الفصل الفصل 8 · 第8章

“My father has gone,” thought Eugenie, who heard all that took place

from the head of the stairs. Silence was restored in the house, and the

distant rumbling of the carriage, ceasing by degrees, no longer echoed

through the sleeping town. At this moment Eugenie heard in her heart,

before the sound caught her ears, a cry which pierced the partitions and

came from her cousin’s chamber. A line of light, thin as the blade of

a sabre, shone through a chink in the door and fell horizontally on the

balusters of the rotten staircase.

“He suffers!” she said, springing up the stairs. A second moan brought

her to the landing near his room. The door was ajar, she pushed it open.

Charles was sleeping; his head hung over the side of the old armchair,

and his hand, from which the pen had fallen, nearly touched the

floor. The oppressed breathing caused by the strained posture suddenly

frightened Eugenie, who entered the room hastily.

“He must be very tired,” she said to herself, glancing at a dozen

letters lying sealed upon the table. She read their addresses: “To

Messrs. Farry, Breilmann, & Co., carriage-makers”; “To Monsieur Buisson,

tailor,” etc.

“He has been settling all his affairs, so as to leave France at once,”

she thought. Her eyes fell upon two open letters. The words, “My dear

Annette,” at the head of one of them, blinded her for a moment. Her

heart beat fast, her feet were nailed to the floor.

“His dear Annette! He loves! he is loved! No hope! What does he say to

her?”

These thoughts rushed through her head and heart. She saw the words

everywhere, even on the bricks of the floor, in letters of fire.

“Resign him already? No, no! I will not read the letter. I ought to go

away--What if I do read it?”

She looked at Charles, then she gently took his head and placed it

against the back of the chair; he let her do so, like a child which,

though asleep, knows its mother’s touch and receives, without awaking,

her kisses and watchful care. Like a mother Eugenie raised the drooping

hand, and like a mother she gently kissed the chestnut hair--“Dear

Annette!” a demon shrieked the words in her ear.

“I am doing wrong; but I must read it, that letter,” she said. She

turned away her head, for her noble sense of honor reproached her.

For the first time in her life good and evil struggled together in her

heart. Up to that moment she had never had to blush for any action.

Passion and curiosity triumphed. As she read each sentence her heart

swelled more and more, and the keen glow which filled her being as she

did so, only made the joys of first love still more precious.

My dear Annette,--Nothing could ever have separated us but the

great misfortune which has now overwhelmed me, and which no human

foresight could have prevented. My father has killed himself; his

fortune and mine are irretrievably lost. I am orphaned at an age

when, through the nature of my education, I am still a child; and

yet I must lift myself as a man out of the abyss into which I am

plunged. I have just spent half the night in facing my position.

If I wish to leave France an honest man,--and there is no doubt of

that,--I have not a hundred francs of my own with which to try my

fate in the Indies or in America. Yes, my poor Anna, I must seek

my fortune in those deadly climates. Under those skies, they tell

me, I am sure to make it. As for remaining in Paris, I cannot do

so. Neither my nature nor my face are made to bear the affronts,

the neglect, the disdain shown to a ruined man, the son of a

bankrupt! Good God! think of owing two millions! I should be

killed in a duel the first week; therefore I shall not return

there. Your love--the most tender and devoted love which ever

ennobled the heart of man--cannot draw me back. Alas! my beloved,

I have no money with which to go to you, to give and receive a

last kiss from which I might derive some strength for my forlorn

enterprise.

“Poor Charles! I did well to read the letter. I have gold; I will give

it to him,” thought Eugenie.

She wiped her eyes, and went on reading.

I have never thought of the miseries of poverty. If I have the

hundred louis required for the mere costs of the journey, I have

not a sou for an outfit. But no, I have not the hundred louis, not

even one louis. I don’t know that anything will be left after I

have paid my debts in Paris. If I have nothing, I shall go quietly

to Nantes and ship as a common sailor; and I will begin in the new

world like other men who have started young without a sou and

brought back the wealth of the Indies. During this long day I have

faced my future coolly. It seems more horrible for me than for

another, because I have been so petted by a mother who adored me,

so indulged by the kindest of fathers, so blessed by meeting, on

my entrance into life, with the love of an Anna! The flowers of

life are all I have ever known. Such happiness could not last.

