Chapter Chapter 12 · 第12章

Rash resolve! He did not know that M. le Comte Maxime de Trailles would

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 bulls’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 violently and

so sulkily, that Anastasie’s fair face suddenly clouded over. She turned

to Eugene, with a cool, questioning glance that asked plainly, “Why do

you not go?” a glance which well-bred people regard as a cue to make

their exit.

Eugene assumed an amiable expression.

“Madame,” he began, “I hastened to call upon you----”

He stopped short. The door opened, and the owner of the tilbury suddenly

appeared. He had left his hat outside, and did not greet the Countess;

he looked meditatively at Rastignac, and held out his hand to Maxime

with a cordial “Good morning,” that astonished Eugene not a little. The

young provincial did not understand the amenities of a triple alliance.

“M. de Restaud,” said the Countess, introducing her husband to the law

student.

Eugene bowed profoundly.

“This gentleman,” she continued, presenting Eugene to her husband,

“is M. de Rastignac; he is related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseant

through the Marcillacs; I had the pleasure of meeting him at her last

ball.”

_Related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseant through the Marcillacs!_

These words, on which the countess threw ever so slight an emphasis, by

reason of the pride that the mistress of a house takes in showing

that she only receives people of distinction as visitors in her house,

produced a magical effect. The Count’s stiff manner relaxed at once as

he returned the student’s bow.

“Delighted to have an opportunity of making your acquaintance,” he said.

Maxime de Trailles himself gave Eugene an uneasy glance, and suddenly

dropped his insolent manner. The mighty name had all the power of a

fairy’s wand; those closed compartments in the southern brain flew open

again; Rastignac’s carefully drilled faculties returned. It was as if a

sudden light had pierced the obscurity of this upper world of Paris, and

he began to see, though everything was indistinct as yet. Mme. Vauquer’s

lodging-house and Father Goriot were very far remote from his thoughts.

“I thought that the Marcillacs were extinct,” the Comte de Restaud said,

addressing Eugene.

“Yes, they are extinct,” answered the law student. “My great-uncle, the

Chevalier de Rastignac, married the heiress of the Marcillac family.

They had only one daughter, who married the Marechal de Clarimbault,

Mme. de Beauseant’s grandfather on the mother’s side. We are the younger

branch of the family, and the younger branch is all the poorer because

my great-uncle, the Vice-Admiral, lost all that he had in the King’s

service. The Government during the Revolution refused to admit our

claims when the Compagnie des Indes was liquidated.”

“Was not your great-uncle in command of the _Vengeur_ before 1789?”

“Yes.”

“Then he would be acquainted with my grandfather, who commanded the

_Warwick_.”

Maxime looked at Mme. de Restaud and shrugged his shoulders, as who

should say, “If he is going to discuss nautical matters with that

fellow, it is all over with us.” Anastasie understood the glance that M.

de Trailles gave her. With a woman’s admirable tact, she began to smile

and said:

“Come with me, Maxime; I have something to say to you. We will leave

you two gentlemen to sail in company on board the _Warwick_ and the

_Vengeur_.”

She rose to her feet and signed to Maxime to follow her, mirth and

mischief in her whole attitude, and the two went in the direction of the

boudoir. The _morganatic_ couple (to use a convenient German expression

which has no exact equivalent) had reached the door, when the Count

interrupted himself in his talk with Eugene.

“Anastasie!” he cried pettishly, “just stay a moment, dear; you know

very well that----”

“I am coming back in a minute,” she interrupted; “I have a commission

for Maxime to execute, and I want to tell him about it.”

She came back almost immediately. She had noticed the 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

incident; 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!” 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 Rastignac had taken his leave.

The law student heard their laughter, and their voices, and the pauses

in their talk; he grew malicious, exerted his conversational powers for

M. de Restaud, 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 over 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, Nasie,” 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 declaration, and compromise you, and then you

will compel me to kill him.”

“Are you mad, Maxime?” she said. “A young lad of a student is, on the

contrary, a capital lightning-conductor; is 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 common,” 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 gentleman go out at

the gate, Father Goriot, my next door neighbor 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 husband’s

vexation, then she reddened; clearly she was embarrassed, 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 Rastignac?”

“Exceedingly,” answered Eugene, flushing, and disconcerted 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 down before

it, she swept her fingers over the keyboard from end to end. R-r-r-rah!

“No, madame.”

The Comte de Restaud walked to and fro.

“That is a pity; you are without one great means of success.--_Ca-ro,

ca-a-ro, ca-a-a-ro, non du-bi-ta-re_,” sang the Countess.

Eugene had a second time waved a magic wand when he uttered Goriot’s

name, but the effect seemed to be entirely opposite to that produced by

the formula “related to Mme. de Beauseant.” 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 Restaud’s expression was reserved and chilly,

her eyes had grown indifferent, and sedulously avoided meeting those of

the unlucky student of law.

“Madame,” he said, “you wish to talk with M. de Restaud; 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 Restaud and I shall be delighted to see you.”

Eugene made a profound bow and took his leave, followed by M. de

Restaud, who insisted, in spite of his remonstrances, on accompanying

him into the hall.

“Neither your mistress nor I are at home to that gentleman 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 a 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 corner, 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

white doeskin gloves that cost six francs in the morning, and primrose

kid gloves every evening? A fig for that old humbug 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, white 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

occupation by a wedding party.