Chapter Chapter 33 · 第33章

“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

dying. 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 the old maid.

“But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all,” said Mlle.

Michonneau; “am I to have the two thousand francs 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 conscience 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,” Mlle. 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 the condition that the thing is settled

to-morrow.”

“Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor 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, overheard 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 hundred francs a

year,” said Poiret to Mlle. 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.”

“Anyhow,” thought Mlle. Michonneau, “I 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!”

Mlle. 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 unless Mlle. 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

he had been summoned as a witness for the defence.

As they entered the dining-room, Eugene de Rastignac was talking apart

with Mlle. Taillefer; the conversation appeared 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 Mlle.

Michonneau.

“I knew how it would end,” remarked that lady, addressing Poiret. “They

have been making eyes at each other in a heartrending way for a week

past.”

“Yes,” he answered. “So she was found guilty.”

“Who?”

“Mme. Morin.”

“I am talking about Mlle. Victorine,” said Mlle, Michonneau, as she

entered Poiret’s room with an absent air, “and you answer, ‘Mme. Morin.’

Who may Mme. Morin be?”

“What can Mlle. Victorine be guilty of?” demanded Poiret.

“Guilty of falling in love with M. Eugene de Rastignac and going further

and further without knowing exactly where she is going, poor innocent!”

That morning Mme. de Nucingen had driven Eugene to despair. In his own

mind he had completely surrendered himself 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

alliance. 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 Mlle. Taillefer. 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 loved; at any rate, she believed that she was loved;

and what woman would not likewise have believed after seeing Rastignac’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 it deliberately;

he had said to himself that a woman’s happiness should atone for this

venial sin. The energy of desperation 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 been, but it

was full of joy, and not of sorrow. Poor child! 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 eloquent, 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 remained. “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 redoubt at Clignancourt. By half-past eight in the

morning Mlle. Taillefer, calmly dipping her bread and butter in her

coffee cup, will be sole heiress of her father’s fortune and affections.

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

uncommonly handy thing to know.”

Rastignac heard him in dazed bewilderment; he could not find a word in

reply. Just then Goriot came in, and Bianchon 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 Rastignac 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.

“Oh! so we still have 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 fortune. Once have her dowry in your

hands, and your character will be as white as the bride’s white dress,

even in your own eyes.”

Rastignac 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 expecting

_me_! Now do you understand? We were to complete 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 Rue d’Artois, only a step or two from the Rue 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 eight

hundred thousand invested in sound securities, landed property that

won’t run away.”