Nevertheless, my dear Annette, I feel more courage than a careless

young man is supposed to feel,--above all a young man used to the

caressing ways of the dearest woman in all Paris, cradled in

family joys, on whom all things smiled in his home, whose wishes

were a law to his father--oh, my father! Annette, he is dead!

Well, I have thought over my position, and yours as well. I have

grown old in twenty-four hours. Dear Anna, if in order to keep me

with you in Paris you were to sacrifice your luxury, your dress,

your opera-box, we should even then not have enough for the

expenses of my extravagant ways of living. Besides, I would never

accept such sacrifices. No, we must part now and forever--

“He gives her up! Blessed Virgin! What happiness!”

Eugenie quivered with joy. Charles made a movement, and a chill of

terror ran through her. Fortunately, he did not wake, and she resumed

her reading.

When shall I return? I do not know. The climate of the West Indies

ages a European, so they say; especially a European who works

hard. Let us think what may happen ten years hence. In ten years

your daughter will be eighteen; she will be your companion, your

spy. To you society will be cruel, and your daughter perhaps more

cruel still. We have seen cases of the harsh social judgment and

ingratitude of daughters; let us take warning by them. Keep in the

depths of your soul, as I shall in mine, the memory of four years

of happiness, and be faithful, if you can, to the memory of your

poor friend. I cannot exact such faithfulness, because, do you

see, dear Annette, I must conform to the exigencies of my new

life; I must take a commonplace view of them and do the best I

can. Therefore I must think of marriage, which becomes one of the

necessities of my future existence; and I will admit to you that I

have found, here in Saumur, in my uncle’s house, a cousin whose

face, manners, mind, and heart would please you, and who, besides,

seems to me--

“He must have been very weary to have ceased writing to her,” thought

Eugenie, as she gazed at the letter which stopped abruptly in the middle

of the last sentence.

Already she defended him. How was it possible that an innocent girl

should perceive the cold-heartedness evinced by this letter? To young

girls religiously brought up, whose minds are ignorant and pure, all is

love from the moment they set their feet within the enchanted regions

of that passion. They walk there bathed in a celestial light shed from

their own souls, which reflects its rays upon their lover; they color

all with the flame of their own emotion and attribute to him their

highest thoughts. A woman’s errors come almost always from her belief

in good or her confidence in truth. In Eugenie’s simple heart the words,

“My dear Annette, my loved one,” echoed like the sweetest language of

love; they caressed her soul as, in childhood, the divine notes of the

_Venite adoremus_, repeated by the organ, caressed her ear. Moreover,

the tears which still lingered on the young man’s lashes gave signs of

that nobility of heart by which young girls are rightly won. How could

she know that Charles, though he loved his father and mourned him truly,

was moved far more by paternal goodness than by the goodness of his own

heart? Monsieur and Madame Guillaume Grandet, by gratifying every fancy

of their son, and lavishing upon him the pleasures of a large fortune,

had kept him from making the horrible calculations of which so many

sons in Paris become more or less guilty when, face to face with the

enjoyments of the world, they form desires and conceive schemes which

they see with bitterness must be put off or laid aside during the

lifetime of their parents. The liberality of the father in this instance

had shed into the heart of the son a real love, in which there was no

afterthought of self-interest.

Nevertheless, Charles was a true child of Paris, taught by the customs

of society and by Annette herself to calculate everything; already

an old man under the mask of youth. He had gone through the frightful

education of social life, of that world where in one evening more crimes

are committed in thought and speech than justice ever punishes at the

assizes; where jests and clever sayings assassinate the noblest ideas;

where no one is counted strong unless his mind sees clear: and to see

clear in that world is to believe in nothing, neither in feelings, nor

in men, nor even in events,--for events are falsified. There, to “see

clear” we must weigh a friend’s purse daily, learn how to keep ourselves

adroitly on the top of the wave, cautiously admire nothing, neither

works of art nor glorious actions, and remember that self-interest is

the mainspring of all things here below. After committing many follies,

the great lady--the beautiful Annette--compelled Charles to think

seriously; with her perfumed hand among his curls, she talked to him of

his future position; as she rearranged his locks, she taught him lessons

of worldly prudence; she made him effeminate and materialized him,--a

double corruption, but a delicate and elegant corruption, in the best

taste.

