الفصل الفصل 47 · 第47章

“I will be responsible,” said Eugene, shuddering with horror, for he

foresaw the end.

He climbed the stairs and reached Father Goriot’s room. The old man was

tossing on his bed. Bianchon was with him.

“Good-evening, father,” said Eugene.

The old man turned his glassy eyes on him, smiled gently, and said:

“How is _she_?”

“She is quite well. But how are you?”

“There is nothing much the matter.”

“Don’t tire him,” said Bianchon, drawing Eugene into a corner of the

room.

“Well?” asked Rastignac.

“Nothing but a miracle can save him now. Serous congestion has set in;

I have put on mustard plasters, and luckily he can feel them, they are

acting.”

“Is it possible to move him?”

“Quite out of the question. He must stay where he is, and be kept as

quiet as possible----”

“Dear Bianchon,” said Eugene, “we will nurse him between us.”

“I have had the head physician round from my hospital to see him.”

“And what did he say?”

“He will give no opinion till to-morrow evening. He promised to look in

again at the end of the day. Unluckily, the preposterous creature must

needs go and do something foolish this morning; he will not say what it

was. He is as obstinate as a mule. As soon as I begin to talk to him

he pretends not to hear, and lies as if he were asleep instead of

answering, or if he opens his eyes he begins to groan. Some time this

morning he went out on foot in the streets, nobody knows where he went,

and he took everything that he had of any value with him. He has been

driving some confounded bargain, and it has been too much for his

strength. One of his daughters has been here.”

“Was it the Countess?” asked Eugene. “A tall, dark-haired woman, with

large bright eyes, slender figure, and little feet?”

“Yes.”

“Leave him to me for a bit,” said Rastignac. “I will make him confess;

he will tell me all about it.”

“And meanwhile I will get my dinner. But try not to excite him; there is

still some hope left.”

“All right.”

“How they will enjoy themselves to-morrow,” said Father Goriot when they

were alone. “They are going to a grand ball.”

“What were you doing this morning, papa, to make yourself so poorly this

evening that you have to stop in bed?”

“Nothing.”

“Did not Anastasie come to see you?” demanded Rastignac.

“Yes,” said Father Goriot.

“Well, then, don’t keep anything from me. What more did she want of

you?”

“Oh, she was very miserable,” he answered, gathering up all his strength

to speak. “It was this way, my boy. Since that affair of the diamonds,

Nasie has not had a penny of her own. For this ball she had ordered a

golden gown like a setting for a jewel. Her mantuamaker, a woman without

a conscience, would not give her credit, so Nasie’s waiting-woman

advanced a thousand francs on account. Poor Nasie! reduced to such

shifts! It cut me to the heart to think of it! But when Nasie’s maid

saw how things were between her master and mistress, she was afraid of

losing her money, and came to an understanding with the dressmaker, and

the woman refuses to send the ball-dress until the money is paid. The

gown is ready, and the ball is to-morrow night! Nasie was in despair.

She wanted to borrow my forks and spoons to pawn them. Her husband is

determined that she shall go and wear the diamonds, so as to contradict

the stories that are told all over Paris. How can she go to that

heartless scoundrel and say, ‘I owe a thousand francs to my dressmaker;

pay her for me!’ She cannot. I saw that myself. Delphine will be there

too in a superb toilette, and Anastasie ought not to be outshone by her

younger sister. And then--she was drowned in tears, poor girl! I felt

so humbled yesterday when I had not the twelve thousand francs, that I

would have given the rest of my miserable life to wipe out that wrong.

You see, I could have borne anything once, but latterly this want of

money has broken my heart. Oh! I did not do it by halves; I titivated

myself up a bit, and went out and sold my spoons and forks and buckles

for six hundred francs; then I went to old Daddy Gobseck, and sold a

year’s interest on my annuity for four hundred francs down. Pshaw! I can

live on dry bread, as I did when I was a young man; if I have done it

before, I can do it again. My Nasie shall have one happy evening, at any

rate. She shall be smart. The banknote for a thousand francs is under

my pillow; it warms me to have it lying there under my head, for it is

going to make my poor Nasie happy. She can turn that bad girl Victoire

out of the house. A servant that cannot trust her mistress, did any one

ever hear the like! I shall be quite well to-morrow. Nasie is coming at

ten o’clock. They must not think that I am ill, or they will not go to

the ball; they will stop and take care of me. To-morrow Nasie will come

and hold me in her arms as if I were one of her children; her kisses

will make me well again. After all, I might have spent the thousand

francs on physic; I would far rather give them to my little Nasie, who

can charm all the pain away. At any rate, I am some comfort to her in

her misery; and that makes up for my unkindness in buying an annuity.

She is in the depths, and I cannot draw her out of them now. Oh! I will

go into business again, I will buy wheat in Odessa; out there, wheat

fetches a quarter of the price it sells for here. There is a law against

the importation of grain, but the good folk who made the law forgot to

prohibit the introduction of wheat products and food stuffs made from

corn. Hey! hey!... That struck me this morning. There is a fine trade to

be done in starch.”

Eugene, watching the old man’s face, thought that his friend was

light-headed.

“Come,” he said, “do not talk any more, you must rest----” Just then

Bianchon came up, and Eugene went down to dinner.

The two students sat up with him that night, relieving each other in

turn. Bianchon brought up his medical books and studied; Eugene wrote

letters home to his mother and sisters. Next morning Bianchon thought

the symptoms more hopeful, but the patient’s condition demanded

continual attention, which the two students alone were willing to

give--a task impossible to describe in the squeamish phraseology of the

epoch. Leeches must be applied to the wasted body, the poultices and

hot foot-baths, and other details of the treatment required the physical

strength and devotion of the two young men. Mme. de Restaud did not

come; but she sent a messenger for the money.

“I expected she would come herself; but it would have been a pity for

her to come, she would have been anxious about me,” said the father, and

to all appearances he was well content.

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 I am neglected already? In the confidences 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.’ Remember that I am expecting you this evening

to take me to Mme. de Beauseant’s ball. Every one knows now that

the King signed M. d’Ajuda’s marriage-contract 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 Greve to see an execution. It is

horrible, 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.”

Rastignac 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 will 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 Bianchon’s care, and went to carry the sad news to

Mme. de Nucingen. 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 happened,” cried

Goriot. He had been lying in a sort of stupor, but he suddenly sat

upright as Eugene went out.

Eugene, half heartbroken, entered Delphine’s. Her hair 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 will 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 Therese, hurrying

him away; and Eugene was too horror-stricken by this elegant parricide

to resist.