Chapter Chapter 37 · 第37章

“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 scared face rushed into the room. It was one of M. Taillefer’s

servants; Mme. Couture recognized the livery at once.

“Mademoiselle,” he cried, “your father is asking for you--something

terrible has happened! M. Frederic 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.”

“Poor young fellow!” exclaimed Vautrin. “How can people brawl when they

have a certain income of thirty thousand livres? Young people have bad

manners, and that is a fact.”

“Sir!” cried Eugene.

“Well, what then, you big baby!” said Vautrin, swallowing down his

coffee imperturbably, an operation which Mlle. 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

complaints that men don’t suffer from. We bear children, and it takes a

long time to get over it. What a windfall for Victorine! 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 Mlle. Victorine,” said Eugene, 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 messenger, addressing

Eugene.

“Say that I will come directly.”

The man went. Eugene was in a state of such violent excitement 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 Rastignac 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. Vautrin?”

“A stroke!” cried Mlle. Michonneau.

“Here, Sylvie! girl, run for the doctor,” called the widow. “Oh, M.

Rastignac, just go for M. Bianchon, and be as quick as you can; Sylvie

might not be in time to catch our doctor, M. Grimprel.”

Rastignac was glad of an excuse to leave that den of horrors, 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.

“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 Mlle. Michonneau 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 Mlle. 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; Mlle. Michonneau gave his shoulder a sharp

slap, and the two portentous letters appeared, white against the red.

“There, you have earned your three thousand francs very easily,”

exclaimed Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mlle. 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 scrutinized 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. Sylvie has gone for a

doctor. I say, Mlle. Michonneau, he is sniffing the ether. Pooh! it is

only a spasm. His pulse is good. He 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 live 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 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.

“Round a pretty woman’s neck, you mean,” said Mlle Michonneau, 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

yourself 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.

Rastignac had gone out for the sake of physical exertion; he wanted

to breathe the air, he felt stifled. Yesterday evening 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?” Rastignac 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 Bianchon, “you have seen the _Pilote_?”

The _Pilote_ was a Radical sheet, edited by M. Tissot. It came out

several hours later than the morning papers, and was 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 Franchessini, of

the Old Guard, and the Count put a couple of inches of steel into his

forehead. And here is little Victorine one of the richest heiresses in

Paris! If we had known that, eh? What a game of chance death is! They

say Victorine was sweet on you; was there any truth in it?”

“Shut up, Bianchon; I shall never marry her. I am in love with a

charming woman, and she is in love with me, so----”

“You 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

Taillefer’s money!”

“Are all the devils of hell at my heels?” cried Rastignac.

“What is the matter with you? Are you mad? Give us your hand,” said

Bianchon, “and let me feel your pulse. You are feverish.”

“Just go to Mother Vauquer’s,” said Rastignac; “that scoundrel Vautrin

has dropped down like one dead.”

“Aha!” said Bianchon, leaving Rastignac to his reflections, “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 of his conscience. 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 before; 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 could 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 Restaud 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 be loved. Ah!

this evening I shall be very happy!”

He took out his watch and admired it.

“I have had nothing but success! If two people mean to 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_; nothing that could cause the most austere

moralist to frown. How many respectable people contract similar unions!

We deceive nobody; it is deception that makes a position humiliating.

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 cannot make happy?”