“You are very foolish, Charles,” she would say to him. “I shall have

a great deal of trouble in teaching you to understand the world. You

behaved extremely ill to Monsieur des Lupeaulx. I know very well he is

not an honorable man; but wait till he is no longer in power, then you

may despise him as much as you like. Do you know what Madame Campan used

to tell us?--‘My dears, as long as a man is a minister, adore him; when

he falls, help to drag him in the gutter. Powerful, he is a sort of god;

fallen, he is lower than Marat in the sewer, because he is living, and

Marat is dead. Life is a series of combinations, and you must study

them and understand them if you want to keep yourselves always in good

position.’”

Charles was too much a man of the world, his parents had made him too

happy, he had received too much adulation in society, to be possessed of

noble sentiments. The grain of gold dropped by his mother into his heart

was beaten thin in the smithy of Parisian society; he had spread it

superficially, and it was worn away by the friction of life. Charles

was only twenty-one years old. At that age the freshness of youth seems

inseparable from candor and sincerity of soul. The voice, the glance,

the face itself, seem in harmony with the feelings; and thus it happens

that the sternest judge, the most sceptical lawyer, the least complying

of usurers, always hesitate to admit decrepitude of heart or the

corruption of worldly calculation while the eyes are still bathed

in purity and no wrinkles seam the brow. Charles, so far, had had no

occasion to apply the maxims of Parisian morality; up to this time he

was still endowed with the beauty of inexperience. And yet, unknown to

himself, he had been inoculated with selfishness. The germs of Parisian

political economy, latent in his heart, would assuredly burst forth,

sooner or later, whenever the careless spectator became an actor in the

drama of real life.

Nearly all young girls succumb to the tender promises such an outward

appearance seems to offer: even if Eugenie had been as prudent and

observing as provincial girls are often found to be, she was not likely

to distrust her cousin when his manners, words, and actions were still

in unison with the aspirations of a youthful heart. A mere chance--a

fatal chance--threw in her way the last effusions of real feeling which

stirred the young man’s soul; she heard as it were the last breathings

of his conscience. She laid down the letter--to her so full of love--and

began smilingly to watch her sleeping cousin; the fresh illusions of

life were still, for her at least, upon his face; she vowed to herself

to love him always. Then she cast her eyes on the other letter, without

attaching much importance to this second indiscretion; and though she

read it, it was only to obtain new proofs of the noble qualities which,

like all women, she attributed to the man her heart had chosen.

My dear Alphonse,--When you receive this letter I shall be without

friends; but let me assure you that while I doubt the friendship

of the world, I have never doubted yours. I beg you therefore to

settle all my affairs, and I trust to you to get as much as you

can out of my possessions. By this time you know my situation. I

have nothing left, and I intend to go at once to the Indies. I

have just written to all the people to whom I think I owe money,

and you will find enclosed a list of their names, as correct as I

can make it from memory. My books, my furniture, my pictures, my

horses, etc., ought, I think, to pay my debts. I do not wish to

keep anything, except, perhaps, a few baubles which might serve as

the beginning of an outfit for my enterprise. My dear Alphonse, I

will send you a proper power of attorney under which you can make

these sales. Send me all my weapons. Keep Briton for yourself;

nobody would pay the value of that noble beast, and I would rather

give him to you--like a mourning-ring bequeathed by a dying man to

his executor. Farry, Breilmann, & Co. built me a very comfortable

travelling-carriage, which they have not yet delivered; persuade

them to keep it and not ask for any payment on it. If they refuse,

do what you can in the matter, and avoid everything that might

seem dishonorable in me under my present circumstances. I owe the

British Islander six louis, which I lost at cards; don’t fail to

pay him--

“Dear cousin!” whispered Eugenie, throwing down the letter and running

softly back to her room, carrying one of the lighted candles. A thrill

of pleasure passed over her as she opened the drawer of an old oak

cabinet, a fine specimen of the period called the Renaissance, on which

could still be seen, partly effaced, the famous royal salamander. She

took from the drawer a large purse of red velvet with gold tassels,

edged with a tarnished fringe of gold wire,--a relic inherited from her

grandmother. She weighed it proudly in her hand, and began with delight

to count over the forgotten items of her little hoard. First she took

out twenty _portugaises_, still new, struck in the reign of John V.,

1725, worth by exchange, as her father told her, five _lisbonnines_,

or a hundred and sixty-eight francs, sixty-four centimes each; their

conventional value, however, was a hundred and eighty francs apiece, on

account of the rarity and beauty of the coins, which shone like little

suns. Item, five _genovines_, or five hundred-franc pieces of Genoa;

