases women better than to listen to such whis- 
 pered words as these ; the most puritanical among them listens 
 even when she ought not to reply to them; and Eastignac, 
 having once begun, continued to pour out his story, dropping 
 his voice, that she might lean and listen; and Mme. de Nu- 
 cingen, smiling, glanced from time to time at de Marsay, who 
 still sat in the Princesse Galathionne's box. 
 
 Eastignac did not leave Mme. de Nucingen till her hus- 
 band came to take her home. 
 
 "Madame," Eugene said, "I shall have the pleasure of call- 
 ing upon you before the Duchesse de Carigliano's ball." 
 
 "If Matame infites you to come," said the Baron, a thick- 
 set Alsatian, with indications of a sinister cunning in his 
 full-moon countenance, "you are quids sure of being weU 
 receifed." 
 
FATHER GORIOT 129 
 
 "M.J affairs seem to be in a promising way," said Eugene 
 to himself. — " 'Can you love me ?' I asked her, and she did 
 not resent it. The bit is in the horse's mouth, and I have 
 only to mount and ride;" and with that he went to pay his 
 respects to Mme. de Beauseant, who was leaving the theatre 
 on d'Ajuda's arm. 
 
 The student did not know that the Baroness' thoughts had 
 been wandering; that she was even then expecting a letter 
 from de Marsay, one of those letters that bring about a rup- 
 ture that rends the soul; so, happy in his delusion, Eugene 
 went with the Vicomtesse to the peristyle, where people were 
 waiting till their carriages were announced. 
 
 ''That cousin of yours is hardly recognizable for the same 
 man," said the Portuguese laughingly to the Vicomtesse, when 
 Eugene had taken leave of them. "He will break the bank. 
 He is as supple as an eel ; he will go a long way, of that I am 
 sure. Who else could have picked out a woman for hiiri, as 
 you did, just when she needed consolation ?" 
 
 "But it is not certain that she does not still love the faith- 
 less lover," said Mme. de Beauseant. 
 
 ZJ3Phe student meanwhile walked back from the Theatre- 
 Italien to the Eue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, making the most 
 delightful plans as he went. He had noticed how closely Mme. 
 de Eestaud had scrutinized him when he appeared in the 
 Vieomtesse's box, and again when he sat beside Mme. de ISTu- 
 eingen, and inferred that the Countess' doors would not be 
 closed in future. Four important houses were now open to him 
 — ^f or he meant to stand well with the Marechale ; he had four 
 supporters in the inmost circle of society in Paris. Even now 
 it was clear to him that, once involved in this intricate social 
 machinery, he must attach himself to a spoke of the wheel 
 that was to turn and raise his fortunes ; he would no t examine j . 
 himself too curiously aa to tbp mptlTnrlSr hut he was C(?rt,a.i.Tic y> 
 oJUJftMkia^ana conscious of the power to gain and keep his 
 'lold. 
 
 "If Mme. de Nueingen takes an interest in me, I will teach 
 her how to manage her husband. That husband of hers is a 
 9 
 
130 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 great speculator; he might put me in the way of making a 
 fortime by a single stroke." 
 
 He did not say this bluntly in so many words; as yet, in- 
 deed, he was not sufficient of a diplomatist to sum. up a situa- 
 tion, to see its possibilities at a glance, and calculate the 
 chances in his favor. These were nothing but hazy ideas that 
 floated over his mental horizon ; they were less cynical than 
 iVautrin's notions; but if they had been tried in the crucible 
 of conscience, no very pure result would have issued from the 
 test. It is by a succession of such like transactions that men 
 sink at last to the level of the relaxed morality of this epoch, 
 when there have never been so few of those who square their 
 courses with their theories, so few of those noble characters 
 who do not yield to temptation, for whom the slightest devia- 
 tion from the line of rectitude is a crime. To these magnifi- 
 cent types of uncompromising Right we owe two masterpieces 
 — the Alceste of Moliere, and, in our own day, the characters 
 of Jeanie Deans and her father in Sir Walter Scott's novel. 
 Perhaps a work which should chronicle the opposite course, 
 which should trace out all the devious courses through which 
 a man of the world, a man of ambitions, drags his conscience, 
 just steering clear of crime that he may gain his end and yet 
 save appearances, such a chronicle would be no less edifying 
 and no less dramatic. 
 
 Eastignac went home. He was fascinated by Mme. de 
 Nucingen; he seemed to see her before him, slender and 
 graceful as a swallow. He recalled the intoxicating sweetness 
 of her eyes, her fair hair, the delicate silken tissue of the skin, 
 beneath which it almost seemed to him that he could see the 
 blood coursing; the tones of her voice still exerted a spell over 
 him; he had forgotten nothing; his walk perhaps heated his 
 imagination by sending a glow of warmth through his veins 
 He knocked unceremoniously at Goriot's door. 
 
 "I have seen Mme. Delphine, neighbor," said he. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "At the Italiens." 
 
 "'Did she enjoy it? . . . Just come inside," and the 
 
FATHER GOKIOT 13i 
 
 old maoa left his bed, unlocked the door, and promptly 
 returned again. • 
 
 It was the first time that Eugene had been in Father Goriot's 
 room, and he could not control his feeling of amazement at 
 the contrast between the den in which the father lived and the 
 'Costume of the daughter whom he had just beheld. The 
 window was curtainless, the walls were damp, in places the 
 
 I varnished wall-paper had come OiWay and gave gliiSipses of the 
 grimy yellow plaster beneath. The wretched bed on which 
 the old man lay boasted but one thin blanket, and a wadded 
 quilt made out of large pieces of Mme. Vauquer's old 
 dresses. The floor was damp and gritty. Opposite the win- 
 dow stood a chest of drawers made of rosewood, one of the 
 old-fashioned kind with a curving front and brass handles, 
 shaped like rings of twisted vine stems covered with flowers 
 and leaves. On a venerable piece of furniture with a wooden, 
 shelf stood a ewer and basin and shaving apparatus. A pair 
 of shoes stood in one corner; a night-table by the bed had 
 neither a door nor marble slab. There was not a trace of a 
 fire in the empty grate ; the square walnut table with the cross- 
 bar against which Father Goriot had crushed and twisted his 
 posset-dish stood near the hearth. The old man's hat was 
 lying on a broken-down bureau. An armchair stuffed with 
 straw and a couple of chairs completed the list of ramshackle 
 furniture. From the tester of the bed, tied to the ceiling by 
 a piece of rag, hung a strip of some cheap material in large 
 red and black checks. No poor drudge in a garret could be 
 worse lodged than Father Goriot in Mme. Vauquer's lodging- 
 house. The mere sight of the room sent a chill through you 
 and a sense of oppression; it was like the worst cell in 
 a prison. Luckily, Goriot could not see the effect that his 
 surroundings produced on Eugene as the latter deposited his 
 candle on the night-table. The old man turned round, keep- 
 ing the bedclothes huddled up to his chin. 
 
 "Well," he said, "and which do you like the best, Mme. de 
 
 . Bestaud or Mme. de Nucingen?" 
 
 "I like Mme. Delphine the best," said the law student, 
 "because she loves you the best." 
 
132 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 At the words so heartily spoken the old man's hand slipped 
 out from under the bedclothes and grasped Eugene's. 
 
 "Thank you, thank you/' he said, gratefully. "Then what 
 did she say about me ?" 
 
 The student repeated the Baroness' remarks with some 
 embellishments of his own, the old man listening the while as 
 though he heard a voice from Heaven. 
 
 "Dear child !" he said. "Yes, yes, she is very fond of me. 
 But you must not believe all that she tells you about Anastasie. 
 The two sisters are jealous of each other, you see, another 
 proof of their affection. Mme. de Eestaud is very fond of me 
 too. I know she is. A father sees his children as God sees 
 all of us; he looks into the very depths of their hearts; 
 he knows their intentions; and both of them are so loving. 
 Oh! if I only had good sons-in-law, I should be too happy, 
 and I dare say there is no perfect happiness here below. If I 
 might live with them — simply hear their voices, know that 
 they are there, see them go and come as I used to do at home 
 when they were still with me; why, my heart bounds at the 
 thought. . . . Were they nicely dressed?" 
 
 "Yes," said Eugene. "But, M. Goriot, how is it that your 
 daughters have such fine houses, Avhile you live in such a den 
 as this ?" 
 
 "Dear me, why should I want anything better ?" he replied, 
 with seeming carelessness. "I can't quite explain to you how 
 it is ; I am not used to stringing words together properly, but 
 
 it all lies there " he said, tapping his heart. "My real life 
 
 is in my two girls, you see ; and so long as they are happy, and 
 smartly dressed, and have soft carpets under their feet, what 
 does it matter what clothes I wear or where I lie down .of a 
 night? I shall never feel cold so long as they are warm; I 
 shall never feel dull if they are laughing. I have no troubles 
 but theirs. When you, too, are a father, and you hear your 
 children's little voices, you will say to yourself, 'That has all 
 come from me.' You will feel that those little ones are akin 
 to every drop in your veins, that they are the very floweiUDf- 
 yaur life (and what else are they?); you will 'cleave so 
 
FATHER GORIOT 133 
 
 closely to them that you seem to feel every movement that 
 they make. Everywhere I hear their voices sounding in my 
 ears. If they are sad, the look in their eyes freezes my blood.^ 
 Some da y you will find o ut ihai-there-i-s -far ,m.are-iiappijiess 
 in anothg.r'.s happiness— thaH-iBr-yeur own. It is something^ 
 that I cannot explain, something within that sends a glow of 
 warmth all through you. In short, I live my life three times 
 over. Shall I tell you something funny ? Well, then, since I 
 have been a father, I have come to understand God. He is 
 everywhere in the world, because the whole world comes from 
 Him.. And it is just the same with my children, monsieur. 
 Only, I love my daughters better than God loves the world, 
 for the world is not so beautiful as God Himself is, but my 
 children are more beautiful than I am. Their lives are so 
 bound up with mine that I felt somehow that you would see 
 them this evening. Great Heaven ! If any man would make 
 my little Delphine as happy as a wife is when she is loved, I 
 would black his boots and run on his errands. That miserable 
 M. de Marsay is a cur ;' I know all about him from her maid. 
 A longing to wring his neck comes over me now and then. 
 He does not love her ! does not love a pearl of a woman, with 
 a voice like a nightingale and shaped like a model. Where 
 can her eyes have been when she married that great lump of 
 an Alsatian ? They ought both of them to have married young 
 men, good-looking and good-tempered — ^but, after all, they 
 had their own way." 
 
 Father Goriot was sublime. Eugene had never yet seen his 
 face light up as it did now with the passionate fervor of a 
 father's love. It is worthy of remark that strong feeling has a 
 very subtle and pervasive power; the roughest nature, in the 
 endeavor to express a deep and sincere affection, communi-. 
 cates to others the influence that has put resonance into the 
 voice, and eloquence into every gesture, v,-rought a change in 
 the very features of the speaker; for under the inspiration of 
 passion the stupidest human being attains to the highest 
 eloquence of ideas, if not of language, and seems to move in 
 some sphere of light. In the old man's tones and gesture 
 
134 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 there was something just then of the same spell that a great 
 actor exerts over his audience. But does not the poet in us 
 find expression in our affections? 
 
 "Well," said Eugene, "perhaps you will not be sorry to hear 
 that she is pretty sure to break with de Marsay before long. 
 That sprig of fashion has left her for the Princesse Gala- 
 thionne. For my part, I fell in love with Mme. Delphine this 
 evening." 
 
 "Stuff!" said Father Goriot. 
 
 "I did indeed, and she did not regard me with aversion. 
 For a whole hour we talked of love, and I am to go to call on 
 her on Saturday, the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh ! how I should loye you, if she should like you. You 
 are kind-hearted; you would never make her miserable. If 
 you were to forsake her, I would cut your throat at once. A 
 woman does not love twice, you see ! Good heavens ! what 
 nonsense I am talking, M. Eugene ! It is cold ; you ought not 
 to stay here. Mon Dieu! so you have heard her speak? 
 What message did she give you for me?" 
 
 "None at all," said Eugene to himself; aloud he 
 ' answered, "She told me to tell you that your daughter sends 
 you a good kiss." 
 
 "Good-night, neighbor ! Sleep, well, and pleasant dreams 
 to you ! I have mine already made for me by that message 
 from her. May God grant you all your desires ! You have 
 come in like a good angel on me to-night, and brought with 
 you the air that my daughter breathes." 
 
 "Poor old fellow !" said Eugene as he lay down. "It is 
 enough to melt a heart of stone. His daughter no more 
 thought of him than of the Grand Turk." 
 
 Ever after this conference Goriot looked upon his neighbor 
 as a friend, a confidant such as he had never hoped to find; 
 and there was established between the two the only relation- 
 ship that could attach this old man to another man. The 
 passions never miscalculate. Father Goriot felt that this 
 friendship brought him closer to his daughter Delphine; he 
 
*'ATHEE GOEIOT 135 
 
 thought that he should find a warmer welcome for himself if 
 the Baroness should care for Eugene. Moreover, he had con- 
 fided one of his troubles to the younger man. Mme. de Nu- 
 cingen, for whose happiness he prayed a thousand times 
 daily, had never known the joys of love. Eugene was cer- 
 tainly (to make use of his own expression) one of the nicest 
 young men that he had ever seen, and some prophetic instinct 
 seemed to tell him that Eugene was to give her the happiness 
 which had not been hers. These were the beginnings of a 
 friendship that grew up between the old man and his neigh- 
 bor ; but for this friendship the catastrophe of the drama must 
 have remained a mystery. 
 
 The affection with which Father Goriot regarded Eugene, 
 by whom he seated himself at breakfast, the change in 
 Goriot's face, which, as a rule, looked as expressionless as a 
 plaster cast, and a few words that passed between the two, 
 surprised the other lodgers. Vautrin, who saw Eugene for 
 the fltst time since their interview, seemed as if he would fain 
 read the student's very soul. During the night Eugene had 
 had some time in which to scan the vast field which lay before 
 him; and now, as he remembered yesterday's proposal, the 
 thought of Mile. Taillefer's dowry came, of course, to his 
 inind, and he could not help thinking of Victorine as the 
 most exemplary youth may think of an heiress. It chanced 
 that their eyes met. The poor girl did not fail to see that 
 Eugene looked very handsome in his new clothes. So much 
 was said in the glance, thus exchanged, that Eugene 
 could not doubt but that he was associated in her 
 mind with the vague hopes that lie dormant in a girl's heart 
 and gather round the first attractive newcomer. "Eight 
 hundred thousand francs !" a voice cried in his ears, but sud- 
 denly he took refuge in the memories of yesterday evening, 
 thinking that his extemporized passion for Mme. de Nueingen 
 was a taljsmaiL that would preserve him from this tempta- 
 tion. 
 
 "They gave Eossini's Barber of Seville at the Italiens yes- 
 terday evening," he remarked. "I never heard such delicious 
 music. Good gracious ! how lucks EeopJe are to have a box 
 at the Italiens!" 
 
136 FATHBK GOKIOT 
 
 Father Goriot drank in every word that Eugene let fall, 
 and watched him as a dog watches his master's slightest move- 
 ment. 
 
 "You men are like fighting cocks," said Mme. Vauquerj 
 "you do what you like." 
 
 "How did you get hack?" inquired Vautrin. 
 
 "I walked/' answered Eugene. 
 
 "For my own part," remarked t]xe ^ tempter, "I do not care 
 ahout doing things by halves. If I wanTto enjoy myself that 
 way, I should prefer to go in my carriage, sit in my own box, 
 and do the thing comfortably. Everything or nothing; that 
 is my motto." 
 
 "And a good one, too," commented Mme. Vauquer. 
 
 "Perhaps you will see Mme. de Nucingen to-day," said 
 Eugene, addressing Goriot in an undertone. "She will wel- 
 come you with open arms, I am sure; she would want to ask 
 you for all sorts of little details about me. I have found out 
 that she would do anything in the world to be known by my 
 cousin Mme. de Beauseant ; don't forget to tell her that I love 
 her too well not to think of trying to arrange this." 
 
 Eastignac went at once to the lilcole de Droit. He had no 
 mind to stay a moment longer than was necessary in that 
 odious house. He wasted his time that day; he had fallen a 
 victim to that fever of the brain that accompanies the too 
 vivid hopes of youth. Vautrin's arguments had set him med- 
 itating on social life, and he was deep in these reilections when 
 he happened on his friend Bianchon in the Jardin da Lux- 
 embourg. 
 
 "What makes you look so solemn?" said the mediral stu- 
 dent, putting an arm through Eugene's as they went ''owards 
 the Palais. 
 
 "I am tormented by temptations." 
 
 "What kind? There is a cure for temptation." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Yielding to it." 
 
 "You laugh, but you don't know what it is all about. 
 Have you read Eousseau?" 
 
FATHER GORIOT 137 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you remember that he asks the reader somewhere what 
 he would do if he could make a fortune by killing an old man- 
 darin somewhere in China by mere force of wishing it, and 
 without stirring from Paris?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 "Pshaw! I am at my thirty-third mandarin." 
 
 "Seriously, though. Look here, suppose you were sure that 
 you could do it, and had only to give a nod. Would you 
 do it." 
 
 "Is he well stricken in years, this mandarin of yours? 
 Pshaw ! after all, young or old, paralytic, or well and sound, 
 my word for it. . . . Well, then. Hang it, no !" 
 
 "You are a good fellow, Bianchon. But suppose you loved 
 a woman well enough to lose your soul in hell for her, and 
 that she wanted money, lots of money for dresses and a car- 
 riage, and all her whims, in fact?" 
 
 "Why, here you are taking away my reason, and want me 
 to reason !" 
 
 "W^ell, then, Bianchon, I am mad ; bring me to my senses. 
 I have two sisters as beautiful and innocent as angels, and I 
 want them to be happy. How am I to find two hundred 
 thousand francs apiece for them in the next five years? 
 Now and then in life, you see, you must play for heavy stakes, 
 and it is no use wasting your luck on low play." 
 
 "But you are only stating the problem that lies before every 
 one at the outset of his life, and you want to cut the Gordian 
 knot with a sword. If that is the way of it, dear boy, you 
 must be an Alexander, or to the hulks you go. For my own 
 part, I am quite contented with the little lot I mean to make 
 ' for myself somewhere in the country, when I mean to step 
 into my f athe5?^s-shoe& and plod along. A man's affections 
 are just as fully satisfied by the smallest circle as they can 
 be by a vast circumference. Napoleon himself could only dine 
 once, and he could not have more mistresses than a house 
 student at the Capuchins. Happiness, old man, depends on 
 
138 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 what lies between the sole of your foot and the crown of your 
 head; and whether it costs a million or a hundje(?'l'ouis, the 
 actual amount of pleasure that you receive rests entirely with 
 you, and is just exactly the same in any case. I am for let- 
 ting that Chinaman live." 
 
 "Thank you, Bianchon; you have done me good. We will 
 always be friends." 
 
 "I say," remarked the medical student, as they came to the 
 end of a broad walk in the Jardin des Plantes, "I saw the 
 Michonneau and Poiret a few minutes ago on a bench chat- 
 ting with a gentleman whom I used to see in last year's 
 troubles hanging about the Chamber of Deputies; he seems 
 to me, in fact, to be a detective dressed up like a decent re- 
 tired tradesman. Let us keep an eye on that couple; I will 
 tell you why some time. Good-bye ; it is nearly four o'clock, 
 and I must be in to answer to my name." 
 
 When Eugene reached the lodging-house, he found Father 
 Groriot waiting for him. 
 
 "Here," cried the old man, "here is a letter from her. 
 Pretty handwriting, eh?" 
 
 Eugene broke the seal and read: — 
 
 "SiH, — I have heard from my father that you are fond of 
 Italian music. I shall be delighted if you will do me the 
 pleasure of accepting a seat in my box. La Fodor and Pelle- 
 grini will sing on Saturday, so I am sure that you will not 
 refuse me. M. de Nucingen and I shall be pleased if you will 
 dine with us; we shall be quite by ourselves. If you will 
 come and be my escort, my husband will be glad to be relieved 
 from his conjugal duties. Do not answer, but simply come. 
 — Yours sincerelyj D. de N." 
 
 "Let me see it," said Father Goriot, when Eugene had read 
 the letter. "You are going, aren't you ?" he added, when he 
 had smelled the writing-paper. "How nice it smells! Her 
 fingers have touched it, that is certain." 
 
 "A woman does not fling herself at a man's head in this 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 138 
 
 / 
 •way," the student was thinking. "She wants to use me to 
 bring back de Marsay; nothing but pique makes a womaii do a 
 thing like this." 
 
 "Well," said Father Goriot, "what are you thinking 
 about?" 
 
 Eugene did not know the fever of vanity that possessed 
 some women in those days; how should he imagine that to 
 open a door in the Faubourg Saint-Germain a banker's vriiei 
 would go to almost any length. For the coterie of the Fau- 
 bourg Saint-Germain was a charmed circle, and the women 
 who moved in it were at that time the queens of society ; and 
 among the greatest of these Dames du Petit-Chateau, as they 
 were called, were Mme. de Beauseant and her friends the 
 Duchesse de Langeais and the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse. 
 Eastignac was alone in his ignorance of the frantic efforts 
 made by women who lived in the Chaussee-d'Antin to enter 
 this seventh heaven and shine among the brightest constella- - 
 tions of their sex. But his cautious disposition stood him in 
 good stead, and kept his judgment cool, and the not 
 altogether enviable power of imposing instead of accepting 
 conditions. 
 L-'l^es, I am going," he replied. 
 
 fSo^it was curiosity that drew him to Mme. de Nucingen; 
 wmTe, if she had treated him disdainfully, passion perhaps 
 might have brought him to her ffigEJ Still he waited almost 
 impatiently for to-morrow, and the hour when he could go 
 to her. There is almost as much charm for a young man in a 
 first flirtation as there is in first love. The certainty of suc- 
 cess is a source of happiness to which men do not confess, and 
 all the charm of certain women lies in this. The desire of 
 conquest springs no less from the easiness than from the diffi- 
 culty of triumph, and every passion is excited or sustained 
 by one or other of these two motives which divide the empire 
 of love. Perhaps this division is one result of the great ques- 
 tion of temperaments ; which, after all, dominates social life. 
 The melancholic temperament may stand in need of the tonic 
 of coquetry, while those of nervous or sanguine complexion 
 
140 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 withdraw if they meet with a too stuhbom resistance. In 
 other words, the lymphatic temperament is essentially de- 
 spondent, and the rhapsodic is bilious. 
 
 Eugene lingered over his toilette with an enjoyment of all 
 its little' details that is grateful to a young man's self-love, 
 though he will not own to it for fear of being laughed at. He 
 .thought, as he arranged his hair, that a pretty woman's 
 glances would wander through the dark curls. He indulged 
 •in childish tricks like any young girl dressing for a dance, and 
 gazed complacently at his graceful figure while he smoothed 
 out the creases of his coat. 
 
 "There are worse figures, that is certain," he said to 
 himself. 
 
 Then he went downstairs, just as the rest of the household 
 were sitting down to dinner, and took with good humor the 
 boisterous applause excited by his elegant appearance. The 
 amazement with which any attention to dress is regarded in a 
 lodging-house is a very characteristic trait. No one can put 
 on a new coat but every one else must say his say about it. 
 
 "Clk! elk! elk!" cried Bianchon, making the sound with 
 his tongue against the roof of his mouth, like a driver urging 
 on a horse. 
 
 "He holds himself like a duke and a peer of France," said 
 Mme. Vauquer. 
 
 "Are you going a-eourting?" inquired Mile. Michonneau. 
 
 "Cock-a-doodle-doo !" cried the artist. 
 
 "My compliments to my lady your wife," from the employ^ 
 at the Museum. 
 
 "Your wife; have you a wife?" asked Poiret. 
 
 "Yes, in compartments, water-tight and floats, guaranteed 
 fast color, all prices from twenty-five to forty sous, neat cheek 
 patterns in the latest fashion and best taste, will wash, half- 
 linen, half-cotton, half-wool; a certain cure for toothache 
 and other complaints under the patronage of the Koyal College 
 of Physicians ! children like it ! a remedy for headache, indi- 
 gestion, and all other diseases affecting the throat, eyes, and 
 ears !" cried Vautrin, with a comical imitation of the volu- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 141 
 
 bility of a quack at a fair. "And how much shall we say for 
 this marvel, gentlemen? Twopence? No. Nothing of the 
 sort. All that is left in stock after supplying the Great 
 Mogul. All the crowned heads of Europe, including the 
 6r-r-rand Duke of Baden, have been anxious to get a sight 
 of it. Walk up ! walk up ! gentlemen ! Pay at the desk as 
 you go in ! Strike up the music there ! Brooum, la, la, trinn ! 
 la^ la, bourn! boum! Mister Clarinette, there you are out of 
 tune !" he added gruffly ; "I will rap your knuckles for you !" 
 
 "Goodness! what an amusing man!" said Mme. Vauquer 
 to Mme. Couture ; "I should never feel dull vrith him in the 
 house." 
 
 This burlesque of Vautrin's was the signal for an 
 outburst of merriment, and under cover of jokes and laughter 
 Eugene caught a glance from Mile. Taillef er ; she had leaned 
 over to say a few words in Mme. Couture's ear. 
 
 "The cab is at the door," announced Sylvie. 
 
 "But where is he going to dine?" asked Bianehon. 
 
 "With Madame la Baronne de Nucingen." 
 
 "M. Goriot's daughter," said the law student. 
 
 At this, all eyes turned to the old vermicelli maker; he was 
 gazing at Eugene with something like envy in his eyes. 
 
 Eastignac reached the house in the Kue Saint-Lazare, one 
 of those many-windowed houses with a mean-looking portico 
 and slender columns, which are considered the thing in Paris, 
 a typical banker's house, decorated in the most ostentatious 
 fashion; the walls lined with stucco, the landings of marble 
 mosaic. Mme. de Nucingen was sitting ia a little dj-awing- 
 room; the room was painted in the Italian fashion, and dec- 
 orated like a restaurant. The Baroness seemed depressed. 
 The effort that she made to hide her feelings aroused 
 Eugene's interest; it was plain that she was not playing a 
 part. He had expected a little flutter of excitement at his 
 coming, and he found her dispirited and sad. The disap- 
 pointment piqued his vanity. 
 
 "My claim to your confidence is very small, madame," he 
 said, after rallying her on her abstracted mood; "but if I am 
 
142 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 in the way, please tell me so frankly; I count on your good 
 faith." 
 
 "Noi stay with me," she said; "I shall be all alone if you 
 go. Fucingen is dining in town, and I do not want to be 
 alone; I want to be taken out of myself." 
 
 "But what is the matter?" 
 
 "You are the very last person whom I should tell/' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "Then I am connected in some way in this secret. I won- 
 der what it is?" 
 
 "Perhaps. Yet, no," she went on ; "it is a domestic quar- 
 rel, which ought to be buried in the depths of the heart. I 
 am very unhappy ; did I not tell you so the day before yester- 
 day? Golden chains are the heaviest of all fetters." 
 
 When a woman tells a young man that she is very unhappy, 
 and when the young man is clever, and well dressed, and has 
 fifteen hundred francs lying idle in his pocket, he is sure to 
 think as Eugene said, and he becomes a coxcomb. . 
 
 "What can you have left to wish for?" he answered. "You 
 are young, beautifxil, beloved, and rich." 
 
 "Do not let us talk of my affairs," she said, shaking her 
 head mournfully. "We will dine together Ute-d^tHe, and 
 Afterwards we will go to hear the most exquisite music. Am 
 I to your taste ?" she went on, rising and displaying her gown 
 of white cashmere, covered with Persian designs in the most 
 superb taste. 
 
 "I wish that you were altogether mine," said Eugene; "you 
 are charming." 
 
 "You would have a forlorn piece of property," she said, 
 smiling bitterly. "There is nothing about me that betrays 
 my wretchedness; and yet, in spite of appearances, I am iu 
 despair. I cannot sleep ; my troubles have broken my night's 
 rest ; I shall grow ugly." 
 
 "Oh ! that is impossible," cried the law student; 'Tiut I am 
 curious to know what these troiibles can be that a devoted love 
 cannot efface." 
 
 "Ah ! if I were to tell you about them, you would shun me," 
 
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 "Am I to your taste?" 
 
FATHER GORIOT liS 
 
 she said. **Your love for me as yet is only the conventional 
 gallantry that men use to masquerade in; and, if you really 
 loved me, you would be driven to despair. I must keep 
 silence, you see. Let us talk of something else, for pity's 
 sake," she added. "Let me sho-w you my rooms." 
 
 "No; let us stay here," answered Eagene; he sat down on! 
 the sofa before the fire, and boldly took Mme. de Nueingen's 
 hand in his. She surrendered it to him ; he even felt the pres4 
 sure of her fingers in one of the spasmodic clutches that betray] 
 terrible agitation. 
 
 "Listen," said Eastignac ; "if you are in trouble, you ought 
 to tell me about it. I want to prove to you that I love you for 
 yourself alone. You must speak to me frankly about your 
 troubles, so that I can put an end to them, even if I have to 
 kill half-a-dozen men; or I shall go, never to return." 
 
 "Very well," she cried, putting her hand to her forehead 
 in an agony of despair, "I will put you to the proof, and this 
 very moment. Yes," she said to herself, "I have no other re- 
 source left." 
 
 She rang the bell. 
 
 "Are the horses put ia for the master ?" she asked of the 
 servant. 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 "I shall take his carriage myself. He can have mine and 
 my horses. Serve dinner at seven o'clock." 
 
 "Now, come with me," she said to Eugene, who thought as 
 he sat in the banker's carriage beside Mme. de Nucingen that 
 he must surely be dreaming. 
 
 "To the Palais-Royal," she said to the coachman; "stop 
 near the Theatre-Frangais." 
 
 She seemed to be too troubled and excited to answer the 
 
 innumerable questions that Eugene put to her. He was at Pi 
 
 loss what to think of her mute resistance, her obstinate silence. 
 
 "Another moment and she will escape me." he said to 
 
 himself. 
 
 When the carriage stopped at last, the Baroness gave the 
 
144 FATHBK GOEIOT 
 
 law student a glance that silenced his wild words, for he was' 
 almost beside himself. 
 
 'Is it true that you love me?" she asked. 
 
 'TTes/' he answered, and in his manner and tone there was 
 no trace of the uneasiness that he felt. 
 
 'Tou will not think ill of me, will you, whatever I may 
 ask of you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Are you ready to do my bidding?" 
 
 "Blindly." 
 
 "Have you ever been to a gaming-house?" she asked in a 
 tremulous voice. 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Ah ! now I can breathe. You will have luck. Here is my 
 purse," she said. "Take it ! there are a hundred francs in it, 
 all that such a fortunate woman as I can call her own. Go 
 up into one of the gaming-houses — I do not know where they 
 are, but there are some near the Palais-Koyal. Try your luck 
 with the hundred francs at a game they call roulette ; lose it 
 all, or bring me back six thousand francs. I will tell you 
 about my troubles when you come back." 
 
 "Devil take me, I'm sure, if I have a glimmer of a notion 
 of what I am about, but I will obey you," he added, with 
 inward exultation, as he thought, "She has gone too far to 
 draw back — she can refuse me nothing now !" 
 
 Eugene took the dainty little purse, inquired the way of a 
 second-hand clothes-dealer, and hurried to number 9, which 
 happened to be the nearest gaming-house. He mounted the 
 staircase, surrendered his hat, and asked the way to the rou- 
 lette-table, whither the attendant took him, not a little to the 
 astonishment of the regular comers. All eyes were fixed on 
 Eugene as he asked, without bashfulness, where he was to 
 deposit his stakes. 
 
 ' "li you put a louis on one only of those thirty-six num- 
 bers, and it turns up, you will win thirty-six louis," said a 
 respectable-looking, white-haired old man in answer to his 
 inquiry. 
 
FATHE3R GORIOT 145 
 
 Eugene staked the whole of his money on the number 
 21 (his own age). There was a" cry of surprise; before he 
 knew what he had done, he had won. ♦S,\ (5 'A -^ \^ 
 
 "Take your money off, sir," said the old gentleman; "yoa. 
 don't often win twice running by that system." 
 
 Eugene took the rake that the old man handed to him, 
 and drew in his three thousand six hundred francs, and, still 
 perfectly ignorant of what he was about, staked again on the 
 ired. The bystanders watched him enviously as they saw him 
 continue to play. The disc turned, and again he won; the 
 banker threw him three thousand six hundred francs once 
 more. 
 
 "You have seven thousand two hundred francs of your 
 own," the old gentleman said in his ear. "Take my advice 
 and go away with your winnings; red has turned up eight 
 times already. If you are charitable, you will show your 
 gratitude for sound counsel by giving a trifle to an old pre- 
 fect of Napoleon who is down on his luck." 
 
 Eastignac's head was swimming; he saw ten of his louis 
 pass into the white-haired man's possession, and went down- 
 stairs with his seven thousand francs ; he was still ignorant of 
 the game, and stupefied by his luck. 
 
 "So that is over; and now where will you take me?" he 
 asked, as soon as the door was closed, and he showed the seven 
 thousand francs to Mme. de Nucingen. 
 
 Delphine flung her arms about him, but there was no pas- 
 sion in that wild embrace. 
 
 "You have saved me!" she cried, and tears of joy flowed 
 fast. 
 
 "I will tell you everything, my friend. For you will be 
 my friend, will you not? I am rich, you think, very rich; 
 I have everything I want, or I seem as if I had everything. 
 Very well, you must know that M. de Nueingen does not 
 allow me the control of a single penny; he pays all the bills 
 for the house expenses; he pays for my carriages and opera, 
 box; he does not give me enough to pay for my djess^-afid"^ 
 he reduces me to poverty in secret on purpose.*^ am too 
 
 ID 
 
146 FATHEK GORIOT 
 
 proud to beg from. him. I should be the vilest of women if 
 I could take his money at the price at which he offers it. Do 
 you ask how I, with seven hundred thousand francs of my 
 own, could let myself be robbed ? It is because I was proud, 
 and scorned to speak. We are so young, so artless when our 
 married life begins! I never could bring myself to ask my 
 husband for money; the words would have made my lips 
 bleed, I did not dare to ask; I spent my savings first, and 
 then the money that my poor father gave me, then I ran into 
 debt. Marriage for me is a hideous farce ; I cannot talk about 
 it; let it suffice to say that Nucingen and I have separate 
 rooms, and that I would fling myself out of the window 
 sooner than consent to any other manner of life. I suffered 
 agonies when I had to confess to my girlish extravagance, my 
 debts for jewelry and trifles (for our poor father had never 
 refused us anything, and spoiled us), but at last I found 
 courage to tell him about them. After aU, I had a fortune 
 of my own. Nucingen flew into a rage ; he said that I should 
 be the ruin of him, and used frightful language ! I wished 
 myself a hundred feet dovm in the earth. He had my dowry, 
 so he paid my debts, but he stipulated at the same time that 
 my expenses in future must not exceed a certain fixed sum, 
 and I gave way for the sake of peace. And then," she went 
 on, "I wanted to gratify the self-love of some one whom you 
 know. He may have deceived me, but I should do him the 
 justice to say that there was nothing petty in his character. 
 But, after all, he threw me over disgracefully. If, at a 
 woman's utmost need, somebody heaps gold upon her, he 
 ought never to forsake her; that love should last for ever! 
 But you, at one-and-twenty, you, the soul of honor, with the 
 u5sullieST;0Hscieirce-of youth, will ask me how a woman can 
 bring herself to~accepTm'onBy in such a way? Man Dim! 
 is it not natural to share everything with the one to whom 
 we owe our happiness ? When all has been given, why should 
 we pause and hesitate over a part ? Money is as nothing be- 
 tween us until the moment when the sentiment that bound us 
 together ceases to exist. Were we not bound to each other for 
 
FATHER GOBIOT 147 
 
 life ? Who that believes in love foresees such an end to love ? 
 You swear to love us eternally ; how, then, can our interests 
 be separate? 
 
