Chapter Chapter 50 · 第50章

“Noble natures cannot dwell in this world,” he said; “Mme de Beauseant

has fled from it, and there he lies dying. What place indeed is there in

the shallow petty frivolous thing called society for noble thoughts and

feelings?”

Pictures of yesterday’s ball rose up in his memory, in strange contrast

to the deathbed before him. Bianchon suddenly appeared.

“I say, Eugene, I have just seen our head surgeon at the hospital, and I

ran all the way back here. If the old man shows any signs of reason, if

he begins to talk, cover him with a mustard poultice from the neck to

the base of the spine, and send round for us.”

“Dear Bianchon,” exclaimed Eugene.

“Oh! it is an interesting case from a scientific point of view,” said

the medical student, with all the enthusiasm of a neophyte.

“So!” said Eugene. “Am I really the only one who cares for the poor old

man for his own sake?”

“You would not have said so if you had seen me this morning,” returned

Bianchon, who did not take offence at this speech. “Doctors who have

seen a good deal of practice never see anything but the disease, but, my

dear fellow, I can see the patient still.”

He went. Eugene was left alone with the old man, and with an

apprehension of a crisis that set in, in fact, before very long.

“Ah! dear boy, is that you?” said Father Goriot, recognizing Eugene.

“Do you feel better?” asked the law student, taking his hand.

“Yes. My head felt as if it were being screwed up in a vise, but now it

is set free again. Did you see my girls? They will be here directly; as

soon as they know that I am ill they will hurry here at once; they used

to take such care of me in the Rue de la Jussienne! Great Heavens! if

only my room was fit for them to come into! There has been a young man

here, who has burned up all my bark fuel.”

“I can hear Christophe coming upstairs,” Eugene answered. “He is

bringing up some firewood that that young man has sent you.”

“Good, but how am I to pay for the wood. I have not a penny left, dear

boy. I have given everything, everything. I am a pauper now. Well, at

least the golden gown was grand, was it not? (Ah! what pain this is!)

Thanks, Christophe! God will reward you, my boy; I have nothing left

now.”

Eugene went over to Christophe and whispered in the man’s ear, “I will

pay you well, and Sylvie too, for your trouble.”

“My daughters told you that they were coming, didn’t they, Christophe?

Go again to them, and I will give you five francs. Tell them that I am

not feeling well, that I should like to kiss them both and see them once

again before I die. Tell them that, but don’t alarm them more than you

can help.”

Rastignac signed to Christophe to go, and the man went.

“They will come before long,” the old man went on. “I know them so well.

My tender-hearted Delphine! If I am going to die, she will feel it so

much! And so will Nasie. I do not want to die; they will cry if I die;

and if I die, dear Eugene, I shall not see them any more. It will

be very dreary there where I am going. For a father it is hell to be

without your children; I have served my apprenticeship already since

they married. My heaven was in the Rue de la Jussienne. Eugene, do you

think that if I go to heaven I can come back to earth, and be near them

in spirit? I have heard some such things said. It is true? It is as if

I could see them at this moment as they used to be when we all lived

in the Rue de la Jussienne. They used to come downstairs of a morning.

‘Good-morning, papa!’ they used to say, and I would take them on my

knees; we had all sorts of little games of play together, and they had

such pretty coaxing ways. We always had breakfast together, too, every

morning, and they had dinner with me--in fact, I was a father then. I

enjoyed my children. They did not think for themselves so long as they

lived in the Rue de la Jussienne; they knew nothing of the world; they

loved me with all their hearts. _Mon Dieu!_ why could they not always

be little girls? (Oh! my head! this racking pain in my head!) Ah! ah!

forgive me, children, this pain is fearful; it must be agony indeed, for

you have used me to endure pain. _Mon Dieu!_ if only I held their hands

in mine, I should not feel it at all.--Do you think that they are on the

way? Christophe is so stupid; I ought to have gone myself. _He_ will see

them. But you went to the ball yesterday; just tell me how they looked.

They did not know that I was ill, did they, or they would not have been

dancing, poor little things? Oh! I must not be ill any longer. They

stand too much in need of me; their fortunes are in danger. And such

husbands as they are bound to! I must get well! (Oh! what pain this

is! what pain this is! ... ah! ah!)--I must get well, you see; for they

_must_ have money, and I know how to set about making some. I will go

to Odessa and manufacture starch there. I am an old hand, I will make

millions. (Oh! this is agony!)”

Goriot was silent for a moment; it seemed to require his whole strength

to endure the pain.