another very rare coin worth eighty-seven francs on exchange, but

a hundred francs to collectors. These had formerly belonged to old

Monsieur de la Bertelliere. Item, three gold _quadruples_, Spanish, of

Philip V., struck in 1729, given to her one by one by Madame Gentillet,

who never failed to say, using the same words, when she made the gift,

“This dear little canary, this little yellow-boy, is worth ninety-eight

francs! Keep it, my pretty one, it will be the flower of your treasure.”

Item (that which her father valued most of all, the gold of these coins

being twenty-three carats and a fraction), a hundred Dutch ducats,

made in the year 1756, and worth thirteen francs apiece. Item, a great

curiosity, a species of medal precious to the soul of misers,--three

rupees with the sign of the Scales, and five rupees with the sign of the

Virgin, all in pure gold of twenty-four carats; the magnificent money

of the Great Mogul, each of which was worth by mere weight thirty-seven

francs, forty centimes, but at least fifty francs to those connoisseurs

who love to handle gold. Item, the napoleon of forty francs received

the day before, which she had forgotten to put away in the velvet purse.

This treasure was all in virgin coins, true works of art, which Grandet

from time to time inquired after and asked to see, pointing out to his

daughter their intrinsic merits,--such as the beauty of the milled edge,

the clearness of the flat surface, the richness of the lettering, whose

angles were not yet rubbed off.

Eugenie gave no thought to these rarities, nor to her father’s mania for

them, nor to the danger she incurred in depriving herself of a treasure

so dear to him; no, she thought only of her cousin, and soon made out,

after a few mistakes of calculation, that she possessed about five

thousand eight hundred francs in actual value, which might be sold for

their additional value to collectors for nearly six thousand. She looked

at her wealth and clapped her hands like a happy child forced to

spend its overflowing joy in artless movements of the body. Father and

daughter had each counted up their fortune this night,--he, to sell his

gold; Eugenie to fling hers into the ocean of affection. She put the

pieces back into the old purse, took it in her hand, and ran upstairs

without hesitation. The secret misery of her cousin made her forget the

hour and conventional propriety; she was strong in her conscience, in

her devotion, in her happiness.

As she stood upon the threshold of the door, holding the candle in one

hand and the purse in the other, Charles woke, caught sight of her, and

remained speechless with surprise. Eugenie came forward, put the candle

on the table, and said in a quivering voice:

“My cousin, I must beg pardon for a wrong I have done you; but God will

pardon me--if you--will help me to wipe it out.”

“What is it?” asked Charles, rubbing his eyes.

“I have read those letters.”

Charles colored.

“How did it happen?” she continued; “how came I here? Truly, I do not

know. I am tempted not to regret too much that I have read them; they

have made me know your heart, your soul, and--”

“And what?” asked Charles.

“Your plans, your need of a sum--”

“My dear cousin--”

“Hush, hush! my cousin, not so loud; we must not wake others. See,” she

said, opening her purse, “here are the savings of a poor girl who wants

nothing. Charles, accept them! This morning I was ignorant of the value

of money; you have taught it to me. It is but a means, after all. A

cousin is almost a brother; you can surely borrow the purse of your

sister.”

Eugenie, as much a woman as a young girl, never dreamed of refusal; but

her cousin remained silent.

“Oh! you will not refuse?” cried Eugenie, the beatings of whose heart

could be heard in the deep silence.

Her cousin’s hesitation mortified her; but the sore need of his position

came clearer still to her mind, and she knelt down.

“I will never rise till you have taken that gold!” she said. “My cousin,

I implore you, answer me! let me know if you respect me, if you are

generous, if--”

As he heard this cry of noble distress the young man’s tears fell upon

his cousin’s hands, which he had caught in his own to keep her from

kneeling. As the warm tears touched her, Eugenie sprang to the purse and

poured its contents upon the table.

“Ah! yes, yes, you consent?” she said, weeping with joy. “Fear nothing,

my cousin, you will be rich. This gold will bring you happiness; some

day you shall bring it back to me,--are we not partners? I will obey all

conditions. But you should not attach such value to the gift.”