 "You do not know how I suffered to-day when Nueingen 
 refused to give me six thousand francs ; he spends as much as 
 that every month on his mistress, an opera dancer ! I thought 
 of killing myself. The wildest thoughts came into my head. 
 There have been moments in my^ife when I have envied my 
 servants, and would have changed places with my maid. It 
 was madness to think of going to our father, Anastasie and 
 I have bled him dry; our poor father would have sold himself 
 if he could have raised six thousand francs that way. I 
 should have driven him frantic to no purpose. You have 
 saved me from shame and death; I was beside myself 
 with anguish. Ah! monsieur, I owed you this explanation 
 after my mad ravings. When you left me just now, as 
 soon as you were out of sight, I lojiged to escape, to run a^ 
 away . . . where, I did not know. Half the women in '''"^ 
 Paris lead such lives as mine; they live in apparent luxury, '( 
 and in their soiils are tormented by anxiety. I know of poor 
 creatures even more miserable than I; there are women who 
 are driven to ask their tradespeople to make out false bills, 
 women who rob their husbands. Some men believe that an 
 Indian shawl worth a hundred louis only cost five hundred 
 francs, others that a shawl costing five hundred francs is 
 worth a hundred louis. There are women, too, with narrow 
 incomes, who scrape and save and starve their children to 
 pay for a dress. I am innocent of these base meannesses. 
 But this is the last extremity of my torture. Some women 
 will sell themselves to their husbands, and so obtain their 
 way, but I, at any rate, am free. If I chose, Nucingen would 
 cover me with gold, but I would rather weep on the breast 
 of a man whom I can respect. Ah ! to-night, M. de Marsay 
 will no longer have a right to think of me as a woman whom 
 he has paid." She tried to conceal her tears from him, hid- 
 ing her face in her hands; Eugene drew them away and 
 looked at her ; she seemed ^'> him sublime at that moment. 
 
148 FATHER GOE.IOT 
 
 "It is hideous, is it not," she cried, "to speak in a breath 
 of money and affection. You cannot love me after this," 
 
 ^dded. 
 
 The incongruity between the ideas of honor which make 
 TOmen so great, and the errors in conduct which are forced 
 tipon them by the constitution of society, had thrown Eu- 
 gene's thoughts into confusion; he uttered soothing and con- 
 soling words, and wondered at the beautiful woman before 
 him, and at the artless imprudence of her cry of pain. 
 
 "You will not remember this against me?" she asked; 
 "promise me that you will not." 
 
 "Ah! madame, I am incapable of doing so," he said. 
 She took his hand and held it toVher heart, a movement full 
 of grace that expressed her deep gratitude. 
 
 "I am free and happy once more, thanks to you," she said. 
 "Oh ! I have felt lately as if I were in the grasp of an iron 
 hand. But after this I mean to live simply and to spend 
 nothing. You will think me just as pretty, will you not, my 
 friend? Keep this," she went on, as she took only six of 
 the banknotes. "In conscience I owe you a thousand 
 crowns, for I really ought to go halves with you." 
 
 Eugene's maiden conscience resisted; but when the 
 Baroness said, "I am bound to look on you as an accomplice 
 or as an enemy," he took the money. 
 
 "It shall be a last stake in reserve," he said, "in case of 
 misfortune." 
 
 "That was what I was dreading to hear," she cried, turn- 
 ing pale. "Oh, if ^u would that I should be anything to 
 you, swear to me that you will never re-enter a gaming-house. 
 Great heaven! that I should corrupt you! I should die of 
 sorrow !" 
 
 They had reached the Eue Saint-Lazare by this time. The 
 contrast between the ostentation of wealth in the house, and 
 the wretched condition of its mistress, dazed the student; 
 and Vautrin's cynical words began to ring in his ears. 
 
 "Seat yourself there," said the Baroness, pointing to a 
 low chair beside the fire. "I have a difBcult letter to write," 
 she added. "TeU me what to saj." 
 
FATHER GOKIDT 149 
 
 "Say nothing," Eugene answered her. "Put the bills in 
 an envelope, direct it, and send it by your maid." 
 
 "Why, you are a love of a man," she said. "Ah ! see what 
 it is to have been well brought up. That is the Beauseant 
 through and through," she went on, smiling at him. 
 
 "She is charming," thought Eugene, more and more in 
 love. He looked round him at the room ; there was an osten- 
 tatious character about the luxury, a meretricious taste in 
 the splendor. 
 
 "Do you like it ?" she asked, as she rang for the maid. 
 
 "Therese, take this to M. de Marsay, and give it into his 
 hands yourself. If he is not at home, bring the letter back 
 to me." 
 
 Therese went, but not before she had given Eugene a 
 spiteful glance. 
 
 Dinner was announced. Eastignac gave his arm to Mme. 
 de Nucingen, she led the way into a pretty dining-room, and 
 again he saw the luxury of the table which he had admired in 
 his cousin's house. 
 
 "Come and dine with me on opera evenings, and we will 
 go to the Italiens afterwards," she said. 
 
 "I should soon grow used to the pleasant life if it could last, 
 but I am a poor student, and I have my way to make." 
 
 "Oh ! you will succeed," she said, laughing. "You will see. 
 All that you wish will come to pass. I did not expect to be 
 so happy." 
 
 It is the wont of women to prove the impossible by the 
 possible, and to annihilate facts by presentiments. When 
 Mme. de Nucingen and Eastignac took their places in her box 
 at the Bouffons, her face wore a look of happiness that made 
 her so lovely that every one indulged in those small slanders 
 against which women are defenceless ; for the scandal that is 
 uttered lightly is often seriously believed. Those who know 
 Paris, believe nothing that is said, and say nothing of what is 
 done there. 
 
 Eugene took the Baroness' hand in his, and by some light 
 pressure of the fingers, or a closer grasp of the hand, they 
 
150 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 found a language in which to express the sensations which 
 the music gave them. It was an evening of intoxicating de- 
 light for both; and when it ended, and they went out to- 
 gether, Mme. de Nucingen insisted on taking Eugene with 
 her as far as the Pont Neuf, he disputing with her the whole 
 of the way for a single kiss after all those that she had show- 
 ered upon him so passionately at the Palais-Koyal ; Eugene re- 
 proached her with inconsistency. 
 
 "That was gratitude," she said, "for devotion that I did 
 not dare to hope for, but now it would be a promise." 
 "And will you give me no promise, ingrate ?" 
 He grew vexed. Then, with one of those impatient ges- 
 tures that fiU a lover with ecstasy, she gave him her hand to 
 kiss, and he took it with a discontented air that delighted 
 V, her. 
 
 \j "I shall see you at the ball on Monday," she said. 
 y -'-As Eugene went home in the moonlight, he fell to serious 
 reflections. He was satisfied, and yet dissatisfied. He was 
 pleased with an adventure which would probably give him 
 j his desire, for in the end one of the prettiest and best-dressed 
 r— women in Paris would be his; but, as a set-off, he saw his 
 |\ hopes of fortune brought to nothing ; and as soon as he real- 
 . ized this fact, the vague thoughts of yesterday evening began 
 to take a more decided shape in his mind. A cheek is sure 
 to reveal to us the strength of our hopes. The more Eugene 
 learned of the pleasures of life in Paris, the more impatient 
 he felt of poverty and obscurity. He crumpled the bank- 
 note in his pocket, and found any quantity of plausible ex- 
 cuses for appropriating it. 
 
 He reached the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve at last, and 
 from the stairhead he saw a light in Goriot's room; the old 
 man had lighted a candle, and set the door ajar, lest the stu- 
 dent should pass him by, and go to his room without "tell- 
 ing him all about his daughter," to use his own expression. 
 Eugene, accordingly, told him everything without reserve. 
 "Then they think that I am ruined !" cried Father Goriot, 
 in an agony of jealousy and desperation. 'TVhy, I have still 
 
FATHER fefoklOT 151 
 
 thirteen hundred livres a year! Mon Dieu! Poor little 
 girl! why did she not come to me? I would have sold my 
 rentes; she should hare had some of the principal, and I 
 would have bought a life-annuity with the rest. My good 
 neighbor, why did not you come to tell me of her difficulty? 
 How had you the heart to go and risk her poor little hundred 
 francs at play? This is heart-breaking work. You see what 
 it is to have sons-in-law. Oh I if I had hold of them, I would 
 wring tlieir necks. Mon Dieu! crying! Did you say she was 
 crying?" 
 
 "With her head on my waistcoat," said Eugene. 
 
 "Oh ! give it to me," said Father Goriot. "What ! my daugh- 
 ter's tears have fallen there — ^my darling Delphine, who never 
 used to ery when she was a little girl ! Oh ! I will buy you 
 another; do not wear it again; let me have it. By the terms 
 of her marriage-contract, she ought to have the use of her 
 property. To-morrow morning I will go and see Derville; 
 he is an attorney. I will demand that her money' should be 
 invested in her own name. I know the law. I am an old 
 wolf ; I will show my teeth." 
 
 "Here, father; this is a banknote for a thousand francs 
 that she wanted me to keep out of our winnings. Keep them / 
 for her, in the pocket of the waistcoat." — - ' 
 
 Goriot looked hard at Eugene, reached out and took the 
 law student's hand, and Eugene felt a tear fall on it. i 
 
 "You will succeed," the old man said. "God is just, ybu 
 see. I know an honest man when I see him, and I can tell you, 
 there are not many men like you. I am to have another dear 
 child in you, am I ? There, go to sleep ; you can sleep ; you are 
 not yet a father. She was crying ! and I have to be told about 
 it! — and I was quietly eating my dinner, like an idiot, all 
 the time — I, who would sell the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost 
 to save one tear to either of them." 
 
 "An honest man !" said Eugene to himself as he lay dovm. 
 "Upon my word, I think I will be an honest man all my life ; 
 it is so pleasant to obey the voice of conscience." Perhaps 
 
152 FATHER GOKIOT 
 
 none but believers in God do good in secret; and Eugene be- 
 lieved in a God. 
 
 The next day Rastignae went at the appointed time to 
 Mme. de Beauseant, who took him with her to the Duehesse 
 de Carigliano's ball. The Marechale received Eugene most 
 graciously. Mme. de Nucingen was there. Delphine's dress 
 seemed to suggest that she wished for the admiration of 
 others, so that she might shine the more in Eugene's eyes; 
 she was eagerly expecting a glance from him, hiding, as she 
 thought, this eagerness from all beholders. This moment 
 is full of charm for the one who can guess all that passes 
 in a woman's mind. Who has not refrained from giving his 
 opinion, to prolong her suspense, concealing his pleasure from 
 a desire to tantalize, seeking a confession of love in her 
 uneasiness, enjoying the fears that he can dissipate by a 
 smile ? In the course of the evening the law student suddenly 
 comprehended his position; he saw that, as t ^" '^"11 S'^ "^ 
 ^ Mme. de Beauseant, he was a personage in this world. He 
 |c" was already CTfedited Wltn tne conquest of Mme. de Nueingen, 
 and for this reason was a conspicuous figure; he caught the 
 envious glances of other young men, and experienced the 
 earliest pleasures of coxcombry. People wondered at' his luck, 
 and scraps of these conversations came to his ears as he went 
 from room to room; all the women prophesied his success; 
 and Delphine, in her dread of losing him, promised that 
 this evening she would not refuse the kiss that all his en- 
 treaties could scarcely win yesterday. 
 
 Rastignae received several invitations. His cousin pre- 
 
 / sented him to other women who were present; women who 
 
 jO could claim to be of the highest fashion; whose houses were 
 
 p looked upon as pleasant ; and this was the loftiest and most 
 
 fashionable society in Paris into which he was launched. So 
 
 this evening had all the charm of a brilliant debut; it was 
 
 an evening that he was to remember even in old age, as a 
 
 woman looks back upon her first ball and the memories of 
 
 her girlish triumphs. 
 
 The next morning, at breakfast, he related the storj' of his 
 
FATHER GORIO-T 153 
 
 success for the benefit of Father Goriot and the lodgers. 
 Vautrin began to smile in a diabolical fashion. 
 
 "And do you suppose," cried that cold-blooded logician, 
 "that a young man of fashion can live here m the Kne JN euve- 
 Sainte-Genevieve, in the Maison Vauquer — an exceedingly 
 respectable boarding-house in every way, I grant you, but an 
 establishment that, none the less, falls short of being fashion- 
 able? The house is comfortable, it is lordly in its abun- 
 dance ; it is proud to be the temporary abode of a Eastignac ; 
 but, after all, it is in the Eue Neuve-Sainte-Genevi^ve, and 
 luxury would be out of place here, where we only aim at the 
 purely patriarchalorama. If you mean to cut a figure in 
 Paris, my young friend," Vautrin continued, with half-pa- 
 ternal jocularity, "you must have three horses, a tilbury for 
 the mornings, and a closed carriage for the evening; you 
 should spend altogether about nine thousand francs on your 
 stables. You would show yourself unworthy of your destinj' 
 if you spent no more than three thousand francs with your 
 tailor, six hundred in perfumery, a hundred crowns to your 
 shoemaker, and a hundred more to your hatter. As for your 
 laundress, there goes another thousand francs; a young man 
 of fashion must of necessity make a great point of his linen ; 
 if your linen comes up to the required standard, people often 
 do not look any further. Love and the Church demand a fair 
 altar-cloth. That is fourteen thousand francs. I am saying 
 nothing of losses at play, bets, and presents; it is impossible 
 to allow less than two thousand francs for pocket money. I 
 have led that sort of life, and I know all about these ex- 
 penses. Add the cost of necessaries next ; three hundred louis 
 for provender, a thousand francs for a place to roost in. Well, 
 my boy, for all these little wants of ours we had need to have 
 I twenty-five thousand francs every year in our purse, or we 
 shall find ourselves in the kennel, and people laughing at us, 
 and our career is cut short, good-bye to success, and good- 
 bye to your mistress ! I am forgetting your valet and your 
 groom! Is Christophe going to carry your billets-doux for 
 you? And do you mean to emnlov tho stationery you use 
 
154 FATHEK GORIOT 
 
 at present? Suicidal policy! Hearken to the wisdom of 
 your elders !" he went on, his bass voice growing louder at 
 each syllable. "Either take up your quarters in a garret, 
 live virtuously, and wed your work, or set about the thing in 
 a different way." 
 
 Vautrin winked and leered in the direction of Mile. Taille- 
 fer to enforce his remarks by a look which recalled the late' 
 tempting proposals by which he had sought to corrupt the 
 student's mind. 
 
 Several days went by, and Eastignac lived in a whirl of 
 gaiety. He dined almost every day with Mme. de Nucingen, 
 and went wherever she went, only returning to the Ens 
 ISTeuve-Sainte-Genevieve in the small hours. He rose at mid- 
 day, and dressed to go into the Bois with Delphine if the day 
 was fine, squandering in this way time that was worth far 
 more than he knew. He turned as eagerly to learn the les- 
 sons of luxury, and was as quick to feel its fascination, as 
 the flowers of the date palm to receive the fertilizing pollen. 
 He played high, lost and won large sums of money, and at 
 last became accustomed to the extravagant life that young 
 men lead in Paris. He sent fifteen hundred francs out of 
 his first winnings to his mother and sisters, sending hand- 
 some presents as well as the money. He had given out that 
 he meant to leave the Maison Vauquer; but January came 
 and went, and he was still there, still unprepared to go. 
 
 One rule holds good of most young men — whether rich 
 or poor. They never have money for the necessaries of life, 
 but they have always money to spare for their caprices — an 
 \ anomaly which finds its explanation in their youth and in the 
 Wlmost frantic eagerness with which youth grasps at pleas- 
 lire. They are reckless with anything obtained on credit, 
 while everything for which they must pay in ready money 
 is made to last as long as possible; if they cannot have all 
 that they want, they make up for it, it would seem, by squan- 
 dering what they have. To state the matter simply — a stu- 
 dent is far more careful of his hat than of his coat, because 
 the latter being a comparatively costly article of dress, it is in 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 155 
 
 the nature of things that a tailor should be a creditor ; but it 
 is otherwise with the hatter;' the sums of monoy spent with 
 him are so modest, that he is the most independent and un- 
 manageable of his tribe, and it is almost impossible to bring 
 him to terms. The young man in the balcony of a theatre ( 
 who displays a gorgeous waistcoat for the benefit of the fair [ 
 owners of opera glasses, has very probably no socks in his 
 wardrobe, for the hosier is another of the genus of weevils 
 that nibble at the purse. This was Eastignae's condition. 
 His purse was always empty for Mme. Vauquer, always full 
 at the demand of vanity ; there was a periodical ebb and flow 
 in his fortunes, which was seldom favorable to the payment 
 of Just debts. If he was to leave that unsavory and mean 
 abode, where from time to time his pretensions met with 
 humiliation, the first step was to pay his hostess for a 
 month's board and lodging, and the second to purchase fur- 
 niture worthy of the new lodgings he must take in his quality 
 of dandy, a course that remained impossible. Kastignac, 
 out of his winnings at cards, would pay his jeweler exorbitant T/ 
 prices for gold watches and chains, and then, to meet the' ^^ 
 exigencies of play, would carry them to the pawnbroker, that 
 discreet and forbidding-looking friend of youth; but when 
 it was a question of paying for board or lodging, or for the 
 necessary implements for the cultivation of his Elysian 
 fields, his imagination and pluck alike deserted him. There 
 was no inspiration to be found in vulgar necessity, in debts 
 contracted for past requirements. Like most of those who 
 trust to their luck, he put off till the last moment the payment 
 of debts that among the bourgeoisie are regarded as sacred 
 engagements, acting on the plan of Mirabeau, who never 
 settled his baker's bill until it underwent a formidable trans- 
 formation into a bill of exchange.' 
 
 It was about this time when Eastignac was down on his 
 luek and fell into debt, that it became clear to the law stu- 
 dent's mind that he must have some more certain source of 
 income if he meant Jto live_as_he had been doing."" But-while 
 he groaned over the thorny problefQTo'f~Eis"pfeearious situa- 
 
1S6 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 tion, he felt that he could not bring himself to renounce 
 the pleasures of this extravagant life, and decided that he 
 must continue it at all costs. His dreams of obtaining a 
 fortune appeared more and more chimerical, and the real 
 obstacles grew more formidable. His initiation into the 
 secrets of the Nucingen household had revealed to him that 
 if he were to attempt to use this love affair as a means of 
 mending his fortunes, he must swallow down all sense of| 
 decency, and renounce all the generous ideas which redeem 
 the sins of youth. He had chosen this life oi apparent splen- 
 dor, but secretly gnawed by the canker worm of remorse, a 
 life of fleeting pleasure dearly paid for by persistent pain; 
 like Le Distrait of La Bruyere, he had descended so far as to 
 make his bed in a ditch; but (also like Le Distrait) he him- 
 self was uncontaminated as yet by the mire that stained his 
 garments. 
 
 "So we have killed our mandarin, have we?" said Bian- 
 chon one day as they left the dinner table. 
 
 "Not yet," he answered, "but he is at the last gasp." 
 The medical student took this for a joke, but it was not 
 a jest. Eugene had dined in the house that night for the first 
 time for a long while, and had looked thoughtful during the 
 meal. He had taken his place beside Mile. Taillefer, and 
 stayed through the dessert, giving his neighbor an expressive 
 glance from time to time. A few of the boarders discussed 
 the walnuts at the table, and others walked about the room, 
 still taking part in a conversation which had begun among 
 them. People usually went when they chose; the amount of 
 time that they lingered being determined by the amount of 
 interest that the conversation possessed for them, or by the 
 difficulty of the process of digestion. In winter-time the 
 room was seldom empty before eight o'clock, when the four 
 women had it all to themselves, and made up for the silence 
 previously imposed upon them by the preponderating mascu- 
 line element. This evening Vautrin had noticed Eugene's 
 abstractedness, and stayed in the room, though he had seemed 
 to be in a hurry to finish his dinner and go. All through 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 157 
 
 the talk afterwards he had kept out of the sight of the law 
 student, who quite believed that Vautrin had left the room. 
 He now took up his position cunningly in the sitting-room 
 instead of going when the last boarders went. He had 
 fathomed the young man's thoughts, and felt that a crisis was 
 at hand. Eastignac was, in fact, in a dilemma, which many 
 another young man must have known. 
 
 Mme. de Nucingen might love him, or might merely be 
 playing with him, but in either case Eastignac had been made 
 to experience all the alternations of hope and despair of 
 genuine passion, and aU the diplomatic arts of a Parisienne 
 had been employed on him. After compromising herself by 
 continually appearing in public with Mme. de Beauseant's 
 cousin she still hesitated, and would not give him the lover's 
 privileges which he appeared to enjoy. For a whole month 
 she had so wrought on his senses, that at last she had made an 
 impression on his heart. If in the earliest days the student 
 had fancied himself to be master, Mme. de ISTucingen had 
 since become the stronger of the two, for she had skilfully 
 roused and played upon every instinct, good or bad, in the 
 two or three jien r r'mp7-is°fl j n a voung- student in P aris. 
 This was not the result of deep design on her~part, nor wSS~-" 
 she playing a part, for women are in a manner true to them- 
 selves even through their grossest deceit, because their actions 
 are prompted by a natural impulse. It may have been that 
 Delphine, who had allowed this young man to gain such an 
 ascendency over her, conscious that she had been too demon- 
 strative, was obeying a sentiment of dignity, and either re- 
 pented of her concessions, or it pleased her to suspend them. 
 It is so natural to a Parisienne, even when passion has almost 
 mastered her, to hesitate and pause before taking the plunge; 
 to probe the heart of him to whom she intrusts her future. 
 And once already Mme. de ISTucingen's hopes had been be- 
 trayed, and her loyalty to a selfish young lover had been de- 
 spised. She had good reason to be suspicious. Or it may 
 have been that something in Eugene's manner (for his rapid 
 success was making a coxcomb of him) had warned her that 
 
1S8 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 the grotesque nature of their position had lowered her some- 
 what in his eyes. She doubtless wished to assert her dignity; 
 he was young, and she would be great in his eyes; for the 
 lover who had forsaken her had held her so cheap t^iat she 
 was determined that Eugene should not think her an easy 
 conquest, and for this very reason — ^he knew that de Marsay 
 had been his predecessor. Finally, after the degradation 
 of submission to the pleasure of a heartless young rake, it 
 was so sweet to her to wander in the flower-strewn realms 
 of love, that it was not wonderful that she should wish to 
 dwell a while on the prospect, to tremble with the vibrations 
 of love, to feel the freshness of the breath of its dawn. The 
 true lover was suffering for the sins of the false. This in- 
 consistency is unfortunately only to be expected so long as 
 men do not Icnow how many flowers are mown down in a 
 
 •young woman's soul by the first stroke of treachery. 
 
 Whatever her reasons may have been, Delphine was play- 
 ing with Eastignae, and took -pleasure in playing with him, 
 doubtless because she felt sure of his love, and confident that 
 she could put an end to the torture as soon as it was her 
 royal pleasure to do so. Eugene's self-love was engaged; he 
 could not suffer his first passage of love to end in a defeat, 
 and persisted in his suit like a sportsman determined to 
 bring down at least one partridge to celebrate his first Feast 
 of Saint-Hubert. The pressure of anxiety, his wounded self- 
 
 'love, his despair, real or feigned, drew him nearer and 
 nearer to this woman. All Paris credited him with this con- 
 quest, and yet he was conscious that he had made no progress 
 since the day when he saw Mme. de N"ueingen for the first 
 time. He did not know as yet that a woman's coquetry is 
 \ sometimes more delightful than the pleasure of secure posses- 
 \ sion of her love, and was possessed with helpless rage. If, at 
 
 \this time, while she denied herself to love, Eugene gathered; 
 the springtide spoils of his life, the fruit, somewhat sharp. 
 and green, and dearly bought, was no less delicious to the 
 taste. There were moments when he had not a sou in Ms 
 pockets, and at such times he thought in spite of his con- 
 
FATHER GOmOT 159 
 
 science of Vautrin's offer and the possibility of fortune by 
 a marriage with Mile. Taillefer. Poverty would clamor so 
 loudly that more than once he was on the point of yielding 
 to the cunning temptations of the terrible sphinx, whose 
 glance had so often exerted a strange spell over him. 
 
 Poiret and Mile. Michonneau went up to their rooms : and 
 Rastignac, thinking that he was alone with the women in 
 the dining-room, sat between Mme. Vauquer and Mme. Cou- 
 ture, who was nodding over the woolen cuffs that she was knit- 
 ting by the stove, and looked at Mile. Taillefer so tenderly 
 that she lowered her eyes. 
 
 "Can you be in trouble, M. Eugene?" Victorine said after 
 a pause. 
 
 "Who has not his troubles?" answered Eastignac. "If we 
 men were sure of being loved, sure of a devotion which would 
 be our reward for the sacrifices which we are always ready 
 to make, then perhaps we should have no troubles." 
 
 For answer Mile. Taillefer only gave him a glance, but it 
 was impossible to mistake its meaning. 
 
 "You, for instance, mademoiselle; you feel sure of your 
 heart to-day, but are you sure that it will never change?" 
 
 A smile flitted over the poor girl's lips; it seemed as if a 
 ray of light from her soul had lighted up her face. Eugene 
 was dismayed at the sudden explosion of feeling caused by 
 his words. 
 
 "Ah ! but suppose," he said, "that you should be rich and 
 happy to-morrow, suppose that a vast fortune dropped down 
 from the clouds for you, would you still love the man whom 
 you loved in your days of poverty ?" 
 
 A charming movement of the head was her only answer. 
 
 "Even if he were very poor?" 
 
 Again the same mute answer. 
 
 "What nonsense are you talking, you two?" exclaimed 
 Mme. Vauquer. 
 
 "Never mind," answered Eugene; "we understand each 
 other." 
 
 "So there is to be an engagement of marriage between 
 
160 FATHEK GOEIOT 
 
 M. le Chevalier Eugene de Kastignac and Mile. Victorine 
 Taillefer, is there?" The words were uttered in Vautrin's 
 deep voice, and Vautrin appeared at the door as he spoke. 
 
 "Oh ! how you startled me !" Mme. Couture and Mme. Vau- 
 quer exclaimed together. 
 
 "I might make a worse choice," said Rastignac, laughing. 
 Vautrin's voice had thrown him into the most painful agita- 
 tion that he had yet known. 
 
 "No bad jokes, gentlemen!" said Mme. Couture. "My 
 dear, let us go upstairs." 
 
 Mme. Vauquer followed the two ladies, meaning to pass 
 the evening in their room, an arrangement that economized 
 fire and candlelight. Eugdne and Vautrin were left alone. 
 
 "I felt sure you would come round to it," said the elder 
 man with the coolness that nothing seemed to shake. "But 
 stay a moment ! I have as much delicacy as anybody else. 
 Don't make up your mind on the spur of the moment; you 
 are a little thrown off your balance just now. You are in debt, 
 and I want you to come over to my way of thinking after 
 sober reflection, and not in a fit of passion or desperation. 
 Perhaps you want a thousand crowns. There, you can have 
 them if you like." 
 
 The tempter took out a poeketbook, and drew thence three 
 banSnoteB^'^Eich he fluttered before the student's eyes. Eu- 
 gene was in a most painful dilemma. He had debts, debts of 
 honor. He owed a hundred louis to the Marquis d'Ajuda 
 and to the Count de Trailles ; he had not the money, and for 
 this reason had not dared to go to Mme. de Restaud's house, 
 where he was expected that evening. It was one of those in- 
 formal gatherings where tea and little cakes are handed 
 round, but where it is possible to lose six thousand francs at 
 whist in the course of a night. 
 
 "You must see," said Eugene, struggling to hide a con- 
 vulsive tremor, "that after what has passed between us, I 
 cannot possibly lay myself under I any obligation to you." 
 
 "Quite right; 1 should be sorry to hear you speak other- 
 wise," answered the tempter. "You are a fine young fellow, 
 
FATHER GORIOT 161 
 
 honorable, brave as a lion, and as gentle as a young girl. You ^ 
 would be a fine haul for the devil! I like youngsters of 
 your sort. Get rid of one or two more prejudices, and you 
 will see the world as it is. Make a little scene now and then, 
 and act a virtuous part in it, and a man with a head on his 
 shoulders can do exactly as he likes amid deafening applause 
 from the fools in the gallery. Ah ! a few days yet, and you 
 will be with us; and if you would only be tutored by me, I 
 would put you in the way of achieving all your ambitions., 
 You should no sooner form a wish than it should be realized' 
 to the full ; you should have all your desires — honors, wealth, 
 or women. Civilization should flow with milk and honey for 
 you. You should be our pet and favorite, our Benjamin. 
 We would all work ourselves to death for you with pleasure; 
 every obstacle should be removed from your path. You have 
 a few prejudices left; so you think that I am a scoundrel, 
 do you? Well, M. de Turenne, quite as honorable a man as 
 you take yourself to be, had some little private transactions 
 with bandits, and did not feel that his honor was tarnished. 
 You would rather not lie under any obligation to me, eh? 
 You need not draw back on that account," Vautrin went on, 
 and a smile stole over his lips. "Take those bits of paper 
 and write across this," he added, producing a piece of stamped 
 paper, "Accepted the sum of three thousand five hundred 
 francs due this day twelvemonth, and fill in the date. The 
 rate of interest is stiff enough to silence any scruples on your 
 part; it gives you the right to call me a Jew. You can call 
 quits with me on the score of gratitude. I am quite willing 
 that you should despise me to-day, because I am sure that 
 you will have a kindlier feeling towards me later on. You 
 will find out fathomless depths in my nature, enormous and 
 concentrated forces that weaklings call vices, but you will 
 never find me base or ungrateful. In short, I am neither 
 a pawn nor a bishop, but a castle, a tower of strength,, my 
 boy." 
 
 'What manner of man are you?" cried Eugtoe. "Were 
 you created to torment me?" 
 II 
 
162 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "Why, no; I am a good-natured fellow, who is willing to 
 do a dirty piece of work to put you high and dry above the 
 mire for the rest of your days. Do you ask the reason of 
 this devotion? All right; I will tell you that some of these 
 days. A word or two in your ear will explain it. I have 
 begun by shocking you, by showing you the way to ring the 
 Ichanges, and giving you a sight of the mechanism' of the 
 social machine; but your first fright will go off like a con- 
 script's terror on the battlefield. You will grow used to re- 
 garding men as common soldiers who have made up their 
 minds to lose their lives for some self-constituted king. 
 Times have altered strangely. Once you could say to a bravo, 
 'Here are. a hundred crowns ; go and kill Monsieur So-and-so 
 for me,' and you could sup quietly after turning some one off 
 into the dark for the least thing in the world. But nowa- 
 days I propose to put you in the way of a handsome fortune ; 
 you have only to nod your head, it won't compromise you in 
 any way, and you hesitate. 'Tis an effeminate age." 
 
 Eugene accepted the draft, and received the banknotes in 
 exchange for it. 
 
 ''Well, well. Come, now, let us talk rationally," Vautrin 
 continued. "I mean to leave this country in a few months' 
 time for America, and set about planting tobacco. I will 
 send you the cigars of friendship. If I make money at it, 
 I will help you in your career. If I have no children — ^wMch 
 will probably be the' case, for I have no anxiety to raise 
 slips of myself here — ^you shall inherit my fortune. That is 
 what you may call standing by a man; but I myself have 
 a liking for you. I have a mania, too, for devoting myself 
 to some one else. I have done it before. You see, my boy, 
 I live in a loftier sphere than other men do; I look on all 
 actions as means to an end, and the end is all that I look at. 
 What is a man's life to me? N"ot thai," he said, and he 
 snapped his thumb-nail against his teeth. "A man, in short, 
 is everything to me, or Just nothing at all. Less than noth- 
 ing if his name happens to be Poiret : you can crush him like 
 a bug, he is flat and he is offensive. But a man is a god 
 
FATHER GORIOT 163 
 
 when he is like you ; he is not a machine covered with a skin, 
 but a theatre in which the greatest sentiments are displayed 
 — ^great thoughts and feelings — and for these, and these only, 
 I live. A sentiment — ^what is that but the whole world in 
 a thought ? Look at Father Goriot. For him, his two girls are 
 the whole universe; they are the clue by which he finds his 
 way through creation. Well, for my own part, I have 
 fathomed the depths of life, there is only one real sentiment 
 — comradeship between man and man. Pierre and Jaffier, 
 that is my passion. I know Venice Preserved by heart. Have 
 you met many men plucky enough when a comrade says, Tjet 
 us bury a dead body!' to go and do it without a word or 
 plaguing him by taking a high moral tone? I have done it 
 myself. I should not talk like this to just everybody, but 
 you are not like an ordin ary man ; one can talk to you, you 
 can understand things. You wHr^not daBBle" liBout' much 
 longer among the tadpoles in these swamps. Well, then, it 
 is all settled. You will marry. Both of us carry our point. 
 Mine is made of iron, and will never soften, he ! he !" 
 
 Vautrin went out. He would not wait to hear the stu- 
 dent's repudiation, he wished to put Eugene at his ease. He 
 seemed to understand the secret springs of the faint resist- 
 ance still made by the younger man; the struggles in which 
 men seek to preserve their self-respect by justifying their 
 blameworthy actions to themselves. 
 
 'Tie may do as he likes ; I shall not marry Mile. Taillefer, 
 that is certain," said Eugene to himself. 
 
 He regarded this man with abhorrence, and yet the very 
 cynicism of Vautrin's ideas, and the audacious way in which 
 he used other men for his own ends, raised him in the stu- 
 dent's ej'es; but the thought of a compact threw Eugene into 
 a fever of apprehension, and not until he had recovered 
 somewhat did he dress, call for a cab, and go to Mme. de Kes- 
 taud's. 
 
 For some days the Countess had paid more and more at- 
 tention to a young man whose every step seemed a triumphal 
 progress in the great world; it seemed to her that he might 
 
164 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 be a formidable power before long. He paid Messieurs de 
 Trailles and d'Ajuda, played at whist for part of the evening, 
 and made good his losses. Most men who have their way 
 to make are more or less of fatalists, and Eugene was super- 
 stitious ; he chose to consider that his luck was heaven's re- 
 ward for his perseverance in the right way. As soon as pos- 
 sible on the following morning he asked Vautrin whether the 
 bill that he had given was still in the other's possession; and 
 on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he repaid the three 
 thousand francs with a not unnatural relief. 
 
 "Everything is going on well," said Vautrin. 
 
 "But I am not your accomplice," said Eugene. 
 
 "I know, I know," Vautrin broke in. "You are still acting 
 like a child. You are making mountains out of molehills at 
 the outset." 
 
 Two days later, Poiret and Mile. Michonneau were sitting 
 together on a bench in the sun. They had chosen a little fre- 
 quented alley in the Jardin des Plantes, and a gentleman was 
 chatting with them, the same person, as a matter of fact, 
 about whom the medical student had, not without good rea- 
 son, his own suspicious. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," this M. Gondureau was saying, "I do not 
 see any cause for your scruples. His Excellency, Monseigneur 
 the Minister of Police " 
 
 "Ah!" echoed Poiret, "His Excellency Monseigneur the 
 Minister of Police!" 
 
 "Yes, his Excellency is taking a personal interest in 
 the matter," said Gondureau. 
 
 Who would think it probable that Poiret, a retired clerk, 
 doubtless possessed of some notions of civic virtue, though 
 there might be nothing else in his head — ^who would think it 
 likely that such a man would continue to lend an ear to this 
 supposed independent gentleman of the Hue de Buffon, when 
 the latter dropped the mask of a decent citizen by that word 
 "police," and gave a glimpse of the features of a detective 
 from the Rue de Jerusalem? And yet nothing was more 
 natural. Perhaps the following remarks from the hitherto 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 165 
 
 unpublished records made by certain observers will throw a 
 light on the particular species to which Poiret belonged in 
 the great family of fools. There is a race of quill-drivers, 
 confined in the columns of the budget between the first degree 
 of latitude (a kind of administrative Greenland where the 
 salaries begin at twelve hundred francs) to the third degree, 
 a more temperate zone, where incomes grow from three to 
 six thousand francs, a climate where the bonus flourishes like 
 a half-hardy annual in spite of some difficulties of culture. 
 A characteristic trait that best reveals the feeble narrow- 
 mindedness of these inhabitants of petty officialdom is a 
 kind of involuntary, mechanical, and instinctive reverence 
 for the Grand Lama of every Ministry, known to the 
 rank and file only by his signature (an illegible scrawl) 
 and by his title — "His Excellency Monseigneur le Min- 
 istre," five words which produce as much effect as the 
 il Bondo Gani of the Calif e de Bagdad, five words which in 
 the eyes of this low order of intelligence represent a sacred 
 power from which there is no appeal. The Minister is ad- 
 ministratively infallible for the clerks in the employ of the 
 Government, as the Pope is infallible for good Catholics. 
 Something of this peculiar radiance invests everything he 
 does or says, or that is said or done in his name ; the robe of 
 office covers everything and legalizes everything done by his 
 orders; does not his very title — His Excellency — ^vouch for 
 the purity of his intentions and the righteousness of his will, 
 and serve as a sort of passport and introduction to ideas that 
 otherwise would not be entertained for a moment ? Pronounce 
 the words "His Excellency," and these poor folk will forthwith 
 groeeed to d'o what they would not do for their own interests. 
 tpPassive obedience is as well known in a Government depart 
 BTJent as in the army itself; and the administrative syste: 
 silences consciences, annihilates the individual, and em 
 (give it time enough) by fashioning a man into a vise or a 
 thumbscrew, and he becomes part of the machinery of Gov- 
 ernment. Wherefore, M. Gondureau, who seemed to know 
 something of human nature, recognized Poiret at once as one 
 
166 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 of these dupes of officialdom, and brought out for his benefit, 
 at the proper moment, the deus ex machind, the magical 
 words "His Excellency," so as to dazzle Poiret just as he him- 
 self unmasked his batteries, for he took Poiret and the 
 Michonneau for the male and female of the same species. >L. 
 
