Kabanata Kabanata 52 · 第52章

“Dear Father Goriot, calm yourself. There, there, lie quietly and rest;

don’t worry yourself, don’t think.”

“I shall not see them. Oh! the agony of it!”

“You _shall_ see them.”

“Really?” cried the old man, still wandering. “Oh! shall I see them; I

shall see them and hear their voices. I shall die happy. Ah! well, after

all, I do not wish to live; I cannot stand this much longer; this

pain that grows worse and worse. But, oh! to see them, to touch their

dresses--ah! nothing but their dresses, that is very little; still, to

feel something that belongs to them. Let me touch their hair with my

fingers... their hair...”

His head fell back on the pillow, as if a sudden heavy blow had struck

him down, but his hands groped feebly over the quilt, as if to find his

daughters’ hair.

“My blessing on them...” he said, making an effort, “my blessing...”

His voice died away. Just at that moment Bianchon came into the room.

“I met Christophe,” he said; “he is gone for your cab.”

Then he looked at the patient, and raised the closed eyelids with his

fingers. The two students saw how dead and lustreless the eyes beneath

had grown.

“He will not get over this, I am sure,” said Bianchon. He felt the old

man’s pulse, and laid a hand over his heart.

“The machinery works still; more is the pity, in his state it would be

better for him to die.”

“Ah! my word, it would!”

“What is the matter with you? You are as pale as death.”

“Dear fellow, the moans and cries that I have just heard.... There is

a God! Ah! yes, yes, there is a God, and He has made a better world for

us, or this world of ours would be a nightmare. I could have cried like

a child; but this is too tragical, and I am sick at heart.

“We want a lot of things, you know; and where is the money to come

from?”

Rastignac took out his watch.

“There, be quick and pawn it. I do not want to stop on the way to the

Rue du Helder; there is not a moment to lose, I am afraid, and I must

wait here till Christophe comes back. I have not a farthing; I shall

have to pay the cabman when I get home again.”

Rastignac rushed down the stairs, and drove off to the Rue du Helder.

The awful scene through which he had just passed quickened his

imagination, and he grew fiercely indignant. He reached Mme. de

Restaud’s house only to be told by the servant that his mistress could

see no one.

“But I have brought a message from her father, who is dying,” Rastignac

told the man.

“The Count has given us the strictest orders, sir----”

“If it is M. de Restaud who has given the orders, tell him that his

father-in-law is dying, and that I am here, and must speak with him at

once.”

The man went out.

Eugene waited for a long while. “Perhaps her father is dying at this

moment,” he thought.

Then the man came back, and Eugene followed him to the little

drawing-room. M. de Restaud was standing before the fireless grate, and

did not ask his visitor to seat himself.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said Rastignac, “M. Goriot, your father-in-law, is

lying at the point of death in a squalid den in the Latin Quarter.

He has not a penny to pay for firewood; he is expected to die at any

moment, and keeps calling for his daughter----”

“I feel very little affection for M. Goriot, sir, as you probably are

aware,” the Count answered coolly. “His character has been compromised

in connection with Mme. de Restaud; he is the author of the misfortunes

that have embittered my life and troubled my peace of mind. It is a

matter of perfect indifference to me if he lives or dies. Now you know

my feelings with regard to him. Public opinion may blame me, but I

care nothing for public opinion. Just now I have other and much

more important matters to think about than the things that fools and

chatterers may say about me. As for Mme. de Restaud, she cannot leave

the house; she is in no condition to do so. And, besides, I shall not

allow her to leave it. Tell her father that as soon as she has done her

duty by her husband and child she shall go to see him. If she has any

love for her father, she can be free to go to him, if she chooses, in a

few seconds; it lies entirely with her----”

“Monsieur le Comte, it is no business of mine to criticise your conduct;

you can do as you please with your wife, but may I count upon your

keeping your word with me? Well, then, promise me to tell her that her

father has not twenty-four hours to live; that he looks in vain for her,

and has cursed her already as he lies on his deathbed,--that is all I

ask.”

“You can tell her yourself,” the Count answered, impressed by the thrill

of indignation in Eugene’s voice.

The Count led the way to the room where his wife usually sat. She was

drowned in tears, and lay crouching in the depths of an armchair, as

if she were tired of life and longed to die. It was piteous to see her.

Before venturing to look at Rastignac, she glanced at her husband in

evident and abject terror that spoke of complete prostration of body

and mind; she seemed crushed by a tyranny both mental and physical. The

Count jerked his head towards her; she construed this as a permission to

speak.