Charles was at last able to express his feelings.

“Yes, Eugenie; my soul would be small indeed if I did not accept. And

yet,--gift for gift, confidence for confidence.”

“What do you mean?” she said, frightened.

“Listen, dear cousin; I have here--” He interrupted himself to point

out a square box covered with an outer case of leather which was on the

drawers. “There,” he continued, “is something as precious to me as

life itself. This box was a present from my mother. All day I have been

thinking that if she could rise from her grave, she would herself sell

the gold which her love for me lavished on this dressing-case; but were

I to do so, the act would seem to me a sacrilege.” Eugenie pressed

his hand as she heard these last words. “No,” he added, after a slight

pause, during which a liquid glance of tenderness passed between them,

“no, I will neither sell it nor risk its safety on my journey. Dear

Eugenie, you shall be its guardian. Never did friend commit anything

more sacred to another. Let me show it to you.”

He went to the box, took it from its outer coverings, opened it, and

showed his delighted cousin a dressing-case where the rich workmanship

gave to the gold ornaments a value far above their weight.

“What you admire there is nothing,” he said, pushing a secret spring

which opened a hidden drawer. “Here is something which to me is worth

the whole world.” He drew out two portraits, masterpieces of Madame

Mirbel, richly set with pearls.

“Oh, how beautiful! Is it the lady to whom you wrote that--”

“No,” he said, smiling; “this is my mother, and here is my father, your

aunt and uncle. Eugenie, I beg you on my knees, keep my treasure safely.

If I die and your little fortune is lost, this gold and these pearls

will repay you. To you alone could I leave these portraits; you are

worthy to keep them. But destroy them at last, so that they may pass

into no other hands.” Eugenie was silent. “Ah, yes, say yes! You

consent?” he added with winning grace.

Hearing the very words she had just used to her cousin now addressed to

herself, she turned upon him a look of love, her first look of loving

womanhood,--a glance in which there is nearly as much of coquetry as of

inmost depth. He took her hand and kissed it.

“Angel of purity! between us two money is nothing, never can be

anything. Feeling, sentiment, must be all henceforth.”

“You are like your mother,--was her voice as soft as yours?”

“Oh! much softer--”

“Yes, for you,” she said, dropping her eyelids. “Come, Charles, go to

bed; I wish it; you must be tired. Good-night.” She gently disengaged

her hand from those of her cousin, who followed her to her room,

lighting the way. When they were both upon the threshold,--

“Ah!” he said, “why am I ruined?”

“What matter?--my father is rich; I think so,” she answered.

“Poor child!” said Charles, making a step into her room and leaning

his back against the wall, “if that were so, he would never have let my

father die; he would not let you live in this poor way; he would live

otherwise himself.”

“But he owns Froidfond.”

“What is Froidfond worth?”

“I don’t know; but he has Noyers.”

“Nothing but a poor farm!”

“He has vineyards and fields.”

“Mere nothing,” said Charles disdainfully. “If your father had only

twenty-four thousand francs a year do you suppose you would live in this

cold, barren room?” he added, making a step in advance. “Ah! there you

will keep my treasures,” he said, glancing at the old cabinet, as if to

hide his thoughts.

“Go and sleep,” she said, hindering his entrance into the disordered

room.

Charles stepped back, and they bid each other good-night with a mutual

smile.

Both fell asleep in the same dream; and from that moment the youth began

to wear roses with his mourning. The next day, before breakfast, Madame

Grandet found her daughter in the garden in company with Charles.

The young man was still sad, as became a poor fellow who, plunged in

misfortune, measures the depths of the abyss into which he has fallen,

and sees the terrible burden of his whole future life.

“My father will not be home till dinner-time,” said Eugenie, perceiving

the anxious look on her mother’s face.