 "If his Excellency himself, his Excellency the Minister 1 
 . . . Ah! that is quite another thing," said Poiret. 
 
 "You seem to be guided by this gentleman's opinion, and 
 you hear what he says," said the man of independent means, 
 addressing Mile. Michonneau. "Very well, his Excellency*' , 
 is at this moment absolutely certain that the so-called Vau- 
 trin, who lodges at the Maison Vauquer, is a convict who 
 escaped from penal servitude at Toulon, where he is known 
 by the nickname Trompe-la-Mort." 
 
 "Trompe-la-Mort ?" said Pioret. "Dear me, he is very 
 lucky if he deserves that nickname." 
 
 "Well, yes," said the detective. "They call him so be- 
 cause he has been so lucky as not to lose his life in the very 
 risky businesses that he has carried through. He is a danger- 
 ous man, you see ! He has qualities that are out of the com- 
 mon; the thing he is wanted for, in fact, was a matter 
 which gained him no end of credit with his own set -" 
 
 "Then is he a man of honor?" asked Poiret. 
 
 "Yes, according to his notions. He agreed to take another 
 man's crime upon himself — a forgery committed by a very 
 handsome young fellow that he had taken a great fancy to, a 
 young Italian, a bit of a gambler, who has since gone into 
 the army, where his conduct has been unexceptionable" 
 
 "But if his Excellency the Minister of Police is certain 
 that M. Vautrin is this Tro mpe-la-Mort^ why should he want 
 me ?" asked Mile. Michonneau.' 
 
 "Oh yes," said Poiret, "if the Minister, as you have been 
 so obliging as to tell us, really knows for a certainty " 
 
 "Certainty is not the word; he only suspects. You will 
 soon understand how things are. Jacques Collin, nicknamed 
 Trompe-la-Mort, is in the coniidence of every convict in the 
 three prisons; he is their man of business and their banker. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 167 
 
 He makes a very good thing out of managing their affairs, 
 which want a man of marlc to see about them." 
 
 "Ha ! ha ! do you see the pun, mademoiselle ?" asked Poiret. 
 "This gentleman calls him a man of marlc because he is a 
 marked man — ^branded, you know." 
 
 "This so-called Vautrin," said the detective, "receives the 
 money belonging to my lords the convicts, invests it for them, 
 and holds it at the disposal of those who escape, or hands it 
 over to their families if they leave a will, or to their mis- 
 tresses when they draw upon him for their benefit." 
 
 "Their mistresses! You mean their wives," remarked 
 Poiret. 
 
 "No, sir. A convict's wife is usually an illegitimate con- 
 nection. We call them concubines." 
 
 "Then they all live in a state of concubinage?" 
 
 "Naturally." 
 
 "Why, these are abominations that his Excellency ought 
 not to allow. Since you have the honor of seeing his Ex»3el- 
 lency, you, who seem to have philanthropic ideas, ought really 
 to enlighten him as to their immoral conduct — they are set- 
 ting a shocking example to the rest of society." J^/zr/Zy^^ 
 
 "But the Government does not hold them up as^odels of 
 
 all the virtues, my dear sir " 
 
 'Of course not, sir; but still- 
 
 "Just let the gentleman say what he has to say, dearie," 
 said Mile. Michonneau. 
 
 "You see how it is, mademoiselle," Gondureau continued. 
 "The Government may have the strongest reasons for get- 
 ting this illicit hoard into its hands; it mounts up to some- 
 thing considerable, by all that we can make out. Trompe- 
 la-Mort not only holds large sums for his friends the con- 
 victs, but he has other amounts which are paid over to him 
 by the Society of th£..Ten^ Thousand " 
 
 "Ten Thousand Thieves !" cried Pioret in alarm. 
 
 "No. The Society of the Ten Thousand is not an associa- 
 tion of petty offenders, but of people wiio set about their 
 work on a large scale — ^they won't touch a matter unless there 
 
168 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 are ten thousand francs in it. It is composed of the most 
 distinguished of the men who are sent straight to the Assize 
 Courts when they come up for trial. They know the Code 
 too well to risk their necks when they are nahbed. Collin is 
 their confidential agent and legal adviser. By means of the 
 large sums of money at his disposal he has established a sort of 
 detective system of his own; it is widespread and mysterious 
 in its workings. We have had spies all about him for a 
 twelvemonth, and yet we could not manage to fathom his 
 games. ^His coital and his cleverness are at the service of 
 vice ana^«rimeJthis money furnishes the necessary funds for 
 a regular army of blackguards in his pay who wage incessant 
 war against society. If we can catch Trompe-la-Mort, and 
 take possession of his funds, we should strike at the root of 
 this evil. So this job is a kind of Government aifair — a 
 State secret — and likely to redound to the honor of those 
 who bring the thing to a successful conclusion. You, sir, for 
 instance, might very well be taken into a Government depart- 
 ment again ; they might make you secretary to a Commissary 
 of Police; you could accept that post without prejudice to 
 your retiring pension." 
 
 Mile. Michonneau interposed at this point with, "What 
 is there to hinder Trompe-la-Mort from making ofE with the 
 money ?" 
 
 "Oh!" said the detective, "a man is told off to follow him 
 
 everywhere he goes, with orders to kill him if he were to rob 
 
 the convicts. Then it is not quite as easy to make off with 
 
 — a lot of money as it is to run away with a young lady of fam- 
 
 \ uy. Besides, Collin is not the sort of fellow to play such a 
 
 VJfick ; he would be disgraced, according to his notions." 
 
 "You are quite right, sir," said Poiret, "utterly disgraced 
 he would be." 
 
 "But none of all this explains why you do not come and 
 take him without more ado," remarked Mile. Michonneau. 
 
 "Very well, mademoiselle, I will explain — ^but," he added 
 in her ear, "keep your companion quiet, or I shall never have 
 done. The old boy ought to pay people handsomely for listen- 
 
FATHER GOBIOT 169 
 
 ing to him. — Trompe-la-Mort, when he came back here," he 
 went on aloud "slipped into the skin of an honest man; he 
 turned up disguised as a decent Parisian citizen, and took 
 up his quarters in an unpretending lodging-house. He is 
 cunning, that he is ! You don't catch him napping. Then 
 M. Vautrin is a man of consequence, who transacts a good 
 deal of business." 
 
 "Naturally," said Poiret to himself. 
 
 "And suppose that the Minister were to make a mistake 
 and get hold of the real Vautrin, he would put every one's 
 back up among the business men in Paris, and public opin- 
 ion would be against him. M. le Pr6fet de Police is on 
 slippery ground; he has enemies. They would take advan- 
 tage of any mistake. There would be a fine outcry and 
 fuss made by the Opposition, and he would be sent pack- 
 ing. We must set about this just as we did about the 
 Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-H61ene ; if he had 
 been the real Comte de Sainte-Helene, we should have been 
 in the wrong box. We want to be quite sure what we are 
 about." 
 
 "Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman," said Mile. o; 
 Michonneau briskly. V^ 
 
 "Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him," > 
 said the detective. "I will tell you a secret — ^he does not like^ 
 
 "Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did 
 agree to identify him for two thousand francs." 
 
 "Nothing simpler," said the stranger "I will send you a 
 little bottle containing a dose that will send a rush of blood 
 to the head; it will do him no harm whatever, but he will 
 fall down as if he were in a fit. The drug can be put into 
 wine or coffee; either will do equally well. You carry your 
 man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not dy~ 
 ing. As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the 
 shoulder, and ■presto! the letters will appear." 
 
 "Why, that is just nothing at all," said Poiret. 
 
 "Well, do you agree?" said Gondureau, addressing th* 
 old maid. 
 
170 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all," said 
 Mile. Michonneau; "am I to have the two thousand franca 
 all the same?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What will you give me then?" 
 
 "Five hundred francs." 
 
 "It is such a thing to do for so little ! It lies on your con- 
 science just the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir." 
 
 "I assure you," said Poiret, "that mademoiselle has a 
 great deal of conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable 
 person, and very Intelligent." 
 
 "Well, now," Mile. Michonneau went on, "make it three 
 thousand francs if he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at 
 all if he is an ordinary man." 
 
 "Done !" said Gondureau, "but on condition that the thing 
 is settled to-morrow." 
 
 "JN"ot quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my con- 
 fessor first." 
 
 "You are a sly one," said the detective as he rose to his 
 feet. "Good-bye till to-morrow, then. And if you should 
 want to see me in a hurry, go to the Petite Rue Saint-Anne 
 at the bottom of the Cour de la Sainte-Chapelle. There is 
 one door under the archway. Ask there for M. Gondureau." 
 
 Bianchon, on his way back from Cuvier's lecture, ever- 
 heard the sufficiently striking nickname of Trompe-la-Mort, 
 and caught the celebrated chief detective's "Done!" 
 
 "Why didn't you close with him ? It would be three hun- 
 dred francs a year," said Poiret to Mile. Michonneau. 
 
 "Why didn't I ?" she asked. "Why, it wants thinking over. 
 Suppose that M. Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, perhaps we 
 might do better for ourselves with him. Still, on the other 
 hand, if you ask him for money, it would put him on his 
 guard, and he is just the man to clear out without paying, 
 and that would be an abominable sell." 
 
 "And suppose you did warn him," Poiret went on, "didn't 
 that gentleman say that he was closely watched ? You would 
 spoil everything." 
 
FATHER GORIOT • 171 
 
 "Anyhow," thought Mile. Michonneau, "1 can't abide him. 
 He says nothing but disagreeable things to me." 
 
 "But you can do better than that," Poiret resumed. "As 
 that gentleman said (and he seemed to me to be a very good 
 sort of man, besides being very well got up), it is an act of 
 obedience to the laws to rid society of a criminal, however 
 virtuous he may be. Once a thief, always a thief. Suppose 
 he were to take it into his head to murder us all ? The deuce ! 
 We should be guilty of manslaughter, and be the first to fall 
 victims into the bargain !" 
 
 Mile. Michonneau's musings did not permit her to listen 
 very closely to the remarks that fell one by one from Poiret's 
 lips like water dripping from a leaky tap. When once this 
 elderly babbler began to talk, he would go on like clockwork 
 vmless Mile. Michonneau stopped him. He started on some 
 subject or other, and wandered on through parenthesis after 
 parenthesis, till he came to regions as remote as possible from 
 his premises without coming to any conclusions by the way. 
 
 By the time they reached the Maison Vauquer he had 
 tacked together a whole string of examples and quotations 
 more or less irrelevant to the subject in hand, which led him 
 to give a full account of his own deposition in the case of the 
 Sieur Ragoulleau versus Dame Morin, when hf had been sum- 
 moned as a witness for the defence. 
 
 As they entered the dining-room, Eugene de Eastignac 
 was talking apart with Mile. Taillefer; the conversation ap- 
 peared to be of such thrilling interest that the pair never 
 noticed the two older lodgers as they passed through the room. 
 None of this was thrown away on Mile. Michonneau. 
 
 "I knew how it would end," remarked that lady, address- 
 ing Poiret. "They have been making eyes at each other in 3 
 heartrending way for a week past." 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "So she was found guilty." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Mme. Morin." 
 
 "I am talking about Mile. Vietorine," said Mile. Michon- 
 neau, as she entered Poiret's room with an absent air, "and 
 you answer, 'Mme. Morin.' Who may Mme. Morin be ?" 
 
172 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 ''What can Mile. Victorine be guilty of ?" demanded Poiret, 
 "Guilty of falling in loTe with M. Eugene de Eastignac, 
 
 and going further and further without knowing exactly where 
 
 she is going, poor innocent!" 
 
 That morning Mme. de Nucingen had driven Eugene to de- 
 spair. In his own mind he had completely surrendered him- 
 self to Vautrin, and deliberately shut his eyes to the motive 
 for the friendship which that extraordinary man professed 
 for him, nor would he look to the consequences of such an 
 allianca Nothing short of a miracle could extricate him now 
 out of the gulf into which he had walked an hour ago, when 
 he exchanged vows in the softest whispers with Mile, Taille- 
 fer. To Victorine it seemed as if she heard an angel's voice, 
 that heaven was opening above her; the Maison Vauquer 
 took strange and wonderful hues, like a stage fairy-palace. 
 She loved and she was beloved; at any rate, she believed 
 that she was loved; and what woman would not likewise 
 have believed after seeing Eastignac's face and listening 
 to the tones of his voice during that hour snatched under the 
 Argus eyes of the Maison Vauquer? He had trampled on 
 his conscience; he knew that he was doing wrong, and did 
 ifdeliberately ; he had said to himself that a woman's happi- 
 less sffould atone for this venial sin. The energy of despera- 
 tion had lent new beauty to his face; the lurid fire that 
 burned in his heart shone from his eyes. Luckily for him, 
 the miracle took place. Vautrin came in in high spirits, and 
 at once read the hearts of these two young creatures whom 
 he had brought together by the combinations of his infernal 
 genius, but his deep voice broke in upon their bliss. 
 
 "A charming girl is my Fanchette 
 In her simplicity," 
 
 he sang mockingly. 
 
 Victorine fled. Her heart was more full than it had ever 
 oeen, but it was full of joy, and not of sorrow. Poor child! 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 173 
 
 A pressure of the hand, the light touch of Rastignac's hair 
 against her cheek, a word whispered in her ear so closely that 
 she felt the student's warm breath on her, the pressure of a 
 trembling arm about her waist, a kiss upon her throat — such 
 had been her betrothal. The near neighborhood of the stout 
 Sylvie, who might invade that glorified room at any moment, 
 only made these first tokens of love more ardent, more elo- 
 quent, more entrancing than the noblest deeds done for love's 
 sake in the most famous romances. This plain-song of love, 
 to use the pretty expression of our forefathers, seemed almost 
 criminal to the devout young girl who went to confession every 
 fortnight. In that one hour she had poured out more of the 
 treasures of her soul than she could give in later days of 
 wealth and happiness, when her whole self followed the gift. 
 
 "The thing is arranged," Vautrin said to Eugene, who re- 
 mained. "Our two dandies have fallen out. Everything was 
 done in proper form. It is a matter of opinion. Our pigeon 
 has insulted my hawk. They will meet to-morrow in the re- 
 doubt at Clignancourt. By half-past eight in the morning 
 Mile. Taillefer, calmly dipping her bread and butter in her 
 coffee cup, will be sole heiress of her father's fortune and af- 
 fections. A funny way of putting it, isn't it? Taillefer's 
 youngster is an expert swordsman, and quite cocksure about 
 it, but he will be bled; I have just invented a thrust for his_ 
 benefit, a way of raising your sword point and driving it at 
 the forehead. I must show you that thrust ; it is an uncom- 
 monly handy thing to know." "— — ' 
 
 Rastignae heard him in dazed bewilderment; he could not 
 find a word in reply. Just then Goriot came in, and Bian- 
 chon and a few of the boarders likewise appeared. 
 
 "That is just as I intended," Vautrin said. "You know 
 quite well what you are about. Good, my little eaglet ! You 
 are born to command, you are strong, you stand firm on your 
 feet, you are game ! I respect you." 
 
 He made as though he would take Eugene's hand, but Eas- 
 tignae hastily withdrew it, sank into a chair, and turned 
 ghastly pale; it seemed to him that there was a sea of blood 
 before his eyes. 
 
1T4 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 "Oh ! so we have still a few dubious tatters of the swaddling 
 clothes of virtue about us !" murmured Vautrin. "But Papa 
 Doliban has three millions; I know the amount of his for- 
 tune. Once have her dowry in your hands, and your charac- 
 ter will be as white as the bride's white dress, even in your 
 own eyes." 
 
 Eastignac hesitated no longer. He made up his mind that 
 he would go that evening to warn the Taillefers, father and 
 son. But just as Vautrin left him, Father Goriot came up 
 and said in his ear, "You look melancholy, my boy;, I will 
 cheer you up. Come with me." 
 
 The old vermicelli dealer lighted his dip at one of the lamps 
 as he spoke. Eugene went with him, his curiosity, had been 
 aroused. 
 
 "Let us go up to your room," the worthy soul remarked, 
 when he had asked Sylvie for the law student's key. "This 
 morning," he resumed, "you thought that she did not care 
 about you, did you not ? Eh ? She would have nothing to 
 say to you, and you went away out of humor and out of heart. 
 Stuff and rubbish ! She wanted you to go because she was ex- 
 pecting me! Now do you understand? We were to eom- 
 plete the arrangements for taking some chambers for you, a 
 jewel of a place, you are to move into it in three days' time. 
 Don't split upon me. She wants it to be a surprise; but I 
 couldn't bear to keep the secret from you. You will be in the 
 Eue d'Artois, only a step or two from the Eue Saint-Lazare, 
 and you are to be housed like a prince ! Any one might have 
 thought we were furnishing the house for a bride. Oh! we 
 have done a lot of things in the last month, and you knew 
 nothing about it. My attorney has appeared on the scene, 
 and my daughter is to have thirty-six thousand francs a year, 
 the interest on her money, and I shall insist on having her 
 ieight hundred thousand invested in sound securities, landed 
 property that won't run away." 
 
 Eugene was dumb. He folded his arms and paced up and 
 down his cheerjess, untidy room. Father Goriot waited till 
 the student's back was turned, and seized the opportunity to 
 
Vttutrm came m m high spirits 
 
FATHER GORIOT 175 
 
 go to the chimney-piece and set upon it a little red morocco 
 case with Rastignac's arms stamped in gold on the leather. 
 
 'Hy dear boy," said the kind soul, "I have been up to the 
 eyes in this business. You see, there was plenty of selfishness 
 on my part; I have an interested motive in helping you to 
 change lodgings. You will not refuse me if I ask you some* 
 thing; will you, eh?" 
 
 '^hatisit?" 
 ' "There is a room on the fifth floor, up above your rooms, 
 that is to let along with them; that is where I am going to 
 live, isn't that so? I am getting old; I am too far from my 
 girls. I shall not be in the way, but I shall be there, that is all. 
 You will come and talk to me about her every evening. It will 
 not put you about, will it ? I shall have gone to bed before you 
 come in, but I shall hear you come up, and I shall say to my- 
 self, 'He has just seen my little Delphine. He has been to a 
 dance with her, and she is happy, thanks to him.' If I were 
 ill, it would do my heart good to hear you moving about be- 
 low, to know when you leave the house and when you come 
 in. It is only a step to the Champs-filysees, where they go 
 every day, so I shall be sure of seeing them, whereas now I am 
 sometimes too late. And then — perhaps she may come to see 
 you! I shall hear her, I shall see her in her soft quilted 
 pelisse tripping about as daintily as a kitten. In this one 
 month she has become my little girl again, so light-hearted 
 and gay. Her soul is recovering, and her happiness is owing 
 to you ! Oh ! I would do impossibilities for you. Only just 
 now she said to me, 'I am very happy, papa !' When they say 
 'father' stifily, it sends a chill through me; but when they call 
 me 'papa,' it is as if they were little girls again, and it brings 
 all the old memories back. I feel most their father then; I 
 even believe that they belong to me, and to no one else." 
 
 The good man wiped his eyes, he was crying. 
 
 "It is a long while since I have heard them talk like that, a 
 long, long time since she took my arm as she did to-day. Yes, 
 indeed, it must be quite ten years since I walked side by side 
 with one of my girls. How pleasant it was to keep step with 
 
4 
 
 176 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 her, to feel the touch of her gown, the -warmth of her arm! 
 Well, I took Delphine everywhere this morning; I went shop- 
 ping with her, and I brought her home again. Ob ! you must 
 let me live near you. You may want some one to do you a 
 service some of these -days, and I shall be on the spot to do it. 
 Oh ! if only that great dolt of an Alsatian would die, if his 
 gout would have the sense to attack his stomach, how happy 
 my poor child would be! You would be my son-in-law; you 
 would be her husband in the eyes of the world. Bah ! she has 
 known no happiness, that excuses everything. Our Father 
 in heaven is surely on the side of fathers on earth who love 
 their children. How fond of you she is!" he said, raising 
 his head after a pause. "All the time we were going about 
 together she chatted away about you. 'He is nice-looking, 
 papa; isn't he? He is kind-hearted! Does he talk to you 
 about me ?' Pshaw ! she said enough about you to fill whole 
 volumes ; between the Eue d'Artois and the Passage des Pan- 
 oramas she poured her heart out into mine. I did not feel 
 old once during that delightful morning; I felt as light as a 
 feather. I told her how you had given that banknote to me; 
 it moved my darling to tears. But what can this be on your 
 chimney-piece?" said Father Goriot at last. Eastignae had 
 showed no sign, and he was dying of impatience. 
 
 Eugene stared at his neighbor in dumb and dazed bewil- 
 derment. He thought of Vautrin, of that duel to be fought 
 to-morrow morning, and of this realization of his dearest 
 hopes, and the violent contrast between the two sets of ideas 
 gave him all the sensations of nightmare. He went to the 
 chimney-piece, saw the little square case, opened it, and found 
 a watch of Breguet's make wrapped in paper, on which these 
 words were written: 
 
 "I want you to think of me every hour, because . . • 
 
 "Delphine." 
 
 That last word doubtless contained an allusion to some 
 scene that had taken place between them. Eugene felt 
 
FATHER GORIOT 177 
 
 touchfid. Inside the gold watch-case his arms had been 
 wrought in enamel. The chain, the key, the workmanship 
 and design of the trinket were all such as he had imagined, 
 for he had long coveted such a possession. Father Goriot was 
 radiant. Of course he had promised to tell his daughter 
 every little detail of the scene and of the effect produced upon 
 Eugene by her present; he shared in the pleasure and excite- 
 ment of the young people, and seemed to be not the least 
 happy of the three. He loved Eastignac already for his own 
 as well as for his daughter's sake. 
 
 'Tfou must go and see her ; she is expecting you this even- 
 ing. That great lout of an Alsatian is going to have supper 
 with his opera-dancer. Aha ! he looked very foolish when my 
 attorney let him know where he was. He says he idolizes my 
 daughter, does he ? He had better let her alone, or I will kill 
 him. To think that my Delphine is his" — ^he heaved a sigh 
 — "it is enough to make me murder him, but it would not be 
 manslaughter to kill that animal; he is a pig with a calf's 
 brains. — ^You will take me with you, will you not?" 
 
 "Yes, dear Father Goriot; you know very well how fond I 
 am of you " 
 
 "Yes, I do know very well. You are not ashamed of me, 
 are you ? Not you ! Let me embrace you," and he flung his 
 arms round the student's neck. 
 
 "You Avill make her very happy; promise me that you will ! 
 You will go to her this evening, will you not?" 
 
 "Oh ! yes. I must go out ; I have some urgent business on 
 hand." 
 
 "Can I be of any use?" 
 
 "My word, yes ! Will you go to old Taillefer's while I go 
 to Mme. de Nueingen? Ask him to make an appointment 
 with me some time this evening; it is a matter of life and 
 death." 
 
 "Really, young man !" cried Father Goriot, with a change 
 of countenance ; "are you really paying court to his daughter, 
 as those simpletons were saying down below? . . . Ton- 
 nerre de Dieu! you have no notion what a tap a la Goriot is 
 
 12 
 
IW FATHER GORIOT 
 
 like, and if you are playing a double game, I shall put a stop 
 to it by one blow of the fist. . . Oh ! the thing is impos- 
 sible !" 
 
 "I swear to you that I love but one woman in the world," 
 said the stu^gpt. "I only knew it a moment ago." 
 
 "Oh ! what happiness !" cried Goriot. 
 
 "But young Taillefer has been called out; the duel comes 
 off to-morrow morning, and I have heard it said that he maj 
 jlose his life in it." 
 
 "But what business is it of yours?" said Goriot. 
 
 "Why, I ought to tell him so, that he may prevent his son 
 from putting in an appearance " 
 
 Just at that moment Vautrin's voice broke in upon them; 
 he was standing at the threshoid of his door and singing: 
 
 "Oh! Richard, oh my king! 
 All the world abandons thee! 
 Broum! broum! broum! broum! bronm! 
 
 The same old story everywhere, O 
 
 A roving heart and a . . . tra la la." 
 
 "Gentlemen !" shouted Christophe, "the soup is ready, and 
 every one is waiting for you." 
 
 "Here," Vautrin called down to him, "come and take a bot- 
 tle of my Bordeaux." <^ 
 
 "Do you think your watch is pretty?" asked Goriot. "She 
 has good taste, hasn't she ? Eh ?" 
 
 Vautrin, Father Goriot, and Eastignac came downstairs in 
 company, and, all three of them being late, were obliged to 
 sit together. 
 
 Eugene was as distant as possible in his manner to Vau- 
 trin during dinner ; but the other, so charming in Mme. Vau- 
 quer's opinion, had never been so witty. His lively sallies and 
 sparkling talk put the whole table in good humor. His as- 
 surance and coolness filled Eugene with consternation. 
 
 "Why, what has come to you to-day ?" inquired Mme. Vau- 
 quer. "You are as merry as a skylark." 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 179 
 
 • ""I am always in spirits after I have made a good bargain." 
 
 "Bargain?" said Eugene. 
 
 ''Well, yes, bargain. I have just delivered a lot of goods, 
 and I shall be paid a handsome commission on them — Mile. 
 Michonneau," he went on, seeing that the elderly spinster 
 was scrutinizing him intently, "have you any objection t? 
 some feature in my face, that you are making those lynx eye« 
 at me ? Just let me know, and I will have it changed to oblige 
 you . . . We shall not fall out about it, Poiret, I dare 
 say?" he added, winking at the superannuated clerk. 
 
 "Bless my soul, you ought to stand as model for a burlesque 
 Hercules," said the young painter. 
 
 "I will, upon my word ! if Mile. Michonneau will consent 
 to sit as the Venus of Pere-Lachaise," replied Vautrin. 
 
 "There's Poiret," suggested Bianchon. 
 
 "Oh ! Poiret shall pose as Poiret. He can be a garden god !" 
 cried Vautrin ; 'Tiis name means a pear " 
 
 "A sleepy pear!" Bianchon put in. "You will come in 
 between the pear and the cheese." 
 
 "What stuff you are all talking!" said Mme. Vauquer? 
 "yon would do better to treat us to your Bordeaux; I see a 
 ^^limpse of a bottle there. It would keep us all in a g9od 
 humor, and it is good for the stomach besides." - 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Vautrin, "the Lady President calls us 
 to order. Mme. Couture and Mile. Victorine will take your 
 jokes in good part, but respect the innocence of the aged 
 Groriot. I propose a glass or two of Bordeauxrama, rendered 
 twice illustrious by the name of Laffite,; ho political allusions 
 intended. — Come, you Turk!" he added, looking at Chris- 
 tophe, who did not offer to stir. "Christophe ! Here ! What, 
 you don't answer to your own name? Bring us some liquor, 
 Turk!" 
 
 "Here it is, sir," said Christophe, holding out the bottle. 
 
 Vautrin filled Eugene's glass and Goriot's likewise, then he 
 deliberately poured out a few drops into his own glass, and 
 sipped it while his two neighbors drank their wine. All at 
 once he made a grimace. 
 
180 FATHER GOKIOT 
 
 "Corked !" he cried. "The devil ! You can drink the rest 
 of this, Christophe, and go and iind another bottle ; take from 
 the right-hand side, you know. There are sixteen of us ; take 
 down eight bottles." 
 
 "If you are going to stand treat," said the painter, "I wili 
 pay for a hundred chestnuts." 
 
 "Oh! oh!" 
 ' "Booououh !" 
 
 "Prrr!" 
 
 These exclamations came from all parts of the table liks 
 squibs from a set firework. 
 
 "Come, now, Mamma Vauquer, a couple of bottles of cham- 
 pagne," called Vautrin. 
 
 "Quien! just like you! Why not ask for the whole house 
 at once. A couple of bottles of champagne; that means 
 twelve francs ! I shall never see the money back again, I 
 know! But if M. Eugene has a mind to pay for it, I have 
 some currant cordial." 
 
 "That currant cordial of hers is as bad as a black draught," 
 muttered the medical student. 
 
 "Shut up, Bianchon," exclaimed Rastignac; "the very 
 mention of black draught makes me feel Yes, cham- 
 pagne, by all means; I will pay for it," he added. 
 
 "Sylvie," called Mme. Vauquer, "bring in some biscuits, 
 and the little cakes." 
 
 "Those little cakes are mouldy graybearda," said Vautrin. 
 "But trot out the biscuits." 
 
 The Bordeaux wine circulated; the dinner table became a 
 livelier scene than ever, and the fun grew fast and furious. 
 Imitations of the cries of various animals mingled with the 
 loud laughter; the Museum official having taken it into his 
 (head to mimic a cat-call rather like the cata^auling of the 
 animal in question, eight voices simultaneously struck up 
 ■with the following variations : 
 
 "Scissors to grind!" 
 
 "Chick-weeds for singing bir-ds I" 
 
 "Brandy-snaps, ladies !" 
 
FATHER GORIOT 181 
 
 "China to mead!" 
 
 "Boat ahoy!" 
 
 "Sticks to beat your wives or your clothes 1" 
 
 "Old clo' !" 
 
 "Cherries all ripe!" 
 
 But the palm was awarded to Bianehon for the nasal ac- 
 cent with which he rendered the cry of "Umbrellas to 
 me-end !" 
 
 A few seconds later, and there was a head-splitting racket 
 in the room, a storm of tomfoolery, a sort of cats' concert, 
 with Vautrin as conductor of the orchestra, the latter keep- 
 ing an eye the while on Eugene and Father Goriot. The 
 wine seemed to have gone to their heads already. They 
 leaned back in their chairs, looking at the general confusion 
 with an air of gravity, and drank but little; both of them 
 were absorbed in the thought of what lay before them to do 
 that evening, and yet neither of them felt able to rise and 
 go. Vautrin gave a side glance at them from time to time, 
 and watched the change that came over their faces, choosing 
 the moment when their eyes drooped and seemed about to 
 close, to bend over Eastignac and to say in his ear : — 
 
 "My little lad, you are not quite shrewd enough to outwit 
 Papa Vautrin yet, and he is too fond of you to let you make 
 a mess of your affairs. When I have made up my mind to do a 
 thing, no one short of Providence can put me off. Aha ! we 
 were for going round to warn old Taillefer, telling tales out 
 of school ! The oven is hot, the dough is kneaded, the bread 
 is ready for the oven ; to-morrow we will eat it up and whisk 
 away the crumbs; and we are not going to spoil the baking? 
 
 . . . No, no, it is all as good as done ! We may suffer 
 from a few conscientious scruples, but they will be digested 
 along with the bread. While we are having our forty winks, . 
 Colonel Count Franchessini will clear the way to Michel 
 Taillefer's inheritance with the point of his sword. Victorine 
 will come in for her brother's money, a snug jBfteen thou- 
 sand francs a year. I have made inquiries already, and I 
 
182 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 know that i(ier late mother's property amounts to more thai* 
 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 irre- 
 sistible 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, Mile. Vic- 
 torine, Vautrin, and Father Goriot, Kastignac watched as 
 though in a dream how Mme. Vauquer busied herself by col- 
 lecting 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 under- 
 stood. 
 
 "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 Sau- 
 vage, 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 Vie- 
 torine. 
 
 "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 I«ad 
 
 i 
 
FATHER GOKIOT 183 
 
 more comfortably on the back of his chair, kis sed him warmly y- 
 
 on the forehead, and began to sing: 
 
 "Sleep, little darlings; 
 I wateh while you slumber." 
 
 "^ 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 whis- 
 pered in her ear. "The young fellow worships you, and yon 
 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 meas- 
 ure his length somewhere. My word! it is disgraceful to 
 lose his senses like that, at his age! Yon 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." 
 
184 FATHEB, GOKIOT 
 
 "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 havii 
 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 I 
 he falls over towards Mile. 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, 'Tie 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 roouL 
 
 "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 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. Vic- 
 torine 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 i wild 
 flutter of joy at this close contact. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 185 
 
 "Poor, dear child!" said Mme. Couture, squeezing her 
 hand. 
 
 The old lady looked at the girl. Victorine's innocent, pa- 
 thetic face, so radiant with the new happiness that had be- 
 fallen 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 Vic- 
 torine, 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 gi^l. "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. Vau- 
 trin is a worthy man ; he reminds me a little of my late hus- 
 band, 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 Bemardin 
 de Saint-Pierre (good soul), who wrote Paul et Virginie. 
 Youth is very charming, Mme Couture 1 — Sleep on, poor boy," 
 he added, looking at Eugene, "luck sometimes comes while 
 we are sleeping. — There is something touching and attrac- 
 tive 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 de- 
 serves to be loved. If I were a woman, I would die (no — ^not 
 
186 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 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 
 
 T A^ictorine. "It seems to me," he said, "that I have seen the 
 
 ->' line of success in your hand. Let me look at it. Mile. Vic- 
 
 ;^, torine; 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 
 
 ■^j^ heiresses in Paris before very long. You will heap riches 
 
 •~^ on the man who loves you. Your father will want you to go 
 
 *o 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-tell- 
 ing. "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. Cou- 
 ture'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. 
 
FATHBK GORIOT 187 
 
 *0h! mamma dear, suppose it shoTild really happen as 
 that kind M. Vautrin said!" said Victorine with a sigh as 
 she looked at her hands. The two women were alone to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Vfhy, it wouldn't take much to bring it to pass," said 
 the elderly lady ; "just a fall from his horse, and your mon- 
 ster 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 any- 
 thing 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 ray 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 com- 
 fortable. 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 hap- 
 piest creature in Paris. 
 
188 FATHER GOKIOT 
 
 That evening's merry-making, in the course of which Vau- 
 trin had given the drugged wine to Eugene and Father Goriot, 
 was his own ruin. ' Bianehon, flustered with wine, forgot to 
 open the subject of Trompe-la-Mort with Mile. 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 decided his fate. Mile. Michonneau had very nearly 
 made up her mind to warn the convict and to throw herself 
 on his generosity, with the idea of making a better bargain 
 for herself by helping him to escape that night; but as it 
 was, she went out escorted by Poiret in search of the famous 
 chief of de+ectives in the Petite Eue Saint-Anne, still think- 
 ing that it was the district superintendent — one Gondureau — 
 with whom she had to do. The head of the department received 
 his visitors courteously. There was a little talk, and the de- 
 tails were definitely arranged. Mile. Michonneau asked. for 
 the draught that she was to administer in order to set about 
 her investigation. But the great man's evident satisfaction 
 set Mile. Michonneau thinking; and she began to see that 
 this businees involved something more than the mere cap- 
 ture of a runaway convict. She racked her brains while he 
 looked in a drawer in his desk for the little phial, and it 
 dawned upon her that in consequence of treacherous revela- 
 tions made by the prisoners the police were hoping to lay 
 their hands on a considerable suxa of money. But on hint- 
 ing her suspicions to the old fox of the Petite Eue Saint- 
 Anne, that officer began to smile, and tried to put her off 
 the scent. 
 
 "A delusion,' he said. "Collin's sorbonne is the most dan- 
 gerous that has yet been found among the dangerous classes. 
 That is all, and the rascals are quite aware of it. They rally 
 round him; he is the backbone of the federation, its Bona- 
 parte, in short ; he is very popular with them all. The rogue 
 .vrill never leave his chump in the Place de Gr^ve." 
 
 As Mile. Michonneau seemed mystified, Gondureau ex- 
 
 \ 
 
FATHER GORIOT 189 
 
 plained the two slang words for her benefit. Sorbonne and 
 chump are two forcible expressions borrowed from thieves' 
 Latin, thieves, of all people, being compelled to consider the 
 human head in its two aspects. A sorbonne is the head of 
 a living man, his faculty of thinking — his council; a chump 
 is a contemptuous epithet that implies how little a human 
 head is worth after the axe has done its work. 
 