“If they were here, I should not complain,” he said. “So why should I

complain now?”

He seemed to grow drowsy with exhaustion, and lay quietly for a long

time. Christophe came back; and Rastignac, thinking that Goriot was

asleep, allowed the man to give his story aloud.

“First of all, sir, I went to Madame la Comtesse,” he said; “but she

and her husband were so busy that I couldn’t get to speak to her. When I

insisted that I must see her, M. de Restaud came out to me himself, and

went on like this: ‘M. Goriot is dying, is he? Very well, it is the

best thing he can do. I want Mme. de Restaud to transact some important

business, when it is all finished she can go.’ The gentleman looked

angry, I thought. I was just going away when Mme. de Restaud came out

into an ante-chamber through a door that I did not notice, and said,

‘Christophe, tell my father that my husband wants me to discuss some

matters with him, and I cannot leave the house, the life or death of my

children is at stake; but as soon as it is over, I will come.’ As for

Madame la Baronne, that is another story! I could not speak to her

either, and I did not even see her. Her waiting-woman said, ‘Ah yes, but

madame only came back from a ball at a quarter to five this morning; she

is asleep now, and if I wake her before mid-day she will be cross. As

soon as she rings, I will go and tell her that her father is worse. It

will be time enough then to tell her bad news!’ I begged and I prayed,

but, there! it was no good. Then I asked for M. le Baron, but he was

out.”

“To think that neither of his daughters should come!” exclaimed

Rastignac. “I will write to them both.”

“Neither of them!” cried the old man, sitting upright in bed. “They are

busy, they are asleep, they will not come! I knew that they would not.

Not until you are dying do you know your children.... Oh! my friend, do

not marry; do not have children! You give them life; they give you your

deathblow. You bring them into the world, and they send you out of it.

No, they will not come. I have known that these ten years. Sometimes I

have told myself so, but I did not dare to believe it.”

The tears gathered and stood without overflowing the red sockets.

“Ah! if I were rich still, if I had kept my money, if I had not given

all to them, they would be with me now; they would fawn on me and cover

my cheeks with their kisses! I should be living in a great mansion; I

should have grand apartments and servants and a fire in my room; and

_they_ would be about me all in tears, and their husbands and their

children. I should have had all that; now--I have nothing. Money brings

everything to you; even your daughters. My money. Oh! where is my money?

If I had plenty of money to leave behind me, they would nurse me and

tend me; I should hear their voices, I should see their faces. Ah, God!

who knows? They both of them have hearts of stone. I loved them too

much; it was not likely that they should love me. A father ought always

to be rich; he ought to keep his children well in hand, like unruly

horses. I have gone down on my knees to them. Wretches! this is the

crowning act that brings the last ten years to a proper close. If you

but knew how much they made of me just after they were married. (Oh!

this is cruel torture!) I had just given them each eight hundred

thousand francs; they were bound to be civil to me after that, and their

husbands too were civil. I used to go to their houses: it was ‘My kind

father’ here, ‘My dear father’ there. There was always a place for me at

their tables. I used to dine with their husbands now and then, and they

were very respectful to me. I was still worth something, they thought.

How should they know? I had not said anything about my affairs. It

is worth while to be civil to a man who has given his daughters eight

hundred thousand francs apiece; and they showed me every attention

then--but it was all for my money. Grand people are not great. I

found that out by experience! I went to the theatre with them in their

carriage; I might stay as long as I cared to stay at their evening

parties. In fact, they acknowledged me their father; publicly they owned

that they were my daughters. But I was always a shrewd one, you see,

and nothing was lost upon me. Everything went straight to the mark and

pierced my heart. I saw quite well that it was all sham and pretence,

but there is no help for such things as these. I felt less at my ease at

their dinner-table than I did downstairs here. I had nothing to say for

myself. So these grand folks would ask in my son-in-law’s ear, ‘Who may

that gentleman be?’--‘The father-in-law with the money bags; he is very

rich.’--‘The devil, he is!’ they would say, and look again at me with

the respect due to my money. Well, if I was in the way sometimes, I paid

dearly for my mistakes. And besides, who is perfect? (My head is one

sore!) Dear Monsieur Eugene, I am suffering so now, that a man might die

of the pain; but it is nothing to be compared with the pain I endured

when Anastasie made me feel, for the first time, that I had said

something stupid. She looked at me, and that glance of hers opened all

my veins. I used to want to know everything, to be learned; and one

thing I did learn thoroughly--I knew that I was not wanted here on

earth.