Kabanata Kabanata 44 · 第44章

“But there is law to be had! There is a Place de Greve for sons-in-law

of that sort,” cried her father; “why, I would guillotine him myself if

there was no headsman to do it.”

“No, father, the law cannot touch him. Listen, this is what he says,

stripped of all his circumlocutions--‘Take your choice, you and no one

else can be my accomplice; either everything is lost, you are ruined

and have not a farthing, or you will let me carry this business through

myself.’ Is that plain speaking? He _must_ have my assistance. He is

assured that his wife will deal fairly by him; he knows that I shall

leave his money to him and be content with my own. It is an unholy and

dishonest compact, and he holds out threats of ruin to compel me to

consent to it. He is buying my conscience, and the price is liberty to

be Eugene’s wife in all but name. ‘I connive at your errors, and you

allow me to commit crimes and ruin poor families!’ Is that sufficiently

explicit? Do you know what he means by speculations? He buys up land in

his own name, then he finds men of straw to run up houses upon it. These

men make a bargain with a contractor to build the houses, paying them by

bills at long dates; then in consideration of a small sum they leave

my husband in possession of the houses, and finally slip through the

fingers of the deluded contractors by going into bankruptcy. The name of

the firm of Nucingen has been used to dazzle the poor contractors. I saw

that. I noticed, too, that Nucingen had sent bills for large amounts to

Amsterdam, London, Naples, and Vienna, in order to prove if necessary

that large sums had been paid away by the firm. How could we get

possession of those bills?”

Eugene heard a dull thud on the floor; Father Goriot must have fallen on

his knees.

“Great heavens! what have I done to you? Bound my daughter to this

scoundrel who does as he likes with her!--Oh! my child, my child!

forgive me!” cried the old man.

“Yes, if I am in the depths of despair, perhaps you are to blame,” said

Delphine. “We have so little sense when we marry! What do we know of the

world, of business, or men, or life? Our fathers should think for us!

Father dear, I am not blaming you in the least, forgive me for what

I said. This is all my own fault. Nay, do not cry, papa,” she said,

kissing him.

“Do not cry either, my little Delphine. Look up and let me kiss away

the tears. There! I shall find my wits and unravel this skein of your

husband’s winding.”

“No, let me do that; I shall be able to manage him. He is fond of me,

well and good; I shall use my influence to make him invest my money as

soon as possible in landed property in my own name. Very likely I could

get him to buy back Nucingen in Alsace in my name; that has always been

a pet idea of his. Still, come to-morrow and go through the books, and

look into the business. M. Derville knows little of mercantile matters.

No, not to-morrow though. I do not want to be upset. Mme. de Beauseant’s

ball will be the day after to-morrow, and I must keep quiet, so as to

look my best and freshest, and do honor to my dear Eugene!... Come, let

us see his room.”

But as she spoke a carriage stopped in the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve,

and the sound of Mme. de Restaud’s voice came from the staircase. “Is my

father in?” she asked of Sylvie.

This accident was luckily timed for Eugene, whose one idea had been to

throw himself down on the bed and pretend to be asleep.

“Oh, father, have you heard about Anastasie?” said Delphine, when she

heard her sister speak. “It looks as though some strange things had

happened in that family.”

“What sort of things?” asked Goriot. “This is like to be the death of

me. My poor head will not stand a double misfortune.”

“Good-morning, father,” said the Countess from the threshold. “Oh!

Delphine, are you here?”

Mme. de Restaud seemed taken aback by her sister’s presence.

“Good-morning, Nasie,” said the Baroness. “What is there so

extraordinary in my being here? _I_ see our father every day.”

“Since when?”

“If you came yourself you would know.”

“Don’t tease, Delphine,” said the Countess fretfully. “I am very

miserable, I am lost. Oh! my poor father, it is hopeless this time!”

“What is it, Nasie?” cried Goriot. “Tell us all about it, child! How

white she is! Quick, do something, Delphine; be kind to her, and I will

love you even better, if that were possible.”

“Poor Nasie!” said Mme. de Nucingen, drawing her sister to a chair. “We

are the only two people in the world whose love is always sufficient to

forgive you everything. Family affection is the surest, you see.”

The Countess inhaled the salts and revived.

“This will kill me!” said their father. “There,” he went on, stirring

the smouldering fire, “come nearer, both of you. It is cold. What is it,

Nasie? Be quick and tell me, this is enough to----”

“Well, then, my husband knows everything,” said the Countess. “Just

imagine it; do you remember, father, that bill of Maxime’s some time

ago? Well, that was not the first. I had paid ever so many before that.

About the beginning of January M. de Trailles seemed very much troubled.

He said nothing to me; but it is so easy to read the hearts of those you

love, a mere trifle is enough; and then you feel things instinctively.