 "Collin is playing us off," he continued, "When we come 
 across a man like a bar of steel tempered in the English 
 fashion, there is always one resource left — ^we can kill him if 
 he takes it into his head to make the least resistance. We 
 are reckoning on several methods of killing Collin to-morrow 
 morning. It saves a trial, and society is rid of him without 
 all the expense of guarding and feeding him. JVhat with 
 getting up the case, summoning witnessee, paying their ex- 
 penses, and carrying out the sentence, it costs a lot to go 
 through all the proper formalities before you can get quit 
 of one of these good-for-nothings, over and above the three 
 thousand francs that you are going to have. There is a sav- 
 ing in time as well. One good thrust of the bayonet into 
 Trompe-la-Mort's paunch will prevent scores of crimes, and 
 save fifty scoundrels from following his example; they will 
 be very careful to keep themselves out of the police courts. 
 That is doing the work of the police thoroughly, and true 
 philanthropists will tell you that it is better to prevent crime 
 than to punish it." 
 
 "And you do a service to our country," said Poiret. 
 
 "Eeally, you are talking in a very sensible manner to- 
 night, that you are," said the head of the department. '' Fes, 
 of course, we are serving our country, and we are very hardly 
 used too. We do society very great servidis that are »ot' 
 recognized. In fact, a superior man must rise above vulgar 
 prejudices, and a Christian must resign himself to the mis- 
 haps that doing right entails, when right is done in an out- 
 of-the-way style. Paris is Paris, you see! That is the ex- 
 planation of my life. — I have the honor to wish you a good- 
 evening, mademoiselle. I shall bring my men to the Jardin 
 
190 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 du Eoi in the morning. Send Christophe to the Eue du 
 Buffon, tell him to ask for M. Gondureau in the house where 
 you saw me before. — Your servant, sir. If you should ever 
 have anything stolen from you, come to me, and I will do my 
 best to get it back for you." 
 
 *Well, now," Poiret remarked to Mile. Michonneaii, "there 
 are idiots who are seared out of their wits by the word poMee. 
 That was a very pleasant-spoken gentleman, and what he 
 ivants you to do is as easy as saying 'Good-day.' " 
 
 The next day was destined to be one of the most extra- 
 ordinary in the annals of the Maison Vauquer. Hitherto 
 the most startling occurrence in its tranquil existence had 
 been the portentous, meteor-like apparition of the sham 
 Comtesse de I'Ambermesnil. But the catastrophes of this 
 great day were to cast all previous events into the shade, and 
 supply an inexhaustible topic of conversation for Mme. Vau- 
 quer and her boarders so long as she lived. 
 
 In the first place, Goriot and Eugene de Eastignac both 
 slept till close upon eleven o'clock. Mme. Vauquer, who 
 came home about midnight from the Gaite, lay a-bed till 
 v(f -J half -past ten. Christophe, after a prolonged slumber (he had 
 finished Vautrin's first bottle of wine), was behindhand witli 
 his work, but Poiret and Mile. Michonneau uttered no com- 
 plaint, though breakfast was delayed. As for Victorine and 
 Mme. Couture, they also lay late. Vautrin went out before 
 eight o'clock, and only came back just as breakfast was ready. 
 Nobody protested, therefore, when Sylvie and Christophe 
 went up at a quarter past eleven, knocked at all the doors, 
 and announced that breakfast was waiting. While Sylvie 
 and the man were upstairs. Mile. Michonneau, who came 
 |;down first, poured the contents of the phial into the silver 
 cup belonging to Vautrin — it was standing with -the others 
 in the bain-marie that kept the cream hot for the morning 
 coffee. The spinster had reckoned on this custom of the 
 house to do her stroke of business. The seven lodgers were 
 at last collected together, not without Rorae difficulty. Just 
 
 J 
 
/. 
 
 FATHER GOEIOT 191 
 
 as Eugene came downstairs, stretching himself and yaTniing, 
 a commissionaire handed him a letter from Mme. de ITuein- 
 gen. It ran thus : — 
 
 "I feel neither false vanity nor anger where you are con- 
 cerned, my friend. Till two o'clock this morning I waited 
 for you. Oh, that waiting for one whom you love ! No one 
 that had passed through that torture could inflict it on an- 
 other. I know now that you have never loved before. What 
 can have happened ? Anxiety has taken hold of me. I would^ I 
 have come myself to find out what had happened, if I had not \0 t 
 feared to betray the secrets of my heart. How can I walk V*^ 
 out or drive out at this time of day? Would it not be ruin? J^iC' 
 I have felt to the full how wretched it is to be a woman. Sendi, aX 
 a word to reassure me, and explain how it is that you have . K 
 not come after what my father told you. I shall be angry, ^Vj 
 but I will forgive you. One word, for pity's sake. You will 
 come to me very soon, will you not ? If you are busy, a line 
 will be enough. Say, 'I will hasten to you,' or else, 'I am 
 ill.' But if you were ill my father woidd have come to tell 
 me so. What can have happened ? . . ." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, what has happened?" exclaimed Eugene, 
 and,^hurrying down to the dining-room, he crumpled up the 
 letter without reading any more. "What time is it?" 
 
 "Half-past eleven," said Vautrin, dropping a lump of 
 sugar into his coffee. 
 
 The escaped convict cast a glance at Eugene, a cold and 
 fascinating glance ; men gifted with this magnetic power can 
 quell furious lunatics in a madhouse by such a glance, it is 
 said. Eugene shook in every limb. There was the sound 
 of wheels in the street, and in another moment a man with 
 a seared face rushed into the room. It was one of M. 
 Taillefer's servants; Mme. Couture recognized the livery ai 
 once. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he cried, "your father is asking for you 
 — something terrible has happened ! M. Fr6d6ric has had a 
 sword thrust in the forehead in a duel, and the doctors have 
 given him up. You will scarcely be in time to say good-bye 
 to him ! he is unconscious." 
 
192 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 "Poor young fellow!" exclaimed Vautrin. "How can 
 people brawl when they have a certain income of thirty thou- 
 sand livres ? Young people have had manners, and that is a 
 fact." 
 
 "Sir !" cried Eugene. 
 
 "Well, what then, you big baby!" said Vautrin, swallow- 
 ing down his coffee imperturbably, an operation which Mile. 
 Michonneau watched with such close attention that she had 
 no emotion to spare for the amazing news that had struck 
 the others dumb with amazement. "Are there not duels every 
 morning in Paris?" added Vautrin. 
 
 "I will go with you, Victorine," said Mme. Couture, and 
 the two women hurried away at once without either hats or 
 shawls. But before she went, Victorine, with her eyes full 
 of tears, gave Eugene a glance that said — "How little I 
 thought that our happiness should cost me tears !" 
 
 "Dear me, you are a prophet, M. Vautrin," said Mme. 
 Vauquer. 
 
 "I am all sorts of things," said Vautrin. 
 
 "Queer, isn't it?" said Mme. Vauquer, stringing together 
 a succession of commonplaces suited to the occasion. 
 "Death takes us off without asking us about it. The young 
 often go before the old. It is a lucky thing for us women 
 that we are not liable to fight duels, but we have other com- 
 plaints that men don't suffer from. We bear children, and 
 it takes a long time to get over it. What a windfall for Vic- 
 torine ! Her father will have to acknowledge her now !" 
 
 "There !" said Vautrin, looking at Eugene, "yesterday she 
 had not a penny; this morning she has several millions to 
 her fortune." 
 
 "I say, M. Eugene!" cried Mme. Vauquer, "you have 
 landed on your feet !" 
 
 At this exclamation, Father Goriot looked at the student, 
 'and saw the crumpled letter still in his hand. 
 
 "You have not read it through! What does this mean? 
 Are you going to be like the rest of them ?" he asked. 
 
 "Madame, I shall never marry Mile. Victorine," said Eu- 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 193 
 
 g^e, turning to Mme. Vauquer with an expression of terror 
 and loathing that surprised the onlookers at this scene. 
 
 Father Goriot caught the student's hand and grasped it 
 warmly. He could have kissed it. 
 
 "Oh, ho !" said Vautrin, "the Italians have a good proverb 
 — Col tempo." 
 
 "Is there any answer?" said Mme. de Nucingen's messen- 
 ger, addressing Eugene. 
 1 "Say that I will come directly." 
 
 The man went. Eugene was in a state of such violent ex- 
 citement that he could not be prudent. 
 
 "What is to be done ?" he exclaimed aloud. "There are no 
 proofs !" 
 
 Vautrin began to smile. Though the drug he had taken 
 was doing its work, the convict was so vigorous that he rose 
 to his feet, gave Rastignae a look, and said in hollow tones, 
 "Luck comes to us while we sleep, young man," and fell 
 stiff and stark, as if |he were struck dead. 
 
 "So there is a Divine Justice!" said Eugene. 
 
 "Well, if ever ! What has come to that poor dear M. Vau- 
 trin?" 
 
 "A stroke !" cried Mile. Michonneau. 
 
 "Here, Sylvie ! girl, run for the doctor," called the widow. 
 "Oh, M. Rastignae, just go for M. Bianchon, and be as 
 quick as you can; Sylvie might not be in time to catch our 
 doctor, M. Grimprel." 
 
 Rastignae was glad of an excuse to leave that den of hor- 
 rors, his hurry for the doctor was nothing but a flight. 
 
 "Here, Christophe, go round to the chemist's and ask for 
 something that's good for the apoplexy." 
 
 Christophe likewise went. 
 
 "Father Goriot, just help us to get him upstairs." 
 
 Vautrin was taken up among them, carried carefully up 
 the narrow staircase, and laid upon his bed. 
 
 "I can do no good here, so I shall go to see my daughter," 
 said M. Goriot. 
 13 
 
194 FATHBK GOBIOT 
 
 "Selfish old thing!" cried Mme. Vauquer. "Yes, go; I 
 wish you may die like a dog." 
 
 "Just go and see if you can. find some ether," said Mile. 
 Machonneau to Mme. Vauquer; the former, with some help 
 from Poiret, had unfastened the sick man's clothes. 
 
 Mme. Vauquer went down to her room, and left Mile. 
 Michonneau mistress of the situation. 
 
 "Now ! just pull down his shirt and turn him over, quick ! 
 You might be of some use in sparing my modesty," she said 
 to Poiret, "instead of standing there like a stock." 
 
 Vautrin was turned over; Mile. Michonneau gave his 
 shoulder a sharp slap, and the two portentous letters ap- 
 peared, white against the red. 
 
 "There, you have earned your three thousand francs veiy 
 easily," exclaimed Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mile. 
 Michonneau slipped on the shirt again. — "Ouf ! How heavy 
 he is," he added, as he laid the convict down. 
 
 "Hush ! Suppose there is a strong-box here !" said the old 
 maid briskly ; her glances seemed to pierce the walls, she scru- 
 tinized every article of the furniture with greedy eyes. 
 "Could we find some excuse for opening that desk ?" 
 
 "It mightn't be quite right," responded Poiret to this. 
 
 "Where is the harm ? It is money stolen from all sorts of 
 people, so it doesn't belong to any one now. But we haven't 
 time, there is the Vauquer." 
 
 "Here is the ether," said that lady. "I must say that this 
 is an eventful day. Lord ! that man can't have had a stroke; 
 he is as white as curds." 
 
 "White as curds?" echoed Poiret. 
 
 "And his pulse is steady," said the widow, laying her hand 
 on his breast. 
 
 "Steady ?" said the astonished Poiret. 
 
 "He is all right." 
 
 "Do you think so ?" asked Poiret. 
 
 "Lord! Yes, he looks as if he were sleeping. Sylvia has 
 gone for a doctor. I say. Mile. Michonneau, he is snifiBng 
 the ether. Pooh ! it is only a spasm. His pulse is good. He 
 
FATHER GORIOT 193 
 
 is as strong as a Turk. Just look, mademoiselle, what a 
 fur tippet he has on his chest ; that is the sort of man to iive 
 till he is a hundred. His wig holds on tightly, however. 
 Dear me ! it is glued on, and his own hair is red ; that is why 
 he wears a wig. They always say that red-haired people are 
 either the worst or the best. Is he one of the good ones, I 
 wonder ?" 
 
 "Good to hang," said Poiret. 
 
 'Tlound a pretty woman's neck, you mean," said MUe. 
 Miehonneau, hastily. "Just go away, M. Poiret. It is a 
 woman's duty to nurse you men when you are ill. Besides, 
 for all the good you are doing, you may as well take your- 
 self off," she added. "Mme. Vauquer and I will take great 
 care of dear M. Vautrin." 
 
 Poiret went out on tiptoe without a murmur, like a dog 
 kicked out of the room by his master. 
 
 Kastignac had gone out for the sake of physical exertion; 
 he wanted to breathe the air, he felt stifled. Yesterday even- 
 ing he had meant to prevent the murder arranged for half- 
 past eight that morning. What had happened ? What ought 
 he to do now? He trembled to think that he himself might 
 be implicated. Vautrin's coolness still further dismayed 
 him. 
 
 "Yet, how if Vautrin should die without saying a word?" 
 Eastignae asked himself. 
 
 He hurried along' the alleys of the Luxembourg Gardens 
 as if the hounds of justice were after him, and he already 
 heard the baying of the pack. _ 
 
 "Well ?" shouted Bianehon, "you have seen the Pilote f" 
 
 The Pilote was a Eadical sheet, edited by M. Tissot. It 
 came out several hours later than the morning papers, and 
 Iwas meant for the benefit of country subscribers; for it 
 ■brought the morning news into provincial districts twenty- 
 four hours sooner than the ordinary local journals. 
 
 "There is a wonderful history in it," said the house student 
 of the Hopital Cochin. '^'Young Taillefer called out Count 
 Pranchessini, of the Old Guard, and the Count put a coupls 
 
106 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 of inelies of steel into his forehead. And here is little Vic- 
 toriae one of the richest heiresses in Paris ! If we had known 
 that, eh ? What a game of chance death is ! They said Vio- 
 torine was sweet on you; was there any truth in it?" 
 
 "Shnt up, Bianehon; I shall never marry her. I am in 
 love with a charming woman, and she is in love with me, 
 so " 
 
 'Tou said that as if you were screwing yourself up to 
 be faithful to her. I should like to see the woman worth 
 the sacrifice of Master TaiUefer's money!" 
 
 "Are all the devils of hell at my heels ?" cried Eastignac. 
 
 "What is the matter with you? Are you mad? Give us 
 your hand," said Bianehon, "and let me feel your pulse. You 
 are feverish." 
 
 "Just go to Mother Viauquer's," said Eastignac; "that 
 scoundrel Vautrin has dropped down like one dead." 
 
 "Aha!" said Bianehon, leaving Eastignac to his reflec- 
 tions, "you confirm my suspicions, and now I mean to make 
 sure for myself." 
 
 The law student's long walk was a memorable one for him. 
 He made in some sort a survey__^Jbis-eOTisnience. After a 
 close scrutiny, after hesitation and self-examination, his honor 
 at any rate came out scatheless from this sharp and terrible 
 ordeal, like a bar of iron tested in the English fashion. He 
 remembered Father Goriot's confidences of the evening be- 
 fore; he recollected the rooms taken for him in the Rue 
 d'Artois, so that he might be near Delphine; and then he 
 thought of his letter, and read it again and kissed it. 
 
 "Such a love is my anchor of safety," he said to himself. 
 "How the old man's heart must have been wrung ! He says 
 nothing about all that he has been through; but who cotild 
 not guess? Well, then, I will be like a son to him; his life 
 shall be made happy. If she cares for me, she will often 
 come to spend the day with him. That grand Comtesse de 
 Eestaud is a heartless thing ; she would make her father into 
 her hall porter. Dear Delphine! she is kinder to the old 
 man ; she is worthy to bp loved. Ah ! this evening I shall be 
 very happy I" 
 
FATHBB GORIOT 19'J 
 
 He took out his watch and admired it. 
 • "I have had nothing but success ! If two people mean to 
 y/love each other for ever, they may help each other, and I 
 can take this. Besides, I shall succeed, and I will pay her a 
 hundredfold. There is nothing criminal in this liaison; noth- 
 ing that could cause the most austere moralist to frown. How 
 many respectable people contract similar unions! We de- 
 ceive nobody ; it is deception that makes a position humiliat- 
 ing. If you lie, you lower yourself at once. She and her 
 husband have lived apart for a long while. Besides, how if 
 I called upon that Alsatian to resign a wife whom he can- 
 not make happy?" y - /•- " 
 
 Eastignac's battle with himself went on for a long w:hile; 
 and though the scruples of youth inevitably gained the day, 
 an irresistible curiosity led him, about half-past four, to 
 return to the Maison Vauquer through the gathering dusk. 
 
 Bianchon had given Vautrin an emetic, reserving the con-J 
 tents of the stomach for chemical analysis at the hospital. 
 Mile. Michonneau's ofBcious alacrity had still further strength- 
 ened his suspicions of her. Vautrin, moreover, had recovered 
 so quickly that it was impossible not to suspect some plot 
 against the leader of all frolics at the lodging-house. Vau- 
 trin was standing in front of the stove in the dining-room 
 when Eastignac came in. All the lodgers were assembled 
 sooner than usual by the news of young Taillefer's duel. 
 They were anxious to hear any detail about the affair, and 
 to talk over the probable change in Victorine's prospects^. 
 Father Goriot alone was absent, but the rest were chatting. 
 No sooner did Eugene come into the room, than his eyes 
 met the inscrutable gaze of Vautrin. It was the same look 
 that had read his thoughts before — the look that had such 
 power to waken evil thoughts in his heart. He shuddered. 
 
 'TVell, dear boy," said the escaped convict, "I am likely 
 to cheat death for a good while yet. According to these 
 ladies, I have had a stroke that would have felled an ox, and 
 come off with flying colors." 
 
 "A bull you might say " cried the widow. 
 
198 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 'Tou really might be sorry to see me still alive," said 
 Vautrin in Rastignac's ear, thinking that he guessed the stu- i 
 dent's thoughts. "You must be mighty sure of yourself." ,' 
 
 "Mile. Miehonneau was talking the day before yesterdajf* 
 about a gentleman nicknamed Trompe-la-Mort" said Bian- 
 chon; "and, upon my word, that name would do very well for 
 you." 
 
 Vautrin seemed thunderstruck. He turned pale, and 
 staggered back. He turned his magnetic glance, like a ray 
 of vivid light, on Mile. Miehonneau; the old maid shrank 
 and trembled under the influence of that strong wiU, and 
 collapsed into a chair. The mask of good-nature had dropped 
 from the convict's face; from the unmistakable ferocity of 
 that sinister look, Poiret felt that the old maid was in dan- 
 ger, and hastily stepped between them. None of the lodgers 
 understood this scene in the least, they looked on in mute 
 amazement. There was a pause. Just then there was a sound 
 of tramping feet outside ; there were soldiers there, it seemed, 
 for there was a ring of several rifles on the pavement of the 
 street. Collin was mechanically looking round the walls for 
 a way of escape, when four men entered by way of the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 "In the name of the King and the Law !" said an officer, 
 but the words were almost lost in a murmur of astonishment. 
 
 Silence fell on the room. The lodgers made way for ihree 
 of the men, who had each a hand on a cocked pistol m a 
 side pocket. Two policemen, who followed the detectives, 
 kept the entrance to the sitting-room, and two more men 
 appeared in the doorway that gave access to the staircase. 
 A sound of footsteps came from the garden, and again the 
 rifles of several soldiers rang on the cobblestones under the 
 window. All chance of salvation by flight was cut off fori 
 Trom[pe-la-Mort, to whom all eyes instinctively turned. The 
 chief walked straight up to him, and commenced operations 
 by giving him a sharp blow on the head, so that the wig fell 
 off, and Collin's face was revealed in all its ugliness. There 
 was a terrible suggestion of strength mingled with cunning 
 
FATHER GORIOT . 1Sj!> 
 
 in the short, brick-red crop of hair, the whole head was in 
 tarmony with his powerful frame, and at that moment the 
 fbjes of hell seemed to gleam from his eyes. In that flash the 
 rei^l Vautrin shone forth, revealed at once before them aU; 
 they understood his past, his present, and future, his pitiless 
 doctrines, his actions, the religion of his own good pleasure, 
 the majesty with which his cynicism and contempt for man- 
 "kind invested him, the physical strength 6f an organization 
 proof against all trials. The blood flew to his face, and his 
 eyes glared like the eyes of a wild eat. He started back with 
 savage energy and a fierce growl that drew exclamations of 
 alarm from the lodgers. At that leonine start the police 
 caught at their pistols under cover of the general clamor. 
 Collin saw the gleaming muzzles of the weapons, saw his dan- 
 ger, and instantly gave proof of a power of the highest order. 
 There was something horrible and majestic in the spectacle 
 of the sudden transformation in his face; he could only be 
 compared to a cauldron full of the steam that can send 
 mountains flying, a terrific force dispelled in a moment by a 
 drop of cold water. The drop of water that cooled his wrath- 
 ful fury was a reflection that flashed across his brain like 
 lightning. He began to smile, and looked down at his wig. 
 
 "You are not in the politest of humors to-day," he re- 
 marked to the chief, and he held out his hands to the police- 
 men with a jerk of his head. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, "put on the bracelets or the hand- 
 cuffs. I call on those present to witness that I make no re- 
 sistance." 
 
 A murmur of admiration ran through the room at the 
 sudden outpouring like fire and lava flood from this human 
 volcano, and its equally sudden cessation. 
 
 "There's a Bell for you, master crusher," the convict added, 
 '?ooking at the famous director of police. 
 
 "Come, strip !" said he of the Petite Eue Saint- Anne, con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "Why?" asked Collin. "There are ladies present; I deny 
 nothing, and surrender." 
 
200 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 He paused, and looked round the room like an orator who ^ 
 is about to overwhelm his audience. 
 
 "Take this down. Daddy Lachapelle," he went on, addre^- 
 ing a little, white-haired old man who had seated himself 
 at the end of the table; and after drawing a printed form 
 from a portfolio, was proceeding to draw up a document. 
 "I acknowledge myself to be Jacques Collin, otherwise known, 
 as Trompe-la-Mort, condemned to twenty years' penal servi- 
 tude, and I have just proved that I have come fairly by my 
 nickname. — If I had as much as raised my hand," he went 
 on, addressing the other lodgers, "those three sneaking 
 wretches yonder would have drawn claret on Mamma Vau- 
 quer's domestic hearth. The rogues have laid their heads- 
 together to set a trap for me." ,• ' 
 
 Mme. Vauquer felt sick and faint at these words. 
 
 "Good Lord!" she cried, "this dpes give one a turn; and 
 me at the Galte with him only l?ist night !" she said to 
 Sylvie. 
 
 "Summon your philosophy, mamma," Collin resumed. "Is 
 it a misfortune to have sat in my box at the Gaite yesterday ;; 
 evening ? After all, are you better than we are*? The brand 
 upon our shoulders is less shameful than the brand set on 
 your hearts, you_flabby^^emba:a-X)i_-a-..soGie±y_JMtteiU'to the 
 core. Kot the best man among you could stand up to me." 
 'His eyes rested upon Kastignac, to whom he spoke with a 
 pleasant smile that seemed strangely at variance with the 
 savage expression in his eyes. — "Our little bargain still holds 
 good, dear boy ; you can accept any time you like ! Do you 
 understand?" And he sang: 
 
 "A charming girl is my Fanchette 
 In her simplicity." 
 
 "Don't you trouble yourself," he went on; "I can get in 
 my money. They are too much afraid of me to swindle me." 
 
 The convicts' prison, its language and customs, its sudden 
 sharp transitions from thft humorous to the horrible, its ap- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 201 
 
 palling grandeur, its triviality and its dark depths, were all 
 revealed in turn by the speaker's discourse; he seemed to 
 be no longer a man, but the type and mouthpiece of a de- 
 generate race, a brutal, supple, nlpar-TiAgrlorl rj^,pp nf savagPR 
 
 In one moment Collin became the poet of an inferno, vrherein 
 all thoughts and passions that move human nature (save re- 
 pentance) find a place. He looked about him like a fallen 
 archangel who is for war to the end. Eastignac lowered his 
 eyes, and acknowledged this kinship claimed by crime as an 
 expiation of his own evil thoughts. 
 
 "Who betrayed me?" said Collin, and his terrible eyes 
 traveled round the room. Suddenly they rested on Mile,. 
 Michonneau. 
 
 "It was you, old cat !" he said. "That sham stroke of apo- 
 plexy was your doing, lynx eyes ! . . . Two words from 
 me, and your throat would be cut in less thaxL a week, but I 
 forgive you, I am a Christian. You did not sell me either. 
 
 But who did? Aha! you may rummage upstairs," he 
 
 shouted, hearing the police officers opening his cupboards and 
 taking possession of his effects. "The nest is empty, the 
 birds flew away yesterday, and you will be none the wiser. 
 My ledgers are here," he said, tapping his forehead. "Kow 
 I know who sold me ! It could only be that blackguard Fil- 
 de-Soie. That is who it was, old catchpoll, eh?" he said, 
 turning to the chief. "It was timed so neatly to get the 
 banknotes up above there. There is nothing left for you — 
 spies! As for Fil-de-Soie, he will be under the daisies in 
 less than a fortnight, even if you were to tell off the whole 
 force to protect him. How much did you give the Michon- 
 nette?" he asked of the police officers. "A thousand crowns? 
 Oh you Ninon in decay. Pompadour in tatters, Venus of the 
 graveyard, I was worth more than that ! If you had given 
 me warning, you should have had six thousand francs. Ah ! 
 you had no suspicion of that, old trafficker in flesh and blood, 
 or I should have had the preference. Yes, I would have given 
 six thousand francs to save myself an inconvenient journey 
 and some loss of money," he said, as they fastened the hand- 
 
202 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 cuffs on his wrists. "These folks will amuse themselves by 
 dragging out this business till the end of time to keep me 
 idle. If they were to send me straight to jail, I should soon 
 be back at my old tricks in spite of the duffers at the Quai 
 des Orfevres. Down yonder they will all turn themselves 
 inside out to help their general — their good Trompe-la-Mort 
 . — ^to get clear away. Is there a single one among you that 
 can say, as I can, that he has ten thousand brothers ready to 
 do anything for him?" he asked proudly. "There is some 
 good there," he said, tapping his heart; "I have never be- 
 trayed any one ! — Look you here, you slut," he said to the old 
 maid, "they are all afraid of me, do you see? but the sight 
 of you turns them sick. Eake in your gains." 
 
 He was silent for a moment, and looked round at the 
 lodgers' faces. 
 
 'TVTiat dolts you are, all of you ! Have you never seen a 
 
 convict before? A convict of Collin's stamp, whom you see 
 
 before you, is a man less weak-kneed than others; he lifts 
 
 up nis V jice against the colossal fraud of the Social Contract, 
 
 -yr^sJsan Jacques did, whose pupil he is proud to declare him- 
 
 ^7*T selfc" In short, I stand here single-handed against a Govern- 
 
 ' I ment and a whole subsidized machinery of tribunals and 
 
 po lice, an d I am a match for them all." 
 
 e go"as!" cried the painter, "what a magnificent sketch 
 one might make of him !" 
 
 "Look here, you gentleman-in-waiting to his highness the 
 gibbet, master of ceremonies to the widow" (a nickname full 
 of sombre poetry, given by prisoners to the guillotine), "be 
 a good fellow, and tell me if it really was Pil-de-Soie who sold 
 me. I don't want him to suffer for some one else, that would 
 not be fair." 
 
 But before the chief had time to answer, the rest of the 
 party returned from making their investigations upstairs. 
 Everything had been opened and inventoried. A few words 
 passed between them and the chief, and the official prelimi- 
 naries were complete. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said Collin, addressing the lodgers, "th^ 
 
FATHER GOKIOT 203 
 
 mil take me away directly. You have all made my stay 
 among you very agreeable, and I shall look back upon it with 
 gratitude. Eeceive my adieux, and permit me to send you 
 figs from Provence." 
 
 He advanced a step or two, and then turned to look once 
 more at Eastignac. 
 
 "Good-bye, Eugene," he said, in a sad and gentle tone, a 
 strange transition from his previous rough and stern man-" 
 ner. 'If you should be hard up, I have left you a devoted 
 friend," and, in spite of his shackles, he managed to assume 
 a posture of defence, called, "One, two !" like a fencing-mas- 
 ter, and lunged. "If anything goes wrong, apply in that 
 quarter. Man and money, all at your service." 
 
 The strange speaker's manner was sufficiently burlesque, 
 so that no one but Eastignac knew that there was a serious 
 meaning underlying the pantomime. 
 
 As soon as the police, soldiers, and detectives had left the 
 house, Sylvie, who was rubbing her mistress' temples with 
 vinegar, looked round at the bewildered lodgers. 
 
 "Well," said she, "he was a man, he was, for all that." 
 
 Her words broke the spell. Every one had been too much 
 excited, too much moved by very various feelings to speak. 
 But now the lodgers began to look at each other, and then 
 all eyes were turned at once on Mile. Michonneau, a thin, 
 shriveled, dead-alive, mummy-like figure, crouching by the 
 stove ; her eyes were downcast, as if she feared that the green 
 eye-shade could not shut out the expression of those faces 
 from her. This figure and the feeling of repulsion she had 
 so long excited were explained all at once. A smothered 
 murmur fiUed the room ; it was so unanimous, that it seemed 
 as if the same feeling of loathing had pitched all the voices 
 in one key. Mile. Michonneau heard it, and did not stir. 
 It was Bianchon who was the first to move ; he bent over his 
 neighbor, and said in a low voice, "If that creature is going 
 to stop here, and have dinner with us, I shall clear out." 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye it was clear that every one in 
 the room, save Poiret, was of the medical student's opinion. 
 
204 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 so that the latter, strong in the support of the majority, 
 went up to that elderly person. 
 
 'Tou are more intimate with Mile. Michonneau than the 
 rest of us," he said; "speak to her, make her understand that 
 she must go, and go at once." 
 
 "At once!" echoed Poiret in amazement. 
 
 Then he went across to the crouching figure, and spoke a 
 few words in her ear. 
 
 "I have paid beforehand for the quarter; I have as much 
 right to be here as any one else," she said, with a viperous 
 look at the boarders. 
 
 "Never mind that ! we will club together and pay you the 
 money back," said Eastignac. 
 
 "Monsieur is taking Collin's part" she said, with a ques- 
 tioning, malignant glance at the law student ; "it is not diffi- 
 cult to guess why." 
 
 Eugene started forward at the words, as if he meant to 
 spring upon her and wring her neck. That glance, and the 
 depths of treachery that it revealed, had been a hideous en- 
 lightenment. 
 
 "Let her alone !" cried the boarders. 
 
 Eastignac folded his arms and was silent. 
 
 "Let us have no more of Mile. Judas," said the painter, 
 turning to Mme. Vauquer. "If you don't show the Michon- 
 neau the door, madame, we shall all leave your shop, and 
 wherever we go we shall say that there are only convicts and 
 spies left there. If you do the other thing, we will hold our 
 tongues about the business; for when all is said and done, it 
 might happen in the best society until they brand them on 
 the forehead, when they send them to the hulks. They ought 
 not to let convicts go about Paris disguised like decent citi- 
 zens, so as to carry on their antics like a set of rascally hum- 
 bugs, which they are." 
 
 I At this Mme. Vauquer recovered miraculously. She sat 
 up and folded her arms; her eyes were wide open now, and 
 there was no sign of tears in them. 
 
 "Why, do you really mean to be the ruin of my establish- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 205 
 
 ment, my dear sir? There is M. Vautrin Goodness," 
 
 she cried, interrupting herself, "I can't help calling him by 
 the name he passed himself off by for an honest man ! There 
 is one room to let already, and yon want me to turn out two 
 more lodgers in the middle of the season, when no one is 
 moving " 
 
 "Gentlemen, let us take our hats and go and dine at Flico- 
 teaux's in the Place Sorbonne," cried Bianchon. 
 
 Mme. Vauquer glanced round, and saw in a moment on 
 which side her interest lay. She waddled across to Mile. 
 Michonneau. 
 
 "Come, now," she said; "you would not be the ruin of my 
 establishment, would you, eh? There's a dear, kind soul. 
 You see what a pass these gentlemen have brought me to; 
 just go up to your room for this evening." 
 
 "Never a bit of it !" cried the boarders. "She must go, and 
 go this minute !" 
 
 "But the poor lady has had no dinner," said Poiret, with 
 piteous entreaty. 
 
 "She can go and dine where she likes," shouted several 
 voices. 
 
 "Turn her out, the spy !" 
 
 "Turn them both out ! Spies !" 
 
 "Gentlemen," cried Poiret, his heart swelling with the 
 courage that love gives to the ovine male, "respect the weaker 
 sex." 
 
 "Spies are of no sex !" said the painter. 
 
 "A precious sexorama !" 
 
 "Turn her into the streetorama !" 
 
 "Gentlemen, this is not manners ! If you turn people out 
 of the house, it ought not to be done so unceremoniously and 
 with no notice at all. We have paid our money, and we are 
 not going," said Poiret, putting on his cap, and taking a 
 chair beside Mile. Michonneau, with whom Mme. Vauquer 
 was remonstrating. 
 
 "Naughty boy!" said the painter, with a comical look; 
 "run away, naughty little boy I" 
 
206 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 'Tliook here," said Bianehon; "if you do not go, all the 
 rest of us will," and the boarders, to a man, made for the 
 fiitting-room-door. 
 
 "Oh 1 mademoiselle, what is to be done ?" cried Mme. Vau- 
 quer. "I am a ruined woman. You can't stay here; they 
 will go further, do something violent." 
 
 Mile. Michonneau rose to her feet. 
 
 "She is going! — She is not going! — She is going! — ISo, 
 she isn't." 
 
 These alternate exclamations, and a suggestion of hostile 
 intentions, borne out by the behavior of the insurgents, com- 
 pelled Mile. Michonneau to take her departure. She made 
 some stipulations, speaking in a low voice in her hostess' ear, 
 and then — "I shall go to Mme. Buneaud's," she said, with a 
 threatening look. 
 
 "Go where you please, mademoiselle," said Mme. Vau- 
 quer, who regarded this choice of an opposition establishment 
 as an atrocious insult. "Go and lodge with the Buneaud; 
 the wine would give a cat the colic, and the food is cheap 
 and nasty." 
 
 The boarders stood aside in two rows to let her pass; not 
 a word was spoken. Poiret looked so wistfully after Mile. 
 Michonneau, and so artlessly revealed that he was in two 
 minds whether to go or stay, that the boarders, in their joy 
 at being quit of Mile. Michonneau, burst out laughing at the 
 eight of him. 
 
 "Hist !— st !— st ! Poiret," shouted the painter. "Hallo! 
 I say, Poiret, haUo I" The employe from the Mus6um began 
 to sing: 
 
 "Partant pour la Syria, 
 Le jeune et beau Dunois ..." 
 I 
 
 "Get along with you; you must be dying to go, trahit sm 
 quemque voluptas!" said Bianehon. 
 
 "Every one to his taste — ^free rendering from Virgil," said 
 the tutor. 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 207 
 
 Mile. Michoimeau made a movement as if to take Poiret's 
 arm, with an appealing glance that he could not resist. The 
 two went out together, the old maid leaning upon him, and 
 there was a burst of applause, followed by peals of laughter. 
 
 "Bravo, Poiret !" 
 
 "Who would have thought it of old Poiret !" 
 
 "Apollo Poiret!" 
 
 "Mars Poiret!" 
 
 "Intrepid Poiret !" 
 
 A messenger came in at that moment with a letter fot 
 Mme. Vauquer, who read it through, and collapsed in her 
 chair. 
 
 "The house might as well be burned down at once," cried 
 she, "if there are to be any more of these thunderbolts! 
 Young Taillefer died at three o'clock this afternoon. It 
 serves me right for wishing well to those ladies at that poor 
 young man's expense. Mme. Couture and Victorine want 
 me to send their things, because they are going to live with 
 her father. M. Taillefer allows his daughter to keep old 
 Mme. Couture with her as lady companion. Four rooms to 
 let ! tad five lodgers gone ! . . ." 
 
 She sat up, and seemed about to burst into tears. 
 
 "Bad luck has come to lodge here, I think," she cried. , 
 
 Once more there came a sound of wheels from the street 
 outside. 
 
 "What ! another windfall for somebody !" was Sylvie's com- 
 ment. 
 
 But it was Goriot who came in, looking so radiant, so 
 flushed with happiness, that he seemed to have grown young 
 again. 
 
 "Goriot in a cab !" cried the boarders ; "the world is com- 
 ing to an end." 
 