“I heard all that you said, monsieur. Tell my father that if he knew all

he would forgive me.... I did not think there was such torture in the

world as this; it is more than I can endure, monsieur!--But I will not

give way as long as I live,” she said, turning to her husband. “I am a

mother.--Tell my father that I have never sinned against him in spite of

appearances!” she cried aloud in her despair.

Eugene bowed to the husband and wife; he guessed the meaning of the

scene, and that this was a terrible crisis in the Countess’ life. M. de

Restaud’s manner had told him that his errand was a fruitless one; he

saw that Anastasie had no longer any liberty of action. He came away

mazed and bewildered, and hurried to Mme. de Nucingen. Delphine was in

bed.

“Poor dear Eugene, I am ill,” she said. “I caught cold after the ball,

and I am afraid of pneumonia. I am waiting for the doctor to come.”

“If you were at death’s door,” Eugene broke in, “you must be carried

somehow to your father. He is calling for you. If you could hear the

faintest of those cries, you would not feel ill any longer.”

“Eugene, I dare say my father is not quite so ill as you say; but I

cannot bear to do anything that you do not approve, so I will do just

as you wish. As for _him_, he would die of grief I know if I went out to

see him and brought on a dangerous illness. Well, I will go as soon as

I have seen the doctor.--Ah!” she cried out, “you are not wearing your

watch, how is that?”

Eugene reddened.

“Eugene, Eugene! if you have sold it already or lost it.... Oh! it would

be very wrong of you!”

The student bent over Delphine and said in her ear, “Do you want to

know? Very well, then, you shall know. Your father has nothing left to

pay for the shroud that they will lay him in this evening. Your watch

has been pawned, for I had nothing either.”

Delphine sprang out of bed, ran to her desk, and took out her purse. She

gave it to Eugene, and rang the bell, crying:

“I will go, I will go at once, Eugene. Leave me, I will dress. Why,

I should be an unnatural daughter! Go back; I will be there before

you.--Therese,” she called to the waiting-woman, “ask M. de Nucingen to

come upstairs at once and speak to me.”

Eugene was almost happy when he reached the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve;

he was so glad to bring the news to the dying man that one of his

daughters was coming. He fumbled in Delphine’s purse for money, so as to

dismiss the cab at once; and discovered that the young, beautiful, and

wealthy woman of fashion had only seventy francs in her private purse.

He climbed the stairs and found Bianchon supporting Goriot, while the

house surgeon from the hospital was applying moxas to the patient’s

back--under the direction of the physician, it was the last expedient of

science, and it was tried in vain.

“Can you feel them?” asked the physician. But Goriot had caught sight of

Rastignac, and answered, “They are coming, are they not?”

“There is hope yet,” said the surgeon; “he can speak.”

“Yes,” said Eugene, “Delphine is coming.”

“Oh! that is nothing!” said Bianchon; “he has been talking about his

daughters all the time. He calls for them as a man impaled calls for

water, they say----”

“We may as well give up,” said the physician, addressing the surgeon.

“Nothing more can be done now; the case is hopeless.”

Bianchon and the house surgeon stretched the dying man out again on his

loathsome bed.

“But the sheets ought to be changed,” added the physician. “Even if

there is no hope left, something is due to human nature. I shall come

back again, Bianchon,” he said, turning to the medical student. “If he

complains again, rub some laudanum over the diaphragm.”

He went, and the house surgeon went with him.

“Come, Eugene, pluck up heart, my boy,” said Bianchon, as soon as they

were alone; “we must set about changing his sheets, and put him into a

clean shirt. Go and tell Sylvie to bring some sheets and come and help

us to make the bed.”

Eugene went downstairs, and found Mme. Vauquer engaged in setting the

table; Sylvie was helping her. Eugene had scarcely opened his mouth

before the widow walked up to him with the acidulous sweet smile of a

cautious shopkeeper who is anxious neither to lose money nor to offend a

customer.

“My dear Monsieur Eugene,” she said, when he had spoken, “you know quite

as well as I do that Father Goriot has not a brass farthing left. If you

give out clean linen for a man who is just going to turn up his eyes,

you are not likely to see your sheets again, for one is sure to be

wanted to wrap him in. Now, you owe me a hundred and forty-four francs

as it is, add forty francs for the pair of sheets, and then there are

several little things, besides the candle that Sylvie will give you;

altogether it will all mount up to at least two hundred francs, which is

more than a poor widow like me can afford to lose. Lord! now, Monsieur

Eugene, look at it fairly. I have lost quite enough in these five days

since this run of ill-luck set in for me. I would rather than ten crowns

that the old gentlemen had moved out as you said. It sets the other

lodgers against the house. It would not take much to make me send him to

the workhouse. In short, just put yourself in my place. I have to think

of my establishment first, for I have my own living to make.”