Indeed, he was more tender and affectionate than ever, and I was happier

than I had ever been before. Poor Maxime! in himself he was really

saying good-bye to me, so he has told me since; he meant to blow his

brains out! At last I worried him so, and begged and implored so hard;

for two hours I knelt at his knees and prayed and entreated, and at last

he told me--that he owed a hundred thousand francs. Oh! papa! a hundred

thousand francs! I was beside myself! You had not the money, I knew, I

had eaten up all that you had----”

“No,” said Goriot; “I could not have got it for you unless I had stolen

it. But I would have done that for you, Nasie! I will do it yet.”

The words came from him like a sob, a hoarse sound like the death

rattle of a dying man; it seemed indeed like the agony of death when

the father’s love was powerless. There was a pause, and neither of the

sisters spoke. It must have been selfishness indeed that could hear

unmoved that cry of anguish that, like a pebble thrown over a precipice,

revealed the depths of his despair.

“I found the money, father, by selling what was not mine to sell,” and

the Countess burst into tears.

Delphine was touched; she laid her head on her sister’s shoulder, and

cried too.

“Then it is all true,” she said.

Anastasie bowed her head, Mme. de Nucingen flung her arms about her,

kissed her tenderly, and held her sister to her heart.

“I shall always love you and never judge you, Nasie,” she said.

“My angels,” murmured Goriot faintly. “Oh, why should it be trouble that

draws you together?”

This warm and palpitating affection seemed to give the Countess courage.

“To save Maxime’s life,” she said, “to save all my own happiness, I

went to the money-lender you know of, a man of iron forged in hell-fire;

nothing can melt him; I took all the family diamonds that M. de Restaud

is so proud of--his and mine too--and sold them to that M. Gobseck.

_Sold them!_ Do you understand? I saved Maxime, but I am lost. Restaud

found it all out.”

“How? Who told him? I will kill him,” cried Goriot.

“Yesterday he sent to tell me to come to his room. I went. ...

‘Anastasie,’ he said in a voice--oh! such a voice; that was enough, it

told me everything--‘where are your diamonds?’--‘In my room----’--‘No,’

he said, looking straight at me, ‘there they are on that chest of

drawers----’ and he lifted his handkerchief and showed me the casket.

‘Do you know where they came from?’ he said. I fell at his feet.... I

cried; I besought him to tell me the death he wished to see me die.”

“You said that!” cried Goriot. “By God in heaven, whoever lays a hand on

either of you so long as I am alive may reckon on being roasted by slow

fires! Yes, I will cut him in pieces like...”

Goriot stopped; the words died away in his throat.

“And then, dear, he asked something worse than death of me. Oh! heaven

preserve all other women from hearing such words as I heard then!”

“I will murder that man,” said Goriot quietly. “But he has only one

life, and he deserves to die twice.--And then, what next?” he added,

looking at Anastasie.

“Then,” the Countess resumed, “there was a pause, and he looked at me.

‘Anastasie,’ he said, ‘I will bury this in silence; there shall be no

separation; there are the children. I will not kill M. de Trailles. I

might miss him if we fought, and as for other ways of getting rid of

him, I should come into collision with the law. If I killed him in your

arms, it would bring dishonor on _those_ children. But if you do not

want to see your children perish, nor their father nor me, you must

first of all submit to two conditions. Answer me. Have I a child of my

own?’ I answered, ‘Yes,’--‘Which?’--‘Ernest, our eldest boy.’--‘Very

well,’ he said, ‘and now swear to obey me in this particular from this

time forward.’ I swore. ‘You will make over your property to me when I

require you to do so.’”

“Do nothing of the kind!” cried Goriot. “Aha! M. de Restaud, you could

not make your wife happy; she has looked for happiness and found it

elsewhere, and you make her suffer for your own ineptitude? He will have

to reckon with me. Make yourself easy, Nasie. Aha! he cares about his

heir! Good, very good. I will get hold of the boy; isn’t he my grandson?

What the blazes! I can surely go to see the brat! I will stow him away

somewhere; I will take care of him, you may be quite easy. I will bring

Restaud to terms, the monster! I shall say to him, ‘A word or two with

you! If you want your son back again, give my daughter her property, and

leave her to do as she pleases.’”

“Father!”

“Yes. I am your father, Nasie, a father indeed! That rogue of a great

lord had better not ill-treat my daughter. _Tonnerre!_ What is it in my

veins? There is the blood of a tiger in me; I could tear those two men

to pieces! Oh! children, children! so this is what your lives are! Why,

it is death!... What will become of you when I shall be here no longer?

Fathers ought to live as long as their children. Ah! Lord God in heaven!

how ill Thy world is ordered! Thou hast a Son, if what they tell us

is true, and yet Thou leavest us to suffer so through our children. My

darlings, my darlings! to think that trouble only should bring you to

me, that I should only see you with tears on your faces! Ah! yes, yes,

you love me, I see that you love me. Come to me and pour out your griefs

to me; my heart is large enough to hold them all. Oh! you might rend my

heart in pieces, and every fragment would make a father’s heart. If only

I could bear all your sorrows for you! ... Ah! you were so happy when

you were little and still with me....”