 The good soul made straight for Eugene, who was standing 
 wrapped in thought in a comer, and laid a hand on the young 
 man's arm. 
 
 "Come," he said, with gladness in his eyes. 
 
 "Then you haven't heard the news ?" said Eugene. "Vau- 
 
208 FATHEE GOBIOT 
 
 trin was an escaped convict; they have just arrested him; 
 and young Taillefer is dead." 
 
 "Very -well, but what business is it of ours?" replied 
 Father Goriot. "I am going to dine with my daughter in 
 your house, do you understand? She is expecting you. 
 Come!" 
 
 He carried off Eastignac with him by main force, and they 
 departed in as great a hurry as a pair of eloping lovers. . 
 
 "Now, let us have dinner," cried the painter, and every 
 one drew his chair to the table. 
 
 "Well, I never," said the portly Sylvie. "Nothing goes 
 right to-day! The haricot mutton has caught! Bah! you 
 will have to eat it, burned as it is, more's the pity !" I 
 
 Mme. Vauquer was so dispirited that she could not say 
 a word as she looked round the table and saw only ten people 
 where eighteen should be ; but every one tried to comfort and 
 cheer her. At first the dinner contingent, as was natural, 
 talked about Vautrin and the day's events; but the conversa- 
 tion wound round to such topics of interest as duels, jails, 
 justice, prison life, and alterations that ought to be made in 
 the laws. Thej^ s^on wandered mile^ away ^Erom Jacques 
 X!ollin and Victorine and her brother. There might be only 
 ten of thein,"BuETBey^ade noise eh'ougirf or twenty; indeed, 
 there seemed to be more of them than usual; that was the 
 only difference between yesterday and to-day. Indifference 
 to th e fate of others is a matter of course in this Rp.lfish worlj , 
 "l^tfcE', on the morrow of a tragedy, s eeks among the even ts 
 qTTSTsTOT'XTfesF'sCTiaJEionT^ appetite, 
 
 and tliis_indiffersnc& soonISijF'e3"thejappe r h^3,- Mme. 
 Vauquer herself grew calmer under the soothing iniluence 
 of hope, and the mouthpiece of hope was the portly Sylvie. 
 
 That day had gone by like a dream for Eugene, and the 
 sense of unreality lasted into the evening; so that, in spite 
 \of his energetic character and clear-headedness, his ideaf, 
 were a chaos as he sat beside Goriot in the cab. The old man's 
 voice was full of unwonted happiness, but Eugene had been 
 shaken by so many emotions that the words sounded in his 
 ears like words spoken in a dream. 
 
FATHEB GOmOT 209 
 
 "It was finished this morning ! All three of ns are going 
 to dine there together, together! Do you understand? I 
 have not dined with my Delphine, my little Delphine, these 
 four years, and I shall have her for a whole evening! We 
 have been at your lodging the whole tirqe since morning. 
 I have been working like a porter in my shirt sleeves, helping 
 to carry in the furniture. Aha ! you don't know what pretty 
 ways she has ; at table she will look after me, 'Here, papa, just 
 try this, it is nice.' And I shall not be able to eat. Oh, it is 
 a long while since I have been with her in quiet every-day life 
 as we 'shall have her." 
 
 "It really seems as if the world had been turned upside 
 down." 
 
 "Upside down?" repeated Father Goriot. "Why, the world 
 has never been so right-side up. I see none but smiling faces 
 in the streets, people who shake hands cordially and embrace 
 each other, people who all look as happy as if they were going 
 to dine with their daughter, and gobble down a nice little 
 dinner that she went with me to order of the chef at the Cafe 
 des Anglais. But, pshaw ! with her beside you gall and worm- 
 wood would be as sweet as honey." 
 
 "I feel as if I were coming back to life again," said Eugene. 
 
 'TVhy, hurry up there !" cried Father Goriot, letting down 
 the vrindow in front. "Get on faster; I will give you five 
 francs if you get to the place I told you of in ten minutes 
 time." 
 
 With this prospect before him the cabman crossed Paris 
 with miraculous celerity. 
 
 "How that fellow crawls !" said Father Goriot. 
 
 "But where are you taking me?" Eugene asked him. 
 
 "To your own house," said Goriot. 
 
 The cab stopped in the Eue d'Artois. Father Goriot 
 stepped out first and flung ten francs to the man with the 
 recklessness of a widower returning to bachelor ways. 
 
 "Come along upstairs," he said to Eastignac. They crossed 
 a courtyard, and climbed up to the third floor of a new and 
 handsome house. Here they stopped before a door; but be- 
 14 
 
210 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 fore Groriot coiild ring, it was opened by Tli6rese, Mme. de 
 Nueingen's maid. Eugene found himself in a charming set 
 of chambers ; an ante-room, a little drawing-room, a bedroom, 
 and a study, looking out upon a garden. The furniture and 
 the decoration of the little drawing-room were of the most 
 daintily charming description, the room was full of soft light, 
 and Delphine rose up from a low chair by the fire and stood 
 before him. She set her fire-screen down on the chinmey- 
 piece, and spoke with tenderness in every tone of her voice. 
 
 "So we had to go in search of you, sir, you who are so slow 
 to understand !" 
 
 Th^rese left the room. The student took Delphine in his 
 arms and held her ia a tight clasp, his eyes filled with tears 
 of joy. This last contrast between his present surroundings 
 and the scenes he had just witnessed was too much for Eas- 
 tignac's over-wrought nerves, after the day's strain and ex- 
 citement that had wearied heart and brain; he was almost 
 overcome by it. 
 
 "I felt sure myself that he loved you," murmured Father 
 Goriot, while Eugene lay back bewildered on the sofa, utterly 
 unable to speak a word or to reason out how and why the 
 magic wand had been waved to bring about this final trans- 
 formation scene. 
 
 "But you must see your rooms," said Mme. de Nucingen. 
 She took his hand and led him into a room carpeted and fur- 
 nished like her own; indeed, down to the smallest details, it 
 was a reproduction in miniature of Delphine's apartment. 
 
 "There is no bed," said Eastignac. 
 
 "N'o, monsieur," she answered, reddening, and pressing his 
 hand. Eugene, looking at her, understood, young though he 
 yet was, how deeply modesty is implanted in the heart of a 
 woman who loves. 
 
 "You are one of those beings whom we cannot choose but 
 to adore for ever," he said in her ear. "Yes, the deeper and 
 truer love is, the more mysterious and closely veiled it should 
 be; I can dare to say so, since we understand each other so 
 well. No one shall learn our secret." 
 
FATHER GORIOT 211 
 
 "Oh ! so I am nobody, I suppose," growled the father. 
 
 'TToTi know quite well that 'we' means you." 
 
 "Ah ! that is what I wanted. You will not mind me, willj 
 you? I shall go and come like a good fairy who makes him- 
 self felt everywhere without being seen, shall I not? Eh,l 
 Delphinette, Ninette, Dedel — ^was it not a good idea of mine 
 to say to you, 'There are some nice rooms to let in the Eue 
 d'Artois; let us furnish them for him?' And she would not 
 hear of it! Ah! your happiness has been all my doing. I, 
 am the author of your happiness and of your existence. 
 Fathers must always be giving if they would be happy them- 
 selves; always giving — they would not be fathers else." 
 
 "Was that how it happened?" asked Eugene. 
 
 "Yes. She would not listen to me. She was afraid that 
 people would talk, as if the rubbish that they say about you 
 were to be compared with happiness ! Why, all women dream 
 of doing what she has done-- " 
 
 Father Goriot found himself without an audience, for 
 Mme. de Kucing^n had led Eastignac into the study; he 
 heard a kiss given and taken, low though the sound was. 
 
 The study was furnished as elegantly as the other rooms, 
 and nothing was wanting there. 
 
 "Have we guessed your wishes rightly ?" she asked, as they 
 returned to the drawing-room for dinner. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "only too well, alas ! For all this luxury 
 so well carried out, this realization of pleasant dreams, the 
 elegance that satisfies all the romantic fancies of youth, ap- 
 peals to me so strongly that I cannot but feel that it is my 
 rightful possession, but I cannot accept it from you, and I 
 am too poor as yet to " 
 
 "Ah ! ah ! you say me nay already," she said with arch im- 
 periousness, and a charming little pout of the lips, a woman's 
 way of laughing away scruples. 
 
 But Eugene had submitted so lately to that solemn self- 
 questioning, and Vautrin's arrest had so plainly shown him 
 the depths of the pit that lay ready to his feet, that the in- 
 stincts of generosity and honor had been strengthened in him. 
 
212 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 and he could not allow himself to he coaxed into abandoning 
 his high-minded determinations. Profound melancholy 
 filled his mind. 
 
 "Do you really mean to refuse?" said Mme. de Nucingen. 
 "And do you know what such a refusal means? That you 
 are not sure of yourself, that you do not dare to bind your- 
 self to me. Are you really afraid of betraying my affection? 
 If you love me, if I — love you, why should you shrink back 
 from such a slight obligation? If you but knew what a 
 pleasure it has been to see after all the arrangements of this 
 bachelor establishment, you would not hesitate any longei, 
 you would ask me to forgive you for your hesitation. I had 
 some money that belonged to you, and I have made good use 
 of it, that is all. You mean this for magnanimity, but it is 
 very little of you. You are asking me for far more than this. 
 . . . Ah !" she cried, as Eugene's passionate glance 
 was turned on her, "and you are making difficulties about the 
 merest trifles. Oh, if you feel no love whatever for me, re- 
 fuse, by all means. My fate hangs on a word from you. 
 Speak! — Father," she said after a pause, "make him listen 
 to reason. Can he imagine that I am less nice than he is on 
 the point of honor?" 
 
 Father Goriot was looking on and listening to this pretty 
 quarrel with a placid smile, as if he had fouad some balm for 
 all the sorrows of life. 
 
 "Child that you are!" she cried again, catching Eugene's 
 hand. "You are just beginning life ; you find barriers at the 
 outset that many a man finds insurmountable; a woman's 
 hand opens the way, and you shrink back ! Why, you are sure 
 to succeed! You will have a brilliant future. Success is 
 written on that broad forehead of yours, and will you not be 
 able to repay me my loan of to-day ? Did not a lady in olden 
 times arm her knight with sword and helmet and coat of mail, 
 and find him a charger, so that he might fight for her in the 
 tournament? Well, then, Eugene, these things that I offer 
 you are the weapons of this age ; every one who means to be 
 Bomething miist have such tools as these. A pretty place your 
 
FATHER. GORIOT 213 
 
 garret must be if it is like papa's room ! See, dinner is wait- 
 ing all this time. Do yon want to make me unhappy? — 
 Why don't you answer?" she said, shaking his hand. "Mon 
 Dieu! papa, make up his mind for him, or I will go away 
 and never see him any more." 
 
 "I will make up your mind," said Goriot, coming down 
 from the clouds. "Now, my dear M. Eugene, the next thing 
 is to borrow money of the Jews, isn't it ?" 
 i "There is positively no help for it," said Eugene. 
 
 "All right, I will give you credit," said the other, drawing 
 out a cheap leather pocket-book, much the worse for wear. 
 "I have turned Jew myself; I paid for everything; here are 
 the invoices. You do not owe a penny for anything here. It 
 did not come to very much — five thousand francs at most, and 
 I am going to lend you the money myself. I am not a woman 
 — ^you cannot refuse me. You shall give me a receipt on a 
 scrap of paper, and you can return it some time or other." 
 
 Delphine and Eugene looked at each other in amazement, 
 tears sprang to their eyes. Eastignae held out his hand and 
 grasped Goriot's warmly. 
 
 "Well, what is all this about? Are you not my children?" 
 
 "Oh ! my poor father," said Mme. de Nudngen. "how did 
 you do it?" 
 
 "Ah ! now you ask me. When I made up my mind to move 
 him nearer to you, and saw you buying things as if they were 
 wedding presents, I said to myself, 'She will never be able to 
 pay for them.' The attorney says that those law proceedings 
 will last quite six months before your husband can be mad-" 
 to disgorge your fortune. Well and good. I sold out my 
 property in the funds that brought in thirteCTThunSrea'lnT^ 
 fiftyTivres"" a'Jearraiid . bpUght T'sale^ anHfflg;;^of WgjeJSin^ 
 'areSr"franes^j_^£ear for fifteen thousandTranes. Then I paid 
 your' tradesmen ouF"oFIEe"reir of the capital. As for me, 
 children, I have a room upstairs for which I pay fifty 
 crowns a year; I can live like a prince on two francs a day, 
 and still have something left over. I shall not have to spend 
 anything much on clothes, for I never wear anything out. 
 
214 ' FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 This fortnight past I have been laughing in my sleeve, think- 
 
 ^, ing to myself, 'How happy they are going to be!' and — ^well, 
 
 .\J now, are you not happy?" 
 
 C^^J'Jib. papa ! papa !" cried Mme. de Nncingen, springing to 
 
 ■ ^ her father, who took her on his knee. She covered him with 
 
 kisses, her fair hair brushed his cheek, her tears fell on the 
 
 withered face that had grown so bright and radiant. 
 
 "Dear father, what a father you are! No, there is notj 
 another father like you imder the sun. If Eugene loved you 
 before, what must he feel for you now ?" 
 
 "Why, children, why, Delphinette !" cried Goriot, who had 
 
 not felt his daughter's heart beat against his breast for ten 
 
 years, "do you want me to die of joy? My poor heart will 
 
 break! Come, Monsieur Eugene, we are quits already." 
 
 And the old man strained her to his breast with such fierce 
 
 and passionate force that she cried out. 
 
 "Oh ! you are hurting me !" she said. 
 
 "I am hurting you!" He grew pale at the words. The 
 
 pain expressed in his face seemed greater than it is given to 
 
 humanity to know. The agony of this Christ of paternity 
 
 can only be compared with the masterpieces of those princes 
 
 ! of the palette who have left for us the record of their visions 
 
 ! of an agony suffered for a whole world by the Saviour of men. 
 
 { Father Goriot pressed his lips very gently against the waist 
 
 that his fingers had grasped too roughly. 
 
 yA "Oh ! no, no," he cried. "I have not hurt you, have I ?" 
 
 ' and his smile seemed to repeat the question. "You have hurt 
 
 me with that cry just now. — The things cost rather more than 
 
 that," he said in her ear, with another gentle kiss, "but I had 
 
 to deceive him about it, or he would have been angry." 
 
 Eugene sat dumb with amazement in the presence of this 
 inexhaustible love; he gazed at Goriot, and his face betrayed 
 the artless admiration which shapes the beliefs of youth. 
 "I wiU be worthy of all this," he cried. 
 "Oh ! my Eugene, that is nobly said," and Mme. de Kuein- 
 gen kissed the law student on the forehead. 
 
 "He gave up Mile. Taillefer and her millions for you," said 
 
i 
 
 FATHEE GORIOT 215 
 
 Father Goriot. 'TTes, the little thing was in. Jove with you, 
 and now that her brother is dead she is as rich as Croesus." • 
 
 "Oh ! why did you tell her ?" cried Eastignac. 
 
 "Eugene," Delphine said in his ear, "I have" one regret now 
 this evening. Ah ! how I will love you ! and for ever !" 
 
 "This is the happiest day I have had since you two were 
 anarried!" cried Goriot. "God may send me any suffering, 
 Ibo long as I do not suffer through you, and I can still say, 
 'In this short month of February I had more happiness than 
 other men have in their whole lives.' — Look at me, Fifine !" 
 he said to his daughter. "She is very beautiful, is she not? 
 Tell me, now, have you seen many women with tha,t pretty 
 soft- color — ^that little dimple of hers ? No, I thought not. 
 Ah, well, and but for me this lovely woman would never have 
 been. And very soon happiness will make her a thousand 
 times lovelier, happiness through you. I could give up my 
 place in heaven to you, neighbor, if needs be, and go down to 
 hell instead. Come, let us have dinner," he added, scarcely 
 knowing what he said, "everything is ours." 
 
 "Poor dear father !" 
 
 He rose and went over to her, and took her face in his 
 hands, and set a kiss on the plaits of hair. "If you only knew, 
 little one, how happy you can make me — how little it takes to 
 make me happy ! Will you come and see me sometimes ? I 
 shall be just above, so it is only a step. Promise me, say that 
 you wiU !" 
 
 "Yes, dear father." 
 
 "Say it again." 
 
 "Yes, I will, my kind father." 
 
 "Hush ! hush ! I should make you say it a hundred time? 
 over if I followed my own wishes. Let us have dinner." 
 ' The three behaved like children that evening, and Father 
 'Goriot's spirits were certainly not the least wild. He lay at 
 his daughter's feet, kissed them, gazed into her eyes, rubbed 
 his head against her dress; in short, no young lover could 
 have been more extravagant or more tender. / / ■ - -/_^ 
 
 "You see !" Delphine said with a look at Eugene, ^'sb long 
 
216 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 as my father is with us, he monopolizes me. He will be 
 rather in the way sometimes." 
 
 Eugene had himself already felt certain twinges of jeal- 
 ousy, and could not blame this speech that contained the germ 
 of all ingratitude. 
 
 "And when will the rooms be ready ?" asked Eugene, look- 
 ing round. "We must all leave them this evening, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "Yes, but to-morrow you must come and dine with me," 
 she answered, with an eloquent glance. "It is our night at 
 the Italiens." 
 
 "I shall go to the pit," said her father. 
 
 It was midnight. Mme. de Nucingen's carriage was wait- 
 ing for her, and Father Goriot and the student walked back to 
 the Maison Vauquer, talking of Delphine, and warming over 
 their talk till there grew up a curious rivalry between the two 
 violent passions. Eugene could not help seeing that the 
 father's self-less love was deeper and more steadfast than bis 
 own. For this worshiper Delphine was always pure and 
 fair, and her father's adoration drew its fervor from a whole 
 past as well as a future of love. 
 
 They found Mme. Vauquer by the stove, with Sylvie and 
 Christophe to keep her company; the old landlady, sitting 
 like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, was waiting for 
 the two lodgers that yet remained to her, and bemoaning her 
 lot with the sympathetic Sylvie. Tasso's lamentations as re- 
 corded in Byron's poem are undoubtedly eloquent, but for 
 sheer force of truth they fall far short of the widow's cry 
 from the depths. 
 
 "Only three cups of coffee in the morning, Sylvie! Oh 
 dear! to have your house emptied in this way is enough to 
 break your heart. What is life, now my lodgers are gone? 
 Nothing at all. Just think of it ! It is just as if all the fur- 
 nit are had been taken out of the house, and your furniture 
 is your life. How have I offended heaven to draw down all 
 this trouble upon me? And haricot beans and potatoes laid 
 in for twenty 'people ! The police in my house, too ! We 
 
FATHER GORIOT \ 217 
 
 «hah have to lire on potatoes now, and Chxistophe will hare 
 to go !" 
 
 The Savoyard, who was fast asleep, suddenly woke up at 
 this, and said, "Madame," questioningly. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" said Sylvie, "he is like a dog." 
 
 "In the dead season, too! Nobody is moving now. I 
 would like to know where the lodgers are to drop down from. 
 It drives me distracted. And that old witch of a Michon- 
 neau goes and takes Poiret with her! What can she have 
 done to him to make him so fond of her? He runs about 
 after her like a little dog." 
 
 "Lord !" said Sylvie, flinging up her head, "those old maids 
 are up to all sorts of tricks." 
 
 "There's that poor M. Vautrin that they made out to be a 
 convict," the widow went on. '^ell, you know that is too 
 much for me, Sylvie; I can't bring myself to believe it. Such 
 a lively man as he was, and paid fifteen francs a month for 
 his coffee of an evening, paid yoii every penny on the nail 
 too." 
 
 "And open-handed he was!" said Christophe. 
 
 "There is some mistake," said Sylvie. 
 
 "Why, no there isn't ! he said so himself !" said Mme. Vau- 
 quer. "And to thin'', that all these things have happened in 
 my house, and in a quarter where you never see a eat go by. 
 On my word as an honest woman, it's like a dream. For, 
 look here, we saw Louis XVI. meet with his mishap ; we saw 
 the fall of the Emperor ; and we saw him come back and fall 
 again; there was nothing out of the way in all that, but lodg- 
 ing-houses are not liable to. revolutions. You can do without 
 a king, but you must eat all the same ; and so long as a decent 
 woman, a de Conflans born and bred, will give you all sorts of 
 .vgood things for dinner, nothing short of the end of the world 
 ought to — ^but there, it is the end of the world, that is just 
 what it is !" 
 
 "And to think that Mile. Michonneau who made all thii 
 mischief is to have a thousand crowns a year for it, so I hear/* 
 cried Sylvie. 
 
^ 218 1 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "Don't speak of her, she is a wicked woman!" said Mma 
 Vauquer. "She is going to the Buneand, who charges less 
 than cost. But the Buneaud is capable of anything; she 
 must have done frightful things, robbed and murdered peo- 
 ple in her time. She ought to be put in jail for life itstead 
 of that poor dear " 
 
 Eugene and Goriot rang the door-bell at that moment. 
 
 "Ah! here are my two faithful lodgers," said the widow, 
 sighing. 
 
 But the two faithful lodgers, who retained but shadowy 
 recollections of the misfortunes of their lodging-house, an- 
 nounced to their hostess without more ado that they were 
 about to remove to the Chaussee d'Antin. 
 \^'"Sylvie!" cried the widow, "this is the last straw. — Gen- 
 itlemen, this will be the death of me ! It has quite upset me! 
 There's a weight on my chest ! I am ten years older for this 
 day ! Upon my word, I shall go out of my senses ! And what 
 is to be done with the haricots ? — Oh, well, if I am to be left 
 here all by myself, you shall go to-morrow, Christophe. — 
 Gflod-night, gentlemen," and she went. 
 
 "What is the matter now?" Eugene inquired of Sylvie. 
 
 "Lord ! everybody is going about his business, and that has 
 tfdd]«!d her wits. There ! she is crying upstairs. It will do 
 b«!r good to snivel a bit. It's the first time she has cried sinca 
 I've been with her." 
 
 By the morning, Mme. Vauquer, to use her own expres- 
 sion, had "made up her miad to it." True, she stiU wore a 
 doleful countenance, as might be expected of a woman who 
 had lost all her lodgers, and whose manner of life had been 
 suddenly revolutionized, but she had all her wits about her. 
 Her grief was genuine and profound; it was real pain of 
 mind, for her purse had suflEered, the routine of her existence 
 had been broken. A lover's farewell glance at his lady-love's 
 window is not more mournful than Mme. Vauquer's survey 
 of the empty places round her table. Eugene administered 
 comfort, telling the widow that Bianehon, whose term of res- 
 idence at the hospital was about to expire, would doubtless 
 
FATHEE GORIOT ;1.219 
 
 take his (Eastignac's) place; that the official from the 
 Museum had often expressed a desire to have Mme. Couture's 
 rooms ; and that in a very few days her household would be on 
 the old footing. 
 
 "God send it may, my dear sir ! but bad luck has come to 
 lodge here. There'll be a death in the house before ten days 
 are out, you'll see," and she gave a lugubrious look round the 
 dining-room. ''Whose turn will it be, I wonder?" 
 
 "It is Just as weU that we are moving out," said Eugene 
 to Father Goriot in a low voice. 
 
 "Madame," said Sylvie, running in with a scared face, "I 
 have not seen Mistigris these three days." 
 
 "Ah! well, if my cat is dead, if he has gone and left us, 
 I " 
 
 The poor woman could not finish her sentence ; she clasped 
 her hands and hid her face on the back of her armchair, 
 quite overcome by this dreadful portent. 
 
 By twelve o'clock, when the postman reaches that quarter, 
 Eugene received a letter. The dainty envelope bore the 
 Beauseant arms on the seal, and contained an invitation to 
 the Vicomtesse's great ball, which had been talked of in Paris 
 for a month. A little note for Eugene was slipped in with 
 the card. 
 
 "I think, monsieur, that you will undertake with pleasure 
 to interpret my sentiments to Mme, de Nucingen, so I am 
 sending the card for which you asked me to you. I shall be 
 delighted to make the acquaintance of Mme. de Kestaud's 
 sister. Pray introduce that charming lady to me, and do not 
 let her monopolize all your affection, for you owe me not a 
 little in return for mine. 
 
 "ViOOMTESSB DB BeAUSBANT." 
 
 "Well," said Eugene to himself, as he read the note a sec- 
 ond time, "Mme. de Beaus6ant says pretty plainly that she 
 does not want the Baron de Nucingen." 
 
 He went to Delphine at once in his joy. He had procured 
 
 '> Cii. 
 
220 FATHBB GOEIOT 
 
 this pleasure for her, and doubtless he would receive the price 
 of it. Mme. de Nueingen was dressing. Eastignac waited in 
 her boudoir, enduring as best he might the natural impatience ' 
 of an eager temperament for the reward desired and with- 
 held for a year. Such sensations are only known once in a 
 life. The first woman to whom a man is drawn, if she is 
 really a woman — ^that is to say, if she appears to him amid 
 the splendid accessories that form a necessary background 
 to life in the world of Paris — will never have a rival. 
 
 Love in Paris is a thing distinct and apart; for in Paris 
 neither men nor women are the dupes of the commonplaces 
 by which people seek to throw a veil over their motives, or to 
 parade a fine affectation of disinterestedness in their senti- 
 ments. In this country within a country, it is not merely 
 required of a woman that she should satisfy the senses and 
 the soul; she knows perfectly well that she has still greater 
 obligations to discharge, that she must fulfil the countless 
 demands of a vanity that enters into every fibre of that living 
 organism called society. Love, for her, is above all things, 
 and by its very nature, a vainglorious, brazen-fronted, osten- 
 tatious, thriftless charlatan. If at the Court of Louis XIV. 
 there was not a woman but envied Mile, de la Valliere the 
 reckless devotion of passion that led the grand monarch to 
 tear the priceless rufiies at his wrists in order to assist the 
 entry of a Due de Vermandois into the world — what can you 
 expect of the rest of society? You must have youth and 
 wealth and rank; nay, you must, if possible, have more than 
 these, for the more incense you bring with you to burn at the 
 shrine of the god, the more favorably will he regard the wor- 
 shiper. Love is a religion, and his cult must in the nature 
 of things be more costly than those of all other deities; Love 
 the Spoiler stays for a moment, and then passes on; like the 
 urchin of the streets, his course may be traced by the ravages 
 that he has made. iThe wealth of feeling and imagination 
 is the poetry of the garret ; how should love exist there with- 
 out that wealth? j 
 
 If there are exceptions who do not subscribe to these Dra- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 221 
 
 eonian laws of the Parisian code, they are solitary examples. 
 Such souls live so far out of the main current that they are 
 not borne away by the doctrines of society ; they dwell beside 
 some clear spring of everflowing water, without seeking to 
 Jeave the green shade; happy to listen to the echoes of the 
 infinite in everything around them and in their own souls, 
 waiting in patience to take their flight for heaven, while they 
 look with pity upon those of earth. 
 
 Eastignae, like most young men who have been early im- 
 pressed by the circumstance of power and grandeur, meant 
 to enter the lists fully armed; the burning ambition of con- 
 quest possessed him already; perhaps he was conscious of his 
 powers, but as yet he knew neither the end to which his am- 
 bition was to be directed, nor the means of attaining it. In 
 default of the pure and sacred love that fills a life, ambition 
 may become something very noble, subduing to itself every 
 thought of personal interest, and setting as the end — the 
 greatness, not of one man, but of a whole nation. 
 
 But the student had not yet reached the time of life when 
 a man surveys the whole course of existence and judges it 
 soberly . Hitherto he had scarcelyso much "ai^haken oti: lEe 
 spell of the fresh and gracious influences that envelop a 
 childhood in the country, like green leaves and grass. He had 
 hesitated on the brink of the Parisian Eubicon, and in spite 
 of the prickings of ambition, he stUl clung to a lingering tra- 
 dition .of an old ideal — ^the peaceful life of the noble in his 
 chlteau. But yesterday evening, at the sight of his rooms," 
 those scruples had vanished. He had learned what it was- to. 
 enjoy the material advantages of fortune, as he had already, 
 enjoyed the'social advantages of birth; he ceased to be a pro-" 
 vincial from that moment, and slipped naturally and easily 
 into a position which opened up a prospect of a brilliant 
 future. — — . 
 
 So, as he waited for Delphine, in the pretty boudoir, where 
 he felt that he had a certain right to be, he felt himself so 
 far away from the Rastignac who came back to Paris a year 
 ago, that, turning some power of inner vision upon this lat- 
 
222 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 ter, he asked himself whether that past self bore any resem- 
 blance to the Eastignae of that moment. 
 
 "Madame is in her room," Therese came to tell him. The 
 woman's voice made him start. 
 
 He found Delphine lying back in her low chair by the fire- 
 side, looking fresh and bright. The sight of her among the 
 flowing draperies of muslin suggested some beautiful tropical, 
 flower, where the fruit is set amid the blossom. ' 
 
 "Well," she said, with a tremor in her voice, "here you 
 are." 
 
 "Guess what I bring for you," said Eugene, sitting down 
 beside her. He took possession of her arm to kiss her hand. 
 
 Mme. de Nueingen gave a joyful start as she saw the card. 
 She tximed to Eugene; there were tears in her eyes as she 
 flung her arms about his neck, and drew him towards her in 
 % frenzy of gratified vanity. 
 
 "And I owe this happiness to you — ^to thee" (she whispered 
 the more intimate word in his ear) ; 'T)ut Therese is in my 
 dressing-room, let us be prudent. — This happiness — ^yes, for 
 I may call it so, when it comes to me through you — is surely 
 more than a triumph for self-love ? N"o one has been willing 
 to introduce me into that set. Perhaps just now I may seem 
 to you to be frivolous, petty, shallow, like a Parisienne, but 
 remember, my friend, that I am ready to give up all for you; 
 and that if I long more than ever for an entrance into the 
 Faubourg Saint- Germain, it is because I shall meet you 
 there." 
 
 "Mme. de Beauseant's note seems to say very plainly that 
 she does not expect to see the Baron de Nucingpn at her ball; 
 don't you think so ?" said Eugene. 
 
 "Why, yes," said the Baroness as she returned the letter.' 
 "Those women have a talent for insolence. But it is of no 
 consequence, I shall go. My sister is sure to be there, and 
 sure to be very beautifully dressed. — Eugene," she went on, 
 lowering her voice, "she will go to dispel ugly suspicions. 
 You do not know the things that people are saying about 
 her. Only this morning Nucingen came to tell me that they 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 223 
 
 had been discussing her at the club. Great heavens ! on what 
 does a woman's character and the honor of a whole family 
 depend ! I feel that I am nearly touched and woimded in my 
 poor sister. According t() some people, M. de Trailles must 
 have put his name to bills for a hundred thousand francs, 
 nearly all of them are overdue, and proceedings are threat- 
 ened. In this predicament, it seems that my sister sold her 
 diamonds to a Jew — ^the beautiful diamonds that belonged to 
 her husband's mother, Mme. de Eestaud the elder, — ^you have' 
 seen her wearing them. In fact, nothing else has been talked 
 about for the last two days. So I can see that Anastasie is 
 sure to come to Mme. de Beauseant's ball in tissue of gold, 
 and ablaze with diamonds, to draw all eyes upon her ; and I 
 will not be outshone. She has tried to eclipse me aU her 
 life ; she has never been kind to me, and I have helped her so 
 often, and always had money for her when she had none. — 
 But never mind other people now, to-day I mean to be per- 
 fectly happy." 
 
 At one o'clock that morning Eugene was still with Mme. 
 de Nucingen. In the midst of their lovers' farewell, a fare- 
 well full of hope of bliss to come, she said in a troubled voice, 
 "I am very fearful, superstitious. Give what name you like 
 to my presentiments, but I am afraid that my happiness will 
 be paid for by some horrible catastrophe." 
 
 "Child!" said Eugene. 
 
 "Ah! have we changed places, and am I the child to- 
 night?" she asked, laughingly. 
 
 Eugene went back to the Maison Vauquer, never doubting 
 but that he should leave it for good on the morrow; and on 
 the way he fell to dreaming the bright dreams of youth, when 
 the cup of happiness has left its sweetness on the lips. 
 
 "Well?" cried Goriot, as Eastignae passed by his door. 
 
 "Yes," said Eugene; '1 will tell you everything to-mor- 
 row." I 
 
 "Everything, will you not?" cried the old man. "Go to 
 bed. To-morrow our happy life will begin." 
 
 Next day, Goriot and Eastignae were ready to leave the 
 
224 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 lodging-house, and only awaited the good pleasure of a portei 
 to move out of it; but towards noon there was a sound of 
 wheels in the Eue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, and a carriage 
 stopped before the door of the Maison Vauquer. Mme. de 
 ITueingen alighted, and asked if her father was still in the 
 house, and, receiving an affirmative reply from Sylvie, ran 
 lightly upstairs. 
 
 It so happened that Eugene was at home all unknown to, 
 his neighbor. At breakfast time he had asked Goriot to super- 
 intend the removal of his goods, saying that he would meet 
 him in the Eue d'Artois at four o'clock; but Eastignac's 
 name had been called early on the list at the Ecole de Droit, 
 and he had gone back at once to the Eue Neuve-Sainte-Gene- 
 vieve. No one had seen him come in, for Goriot had gone to 
 find a porter, and the mistress of the house was likewise out. 
 Eugene had thought to pay her himself, for it struck him that 
 if he left this, Goriot in his zeal would probably pay for him. 
 As it was, Eugene went up to his room to see that nothing 
 had been forgotten, and blessed his foresight when he saw 
 the blank bill bearing Vautrin's signature lying in the drawer 
 where he had carelessly thrown it on the day when he had 
 repaid the amount. There was no fire in the grate, so he was 
 about to tear it into little pieces, when he heard a voice speak- 
 ing in Goriot's room, and the speaker was Delphine! He 
 made no more noise, and stood still to listen, thinking that 
 she should have no secrets from him; but after the first few 
 words, the conversation between the father and daughter was 
 BO strange and interesting that it absorbed all his attention. 
 
 "Ah ! thank heaven that you thought of asking him to ^ve 
 an account of the money settled on me before I was utterly 
 ruined, father. Is it safe to talk?" she added. 
 
 'TTes, there is no one in the house," said her father faintly. 
 
 "What is the matter with you ?" asked Mme. de Nucingem' 
 
 "God forgive you! you have just dealt me a staggering 
 blow, child!" said the old man. "You cannot know how 
 much I love you, or you would not have burst in upon me like 
 this, with such news, especially if all is Eot lost. Has some- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 225 
 
 thing so important happened that you must come here about 
 it? In a few minutes we should have been in the Eue 
 d'Artois." 
 
 "Eh ! does one think what one is doing after a catastrophe ? 
 It has turned my head. Your attorney has found out the 
 state of things now, but it was bound to come out sooner or 
 later. We shall want your long business experience; and I 
 come to you like a drowning man who catches at a brancL 
 When M. Derville fouiid that Nucingen was throwing all 
 sorts of difficulties in his way, he threatened him with pro- 
 ceedings, and told him plainly that he would soon obtain an 
 order from the President of the Tribunal. So Nucingen 
 came to my room this morning, and asked if I meant to ruin 
 us both. I told him that I knew nothing whatever about it, 
 that I had a fortune, and ought to be put into possession of 
 my fortune, and that my attorney was acting for me in the 
 matter; I said again that I knew absolutely nothing about 
 it, and could not possibly go into the subject with him. 
 Wasn't that what you told me to tell him?" 
 
 "Yes, quite right," answered Goriot. 
 
 "Well, then," Delphine continued, "he told me all about 
 his affairs. He had just invested all his capital and mine 
 in business speculations; they have only just been started, 
 and very large sums of money are locked up. If I were to 
 compel him to refund my dowry now, he would be forced to 
 file his petition ; but if I will wait a year, he undertakes, on 
 his honor, to double or treble my fortune, by investing it in 
 building land, and I shall be mistress at last of the whole 
 of my property. He was speaking the truth, father dear ; he 
 frightened me ! He asked my pardon for his conduct ; he has 
 given me my liberty; I am free to act as I please on condi- 
 tion that I leave him to carry on my business in my name.. 
 To prove his sincerity, he promised that M. Derville might[ 
 inspect the accounts as often as I pleased, so that I might be 
 assured that everything was being conducted properly. In 
 short, he put himself into my power, bound hand and foot. 
 He wishes the present arrangements as to the expenses of 
 
 15 
 
226 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 housekeeping to continue for two more years, and entreated 
 me not to exceed my allowance. He showed me plainly that 
 it was all that he could do to keep up appearances; he has 
 broken with his opera dancer; he will be compelled to practise 
 the most strict economy (in secret) if he is to bide his time 
 with unshaken credit. I scolded, I did all I could to drive 
 Mm to desperation, so as to find out more. He showed me 
 his ledgers — he broke down and cried at last. I never saw 
 a man in such a state. He lost his head completely, talked of 
 killing himself, and raved till I felt quite sorry for him." 
 