It was easy to trace in the face and manners of the young girl and in

the singular sweetness of her voice a unison of thought between her and

her cousin. Their souls had espoused each other, perhaps before they

even felt the force of the feelings which bound them together. Charles

spent the morning in the hall, and his sadness was respected. Each of

the three women had occupations of her own. Grandet had left all his

affairs unattended to, and a number of persons came on business,--the

plumber, the mason, the slater, the carpenter, the diggers, the

dressers, the farmers; some to drive a bargain about repairs, others to

pay their rent or to be paid themselves for services. Madame Grandet and

Eugenie were obliged to go and come and listen to the interminable talk

of all these workmen and country folk. Nanon put away in her kitchen

the produce which they brought as tribute. She always waited for her

master’s orders before she knew what portion was to be used in the house

and what was to be sold in the market. It was the goodman’s custom, like

that of a great many country gentlemen, to drink his bad wine and eat

his spoiled fruit.

Towards five in the afternoon Grandet returned from Angers, having made

fourteen thousand francs by the exchange on his gold, bringing home

in his wallet good treasury-notes which bore interest until the day he

should invest them in the Funds. He had left Cornoiller at Angers to

look after the horses, which were well-nigh foundered, with orders to

bring them home slowly after they were rested.

“I have got back from Angers, wife,” he said; “I am hungry.”

Nanon called out to him from the kitchen: “Haven’t you eaten anything

since yesterday?”

“Nothing,” answered the old man.

Nanon brought in the soup. Des Grassins came to take his client’s orders

just as the family sat down to dinner. Grandet had not even observed his

nephew.

“Go on eating, Grandet,” said the banker; “we can talk. Do you know what

gold is worth in Angers? They have come from Nantes after it? I shall

send some of ours.”

“Don’t send any,” said Grandet; “they have got enough. We are such old

friends, I ought to save you from such a loss of time.”

“But gold is worth thirteen francs fifty centimes.”

“Say _was_ worth--”

“Where the devil have they got any?”

“I went to Angers last night,” answered Grandet in a low voice.

The banker shook with surprise. Then a whispered conversation began

between the two, during which Grandet and des Grassins frequently

looked at Charles. Presently des Grassins gave a start of astonishment;

probably Grandet was then instructing him to invest the sum which was to

give him a hundred thousand francs a year in the Funds.

“Monsieur Grandet,” said the banker to Charles, “I am starting for

Paris; if you have any commissions--”

“None, monsieur, I thank you,” answered Charles.

“Thank him better than that, nephew. Monsieur is going to settle the

affairs of the house of Guillaume Grandet.”

“Is there any hope?” said Charles eagerly.

“What!” exclaimed his uncle, with well-acted pride, “are you not my

nephew? Your honor is ours. Is not your name Grandet?”

Charles rose, seized Pere Grandet, kissed him, turned pale, and left the

room. Eugenie looked at her father with admiration.

“Well, good-by, des Grassins; it is all in your hands. Decoy those

people as best you can; lead ‘em by the nose.”

The two diplomatists shook hands. The old cooper accompanied the banker

to the front door. Then, after closing it, he came back and plunged into

his armchair, saying to Nanon,--

“Get me some black-currant ratafia.”

Too excited, however, to remain long in one place, he got up, looked

at the portrait of Monsieur de la Bertelliere, and began to sing, doing

what Nanon called his dancing steps,--

“Dans les gardes francaises

J’avais un bon papa.”

Nanon, Madame Grandet, and Eugenie looked at each other in silence.

The hilarity of the master always frightened them when it reached its

climax. The evening was soon over. Pere Grandet chose to go to bed

early, and when he went to bed, everybody else was expected to go too;

like as when Augustus drank, Poland was drunk. On this occasion Nanon,

Charles, and Eugenie were not less tired than the master. As for Madame

Grandet, she slept, ate, drank, and walked according to the will of her

husband. However, during the two hours consecrated to digestion, the

cooper, more facetious than he had ever been in his life, uttered a

number of his own particular apothegms,--a single one of which will give

the measure of his mind. When he had drunk his ratafia, he looked at his

glass and said,--

“You have no sooner put your lips to a glass than it is empty! Such is

life. You can’t have and hold. Gold won’t circulate and stay in your

purse. If it were not for that, life would be too fine.”

He was jovial and benevolent. When Nanon came with her spinning-wheel,

“You must be tired,” he said; “put away your hemp.”

“Ah, bah! then I shall get sleepy,” she answered.

“Poor Nanon! Will you have some ratafia?”

“I won’t refuse a good offer; madame makes it a deal better than the

apothecaries. What they sell is all drugs.”

“They put too much sugar,” said the master; “you can’t taste anything

else.”