 "Do you really believe that silly rubbish?" . . . cried 
 her father. "It was all got up for your benefit ! I have had 
 to do with Germans in the way of business; honest and 
 straightforward they are pretty sure to be, but when with 
 their simplicity and frankness they are sharpers and hum- 
 bugs as well, they are the worst rogues of all. Your husband 
 is taking advantage of you. As soon as pressure is brought 
 to bear on him he shams dead ; he means to be more the mas- 
 ter under your name than in his own. He will tak6 advan- 
 tage of the position to secure himself against the risks of 
 business. He is as sharp as he is treacherous; he is a bad 
 lot! No, no; I am not going to leave my girls behind me 
 without a penny when I go to Pere-Lachaise. I know some- 
 thing about business still. He has sunk his money in specu- 
 lation, he says ; very well then, there is something to show for 
 it — bills, receipts, papers of some sort. Let him produce 
 them, and come to an arrangement with you. We will choose 
 the most promising of his speculations, take them over at our 
 own risk, and have the securities transferred into your name ; 
 they shall represent the separate estate of Delphine Goriot, 
 wife of the Baron de Nucingen. Does that fellow really 
 take us for idiots? Does he imagine that I could stand the 
 idea of your being without fortune, without bread, for forty- 
 eight hours ? I would not stand it a day — ^no, not a night, not 
 a couple of hours ! If the^e had been any foundation for the 
 idea, I should never get over it. What ! I have worked hard 
 for forty years, carried sacks on my back, and sweated and 
 
FATHER GORIOT 221 
 
 pineHed and saved all my life for you, my darlings, for you 
 who made the toil and every burden borne for you seem light ; 
 and now, my fortune, my whole life, is to vanish in smoke ! 
 I should die raving mad if I believed a word of it. By all 
 that's holiest in heaven and earth, we wiU have this cleared 
 up at once; go through the books, have the whole business 
 looked thoroughly into! I will not sleep, nor rest, nor eat 
 until I have satisfied myself that all your fortune is in exist- 
 ence. Your money is settled upon you, God be thanked ! and, 
 luckily, your attorney, Maitre Derville, is an honest man. 
 Good Lord ! you shall have your snug little million, your fifty 
 thousand francs a year, as long as you live, or I will raise a 
 racket in Paris, I will so ! If the Tribunals put upon us, I 
 '(rill appeal to the Chambers. If I knew that you were well 
 imd comfortably ofE as far as money is concerned, that 
 thought would keep me easy in spite of bad health and 
 troubles, ]^foney? wl^y^tjgjife!_ Money does everything.J^ 
 That great 'doll of an Alsatian shall sing to another tune T" 
 Look here, Delphine, don't give way, don't make a conces- 
 sion of half a quarter of a farthing to that fathead, who has 
 ground you down and made you miserable. If he can't do 
 without you, we will give him a good cudgeling, and keep 
 him in order. Great heavens ! my brain is on fire ; it is as if 
 there were something redhot inside my head. My Delphine 
 lying on straw ! You ! my Fiflne ! Good gracious ! Where 
 are my gloves ? Come, let us go at once ; I mean to see every- 
 thing with my own eyes — ^books, cash, and correspondence, 
 the whole business. I shall have no peace until I know for 
 certain that your fortune is secure." 
 
 '^Oli! father dear, be careful how you set about it! If 
 there is the least hint &i vengeance in the business, if you 
 .show yourself openly hostile, it will be all over with me. He 
 'knows whom he has to deal with; he thinks it quite natural 
 that if you put the idea into my head, I should be uneasy 
 about my money; but I swear to ypu that he has it in his own 
 hands, and that he had meant ti keep it. He is just the 
 nmn to abscond with all the money and leave us in the lurch. 
 
228 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 the ecoundrel ! He knows quite well that I will not dishonol 
 the name I bear by bringing him into a court of law. His 
 position is strong and weak at the same time. If ve drive 
 him to despair, I am lost." 
 
 "Why, then, the man is a rogue?" 
 
 "Well, yes, father," she said, flinging herself into a chair. 
 "I wanted to keep it from you to spare your feelings," and 
 ehe burst into tears; "I jtid nnt ^want you to know that yo u 
 had marriedj3ifi.to ■soch.a-Bian^aaJlsJs- He is just the same 
 in'private life — body and soul and conscience — ^the same 
 through and through — hideous ! I hate him ; I despise him ! 
 Yes, after all that that despicable Nucingen has told me, I 
 cannot respect him any longer. A man capable of mixing 
 himself up in such affairs, and of talking about them to me 
 as he did, without the slightest scruple, — it is because I have 
 read him through and through that I am afraid of him. He, 
 my husband, frankly proposed to give me my liberty, and do 
 you know what that means ? It means that if things turn out 
 badly for him, I am to play into his hands, and be his stalk- 
 ing-horse." 
 
 "But there is law to be had ! There is a Place de Grfeve for 
 sons-in-law of that sort," cried her father; "why, I would 
 guillotine him myself if there was no headsman to do it." 
 
 "No, father, the law cannot touch him. Listen, this is 
 what he says, stripped of all his circumlocutions — 'Take your 
 choice, you and no one else can be my accomplice; either 
 everything is lost, you are ruined and have not a farthing, 
 or you will let me carry this business through myself.' Is 
 that plain speaking? He must have my assistance. He is 
 assured that his wife will deal fairly by him ; he knows that I 
 Bhall leave his money to, him and be content with my own. It 
 is an unholy and dishonest compact, and he holds out threats 
 of ruin to compel me to consent to it. He is buying my con- 
 science, and the price is liberty to be Eugene's wife in all but 
 name. 'I connive at your errors, and you allow me to com- 
 mit crimes and ruin poor families!' Is that sufficiently ex- 
 plicit? Do you know what he means by speculations? Hs 
 
FATHER GORIOT 229 
 
 buys up land in Ms own name, then he finds men of straw to 
 run up houses upon it. These men make a bargain with a 
 contractor to build the houses, paying them by bills at long 
 dates; then in consideration of a small sum they leave my 
 husband in possession of the houses, and finally slip through 
 the fingers of the deluded contractors by going into bank- 
 ruptcy. ■ The name of the firm of Nucingen has been used) 
 to dazzle the poor contractors. I saw that. I noticed, too, 
 that Nucingen had sent bills for large amounts to Amster- 
 dam, London, Naples, and Vienna, in order to prove if neces- 
 sary that large sums had been paid away by the firm. How 
 could we get possession of those bills?" 
 
 Eugene heard a dull thud on the floor ; Father Goriot must 
 have fallen on his knees. 
 
 "Great heavens! what have I done to you? Bound my 
 daughter to this scoundrel who does as he likes with her! — 
 Oh ! my child, my child ! forgive me !" cried the old man. 
 
 "Yes, if I am in the depths of despair, perhaps you are 
 to blame," said Delphine. I "We have so little sense when we 
 marry ! What do we know 'oithe world, of business, or men, 
 or life ? Our fathers should think for us ! Father dear, I 
 am not blaming you in the least, forgive me for what I said. 
 This is all my own fault. Nay, do not cry, papa," she said, 
 kissing him. 
 
 "Do not you cry either, my little Delphine. Look up and 
 let me kiss away the tears. There ! I shall find my wits and 
 unravel this skein of your husband's winding." 
 
 "No, let me do that; I shall be able to manage him. He 
 is fond of me, well and good ; I shall use my influence to make 
 him invest my money as soon as possible in landed property 
 in my own name. Very likely I could get him to buy back, 
 Nucingen in Alsace in my name; that has always been a pet 
 idea ^f his. Still, come to-morrow and go through the books, 
 and look into the business. . M. Derville knows little of mer- 
 cantile matters. No, not to-morrow though. I do not want to 
 be upset. Mme. de Beauseant's ball will be the day after to- 
 morrow, and I must keep quiet, so aa to look my best and 
 
230 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 freshest, and do honor to my dear Eugene ! . . . Come, 
 let us see his room." 
 
 But as she spoke a carriage stopped in the Eue Neuve- 
 Sainte-Genevieve, and the sound of JIme. de Eestaud's voice 
 came from the staircase. ''Is my father in?" she asked of 
 Sylvie. 
 
 This accident was luckily timed for Eugene, whose one 
 idea had been to throw himself down on the bed and pretend 
 to be asleep. 
 
 "Oh, father, have you heard about Anastasie?" said Del- 
 phine, when she heard her sister speak. "It Ido-ks as though 
 some strange things had happened in that family." 
 
 '^hat sort of things?" asked Goriot. "This is like to be 
 the death of me. My poor head will not stand a double mis- 
 fortune." 
 
 "Good-morning, father," said the Countess from the 
 threshold. "Oh! Delphine, are you here?" 
 
 Mme. de Eestaud seemed taken aback by her sister's 
 presence. 
 
 "Good-moming, Nasie," said the Baroness. "What is there 
 so extraordinary in my being here? I see our father every 
 day." 
 
 "Since when?" 
 
 'If you came yourself you would know." 
 
 "Don't tease, Delphine," said the Countess fretfully. "I 
 am very miserable, I am lost. Oh ! my poor father, it is hope- 
 less this time !" 
 
 'What is it, ISTasie?" cried Goriot. "Tell us' all about it, 
 child! How white she is! Quick, do something, Delphine; 
 be kind to her, and I will love you even better, if that were 
 possible." 
 
 "Poor Nasie !" said Mme. de Kueingen, drawing her sister 
 'to a chair. "We are the only two people in the world whose 
 Jove is always sufficient to forgive you everything. Family 
 affection is the surest, you see." 
 
 The Countess inhaled the salts and revived. 
 
 'T^jis will kill me !" said their father. "There," he went 
 
FATHER GORIOT 231 
 
 on, stirring the smouldering fire, "come nearer, both of you. 
 It is cold. What is it, Nasie ? Be quick and tell me, this is 
 enough to " 
 
 "Well, then, my hTjpband knows everything," said the 
 Countess. "Just imagine it; do you remember, father, that 
 bill of Maxime's some time ago? Well, that was not the 
 first. I had paid ever so many before that. About the begin- 
 ning of January M. de Trailles seemed very much troubled. 
 He said nothing to me ; but it is so easy to read the hearts of 
 those you love, a mere trifle is enough; and then you feel 
 things instinctively. Indeed, he was more tender and afEec- 
 tionate than ever, and I was happier than I had ever been 
 before. Poor Maxime ! in himself he was really saying good- 
 bye to me, so he has told me since; he meant to blow 
 his brains out! At last I worried him so, and begged and 
 implored so hard; for two hours I knelt at his knees and 
 prayed and entreated, and at last he told me — ^that he owed 
 a hundred thousand francs. Oh ! papa ! a hundred thousand 
 francs! I was beside myself! You had not the money, I 
 knew; I had eaten up all that you had " 
 
 "No," said Goriot ; "I could not have got it for you unless 
 I had stolen it. But I would have done that for you, Nasie ! 
 I will do it yet." 
 
 The words came from him like a sob, a hoarse sound like 
 the death rattle of a dying man; it seemed indeed like the 
 agony of death when the father's love was powerless. There 
 was a pause7an3TieithSrT)f tile" sisters spoSe. It must have 
 been selfishness indeed that could hear unmove ct th'at_ crY~of 
 anguish that, like a pebble thrown over a precipieei_revealed 
 the depths of his despair. "" 
 
 "I found the money, father, by selling what was not mine 
 to sell," and the Countess burst into tears. 
 
 Delphine was touched; she laid her head on her sister's 
 shoulder, and cried too. 
 
 "Then it is all true," she said. 
 
 Anastasie bowed her head, Mme. de Nucingen flung her 
 arms about her, kissed her tenderly, and held her sister to hei 
 heart. 
 
23a FATHER GORIOT 
 
 "I shall always love you and never judge you, Nasie,'' she 
 said. 
 
 "My angels," murmured Goriot faintly. "Oh, why should 
 it be trouble that draws you together^" 
 
 This warm and palpitating affection seemed to give the 
 Countess courage. 
 
 "To save Maxime's life," she said, "to save all my own 
 happiness, I went to the money-lender you know of, a man 
 of iron forged in hell-fire ; nothing can melt him ; I took all 
 the family diamonds that M. de Eestaud is so proud of — ^his 
 and mine too — and sold them to that M. Gobseck. Sold 
 them! Do you understand? I saved Maxime, but I am lost. 
 Eestaud found it all out." 
 
 "How? Who told him? I will kill him," cried Goriot. 
 
 "Yesterday he sent to tell me to come to his room. I went. 
 . . . 'Anastasie,' he said in a voice — oh! such a voice; 
 that was enough, it told me everything — 'where are your dia- 
 monds ?' — 'In my room -' — 'Fo,' he said, looking straight 
 
 at me, 'there they are on that chest of drawers ' and he 
 
 lifted his handkerchief and showed me the casket. 'Do you 
 know where they come from?' he said. I fell at his feet. . 
 . . I cried; I besought him to tell me the death he wished 
 to see me die." 
 
 "You said that !" cried Goriot. "By God in heaven, who- 
 ever lays a hand on either of you go long as I am alive may 
 reckon on being roasted by slow fires ! Yes, I will cut him 
 in pieces like . . ." 
 
 Goriot stopped; the words died away in his throat. 
 
 "And then, dear, he asked something worse than death of 
 me. Oh ! heaven preserve all other women from hearing such 
 words as I heard then !" 
 
 "I will murder that man," said Goriot quietly. "But he 
 has only one life, and he deserves to die twice. — And then, 
 what next?" he added, looking at Anastasip. 
 
 "Then," the Countess resumed, "there was a pause, and he 
 looked at me. 'Anastasie,' he said, 'I will bury this in si- 
 lence; there shall be no separation; there are the children. 
 
FATHER GOBIOT 233 
 
 I will not kill M. de Trailles. I might miss him if we fought, 
 and as for other ways of getting rid of him, I should come 
 into collision with the law. If I killed him in your arms, it 
 would bring dishcfiior on those children. But if you do not 
 want to see your children perish, nor their father nor me, 
 you must first of all submit to two conditions. Answer me. 
 Have I a child of my own?' I answered, 'Yes.' — 'Which?' 
 ) — 'Ernest, our eldest boy.' — 'Very well,' he said, 'and now 
 iBwear to obey me in this particular from this time forward.' 
 I swore. Tou will make over your property to me when I 
 require you to do so.' " 
 
 "Do nothing of the kind!" cried Goriot. "Aha! M. de 
 Eestaud, you could not makp your wife happy ; she has looked 
 for happiness and found it elsewhere, and you make her 
 suffer for your own ineptitude? He will have to reckon with 
 me. Make yourself easy, Nasie. Aha! he cares about his 
 heir ! Good, very good. I will get hold of the boy ; isn't he 
 my grandson ? What the blazes ! I can surely go to see the 
 brat ! I will stow him away somewhere ; I will take care of 
 him, you may be quite easy. I will bring Eestaud to terms, 
 the monster ! I shall say to him, 'A word or two with you I 
 If you want your son back again, give my daughter her 
 property, and leave her to do as she pleases.' " 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "Yes. I am your father, Nasie, a father indeed! That 
 rogue of a great lord had better not ill-treat my daughter. 
 Tonnerre! What is it in my veins ? There is thp blood of a 
 tiger in me; I could tear those two men to pieces! Oh! 
 children, children ! so this is what your lives are ! Why, it is 
 death! . . . What will become of you when I shall be 
 here no longer? Fathers ought to live as long as their 
 children. Ah! Lord God in heaven! how ill Thy world is 
 'ordered ! Thou hast a Son, if what they tell us is true, and 
 yet Thou leavest us to suffer so through our children. My 
 darlings, my darlings! to think that trouble only shoul3!^ 
 bring you to me, that I should only see you with tears on your \ 
 faces! Ah! yes, yes, you love me, I see that you love me. \ 
 
234 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 Come to me and pour out your griefs to me; my heart is large 
 enough to hold them all. Oh ! you might rend my heart in 
 piecwB, and every fragment would make a father's heart. If 
 only I could bear all your sorrows for you! . . . Ah! 
 you were so happy when you were little and still with 
 me. . . ." 
 
 "We have never been happy since," said Delphine. "Where 
 are *he old days when we slid down the sacks in the great 
 granary ?" 
 
 "That is not all, father," said Anastasie in Goriot's ear. 
 The old man gave a startled shudder. "The diamonds only 
 sold for a hundred thousand francs. Maxime is hard pressed. 
 Th<we are twelve thousand francs stiU to pay. He has given 
 me his word that he vtill be steady and give up play in future. 
 His love is all that I have left in the world. I have paid such 
 a fearful price for it that I shall die if I lose him now. I 
 have sacrificed my fortune, my honor, my peace of mind, and 
 toy children for him. Oh ! do something, so that at the least 
 Maxime may be at large and live undisgraced in the world, 
 where he will assuredly make a career for himself. Some- 
 thing more than my happiness is at stake ; the children have 
 nothing, and if he is sent to Sainte-Pelagie all his prospects 
 will be ruined." 
 
 "I haven't the money, Nasie. I have nothing — nothing 
 left. This is the end of everything. Yes, the world is 
 crumbling into ruin, I am sure.- Ply! Save yourselves! 
 Ah! — ^I have still my silver buckles left, and half-a-dozen 
 silver spoons and forks, the first I ever had in my life. But 
 I have nothing else except my life annuity, twelve hundred 
 francs . . ." 
 
 "Then what has become of your money in the funds?" 
 
 "I sold out, and only kept a trifle for my wants. I wanted 
 twelve thousand francs to furnish some rooms for Delphine." 
 
 "In your own house ?" asked Mme. de Eestaud, looking at 
 her sister. 
 
 'T¥hat does it matter where they were?" asked Goriot. 
 "The money is spent now," 
 
FATHEE GORIOT 235 
 
 "1 see how it is," said tlie Cotmtess. "Eooms for M. de 
 Eastignac. Poor Delphine, take warning by me !" 
 
 "M. de Eastignac is incapable of ruining the woman he 
 loves, dear." ;— . 
 
 "Thanks! Delphine. I thought you would have been 
 kinder to me in my troubles, but you never did love me." 
 
 "Tes, yes, she loves you, Nasie," cried Goriot; "she was 
 saying so only just now. We were talking about you, and 
 she insisted that you were beautiful, and that she herself 
 was only pretty!" 
 
 "Pretty !" said the Countess. "She is as hard as a marble 
 statue." 
 
 "And if I am?" cried Delphine, flushing up, "how have 
 you treated me? You would not recognize me; you closed 
 the doors of every house against me; you have never let an 
 opportunity of mortifying me slip by. And when did I come, 
 as you were always doing, to drain our poor father, a thou- 
 sand francs at a time, till he is left as you see him now? 
 That is all your doing, sister ! I myself have seen my father 
 as often as I could. I have not turned him out of the house, 
 and then come and fawned upon him when I wanted money. 
 I did not so much as know that he had spent those twelve 
 thousand francs on me. I am economical, as you know; and 
 when papa has made me presents, it has never been because 
 I came and begged for them." 
 
 "You were better off than I. M. de Marsay was rich, as 
 you have reason to know. You always were as slippery as 
 
 gold. Good-bye; I have neither sister nor " 
 
 . "Oh ! hush, hush, Nasie !" cried her father. 
 
 "Nobody else would repeat what everybody has ceased to 
 believe. You are an unnatural sister!" cried Delphine. 
 
 "Oh, children, children ! hush ! hush ! or I will kill myself 
 before your eyes." 
 
 "There, !N"asie, I forgive you," said Mme. de Nucingen; 
 "you are very unhappy. But I am kinder than you are. 
 How could you say that just when I was ready to do anything 
 in the world to help you, even to be reconciled with my hus- 
 
0\<^ 
 
 236 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 band, which for my own sake I Oh ! it is just like you; 
 
 you have behaved cruelly to me all through these nine years." 
 
 "Children, children, kiss each other !" cried the father. 
 'Tou are angels, both of you." 
 
 "No. Let me alone," cried the Countess shaking off the 
 hand that her father had laid on her arm. "She is more 
 merciless than my husband. Any one might think she was a 
 model of all the virtues herself!" 
 
 "I would rather have people think that I owed money to 
 M. de Marsay than own that M. de Trailles had cost me more 
 than two hundred thousand francs," retorted Mme. de 
 Nucingen. 
 
 "Delphine!" cried the Countess, stepping towards her 
 sister. 
 
 "I shall tell you the truth about yourself if you begin to 
 slander me," said the Baroness coldly. 
 
 "Delphine! you are a " 
 
 Father Goriot sprang between them, grasped the Countess' 
 _hand, and laid his own over her mouth. 
 
 "Good heavens, father! What have you been handling 
 this morning?" said Anastasie. 
 
 "Ah ! well, yes, I ought not to have touched you," said the 
 poor father, wiping his hands on his trousers, "but I have 
 been packing up my things; I did not know that you were 
 Eoming to see me." 
 
 He was glad that he had drawn down her wrath upon hira- 
 eelf. 
 
 "Ah!" he sighed, as he sat down, "you children have 
 broken my heart between you. This is killing me. My head 
 feels as if it were on fire. Be good to each other and love 
 each other ! This will be the death of me ! Delphine ! Nasie ! 
 come, be sensible ; you are both in the wrong. Come, Dedel," 
 he added, looking through his tears at the Baroness, "she 
 must have twelve thousand francs, you see; let us see if we 
 can find them for her. Oh, my girls, do not look at each other 
 like that !" and he sank on his knees beside Delphine. "Ask 
 
FATHER GORIOT 237 
 
 her to forgive you — just to please me," he said in her ear. 
 "She is more miserable than you are. Come now, Dedel." 
 
 "Poor Fasie !" said Delphine, alarmed at the wild extrava- 
 gant grief in her father's face, "I was in the wrong, kiss 
 me " 
 
 "Ah ! that is like balm to my heart," cried Father Goriot. 
 j"But how are we to find twelve thousand francs? I might 
 offer myself as a substitute in the army " 
 
 "Oh! father dear!" they both cried, flinging their arms 
 about him. "No, no!" 
 
 "God reward you for the thought. We are not worth it, 
 are we, Nasie ?" asked Delphine. ^■"~~^ 
 
 "And besides, father dear, it would only be a dropr^n the 
 bucket," observed the Countess. """"" ' 
 
 "But is flesh and bloodj^orth nothing ?" cried the old man 
 in his despair. "^*I"would give body and^ soul ~f6""s'ave you, 
 Nasie. I would do a murder for the man who would rescue 
 
 you. I would do, as Vautrin did, go to the hulks, go " 
 
 he stopped as if struck by a thunderbolt, and put both hands 
 to his head. "Nothing left !" he cried, tearing his hair. "If 
 I only knew of a way to steal money, but it is so hard to do 
 it, and then you can't set to wOrk by yourself, and it takes 
 time to rob a bank. Yes, it is timej was dead; there is 
 notMng JdEt^e to_dob.ut~f6 die'".' 1 am no good in the world; 
 I am no longer a father ! No. She has come to me in her 
 extremity, and, wretch that I am, I have nothing to give her. 
 Ah ! you put your money into a life annuity, old scoundrel ; 
 and had you not daughters? You did not love them. Die, 
 die in a ditch, like the dog that you are! Yes, I am worse 
 than a dog; a beast would not have done as I have done! 
 Oh! my head ... it throbs as if it would burst." _^ 
 
 "Papa !" cried both the young women at once, "do, pray, 
 be reasonable !" and they clung to him to prevent him from 
 dashing his head against the wall. There was a sound of 
 sobfing. 
 
 E«gene, greatly alarmed, took the bill that bore Vautrin'a 
 sigai'ture, saw that the stamp would suffice for a larger sum. 
 
238 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 altered the figxires, made it into a regular bill for twelve 
 thousand francs, payable to Goriot's order, and went to his 
 neighbor's room. 
 
 "Here is the money, madame," he said, handing the piece 
 of paper to her. "I was asleep ; your conversation awoke me, 
 and by this means I learned aE that I owed to M. Goriot. 
 This bill can be discounted, and I shall meet it punctually 
 at the due date." 
 
 The Countess stood motionless and speechless, but she held 
 the bill in her fingers. 
 
 "Delphine," she said, with a white face, and her whole 
 frame quivering with indignation, anger, and rage, "I forgave 
 yon everything; God is my witness that I forgave yon, but I 
 cannot forgive this! So this gentleman was there all the 
 time, and you knew it! Your petty spite has led you to 
 wreak your vengeance on me by betraying my secrets, my life, 
 my children's lives, my shame, my honor! There, you are 
 nothing to me any longer. I hate you. I will do all that I 
 can to injure you. I will . . ." 
 
 Anger paralyzed her; the words died in her diy parched 
 throat. 
 
 "Why, he is my son, my child; he is your brother, your 
 preserver!" cried Goriot. "Kiss his hand, Nasie! Stay, I 
 will embrace him myself," he said, straining Eugene to his 
 breast in a frenzied clasp. "Oh my boy ! I will be more than 
 a father to you; I would be everything in the world to you; 
 if I had God's power, I would fling worlds at your feet. Why 
 don't you kiss him, Nasie? He is not a man, but an angel, 
 an angel out of heaven." 
 
 "Never mind her, father; she is mad just now." 
 
 "Mad ! am I ? And what are you?" cried Mme. de Kestaud.j 
 i "Children, children, I shall die if you go on like this," 
 'cried the old man, and he staggered and fell on the bed as if a 
 bullet had struck him. — "They are killing me between them," 
 he said to himself. j 
 
 The Countess fixed her eyes on Eugene, who stood sjock- 
 still; all his faculties were numbed by this violent sceriB. 
 
FATHBK GORIOT 239 
 
 "Sir? . . ." she said, doubt and inquiry in her face, 
 tone, and bearing; she took no notice now of her father nor 
 of Delphine, who was hastily unfastening his waistcoat. 
 
 "Madame," said Eugene, answering the question before it 
 was asked, "I will nieet the bill, and keep silence about it." 
 
 "You have killed our father, Nasie !" said Delphine, point- 
 ing to Goriot, who lay unconscious on the bed. The Countess 
 fled. 
 
 "I freely forgive her," said the old man, opening his eyes ; 
 "her position is horrible; it would turn an older head than 
 hers. CSomfort Nasie, and be nice to her, Delphine ; promise 
 it to your poor father before he dies," he asked,' holding Del- 
 phine's hand in a convulsive clasp. 
 
 "Oh ! what ails you, father ?" she cried in real alarm. 
 
 "Nothing, nothing," said Goriot; "it will go ofP. There 
 is something heavy pressing on my forehead, a little head- 
 ache. . . . Ah ! poor Nasie, what a life lies before her !" 
 
 Just as he spoke, the Countess came back again and flung 
 herself on her knees before him. "Forgive me!" she cried. 
 
 "Come," said her father, "you are hurting me still more." 
 
 "Monsieur," the Countess said, turning to Rastignac, 
 "misery made me unjust to you. You will be a brother to 
 me, will you not ?" and she held out her hand. Her eyes were 
 fuU of tears as she spoke. 
 
 "Nasie," cried Delphine, flinging her arms round her sis- 
 ter, "my little Nasie, let us forget and forgive." 
 
 "No, no," cried Nasie; "I shall never forget!" 
 
 "Dear angels," cried Goriot, "it is as if a dark curtain over 
 my eyes had been raised; your voices have called me back 
 to life. Kiss each other once more. Well, now, Nasie, that 
 bill will save you, won't it?" 
 
 "I hope 60. I say, papa, will you write your name on it ?" 
 
 "There ! how stupid of me to forget that ! But I am not 
 feeling at all well, Nasie, so you must not remember it 
 against me. Send and let me know as soon as you are out of 
 your strait. No, I will go to you. No, after all, I will not 
 go; I might meet your husband, and I should kill him on 
 
240 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 the spot. And as for signing away your property, I shall 
 have a -vrord to say about that. Quick, my child, and keep 
 IV^axime in order ia future." 
 
 Eugene was too bewildered to speak. 
 
 "Poor Anastasie, she always had a violent temper," said 
 Mme. de Nueingen, 'TDut she has a good heart." 
 
 "She came back for the endorsement," said Eugene in Del- 
 phine's ear. 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 
 "I only wish I could think otherwise. Do not trust her,'* 
 he answered, raising his eyes as if he confided to heaven the 
 thoughts that he did not venture to express. 
 
 "Yes. She is always acting a part to some extent." 
 ~*^ "How do you feel now, dear Father Goriot?" asked Eas- 
 tignac. 
 
 "I should like to go to sleep," he replied. 
 
 Eugene helped him to bed, and Delphine sat by the bed- 
 side, holding his hand until he fell asleep. Then she went. 
 
 "This evening at the Italiens," she said to Eugene, "and 
 you can let me know how he is. To-morrow you will leave 
 this place, monsieur. Let us go into your room. — Oh! how 
 frightful !" she cried on the threshold. "Why, you are even 
 worse lodged than our father. Eugene, you have behaved 
 well. I would love you more if that were possible ; but, dear 
 boy, if you are to succeed in life, you must not begin by fling- 
 ing twelve thousand francs out of the windows like that. The 
 Comte de Trailles is a confirmed gambler. My sister shuts 
 her eyes to it. He would have made the twelve thousand 
 francs in the same way that he vrins and loses heaps of gold." 
 
 A groan from the next room brought them back to Goriot's 
 bedside; to all appearance he was asleep, but the two lovers 
 caught the words, "They are not happy!" Whether he was 
 ''^ awake or sleeping, the tone in which they were spoken went 
 to his daughter's heart. She stole up to the pallet-bed on 
 "V^^which her father lay, and kissed his forehead. He opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Ah ! Delphine !" he said. 
 
FATHER GOEIOT Mt 
 
 "How are you now?" she asked. 
 
 "Quite comfortable. Do not worry about me; I shall get 
 up presently. Don't stay with me, children; go, go and be 
 happy." 
 
 Eugene went back with Delphine as far as her door; but 
 he was not easy about Goriot, and would not stay to dinner, 
 as she proposed. He wanted to be back at the Maison Vau- 
 quer. Father Goriot had left his room, and was just sit-j 
 ting down to dinner as he came in. Bianchon had placed! 
 himself where he could watch the old man carefully; and 
 when the old vermicelli maker took up his square of bread 
 and smelled it to find out the quality of the flour, the medical 
 student, studying him closely, saw that the action was purely 
 mechanical, and shook his head. 
 
 "Just come and sit over here, hospitaller of Cochin," said 
 Eugene. 
 
 Bianchon went the more willingly because his change of 
 place brought him next to the old lodger. 
 
 "What is wrong with him ?" asked Eastignac. 
 
 "It is all up with him, or I am much mistaken! Some- 
 thing very extraordinary must have taken place; he looks to 
 me as if he were in imminent danger of serous apoplexy. 
 The lower part of his face is composed enough, but the upper 
 part is drawn and distorted. Then there is that peculiar 
 look about the eyes that indicates an efEusion of serum in the 
 brain; they look as though they were covered with a film of 
 fine dust, do you notice? I shall know more about it by to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 "Is there any cure for it?" 
 
 "None. It might be possible to stave death off for a time 
 if a way could be found of setting up a reaction in the lower 
 extremities; but if the symptoms do not abate by to-morro:* 
 evening, it will be all over with him, poor old fellow ! Do you 
 know what has happened to bring this on ? There must have 
 been some violent shock, and his mind has given way." 
 
 "Yes, there was," said Eastignac, remembering how the 
 i6 
 
242 FATHEK GOKIO'X 
 
 
 two daughters had struck blow on blow at their father's 
 heart. 
 
 "But Delphine at any rate loves her father," he said to 
 , himself. 
 
 That evening at the opera Eastignac chose his words care- 
 fully, lest he should give Mme. de Nucingen needless alarm. 
 "Do not be anxious about him," she said, however, as soon 
 as Eugene began, "our father has really a strong constitution;, 
 fcut this morning we gave him a shock. Our whole fortunes 
 were in peril, so the thing was serious, you see. I could 
 not live if your afEection did not make me insensible to 
 troubles that I should once have thought too hard to bear. At 
 / "this moment I have but one fear left, but one misery to dread 
 Vii^to lose the love that has made me feel glad to live. Every- 
 ; ttiifig else is as nothing to ma compared with your love ; I 
 t^^case for nothing else, for 3'ou Are all the world to me. If I 
 feel glad to be rich, it is for jyour sake. To my shame be it 
 said, I think of my love r qefore my Jathfii,.^ Do you ask 
 whyf' 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 ac- 
 quitted 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 resigna- 
 tion would give him more pain and hurt him far more than 
 leomplaints 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, 
 
FATHER GORIOT 243 
 
 selfish and self-absorbed, frivolous and shallow; j^et of all -wo- 
 men, when they love, theLgaerifiee their personal feelings to 
 their passionj they rise but so nraehtlTe Mgher-fDt'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 si- 
 lence. 
 
 "What are you thinking about?" she asked. 
 
 "I am thinking about what you said just now. Hitherto 
 T 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 sin- 
 cere and youthful love ; a few more words, and she feared for 
 her self-control. 
 
 "Eugene," she said, changing the conversation, "I won- 
 der whether you know what has been happening? All Paris 
 will go to Mme. de Beauseant's to-morrow. The Eochefides 
 and the Marquis d'Ajuda have agreed to keep the matter a 
 profound secret, but to-morrow the king will sign the mar- 
 riage-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 
 wiU 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 eet in circulation here." 
 
 "We shall know the truth t5-morrow." 
 
 Bugfeut did not return to the Maison Vauquer. He could 
 not iojego %e pleasure of occupying his new rooms in the 
 
244 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 Eue 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 
 Gk)riot'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 din- 
 ing-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 Eestaurama — eame 
 to see the old gentleman, and he would get up and go out, 
 and made himself worse. Society is about to lose one oi its 
 brightest ornaments." 
 
 Eastignac sprang to the staircase. 
 
 "Hey ! Monsieur Eugene !" 
 
 "Monsieur Eugene, the mistress is calling you," shoaated 
 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 morn- 
 ing he went out with all the spoons and forks he has left, I 
 don't kaow why. He had got himself up to look quite young. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 245 
 
 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. Bianehon was with 
 him. 
 
 "Good-evening, father," said Eugene. 
 
 The old man turned his glassy eyes on him, smiled gently, 
 and said : 
 
 "How is sAer 
 
 "She is quite well. But how are you?" 
 
 "There is nothing much the matter." 
 
 'TDon't tire him," said Bianehon, drawing Eugene into a 
 comer of the room. 
 
 "Well?" asked Eastignae. 
 
 "Nothing but a miracle can save him now. Serous con- 
 gestion 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 Bianehon," said Eugene, "we will nurse him be- 
 tween 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 
 aaj vaiiae wi& him. B« bae l9««m dnvii^ some eon£oaad^ 
 
246 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 bargain, and it has been too much for his strength. Ckts of Mb 
 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 Sastignac. "I will make 
 him confess; he will tell me all about it." 
 
 "And meanwhile I wiU get my dinner. But try not to ex- 
 cite him; there is still some hope left." 
 
 "AU right." 
 
 "How they will enjoy themselves to-morrow," said Father 
 Goriot when they were alone. "They are going to a graud 
 ball." 
 
 "What were you doing this morning, papa, to make your- 
 self so poorly this evening that you have to stop in bed?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "Did not Anastasie come to see you?" demaiided Bas- 
 tignae. 
 
 "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 
 
FATHBE GORIOT 247 
 
 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 dress- 
 maker; pay her for me!' She eawiot. 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 yes- 
 terday 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 Q.L.money_has broken my heart^^^ Oh! I 
 did nOf^Trif^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 in 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 here 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 Lad girl Victoire out of the house. A servant that can- 
 not trast 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 cbildren; her kisses will make me well again. After 
 all, I might have spent the thousand francs on physic; I 
 would far n.ther give them to my little Nasie, who can charm 
 aU the pain iway. At any rate, I am some comfort to her in 
 her misery ; md 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 ia Odessa; out there, wheat fetches a quarter of 
 the price it sells for here. There is a law against the im- 
 portation of grain, but the good folk who made the law for- 
 
248 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 got to prohibit the introduction of wheat products and food 
 stuffs made from com. 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. 
 I "Come," he said, "do not talk any more, you must 
 
 rest " Jufit 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. Kext 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 Eestaud did not come; but she 
 sent a messenger for the money. \m\^ q^ "^ 
 
 "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 appearance he was well con- 
 tent. 
 
 At seven o'clock that evening Therese came with a letter 
 from Delphine. 
 
 "What are you doing, dear friend ? I have been loved for a 
 very little while, and am I neglected already? In the con- 
 fidences of heart and heart, I have learned to know your soul 
 — ^you are too noble not to be faithful for ever, for you know 
 that love with all its infinite subtle changes of feeling is 
 never the same. Once you said, as we were listening to the 
 Prayer in Mose in Egitto, 'For some it is the monotony of 
 a single note; for others, it is the infinite of sound.' Ee- 
 Baeiojmr tibat I am expecting you this evening to t^ke me to 
 Mme. db Beans^nt's ball. Bvsry one knows now that the 
 
FATHER GOBIOT 2ia 
 
 King signed M. d'Ajuda's marriage-con-tract this morning, 
 and the poor Vicomtesse knew nothing of it until two o'clock 
 this afternoon. All Paris will flock to her house, of course, 
 just as_a crowd fills the Place de^Gr^ye to see^an raeeution^ 
 It is homBleT^is it "not, to go out of curiosity to see if she 
 'will hide her anguish, and whether she will die courageously? 
 I certainly should not go, my friend, if I had been at her 
 house before; but, of course, she will not receive society any 
 more after this, and all my efforts would be in vain. My 
 position is a very unusual one, and besides, I am going there 
 partly on your account. I am waiting for you. If you are 
 not beside me in less than two hours, I do not know whether 
 I could forgive such treason." 
 
 Rastignae took up a pen and wrote : 
 
 "I am waiting till the doctor comes to know if there is any 
 hope of your father's life. He is lying dangerously ill. I 
 win come and bring you the news, but I am afraid it may be 
 a sentence of death. When I come you can decide whether 
 you can go to the ball. — ^Yours a thousand times." 
 
 At half-past eight the doctor arrived. He did not take a 
 very hopeful view of the case, but thought that there was no 
 immediate danger. Improvements and relapses might be 
 expected, and the good man's life and reason hung in the 
 balance. 
 
 "It would be better for him to die at once," the doctor said 
 as he took leave. 
 
 Eugene left Goriot to Bianehon's care, and went to carry 
 the sad news to Mme. de ISTuciugen. Family feeling lingered 
 in her, and this must put an end for the present to her plans 
 of amusement. 
 
 "Tell her to enjoy her evening as if nothing had hap- 
 pened," cried Goriot. He had been lying in a sort of stupor, 
 but he suddenly sat upright as Eugene went out. 
 
 aigene, half heartbroken, entered Delphine's. Her hair 
 
250 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 had been dressed; she wore her dancing slippers; she had 
 only to put on her ball-dress; but when the artist is giving 
 the finishing stroke to his creation, the last touches require 
 more time than the whole groundwork of the picture. 
 
 ''Why, you are not dressed!" she cried. 
 
 '^Madame, your father " 
 
 "My father again !" she exclaimed, breaking in upon him. 
 "You need not teach me what is due to my father, I have 
 known my father this long while. Not a word, Eugene. I 
 win hear what you have to say when you are dressed. My 
 carriage is waiting, take it, go round to your rooms and dress, 
 Therese has put out everything in readiness for you. Come 
 back as soon as you can; we will talk about my father on the 
 way to Mme. de Beauseant's. We must go early ; if we have to 
 wait our turn in a row of carriages, we shall be lucky if 
 we get there by eleven o'clock." 
 
 "Madame " 
 
 "Quick ! not a word !" she cried, darting into her dressing- 
 room for a necklace. 
 
 "Do go, Monsieur Eugene, or you will vex madame," said 
 Th^rdse, hurrying him away; and Eugene was too horror- 
 stricken by this elegant parricide to resist. 
 
 He went to his rooms and dressed, sad, thoughtful, and 
 dispirited. The world of Paris was like an ocean of mud 
 for him Just then; and it seemed that whoever set foot in 
 that black mire must needs sink into it up to the chin. 
 
 "Their crimes are paltry," said Eugdne to himself. "Vau- 
 trin was greater." 
 
 He had seen society in its three great phases — Qbedience, 
 Strugg le, and Revolt ; the F amily, the World, and Vautrili;~ 
 ancTSl hesitated in his choice. Obedience was dull, Eevolt 
 impossible. Struggle hazardous. His thoughts wandered back 
 to the home circle. He thought of the quiet uneventful life, 
 the pure happiness of the days spent among those who loved 
 him there. Those loving and beloved beings passed their 
 lives in obedience to the natural laws of the hearth, and in 
 that obedience found a deep and constant serenity, unvexed 
 
FATHER GORIOT 251 
 
 by torments such as these. Yet, for all his good impulses, 
 he could not bring himself to make profession of the reli- 
 gion of pure souls to Delphine, nor to prescribe the duties 
 of piety to her in the name of love. His education had begun 
 to bear its fruits; he loved selfishly already. Besides, his 
 tact had discovered to him the real nature of Delphine; he 
 divined instinctively that she was capable of stepping over 
 her father's corpse to go to the ball; and within himself he 
 felt that he had neither the strength of mind to play the part ^ 
 of mentor, nor the strength of character to vex her, nor the "^ 
 courage to leave her to go alone. 
 
 "She would never forgive me for putting her in the wrong 
 over it," he said to himself. Then he turned the doctor's 
 dictum over in his mind; he tried to believe that Goriot was 
 not so dangerously ill as he had imagined, and ended by col- 
 lecting together a sufficient quantity of traitorous excuses 
 for Delphine's conduct. She did not know how ill her father 
 was; the kind old man himself would have made her go to 
 the ball if she had gone to see him. So often it happens that*'> 
 this one or that stands condemned by the social laws that 
 govern family relations; and yet there are peculiar circum- 
 stances in the case, diflEerenees of temperament, divergent 
 interests, innumerable complications of family life that ex- 
 cuse the apparent offence. 
 
 Ilugene did not wish to see too clearly; he was ready to 
 sacrifice his conscience to his mistress. Within the last few 
 days his whole' life had undergone a change. Woman had 
 entered into his world and thrown it into chaos, family 
 claims dwindled away before her; she had appropriated all 
 his being to her uses. Eastignae and Delphine found each ^ 
 other at a crisis in their lives when their union gave them 
 the most poignant bliss. Their passion, so long proved, had 
 only gained in strength by the gratified desire that often 
 extinguishes passion. This woman was his, and Eugene 
 recognized that not until then had he loved her; perhaps 
 love is only gratitude for pleasure. This woman, vile or sub- 
 lime, he adored for the pleasure she had brought as her 
 
K2 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 dower; and Delphine loved Eastignae as Tantalus wotdd 
 have loved some angel who had satisfied his hunger and 
 quenched the burning thirst in his parched throat. 
 
 "Well," said Mme. de Nueingen when he came back in 
 evening dress, "how is my father ?" 
 
 "Very dangerously ill," he answered; "if you wiU grant 
 me a proof of your affection, we will just go in to see him 
 on the way." 
 
 , "Very well," she said. "Yes, but afterwards. Dear Eu- 
 gene, do be nice, and don't preach to me. Come." 
 
 They set out. Eugene said nothing for a while. 
 
 "What is it now?" she asked. 
 
 "I can hear the death-rattle in your father's throat," he 
 said, almost angrily. And with the hot indignation of youth, 
 he told the story of Mme. de Eestaud's vanity and cruelty, 
 of her father's final act of self-sacrifice, that had brought 
 about this struggle between life and death, of the price that 
 had been paid for Anastasie's golden embroideries. ; Delphine 
 / cried. 
 ^^ "I shall look frightful," she thought. She dried her tears. 
 
 "I will nurse my father ; I wiU not leave his bedside," she 
 said aloud. 
 
 "Ah! now you are as I would have you," exclaimed Eas- 
 tignae. 
 
 The lamps of five hundred carriages lit up the darkness 
 about the H6tel de Beauseant. A gendarme in all the glory 
 of his uniform stood on either side of the brightly lighted 
 gateway. The great world was flocking thither that night in 
 its eager curiosity to see th e great lad y at themomfigtof her 
 fall, and the rooms on the^ound floOT~were alreadyfull to 
 overflowing, when Mme. de Nueingen and Eastignae ap- 
 peared. Never since Louis XIV. tore her lover away from 
 La grande Mademoiselle, and the whole court hastened to 
 ?isit that unfortunate princess, had a disastrous love affair 
 made such a sensation in Paris. But the youngest daughter 
 of the almost royal house of Burgundy had risen proudly 
 above her pain, and moved till the last moment like a queen 
 
FATHER GORiOT 253 
 
 in this world — its vanities had always been valueless for her, 
 save in so far as they contributed to the triumph of her pas- 
 sion. The salons were filled with the most beautiful women 
 ia Paris, resplendent in their toilettes, and radiant with 
 smiles. Ministers and ambassadors, the most distinguished 
 men at court, men bedizened with decorations, stars, and rib- 
 bons, men who bore the most illustrious names in Prance, 
 had gathered about the Vicomtesse. 
 
 The music of the orchestra vibrated in wave after wave 
 of sound from the golden ceiling of the palace, now made 
 desolate for its queen. 
 
 Madame de Beauseant stood at the door of the first salon 
 to receive the guests who were styled her friends. She was 
 dressed in white, and wore no ornament in the plaits of hair 
 braided about her head; her face was calm; there was no 
 sign there of pride, nor of pain, nor of joy that she did not 
 feel. No one could read her soul; she stood there like some 
 Fiobe carved in marble. For a few intimate friends there was 
 a tinge of satire in her smile ; but no scrutiny saw any change 
 in her, nor had she looked otherwise in the days of the glory 
 of her happiness. The most callous of her guests admired her 
 as young Eome applauded some gladiator who could die smil- 
 ing. It seemed as if society had adorned itself for a last au- • 
 dience of one of its sovereigns. 
 
 "I was afraid that you would not come," she said to Eas- 
 tignac. g- 
 
 "Madame," he said, in an unsteady voice, taking ^er 
 speech as a reproach, "I shall be the last to go, that is why 
 I am here." 
 
 "Good," she said, and she took his hand. "You are per- 
 haps the only one that I can trust here among all these. Oh,' 
 my friend, when you love, love a woman whom you are sure 
 that you, can love always. Never forsake a woman." ( 
 
 She took Eastignac's arm, and went towards a sofa in the 
 card-room. 
 
 "I want you to go to the Marquis," she said. "Jacques, 
 my footman, will go with you; he has a letter that you wiU 
 
254 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 take. I am asking the Marquis to give my letters back to 
 me. He will give them all up, I like to think that. When 
 you have my letters, go up to my room with them. Some ona 
 shall bring me word." c ' ' • 
 
 She rose to go to meet the Duehesse de Langeais, her 
 most intimate friend, who had come like the rest of the 
 world. 
 
 ' Eastignac went. He asked for the Marquis d'Ajuda at 
 the Hotel Eochefide, feeling certain that the latter would 
 be spending his evening there, and so it proved. The Mar- 
 quis went to his own house with Eastignac, and gave a casket 
 to the student, saying as he did so, "They are all there." 
 
 He seemed as if he was about to say something to Eu- 
 gene, to ask about the ball, or the Vieomtesse; perhaps he 
 was on the brink of the confession that, even then, he was in 
 despair, and knew that his marriage had been a fatal mistake; 
 but a proud gleam shone in his eyes, and with deplorable 
 courage he kept his noblest feelings a secret. 
 
 "Do not even mention my name to her, my dear Eugene." 
 He grasped Eastignac's hand sadly and affectionately, and 
 turned away from him. Eugene went back to the H6tel 
 Beauseant, the servant took him to the Vicomtesse's room. 
 There were signs there of preparations for a journey. He 
 sat down, by the fire, fixed his eyes on the cedar wood casket, 
 and fell into deep mournful musings. Mme. de Beaus6ant 
 loomed large in these imaginings, like a goddess in the 
 Iliad. 
 
 "Ah! my friend! . . ." said the Vieomtesse; she 
 crossed the room and laid her hand on Eastignac's shoulder. 
 He saw the tears in his cousin's uplifted eyes, saw that one 
 hand was raised to take the casket, and that the fingers of 
 ,the other trembled. Suddenly she took the cas^t, put it 
 in the fire, and watched jtJwHfi. 
 
 "They are dancing," she said. "They all came very early; 
 but deat h wiU be long in coming. Hush! my friend," and 
 she laifa finger on Eastignac's lips, seeing that he was about 
 to speak. "I shall never see Paris again. I am taking ray 
 
FATHBK GORIOT 255 
 
 leave of this world. At five o'eloek this morning I shall set 
 out on my journey; I mean to bury myself m the remotest 
 part of Normandy. I have had very little time to make my 
 arrangements; since three o'clock this afternoon I have been 
 busy signing documents, setting my affairs in order; there 
 was no one whom I could send to . . ." 
 
 She broke off. 
 
 "He was sure to be . . ." 
 
 Again she broke oil; the weight of her sorrow was more 
 than she could bear. In such moments as these everything 
 is agony, and some words are impossible to utter. 
 
 "And so I counted upon you to do me this last piece of 
 service this evening," she said. "I should like to give you 
 some pledge of friendship. I shall often think of you. You'^ 
 have seemed to me to be kind and noble, fresh-hearted and 
 true, in this world where such qualities are seldom fouai- 
 I should like you to think sometimes of me. Stay," she said, 
 glancing about her, "there is this box that has held my gloves. 
 Every time I opened it before going to a ball or to the the- 
 atre, I used to feel that I must be beautiful, because I was so 
 happy; and I never touched it except to lay some gracious 
 liiemory in it : there is so much of my old self in it, of a Ma- 
 dame de Beauseant who now lives no longer. Will you take 
 it ? I will leave directions that it is to be sent to you in the 
 Eue d'Artois. — Mme. de Nucingen looked very charming this 
 evening. Eugene, you must love her. Perhaps we may never 
 see each other again, my friend; but be sure of this, that 
 I shall pray for you who have been kind to me. — Now, let 
 us go downstairs. People shall not think that I am weep- 
 ing. I have all time and eternity before me, and where I 
 am going I shall be alone, and no one will ask me the rea- 
 son of my tears. One last look round first." I 
 
 She stood for a moment. Then she covered her eyes with 
 her hands for an instant, dashed away the tears, bathed her 
 face with cold water, and took the student's arm. 
 
 "Let us go!" she said. 
 
 This suffering, endured with such noble fortitude, shook 
 
256 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 Eugene with a more violent emotion than he had felt before. 
 They went back to the ballroom, and Mme. de Beauseant 
 went through the rooms on Eugene's arm — the last deli- 
 cately gracious act of a gracious woman. In another moment 
 he saw the sisters, Mme. de Eestaud and Mme. de Nucingen. 
 The Countess shone in all the glory of her magnificent dia- 
 monds; every stone must have scorched like fire, she was 
 nevei to wear them again. Strong as love and pride might 
 te in her, she found it difficult to meet her husband's eyes. 
 The sight of her was scarcely calculated to lighten Rastignae's 
 ead thoughts; through the blaze of those diamonds he 
 seemed to see the wretched pallet-bed on which Father Go- 
 riot was lying. The Vicomtesse misread his melancholy; 
 '"she withdrew her hand from his arm. 
 
 "Come," she said, "I must not deprive you of a pleasure." 
 
 Eugene was soon claimed by Delphine. She was delighted 
 with the impression that she had made, and eager to lay at 
 her lover's feet the homage she had received in this new world 
 in which she hoped to live and move henceforth. 
 
 "What do you think of Nasie?" she asked him. 
 
 "She has discounted everything, even her own father's 
 death," said Eastignac. 
 
 Towards four o'clock in the morning the rooms began to 
 empty. A little later the music ceased, and the Duchesse 
 de Langeais and Eastignac were left in the great ballroom. 
 The Vicomtesse, who thought to find the student there alone, 
 came back there at the last. She had taken leave of M. de 
 Beauseant, who had gone off to bed, saying again as he went, 
 'It is a great pity, my dear, to shut yourself up at your age \ 
 Pray stay among us." 
 
 Mme. de Beauseant saw the Duchess, and, in spite of her- 
 self, an exclamation broke from her. 
 
 "I saw how it was, Clara," said Mme. de Langeais. "You 
 are going from among us, and you will never come back. But 
 you must not go until you have heard me, until we have un- 
 derstood each other." 
 
 She took her friend's arm, and they went together into the 
 
5 (!o\o-i2- cSi-O-o-A^ 
 FATHER GORIOT 25T 
 
 next room. There the Duchess looked at her with tears in 
 her eyes; she held her friend ia a close embrace and kissed 
 her cheek. 
 
 "I could not let you go without a word, dearest; the re- 
 morse would have been too hard to bear. You can count 
 upon me as surely as upon yourself. You have shown your- 
 self great this evening; I feel that I am worthy of our friend-' 
 ship, and I mean to prove myself worthy of it. I have not 
 ialways been kind; I was in the wrong; forgive me, dearest; 
 I wish I could unsay anything that may have hurt you; I 
 take back those words. One common sorrow has brought us 
 together again, for I do not know which of us is the more 
 miserable. M. de Montriveau was not here to-night; 
 do you understand what that means? — ^None of those who 
 saw you to-night, Clara, will ever forget you. I mean to 
 make one last effort. If I fail, I shall go into a convent. 
 Clara, where are you going?" 
 
 "Into Normandy, to Courcelles. I shall love and pray 
 there until the day when God shall take me from this world. 
 — M. de Eastignac!" called the Vicomtesse, in a tremulous 
 voice, remembering that the young man was waiting there. 
 
 The student knelt to kiss his cousin's hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, Antoinette!" said Mme. de Beauseant. "May 
 you be happy." — She turned to the student. "You are 
 'young," she said; "you have some beliefs still left. I have 
 been privileged, l ike some dying peop le, to find sincere and 
 reverent feeling in those about me a§..I take my leave of this 
 wc^ld." 
 
 It was nearly five o'clock that morning when Eastignac 
 came away. He had put Mme. de Beauseant into her travel- 
 ing carriage, and received her last farewells, spoken amid 
 fast-falling tears ; for no greatness is so great that it can rise 
 above the laws of human afEeetion, or live beyond the juris- 
 diction of pain, as certain demagogues would have the people 
 believe. Eugene returned on foot to the Maison Vauquer 
 through the cold and darkness. Hi s education waa n early 
 craoplete. 
 
258 FATHEK GORIOT 
 
 'There is no hope for poor Father Goriot," said Bianchon, 
 as Eastignae came into the room. Eugene looked for a while 
 at the sleeping man, then he turned to his friend. "Dear 
 fellow, you are content with the modest career you have 
 marked out for yourself; keep to it. I am in hell, and I 
 must stay there. Believe everything that you hear said of 
 the world, nothing is too impossibly bad. 'No Juvenal could 
 paint the horrors hidden away under the covering of gems; 
 and gold." 
 
 At two o'clock in the afternoon Bianchon came to wake 
 Eastignae, and begged him to take charge of Goriot, who 
 had grown worse as the day wore on. The medical student 
 was obliged to go out. 
 
 "Poor old man, he has not two days to live, maybe not 
 many hours," he said; "but we must do our utmost, all the 
 same, to fight the disease. It will be a very troublesome case, 
 and we shall want money. We can nurse him between us, 
 of course, but, for my own part, I have not a penny. I have 
 turned out his pockets, and rummaged through his drawers — 
 result, nix. I asked him about it while his mind was clear, 
 and he told mft he had not a farthing of his own. What have 
 you?" 
 
 "I have twenty francs left," said Eastignae; "but I will 
 take them to the roulette table, I shall be sure to win." 
 
 "And if you lose?" 
 
 "Then I shall go to his sons-in-law and his daughters and 
 ask them for moiiey." 
 
 "And suppose they refuse?" Bianchon retorted. "The 
 most pressing thing just now is not really money; we must 
 put mustard poultices, as hot as they can be made, on his feet 
 and legs. If he calls out, there is stiU some hope for him. 
 You know how to set about doing it, and besides, Christophe 
 will help you. I am going round to the dispensary to per- 
 suade them to let us have the things we want on credit. , It 
 is a pity that we could not move him to the hospital; poor 
 fellow, he would be better there. Well, come along, I leave 
 you in charge : you must stay with him till I come back." 
 
FATHER GORIOT 259 
 
 The two young men went back to the room where the old 
 man was lying. Eugene was startled at the change in Go- 
 riot's face, so livid, distorted, and feeble. 
 
 "How are you, papa?" he said, bending over the pallet- 
 bed. Goriot turned his duU eyes upon Eugene, looked at 
 him attentively, and did not recognize him. It was more 
 ,than the student could bear ; the tears came into his eyes. 
 
 "Bianchon, ought we to have curtains put up in the win- 
 dows?" 
 
 "No, the temperature and the light do not affect him now. 
 It would be a good thing for him if he felt heat or cold; but 
 we must have a fire in any case to make tisanes and heat the 
 other things. I will send round a few sticks; they will last 
 till we can have in some firewood. I burned all the bark 
 fuel you had left, as well as his, poor man, yesterday and dur- 
 ing the night. The place was so damp that the water stood 
 in drops on the walls; I could hardly get the room dry. 
 Christophe came in and swept the floor, but the place is 
 like a stable; I had to burn juniper, the smell was something 
 horrible. 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" said Eastignae. "To think of those daugh- 
 ters of his." 
 
 "One moment, if he asks for something to drink, give him 
 this," said the house student, pointing to a large white Jar. 
 "If he b4gins to groan, and the belly feels hot and hard to the 
 touch you know what to do ; get Christophe to help you. If 
 he should happen to grow much excited, and begin to talk 
 a good deal and even to ramble in his talk, do not be alarmed. 
 It would not be a bad symptom. But send Christophe to the 
 Hospice Cochin. Our doctor, my chum, or I will come and 
 apply moxas. We had a great consultation this morning while 
 you were asleep. A surgeon, a pupil of Gall's came, and our 
 house surgeon, and the head physician from the Hotel-Dieu. 
 Those gentlemen considered that the symptoms were very un- 
 usual and interesting; the case must be carefully watched, 
 for it throws a light on several obscure and rather important 
 scientific problems. One of the authorities says that if there 
 
aaO FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 is more pressure of serum on one or other portion of the 
 brain, it should affect his mental capacities in such and such 
 directions. So if he should talk, notice very carefully what 
 kind of ideas his mind seems to run on; whether memory, or 
 penetration, or the reasoning faculties are exercised ; whether 
 sentiments or practical questions fill his thoughts; whether 
 he makes forecasts or dwells on the past; in fact, you must 
 be prepared to give an accurate report of him. It ia quite 
 likely that the extravasation fills the whole brain, in which 
 case he will die in the imbecile state in which he is lying now. 
 Yon cannot tell anything about these mysterious nervous 
 diseases. Suppose the crash came here," said Bianchon, 
 touching the back of the head, ''very strange things have been 
 known to happen; the brain sometimes partially recovers, 
 and death is delayed. Or the congested matter may pass out 
 of the brain altogether through channels which can only be 
 determined by a post-mortem examination. There is an old 
 man at the Hospital for Incurables, an imbecile patient, in 
 his case the effusion has followed the direction of the spinal 
 cord; he suffers horrid agonies, but he lives." 
 
 "Did they enjoy themselves?" It was Father Goriot who 
 epafee. He had recognized Eugene. 
 
 "Oh! he thinks of nothing but his daughters," said Bian- 
 chon. "Scores of times last night he said to me, 'They are 
 dancing now ! She has her dress.' He called them by their 
 names. He made me cry, the devil take it, calling with that 
 tone in his voice, for 'Delphine! my little Delphine! and 
 Nasie!' Upon my word," said the medical student, "it was 
 enough to make any one burst out crying." 
 
 "Delphine," said the old man, "she is there, isn't she? I 
 knew she was there," and his eyes sought the door. 
 
 "I am going down now to tell Sylvie to get the poultices i 
 ready," said Bianchon. "They ought to go on at once." 
 
 Eastignac was left alone with the old man. He sat at the 
 foot of the bed, and gazed at the face before him, so horribly 
 -.. . ehanged that it was shocking to see. 
 AV\/^oble natures cannot dwell in this world," he said; 
 
FATHER GORIOT 261 
 
 "M.m.e. de Beauseant has fled from it, and there he lies dy- \ 
 ing. What place indeed is there in the shallow petty frivo-/ 
 loTis thing called society for noble thoughts and feelings P'i/ 
 
 Pictures of yesterday's ball rose up in his memory, in 
 strange contrast to the deathbed before him. Bianchon sud- 
 denly appeared. 
 
 "I say, Eugene, I have just seen our head surgeon at the 
 hospital, and I ran all the way back here. If the old man 
 shows any signs of reason, if he begins to talk, cover him 
 with a mustard poultice from the neck to the base of the 
 spine, and send round for us." 
 
 "Dear Bianchon," exclaimed Eugene. 
 
 "Oh! it is an interesting case from a scientific point of 
 view," said the medical student, with all the enthusiasm of a 
 neophyte. 
 
 "So !" said Eugene. "Am I really the only one who caresV 
 for the poor old man for his own sake ?" ' 
 
 "You would not have said so if you had seen me this morn- 
 ing," returned Bianchon, who did not take offence at this 
 speech. "Doctors who have seen a good deal of practice 
 never see anything but the disease, but, my dear fellow, I 
 can see the patient still." 
 
 He went. Eugene was left alone with the old man, and 
 with an apprehension of a crisis that set in, in fact, before 
 very long. 
 
 "Ah ! dear boy, is that you ?"■ said Father Goriot, recognia- 
 ing Eugene. 
 
 "Do you feel better?" asked the law student, taking his 
 hand. 
 
 "Yes. My head felt as if it were being screwed up in a vise, 
 but now it is set free again. Did you see my girls? They 
 will be here directly; as soon as they know that I am ill they 
 will hurry here at once; they used to take such care of me 
 in the Eue de la Jussienne! Great Heavens! if only my 
 room was fit for them to come into ! There has been a young 
 man here, who has burned up all my bark fuel." 
 
 "I can hear Christophe coming upstairs," Eugdne an- 
 
20.'? FATHBK GOKIOT 
 
 swered. "He is bringing up some firewood that that young 
 man has sent you." 
 
 "Good, but how am I to pay for the wood. I have not a 
 penny left, dear boy. I have given everything, everything. 
 I am a pauper now. Well, at least the golden gown was 
 grand, was it not ? (Ah ! what pain this is !) Thanks, Chris- 
 tophe! God will reward you, my boy; I have nothing left 
 now." 
 
 Eugene went over to Christophe and whispered in the man's 
 ear, "I will pay you well, and Sylvie too, for your trouble." 
 
 "My daughters told you that they were coming, didn't they, 
 Christophe? Go again to them, and I will give you five 
 francs. Tell them that I am not feeling well, that I should 
 like to kiss them both and see them once again before I 
 die. Tell them that, but don't alarm them more than you can 
 help." - 
 -""Eastignac signed to Christophe to go, and the man went. 
 
 "They will come before long," the old man went on. "I 
 know them so well. My tender-hearted Delphine ! If I am 
 going to die, she will feel it so much! And so will Nasie. 
 I do not want to die ; they will cry if I die ; and if I die, dear 
 Eugene, I shall not see them any more. It will be very 
 dreary there where I am going. For a father it is hell to be 
 without your children; I have served my apprenticeship al- 
 ready since they married. My heaven was in the Eue de la 
 Jussienne. Eugene, do you think that if I go to heaven I 
 could come back to earth, and be near them in spirit? I 
 have heard some such things said. Is it true? It is as if I 
 could see them at this moment as they used to be when we 
 all lived in the Eue de la Jussienne. They used to come 
 downstairs of a morning. 'Good-morning, papa!' they used 
 to say, and I would take them on my knees; we had all sorts 
 of little games of play together, and they had such pretty 
 coaxing ways. We always had breakfast together, too, every 
 morning, and they had dinner with me — in fact, I was a 
 father then. I enjoyed my children. They did not think 
 for themselves so long as they lived in the Eue de la Jus- 
 
FATHER GORIOT 26S 
 
 Bienne ; they knew nothing of the world ; they lovsd me with 
 all their hearts. Mon Dieu! why could they not always be 
 little girls ? (Oh ! my head ! this racking pain in my h^d !). 
 Ah! ah! forgive me, children; this pain is fearful; ifiitast 
 be agony indeed, for you have used me to endure pain. Ja^rt 
 ■ Dieu! if only I held their hands in mine, I should not feel it 
 lat all. — Do you think that they are on the way ? Christophe 
 'is so stupid; I ought to have gone myself. He will see thenu 
 But you went to the ball yesterday; just tell me how they 
 looked. They did not know that I was ill, did they, or they 
 would not have been dancing, poor little things ? Oh ! I must 
 not be ill any longer, They stand too much in need of me; 
 their fortunes are in danger. And such husbands as they are 
 bound to ! I must get well ! ( Oh ! what pain this is ! what 
 pain this is! . . . ah! ah!) — I must get •well, you see; 
 for they must have money, and I know how to set about mak- 
 ing some. I will go to Odessa and manufacture starch there, 
 I am an old hand, I will make millions. (Oh! this is 
 agony!)" 
 
 Goriot was silent for a moment; it seemed to require his 
 whole strength to endure the pain. 
 
 "If they were here, I should not complain," he said. "So 
 why should I complain now?" 
 
 He seemed to grow drowsy with exhaustion, and lay quietly 
 for a long time. Christophe came back; and Eastignac, 
 thinking that Goriot was asleep, allowed the man to give his 
 story aloud. 
 
 "First of all, sir, I went to Madame la Comtesse," he said ; 
 "but she and her husband were so busy that I couldn't get 
 to speak to her. When I insisted that I must see her, M. de 
 Eestaud came out to me himself, and went on like this: 
 'M. Goriot is dying, is he ? Very well, it is the best thing he 
 can do. I want Mme. de Eestaud to transact some important 
 business, when it is all finished she can go.' The gentleman 
 looked angry, I thought. I was Just going away when Mme. 
 de Eestaud came out into an ante-chamber through a door 
 that I did not notice, and said, 'Christophe, tell my father 
 
264 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 that my husband wants me to discuss some matters mth hiih, 
 and I cannot leave the house, the life or death of my chil- 
 dren is at stake; but as soon as it is over, I will come.' As 
 for Madame la Baronne, that is another story ! I eould not 
 speak to her either, &nd I did not even see her. Her wait- 
 ,' ing-woman said, 'Ah yes, but madame only came back from a 
 ball at a quarter to five this morning ; she is asleep now, and 
 if I wake her before mid-day she will be cross. As soon as 
 ; she rings, I will go and tell her that her father is worse. 
 I It will be time enough then to tell her bad news !' I begged 
 and I prayed, but, there ! it was no good. Then I asked for 
 ■^ M. le Baron, but he was out." 
 -■"-' "To think that neither of his daughters should come !" ex- 
 V claimed Rastignac. "I will write to them both." 
 ^ "Neither of them !" cried the old man, sitting upright in 
 bed. "They are busy, they are asleep, they will not come! 
 I knew that they would not. Not until you are dying do you 
 know your children. . . . Oh ! my friend, do not marry ; 
 do not have children! You give them life; they give you 
 your deathblow. You bring them into the world, and they 
 send you out of it. No, they will not come. I have known 
 that these ten years. Sometimes I have told myself so, but 
 I did not dare to believe it." 
 
 The tears gathered and stood without overflowing the red 
 sockets. 
 
 "Ah! if I were rich still, if I had kept my money, if I 
 
 ^ had not given all to them, they would be with me now ; they 
 
 _^ would fawn on me and cover my cheeks with their kisses! 
 
 I should be living" in a great mansion; I should have grand 
 
 ! apartments and servants and a fire in my room ; and they 
 
 would be about me all in tears, and their husbands and their 
 
 children. I should have had all that; now — I have nothing. 
 
 Money brings everything to you;, even. yQ-!ir_c[aughters. My 
 
 "BroneyT— OhJ-where is Tmyinoney ? If I had pleifty of money 
 
 to leave behind me, they would nurse me and tend me; I 
 
 should hear their voices, I should see their faces. Ah, God! 
 
 who knows? They both of them have hearts of stone. I 
 
FATHER GORIOT S66 
 
 loved them too much; it was not likely that they should lore 
 me. A father ought always to be rich ; he ought to keep his 
 children well in hand, like unruly horses. I have gone down 
 on my knees to them. Wretches ! this is the crowning act 
 that brings the last ten years to a proper close. If you but 
 knew how much they made of me just after they were mar- 
 ried. (Oh! this is cruel torture!) I had just given them 
 each eight hundred thousand francs; they were bound to be 
 civil to me after that, and their husbands too were civil. I 
 used to go to their houses : it was, 'My kind father' here, 'My 
 dear father^ there. There was always a place for me at their 
 tables. I used to dine with their husbands now and then, 
 and they were very respectful to me. I was still w orth 
 something, they thought. How should they know? f^d 
 !aot"sard~anyttltng about my affairs. It is worth while to be 
 civil to a man who has given his daughters eight hundred r 
 thousand francs apiece; and they showed me every attention 
 then — ^but it was all for my money. Grand-pfioplfi-argjiot 
 threat. I found that out by experience! I went to the the- 
 atre with them in their carriage ; I might stay as long as I 
 cared to stay at their evening parties. In fact, they acknowl- 
 edged me their father; publicly they owned that they were 
 my daughters. But I always was a shrewd one, you see, 
 and nothing was lost upon me. Everything went straight to 
 the mark and pierced my heart. I saw quite well that it 
 was aU sham and pretence, but there is no help for such 
 things as these. I felt less at my ease at their dinner-table 
 than I did downstairs here. I had nothing to say for myself. 
 So these grand folks would ask in my son-in-law's ear, 'Who 
 may that gentleman be?' — 'The father-in-law with the dol- 
 lars; he is very rich.' — 'The devil, he is!' they would say, 
 and look again at me with the respect due to my money. 
 Well, if I was in the way sometimes, I paid dearly for my 
 mistakes. And besides, who is perfect? (My head is one 
 Bore !) Dear Monsieur Eugene, I am suffering so now, that 
 a man might die of the pain; but it is nothing, nothing to 
 be compared with the pain I endured when Anastasie made 
 
266 FATHEK GOEIOT 
 
 me feel, for the first time, that I had said something stupid- 
 She looked at me, and that glance of hers opened all my 
 veins. I used to want to know everything, to be learned; 
 and one thing I did learn thoroughly — 1 knew that I was not 
 wanted here on earth. 
 
 "The next day I went to Delphine for comfort, and what 
 tehould I do there but make some stupid blunder that made 
 •her angry with me. I was like one driven out of his senses. 
 For a week I did not know what to do ; I did not dare to go 
 to see them for fear they should reproach me. And that was 
 how they both turned me out of the house. 
 
 "Oh God ! Thou knowest all the misery and anguish that 
 I have endured ; Thou hast counted all the wounds that have 
 been dealt to me in these years that have aged and changed 
 me and whitened my hair and drained my life; why dost 
 Thou make me to suffer so to-day? Have I not more than 
 ~- expiated the sin of loving them too much? They themselves 
 have been the instruments of vengeance; they have tortured 
 'me for my sin of affection. 
 
 "Ah, well! fathers know no better; I loved them so; I 
 went back to them as a gambler goes to the gaming table. 
 This love was my vice, you see, my mistress — ^they were 
 everything in the world to me. They were always wanting 
 something or other, dresses and ornaments, and what not; 
 their maids used to tell me what they wanted, and I used 
 to give them the things for the sake of the welcome that they 
 bought for me. But, at the same time, they used to give me 
 little lectures on my behavior in society; they began about 
 it at once. Then they began to feel ashamed of me. That 
 is what comes of having your children well brought up. I 
 could not go to school again at my time of life. (This pain 
 ,is fearful! Mon Dieu! These doctors! these doctors! If 
 they would open my head, it would give me some relief!). 
 Oh, my daughters, my daug hters ! Anastasie ! Delphine ! If 
 I could only see them ! i Send for the police, and make them 
 come to me! Justice i^rCSTny side, the whole world is on 
 my side, I have natural rights, and the law with me. I 
 
FATHBE GOKIOT 267 
 
 protest ! The country will go to ruin if a father's rights are 
 trampled under foot. That is easy to see. The whole world 
 turns on fatherly love; fatherly love is the foundation of so- 
 ciety; it will crumble into ruin when children do not love 
 their fathers. Oh ! if I could only see them, and hear them, 
 no matter what they said ; if I could simply hear their voices, 
 it would soothe the pain. Delphine ! Delphine most of all. 
 But tell them when they come not to look so coldly at me as 
 they do. Oh ! my friend, my good Monsieur Eugene, you do 
 not know what it is when all the golden light in a glance 
 suddenly turns to a leaden gray. It has been one long win- 
 ter here since the light in their eyes shone no more for me. I 
 have had nothing but disappointments to devour. Disap- 
 pointment has been my daily bread ; I have lived on humilia- 
 tion and insults. I have swallowed down all the affronts for 
 which they sold me my poor stealthy little moments of joy; 
 for I love theni so ! Think of it ! a father hiding himself to 
 get a glimpse of his children ! I have given al l_my l^g-to 
 the m, and to-d ay they will n ot give me one hou r! I am hun- 
 gering and thirsting'lor them, my heart is burning in me, 
 but they will not come to bring relief in the agony, for I am 
 dying now, I feel that this is death. Do they not know what 
 it means to trample on a father's corpse ? There is a God in 
 heaven who avenges us fathers whether we will or no. 
 
 "Oh! they vidll come! Come to me, darlings, and give 
 me one more kiss ; one last kiss, the Viaticum for your father, 
 who will pray God for you in heaven. I will tell Him that 
 you have been good children to your father, and plead your 
 cause with God ! After all, it is not their fault. I tell you 
 they are innocent, my friend. Tell every one that it is not 
 their fault, and no one need be distressed on my account. It 
 is all my own fault, I taught them to trample upon me. I 
 loved to have it so. It is no one's affair but mine; man's 
 justice and God's justice have nothing to do in it. God 
 would be unjust if He condemned them for anything they 
 may have done to me. I did not behave to them properly ; I 
 ^as stupid enough to resign my rights. I would have hma- 
 
aeS FATHBE GOEIOT 
 
 bled myself in the dust for them. What could you expect? 
 The most beautiful nature, the noblest soul, would hare been 
 spoiled by such indulgence. I am a wretch, I am justly pun-' 
 ished. I, and I only, am to blame for all their sins ; I spoiled 
 them. To-day they are as eager for pleasure as they used to 
 be for sugar-plxims. When they were little girls I indulged 
 them in every whim. They had a carriage of their own when 
 they were fifteen. They have never been crossed. I am 
 guilty, and not they — ^but I sinned through love. 
 
 "My heart would open at the sound of their voices. I can 
 hear them; they are coming. Yes! yes! they are coming. 
 The law demands that they should be present at their father's 
 deathbed; the law is on my side. It would only cost them 
 the hire of a cab. I would pay that. Write to them, tell 
 them that I have millions to leave to them! On my word 
 of honor, yes. I am going to manufacture Italian paste 
 foods at Odessa. I understand the trade. There are mill- 
 ions to be made in it. Nobody has thought of the scheme 
 as yet. You see, there will be no waste, no damage in tran- 
 sit, as there always is with wheat and flour. Hey ! hey ! and 
 starch too ; there are millions to be made in the starch trade I 
 You will not be telling a lie. Millions, tell them; and even 
 if they really come because they covet the money, I would 
 rather let them deceive me ; and I shall see them in any case. 
 I want my children ! I gave them life ; they are mine, mine !" 
 and he sat upright. The head thus raised, with its scanty 
 white hair, seemed to Eugene like a threat; every line that 
 could still speak spoke of menace. 
 
 "There, there, dear father," said Eugene, 'lie down again; 
 I will write to them at once. As soon as Bianchon comes 
 back I will go for them myself, if they do not come before." 
 
 "If they do not come?" repeated the old man, sobbing. 
 "Why, I shall be dead before then ; I shall die in a fit of rage, 
 'of rage ! Anger is getting the better of me. I can see my 
 whole life at this minute. I have been cheated! They do 
 not love me — ^they have never loved me all their lives ! It is 
 all clear to me. They have not come, and they will not OMne. 
 
FATHEil GORIOT 269 
 
 The longer they put off their coming, the less they are likely 
 to give me this- joy. I know them. They have never cared 
 to guess my disappointments, my sorrows, my wants; they 
 never eared to know my life ; they will have no presentiment 
 of my death ; they do not even know the secret of my tender- 
 ness for them. Yes, I see it all now. I have laid my heart 
 open so often, that they take everything I do for them as a 
 matter of course. They might have asked me for the very 
 eyes out of my head and I would have bidden them to pluck 
 them out. They think that all fathers are like theirs. You 
 should always make your value felt. Their own children 
 will avenge me. Why, for their own sakes they should come 
 to me ! Make them understand that they are laying up ret- 
 ribution for their own deathbeds. All crimes are summed 
 up in this one. . . . Go to them; just tell them that if 
 they stay away it will be parricide ! There is enough laid to 
 their charge already without adding that to the list. Cry 
 aloud as I do now, 'Nasie ! Delphine ! here ! Come to your 
 father; the father who has been so kind to you is lying ill!' 
 — Not a sound; no one comes ! Then am I to die like a dog? 
 This is to be my reward — I am forsaken at the last. They 
 are vticked, heartless women; curses on them, I loathe them. 
 I shall rise at night from my grave to curse them again ; for, 
 after all, my friends, have I done wrong? They are behav- 
 ing very badly to me, eh ? . . . What am I saying ? Did 
 you not tell me just now that Delphine was in the room? 
 She is more tender-hearted than her sister. . . . Eugene, 
 you are my eon, you know. You will love her; be a father 
 to her! Her sister is very unhappy. And there are their 
 fortunes ! Ah, God ! I am dying, this anguish is almost more 
 than I can bear ! Cut off my head ; leave me nothing but my, 
 heart." 
 
 "Christophe !" shouted Eugene, a;larmed by the way in 
 which the old man moaned, and by his cries, "go for M. Bian- 
 chon, and send a cab here for me. — I am going to fetch them, 
 dear father; I will bring them back to you." , 
 
 "Make them come ! Compel them to come ! Call out the 
 
270 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 Guard, the military, anything and everything, but make them 
 come!" He looked at Eugene, and a last gleam of intelli- 
 gence shone in his eyes. "Go to the authorities, to the Pub- 
 lic Prosecutor, let them bring them here ; come they shall !" 
 
 "But you have cursed them." 
 
 "Who said that!" said the old man in dull amazement. 
 'Tou know quite well that I love them, I adore them! I 
 shall be quite well again if I can see them. ... Go for 
 them, my good neighbor, my dear boy, you are kind-hearted; 
 I wish I could repay you for your kindness, but I have 
 nothing to give you now, save the blessing of a dying man. 
 Ah ! if I could only see Delphine, to tell her to pay my debt 
 to you. If the other cannot comej bring Delphine to me at 
 any rate. Tell her that unless she comes, you will not love 
 her any more. She is so fond of you that she will come to 
 me then. Give me something to drink! There is a fire in 
 my bowels. Press something against my forehead! If my 
 daughters would lay their hands there, I think I should get 
 better. . . . Mon Dieu! who will recover their money for 
 them when I am gone? ... I will manufacture vermi- 
 celli out in Odessa; I will go to Odessa for their sakes." 
 
 "Here is something to drink," said Eugene, supporting 
 the dying man on his left arm, while he held a cup of tisane 
 to Goriot's lips. 
 
 "How you must love your own father and mother!" said 
 the old man, and grasped 'the student's hand in both of his. 
 It was a feeble, trembling grasp. "I am going to die ; I shall 
 die without seeing my daughters; do you understand? To 
 be always thirsting, and never to drink ; that has been my life 
 for the last ten years. ... I have no daughters, my 
 sons-in-law killed them. No, since their marriages they have 
 .been dead to me. Fathers should petition the Chambers to 
 pass a law against marriage. If you love your daughters, do 
 not let them marry. A son-in-law is a rascal who poisons a 
 girl's mind and contaminates her whole nature. Let us have 
 no more marriages! It robs us of our daughters; we are 
 left alone upon our deathbeds, and they are not with us then. 
 
* Mme. de Restaud took her father's hand and kissed it" 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 271 
 
 They onght to pass a law for dying fathers. This is awful! 
 It cries for vengeance 1 They cannot come, because my sons- 
 in-law forbid them ! . . . Kill them ! . . . Eestaud 
 and the Alsatian, kill them both ! They have murdered me 
 between them! . . . Death or my daughters! . . . 
 Ah ! it is too late, I am dying, and they are not here ! . . . 
 Dying without them ! . . . Kasie ! Fifine ! Why do you 
 not come to me? Your papa is going " 
 
 "Dear Father Goriot, calm yourself. There, there, lie 
 quietly and rest ; don't worry yourself, don't think." 
 
 "I shall not see them. Oh ! the agony of it !" 
 
 "You shall see them." 
 
 "Eeally ?" cried the old man, still wandering. "Oh ! shall 
 I see them; I shall see them and hear their voices. I shall 
 die happy. Ah ! well, after all, I do not wish to live ; I can- 
 not stand this much longer; this pain that grows worse and 
 worse. But, oh! to see them, to touch their dresses — ah! 
 nothing but their dresses, that is very little ; still, to feel some- 
 thing that belongs to them. Let me touch their hair with 
 my fingers . . . their hair . . ." 
 
 His head fell back on the pillow, as if a sudden heavy blow 
 had struck him down, but his hands groped feebly over the 
 quilt, as if to find his daughters' hair. 
 
 "My blessing on them . . ." he said, making an effort, 
 "my blessing . . ." 
 
 His voice died away. Just at that moment Bianchon came 
 into the room 
 
 "I met Christophe," he said ; "he is gone for your cab." 
 
 Then he looked at the patient, and raised the closed eye- 
 lids with his fingers. The two students saw how dead and 
 lustreless the eyes beneath had grown. 
 
 "He will not get over this, I am sure," said Bianchon. He 
 felt the old man's pulse, and laid a hand over his heart. 
 
 "The machinery works still ; more is the pity, in his state 
 it would be better for him to die." 
 
 "Ah ! my word, it would !" 
 
 "What is the matter with you? You are as pale as death. 
 
272 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 "Dear fellow, the moans and cries that I have just heard. 
 
 . . . There is a God ! Ah ! yes, yes, there is a God, and 
 He has made a hotter world for us, or this world of ours 
 w^yuld be i nightmare. I could have cried like a child ; but 
 this is too tragical, and I am sick at heart." 
 
 "We want a lot of things, you know; and where is the 
 money to come from?" 
 
 Eastignae took out his watch. 
 
 "There, be quick and pawn it. I do not want to stop on 
 the way to the Eue du Holder ; there is not a moment to lose, 
 I am afraid, and I must wait here till Christophe comes back. 
 I have not a farthing ; I shall have to pay the cabman when I 
 get home again." 
 
 Eastignae rushed down the stairs, and drove off to the Eue 
 du Holder. The awful scene through which he had just 
 passed quickened his imagination, and he grew fiercely indig- 
 nant. He reached Mme. de Eestaud's house only to be told 
 by the servant that his mistress could see no one. 
 
 "But I have brought a message from her father, who is 
 dying," Eastignae told the man. 
 
 "The Count has given us the strictest orders, sir " 
 
 "If it is M. de Eestaud who has given the orders, tell him 
 that his father-in-law is dying, and that I am here, and must 
 speak with him at once." 
 
 The man went. 
 
 Eugene waited for a long while. "Perhaps her father in 
 dying at this moment," he thought. 
 
 Then the man came back, and Eugene followed him to the 
 little drawing-room. M. de Eestaud was standing before the 
 fireless grate, and did not ask his visitor to seat himself. 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte," said Eastignae, "M. Goriot, your 
 father-in-law, is lying at the point of death in a squalid den 
 in the Latin Quarter. He has not a penny to pay for fire- 
 wood ; he is expected to die at any moment, and keeps calling 
 for his daughter " 
 
 "I feel very little affection for M. Goriot, sir, as you prob- 
 ably are aware," the Count answered coolly. "His character 
 
FATHER GORIOT 273 
 
 has been compromised in connection with Mme. de Eestaud; 
 he is the author of the misfortunes that have embittered my 
 life and troubled my peace of mind. It is a mal - of perfect 
 indifference to me if he lives or dies. Now you know m^ 
 feelings with regard to him. Public opinion may blame me, 
 but I care nothing for public opinion. Just now I have other 
 and much more important matters to think about than the 
 things that fools and chatterers may say about me. As for 
 Mme. de Eestaud, she cannot leave the house; she is in no 
 condition to do so. And, besides, I shall not allow her to 
 leave it. Tell her father that as soon as she has done her duty 
 by her husband and child she shall go to see him. If she 
 has any love for her father, she can be free to go to him, if 
 she chooses, in a few seconds; it lies entirely with her " 
 
 "Monsieur le Comte, it is no business of mine to criticise 
 your conduct; you can do as you please with your wife, but 
 may I count upon your keeping your word with me? Well, 
 then, promise me to tell her that her father has not twenty- 
 four hours to live; that he looks in vain for her, and 
 has cursed her already as he lies on his deathbed, — that is all 
 I ask." 
 
 "You can tell her yourself," the Count answered, impressed 
 by the thrill of indignation in Eugene's voice. 
 
 The Count led the way to the room where his wife usually 
 sat. She was drowned in tears, and lay crouching in the 
 depths of an armchair, as if she were tired of life and longed 
 to die. It was piteous to see her. Before venturing to look 
 at Eastignae,she glanced at her husband in evident and abject 
 terror that spoke of complete prostration of body and mind ; 
 she seemed crushed by a tyranny both mental and physical. 
 The Count jerked his head towards her; she construed this 
 as a permission to speak. 
 
 "I heard all that you said, monsieur. Tell my father that 
 if he knew all he would forgive me. . . . I did not think 
 there was such torture in the world as this; it is more than 
 I can endure, monsieur ! — But I will not give way as long as 
 I live," she said, turning to her husband. "I am a mother. 
 i8 
 
2T4 / FATHBK GOEIOT 
 
 V. 
 
 ^^Tell my father that I have never sinned against him in 
 spite of appearances !" she cried aloud in her despair. 
 
 Eugene bowed to the husband and wife; he guessed the 
 meaning of the scene, and that this was a terrible crisis in 
 the^Countess' life. M. de Eestaud's manner had told him 
 that his errand was a fruitless one; he saw that Anastasie 
 had no longer any liberty of action. He came away mazed 
 and bewildered, and hurried to Mme. de Kueingen. Delphine 
 was in bed. , 
 
 "Poor dear Eugene, I am ill," she said. "I caught cold 
 after the ball, and I am afraid of pneumonia. I am waiting 
 for the doctor to come." 
 
 "If you were at death's door," Eugene broke in, "you must 
 be carried somehow to your father. He is calling for you. If 
 you could hear the faintest of those cries, you would not feel 
 ill any longer." 
 
 "Eugene, I dare say my father is not quite so ill as you say ; 
 but I cannot bear to do anything that you do not approve, so 
 I wiU do just as you wish. As for him, he would die of grief 
 I know if I went out to see him and brought on a dangerous 
 illness. Well, I will go as soon as I have seen the doctor. — 
 Ah!" she cried out, "you are not wearing your watch, how 
 is that ?" 
 
 Eugene reddened. 
 
 "Eugene, Eugene! if you have sold it already or lost it. 
 . . . Oh ! it would be very wrong of you !" 
 
 The student bent over Delphine and said in her ear, "Do 
 you want to know ? Very well, then, you shall know. Your 
 father has nothing left to pay for the shroud that they will 
 lay him in this evening. Your watch has been pawned, for 
 I had nothing either." 
 
 Delphine sprang out of bed, ran to her desk, and took out 
 her purse. She gave it to Eugene, and rang the bell, crying : 
 
 "I will go, I will go at once, Eugene. Leave me, I will 
 dress. Why, I should be an unnatural daughter ! Go back ; 
 I will be there before you. — Therese," she called to the wait- 
 ing-woman, "ask M. de Nucingen to come upstairs at once 
 and speak to me." 
 
FATHER GORIOT 275 
 
 Eugene was almost happy when he reached the Kue 
 Neuve-Sainte-Genevi^ve ; he was so glad to bring the news to 
 the dying man that one of his daughters was coming. He 
 fumbled in Delphine's purse for money, so as to dismiss the 
 cab at once; and discovered that the young, beautiful, and 
 wealthy woman of fashion had only seventy francs in her pri- 
 vate purse. He climbed the stairs and found Bianchon sup- 
 porting Goriot, while the house surgeon from the hospital was 
 applying moxas to the patient's back — ^under the direction of 
 the physician, it was the last expedient of science, and it was 
 tried in vain. 
 
 "Can you feel them?" asked the physician. But Goriot 
 had caught sight of Eastignac, and answered, "They are 
 coming, are they not?" 
 
 "There is hope yet," said the surgeon; "he can speak." 
 
 "Yes," said Eugene, "Delphine is coming." 
 
 "Oh! that is nothing!" said Bianchon; "he has been talk- 
 ing about his daughters all the time. He calls for them as a 
 man impaled calls for water, they say " 
 
 "We may as well give up," said the physician, addressing 
 the surgeon. "Nothing more can be done now; the case is 
 hopeless." 
 
 Bianchon and the house surgeon stretched the dying man 
 out again on his loathsome bed. 
 
 "But the sheets ought to be changed," added the physician. 
 "Even if there is no hope left, something is due to human 
 nature. I shall come back again, Bianchon," he said, turn- 
 ing to the medical student. "If he complains again, rub 
 some laudanum over the diaphragm." 
 
 He went, and the house surgeon went with him. 
 
 "Come, Eugene, pluck up heart, my boy," said Bianchon, 
 as soon as they were alone ; "we must set about changing his 
 sheets, and put him into a clean shirt. Go and tell Sylvie 
 to bring some sheets and come and help us to make the bed." 
 
 Eugene went downstairs, and found Mme. Vauquer en- 
 gaged in setting the table ; Sylvie was helping her. Eugene 
 had scarcely opened his mouth before the widow walked up to 
 
276 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 him with the acidulous sweet smile of a cautious shopkeeper 
 who is anxious neither to lose money nor to offend a cus- 
 tomer. 
 
 "My dear Monsieur Eugene," she said, when he had 
 spoken, "you know quite as well as I do that Father Goriot 
 has not a brass farthing left. If you give out clean linen for 
 a man who is just going to turn up his eyes, you are not likely 
 to see your sheets again, for one is sure to be wanted to wrap 
 him in. N^ow, you owe me a hundred and forty-four francs 
 as it is, add forty francs to that for the pair of sheets, and 
 then there are several little things, besides the candle that 
 Sylvie will give you; altogether, it will all mount up to at 
 least two hundred francs, which is more than a poor widow 
 (ike me can afford to lose. Lord! now. Monsieur Eugtee, 
 I'ook at it fairly. I have lost quite enough in these five days 
 since this run of ill-luck set in for me. I would rather than 
 ten crowns that the old gentleman had moved out as you said. 
 It sets the other lodgers against the house. It would not take 
 much to make me send him to the workhouse. In short, just 
 put yourself in my place. I have to think of my establish- 
 ment first, for I have my own living to make." 
 
 Eugene hurried up to Goriot's room. 
 
 "Bianchon," he cried, "the money or the watch?" 
 
 "There it is on the table, or the three hundred and sixty 
 odd francs that are left of it. I paid up all the old scores out 
 of it before they let me have the things. The pawn ticket 
 lies there under the money." 
 
 Eastignac hurried downstairs. 
 
 "Here, madame" he said in disgust, "let us square accounts. 
 M. Goriot will not stay much longer in your house, nor shall 
 I " 
 
 "Yes, he will go out feet foremost, poor old gentleman," 
 she said, counting the francs with a half-facetious, half-lu- 
 gubrious expression. 
 
 "Let us get this over," said Eastignac. 
 
 "Sylvie, look out some sheets, and go upstairs to help the 
 gentlemen." 
 
FATHER GOEIOT 277 
 
 "You won't forget Sylvie," said Mme. Vauqner in Eugene's 
 ear; "she has been sitting np these two nights." 
 
 As soon as Eugene's back was turned, the old woman hur- 
 ried after her handmaid. 
 
 "Take the sheets that have had the sides turned into the 
 middle, number 7. Lord ! they are plenty good enough for 
 a corpse," she said in Sylvie's ear. 
 
 Eugene, by this time, was part of the way upstairs, and 
 did not overhear the elderly economist. 
 
 "Quick," said Bianchon, "let us change his shirt. Hold 
 him upright." 
 
 Eugene went to the head of the bed and supported the 
 dying man, while Bianchon drew ofE his shirt; and then Go- 
 riot made a movement as if he tried to clutch something to 
 his breast, uttering a low inarticulate moaning the while, like 
 some dumb animal in mortal pain. 
 
 "Ah! yes!" cried Bianchon. "It is the little locket and 
 the chain made of hair that he wants; we took it off a while 
 ago when we put the blisters on him. , Poor fellow ! he must 
 have it again. There it lies on the chimney-piece." 
 
 Eugene went to the chimney-piece and found a little plait 
 of faded golden hair — Mme. Goriot's hair, no doubt. He 
 read the name on the little round locket, Anastasib on the 
 one side, Delphine on the other. It was the symbol of his 
 own heart that the father always wore on his breast. The 
 curls of hair inside the locket were so fine and soft that it was 
 plain they had been taken from two childish heads. When the 
 old man felt the locket once more, his chest heaved with a 
 long deep sigh of satisfaction, like a groan. It was some- 
 thing terrible to see, for it seemed as if the last quiver of the 
 nerves were laid bare to their eyes, the last communication of 
 sense to the mysterious point within whence our sympathies 
 come and whither they go. A delirious joy lighted up the 
 distorted face. The terrific and vivid force of the feeling 
 that had survived the power of thought made such an im- 
 pression on the students, that the dying man felt their hot 
 tears falling on him, and gave a shrill cry of delight. 
 
278 FATHBK GORIOT 
 
 "Nasie! Piflne!" 
 
 "There is life in him yet," said Bianchon 
 
 "What does he go on living for?" said Sylvie 
 
 "To suffer," answered Eastignac. 
 
 Bianchon made a sign to his friend to follow his example, 
 knelt down and passed his arms under the sick man, and 
 Eastignac on the other side did the same, so that Sylvie, stand- 
 ing in readiness, might draw the sheet from beneath and re- 
 place it with the one that she had brought. Those tears, no 
 doubt, had misled Goriot; for he gathered up all his remain- 
 ing strength in a last effort, stretched out his hands, groped 
 for the students' heads, and as his fingers caught convulsively 
 at their hair, they heard a faint whisper : 
 
 "Ah ! my angels !" 
 
 Two words, two inarticulate murmurs, shaped into words 
 by the soul which fled forth with them as they left his lips. 
 
 "Poor dear !" cried Sylvie, melted by that exclamation ; the 
 expression of the great love raised for the last time to a sub- 
 lime height by that most ghastly and involuntary of lies. 
 
 The father's last breath must have been a sigh of joy, and 
 in that sigh his whole life was summed up; he was cheated 
 even at the last. They laid Pather Goriot upon his wretched 
 bed with reverent hands. Thenceforward there was no ex- 
 pression on his face, only the painful traces of the struggle 
 between life and death that was going on in the machine ; for 
 that kind of cerebral consciousness that distinguishes between 
 pleasure and pain in a human being was extinguished ; it was 
 only a question of time — and the mechanism itself would be 
 destroyed. 
 
 "He will lie like this for several hours, and die so quietly 
 at last, that we shall not know when he goes ; there will be no 
 rattle in the throat. The brain must be completely suffused." 
 
 As he spoke there was a footstep on the staircase, and a 
 young woman hastened up, panting for breath. 
 
 "She has come too late," said Eastignac. 
 
 But it was not Delphine ; it was Th6rese, her waiting wo- 
 man, who stood in the doorway. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 279 
 
 "Monsieur Eugene/' she said, "monsieur and madame have 
 had a terrible scene about some money that Madame (poor 
 thing!) wanted for her father. She fainted, and the doctor 
 came, and she had to be bled, calling out all the while, 'M.j 
 father is dying ; I want to see papa !' It was heartbreaking 
 to hear her " 
 
 "That will do, Th^r^se. If she came now, it would be 
 trouble thrown away. M. Goriot cannot recognize any one 
 now." 
 
 "Poor, dear gentleman, is he as bad as that ?" said Th^rese. 
 
 "You don't want me now, I must go and look after my 
 dinner; it is half -past four," remarked Sylvie. The next in- 
 stant she all but collided with Mme. de Eestaud on the land- 
 iiig outside. 
 
 There was something awful and appalling in the sudden 
 apparition of the Countess. She saw the bed of death by the 
 dim light of the single candle, and her tears flowed at the 
 sight of her father's passive features, from which the life had 
 almost ebbed. Bianchon with thoughtful tact left the room. 
 
 "I could not escape soon enough," she said to Rastignac. 
 
 The student bowed sadly in reply. Mme. de Eestaud took 
 her father's hand and kissed it. 
 
 "Forgive me, father ! You used to say that my voice would 
 call you back from the grave ; ah ! come back for one moment 
 to bless your penitent daughter. Do you hear me ? Oh ! this 
 is fearful ! No one on earth will ever bless me henceforth ; 
 every one hates me ; no one loves me but you in all the world. 
 My own children will hate me. Take me with you, father; I 
 will love you, I will take care of you. He does not hear me 
 . . . I am mad . . ." 
 
 She fell on her knees, and gazed wildly at the human wreck 
 before her. 
 
 "My cup of misery is full," she said, turning her eyes upon 
 Eugene. "M. de Trailles has fled, leaving enormous debts 
 behind him, and I have found out that he was deceiving me. 
 My husband will never forgive me, and I have left my fortune 
 in his hands. I have lost all my illusions. Alas! I have 
 
380 FATHER GOKIOT 
 
 forsaken the one heart that loved me (she pointed to her 
 father as she spoke), and for whom? I have held his kind- 
 ness cheap, and slighted his affection ; many and many a time 
 I have given him pain, ungrateful wretch that I am!" 
 
 "He knew it," said Rastignac. 
 
 Just then Goriot's eyelids unclosed; it was only a muscu- 
 lar contraction, but the Countess' sudden start of reviving 
 hope was no less dreadful than the dying eyes. 
 
 "Is it possible that he can hear me?" cried the Countess. 
 "No," she answered herself, and sat down beside the bed. 
 As Mme. de Restaud seemed to wish to sit by her father, 
 Eugene went down to take a little food. The boarders were 
 already assembled. 
 
 "Well," remarked the painter, as he joined them, "it seems 
 'that there is to be a death-orama upstairs." 
 
 "Charles, I think you might find something lees painful 
 to joke about," said Eugene. 
 
 "So we may not laugh here ?" returned the painter. "What 
 harm does it do ? Bianchon said that the old man was quite 
 insensible." 
 
 "Well, then," said the employe from the Museum, "he will 
 die as he has lived." 
 
 "My father is dead!" shrieked the Countess. 
 
 The terrible cry brought Sylvie, Eastignac, and Bianchon ; 
 Mme. de Restaud had fainted away. When she recovered 
 they carried her downstairs, and put her into the cab that 
 stood waiting at the door. Eugene sent Ther^se with her, 
 and bade the maid take the Countess to Mme. de Kucingen. 
 
 Bianchon came down to them. 
 
 "Yes, he is dead," he said. 
 
 "Come, sit down to dinner, gentlemen," said Mme. Vau- 
 quer, "or the soup will be cold." 
 
 The two students sat down together. 
 
 "What is the next thing to be done?" Eugene asked of 
 Bianchon. 
 
 "I have closed his eyes and composed his limbs," said Bian- 
 chon. "When the certificate has been oflScially registered at 
 
FATHER GORIOT 281 
 
 the Mayor's BfSce, we will sew him in his winding sheet and 
 bury him somewhere. What do you think we ought to do?" 
 
 "He will not smell at his bread like this any more," said 
 the painter, mimicking the old man's little trick. 
 
 "Oh, hang it all !" cried the tutor, "let Father Goriot drop, 
 and let us have something else for a change. He is a standing 
 dish, and we have had him with every sauce this hour or more. 
 It is one of the privileges of the good city of Paris that any- 
 body may be born, or live, or die there without attracting 
 any attention whatsoever. Let us profit by the advantages 
 of civilization. There are fifty or sixty deaths every day; if 
 you have a mind to do it, you can sit down at any time and 
 wail over whole hecatombs of dead in Paris. Father Goriot 
 has gone off the hooks, has he ? So much the better for him. 
 If you venerate his memory, keep it to yourselves, and let the 
 rest of us feed in peace." 
 
 "Oh, to be sure," said the widow, "it is all the better for 
 him that he is dead. It looks as though he had had trouble 
 enough, poor soul, while he was alive." ^ 
 
 And this was all the funeral oration delivered over him 
 who had been for Eugene the type and embodinient of 
 Fatherhood. 
 
 The fifteen lodgers began to talk as usual. When Bianchon 
 and Eugene had satisfied their hunger, the rattle of spoons 
 and forks, the boisterous conversation, the expressions on the 
 faces that bespoke various degrees of want of feeling, glut- 
 tony, or indifference, everything about them made them 
 shiver with loathing. They went out to find a priest to watch 
 that night with the dead. It was necessary to measure their 
 last pious cares by the scanty sum of money that remained. 
 Before nine o'clock that evening the body was laid out on the 
 jbare sacking of the bedstead in the desolate room; a lighted 
 candle stood on either side, and the priest watched at the 
 foot. Eastignac made inquiries of this latter as to the ex- 
 penses of the funeral, and wrote to the Baron de Nucingen 
 knd the Comte de Eestaud, entreating both gentlemen to 
 authorise their man of business to defray the charges of lay- 
 
282 FATHER GOEIOT 
 
 ing their father-in-law in the grave. He sent Christophe with 
 the letters; then he went to bed, tired out, and slept. 
 
 Next day Bianchon and Rastignac were obliged to take the 
 certificate to the registrar themselves, and by twelve o'clock 
 the formalities were completed. Two hours went by; no 
 word came from the Count nor from the Baron; nobody ap- 
 peared to act for them, and Eastignac had already been 
 obliged to pay the priest. Sylvie asked ten francs for sewing 
 the old man in his winding-sheet and making him ready for 
 the grave, and Eugene and Bianchon calculated that they 
 had scarcely sufiBeient to pay for the funeral, if nothing was 
 forthcoming from the dead man's family. So it was the 
 medical student who laid him in a pauper's coffin, despatched 
 from Bianchon's hospital, whence he obtained it at a cheaper 
 rate. 
 
 "Let us play those wretches a trick," said he "Go to the 
 cemetery, buy a grave for five years at Pere-Lachaise, and 
 arrange with the Church and the undertaker to have a third- 
 class funeral. If the daughters and their husbands decline 
 to repay you, you can carve this on the headstone — 'Here lies 
 M. Goriot, father of the Gomtesse de Restaud and the Ba- 
 ronne de Nucingen, interred at the expense of two students.' " 
 
 Eugene took part of his friend's advice, but only after he 
 had gone in person first to M. and Mme. de Nucingen, and 
 then to M. and Mme. de Eestaud — a fruitless errand. He 
 went no further than the doorstep in either house. The ser- 
 vants had received strict orders to admit no one. 
 
 "Monsieur and madame can see no visitors. They have 
 just lost their father, and are in deep grief over their loss." 
 
 Eugene's Parisian experience told him that it was idle to 
 press the point. Something clutched strangely at his heart 
 when he saw that it was impossible to reach Delphine. 
 
 "Sell some of your ornaments," he wrote hastily in the 
 porter's room, "so that your father may be decently laid in 
 his last resting-place." 
 
FATHEE GORIOT 283 
 
 He sealed the note, and begged the porter to give it to 
 Therese for her mistress ; but the man took it to the Baron de 
 Nucingen, who flung the note into the fire. Eugene, having 
 finished his errands, returned to the lodging-house about 
 three o'clock. In spite of himself, the tears came into his 
 eyes. The cofiSn, in its scanty covering of black cloth, was 
 standing there on the pavement before the gate, on two chairs. 
 .A withered sprig of hyssop was soaking in the holy water 
 bowl of silver-plated copper; there was not a soul in the 
 street, not a passer-by had stopped to sprinkle the coffin j there 
 was not even an attempt at a black drapery over the wicket. 
 It was a pauper who lay there; no one made a pretence of 
 mourning for him; he had neither friends nor kindred — 
 there was no one to follow him to the grave. 
 
 Bianchon's duties compelled him to be at the hospital, but 
 he had left a few lines for Eugene, telling his friend about 
 the arrangements he had made for the burial service. The 
 house student's note told Eastignac that a mass was beyond 
 their means, that the ordinary office for the dead was 
 cheaper, and must suffice, and that he had sent word to the 
 undertaker by Christophe. Eugene had scarcely finished 
 reading Bianchon's scrawl, when he looked up and saw the 
 little circular gold locket that contained the hair of Goriot's 
 two daughters in Mme. Vauquer's hands. 
 
 "How dared you take it?" he asked. 
 
 "Good Lord! is that to be buried along with him?" re- 
 torted Sylvie. "It is gold." 
 
 "Of course it shall!" Eugene answered indignantly; "he 
 shall at any rate take one thing that may represent his 
 daughters into the grave with him." 
 
 When the hearse came, Eugene had the coffin carried into 
 the house again, unscrewed the lid, and reverently laid on the 
 old man's breast the token that recalled the days when Del- 
 phine and Anastasie were innocent little maidens, before they 
 began "to think for themselves," as he had moaned out in his 
 agony. 
 
 Eastignac and Christophe and the two undertaker's men 
 
284 FATHER GORIOT 
 
 were the only followers of the funeral. The Chuwh of 
 Saint-fitienne du Mont was only a little distance from the 
 Eue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve. When the coflBn had been 
 deposited in a low, dark, little chapel, the law student looked 
 round in vain for Goriot's two daughters or their husbands. 
 Christophe was his only fellow-mourner; Christophe, who 
 appeared to think it was his duty to attend the funeral of 
 the man who had put him in the way of such handsome tips. 
 As they waited there in the chapel for the two priests, the 
 chorister, and the beadle, Eastignae grasped Christophe'a 
 hand. He could not utter a word just then. 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur Eugene," said Christophe, "he was a good 
 and worthy man, who never said one word louder than an- 
 other; he never did any one any harm, and gave nobody any 
 trouble." 
 
 The two priests, the chorister, and the beadle came, and 
 said and did as much as could be expected for seventy francs 
 in an age when religion cannot afford to say prayers for 
 nothing. 
 
 The ecclesiastics chanted a psalm, the Libera nos and the 
 De profundis. The whole service lasted about twenty min- 
 utes. There was but one mouiming coach, which the priest 
 and chorister agreed to share with Eugene and Christophe. 
 
 "There is no one else to follow us," remarked the priest, 
 "so we may as well go quickly, and so save time; it is half- 
 past five." 
 
 But just as the coffin was put in the hearse, two empty car- 
 riages, with the armorial bearings of the Comte de Eestaud 
 and the Baron de Nueingen, arrived and followed in the pro- 
 cession to Pere-Lachaise. At six o'clock Goriot's coffin was 
 lowered into the grave, his daughters' servants standing round 
 the while. The ecclesiastic recited the short prayer that the 
 students could afford to pay for, and then both priest and 
 lackeys disappeared at once. The two grave diggers flung in 
 several spadefuls of earth, and then stopped and asked Eas- 
 tignae for their fee. Eugene felt in vain in his pocket, and 
 was obliged to borrow five francs of Christophe. This thing. 
 
FATHER GORIOT 283 
 
 BO trifling in itself, gave Eastignac a terrible pang of distress. 
 It was growing dusk, the damp twilight fretted his nerves ; h& 
 gazed down into the grave, and the tears he shed were drawn 
 from him by the sacred emotion, a single-hearted sorrow. 
 When such tears fall on earth, their radiance reaches heaven. 
 And with that tear that fell oh Father Goriot's grave, Eugene 
 Eastignae's youth ended. He folded his arms and gazed at 
 the clouded sky ; and Christophe, after a glance at him, turned 
 and went — Eastignac was left alone. 
 
 He went a few paces further, to the highest point of the 
 cemetery; and looked out over Paris and the windings of the 
 Seine ; the lamps were beginning to shine on either side of the 
 river. His eyes turned almost eagerly to the space between 
 the column of the Place Vendome and the cupola of the In- 
 valides; there lay the shining world that he had wished to 
 reach. He glanced over that humming hive, seeming to draw 
 a foretaste of its honey, and said magniloquently : 
 
 "Henceforth there is war between us." 
 
 And by way of throwing down the glove to Society, Eas- 
 tignac went to dine with Mme. de Nucingen.