Bab Bab 38 · 第38章

Rastignac’s battle with himself went on for a long while; and though the

scruples of youth inevitably gained the day, an irresistible curiosity

led him, about half-past four, to return to the Maison Vauquer through

the gathering dusk.

Bianchon had given Vautrin an emetic, reserving the contents of the

stomach for chemical analysis at the hospital. Mlle. Michonneau’s

officious alacrity had still further strengthened his suspicions of her.

Vautrin, moreover, had recovered so quickly that it was impossible

not to suspect some plot against the leader of all frolics at the

lodging-house. Vautrin was standing in front of the stove in the

dining-room when Rastignac came in. All the lodgers were assembled

sooner than usual by the news of young Taillefer’s duel. They were

anxious to hear any detail about the affair, and to talk over the

probable change in Victorine’s prospects. Father Goriot alone was

absent, but the rest were chatting. No sooner did Eugene come into the

room, than his eyes met the inscrutable gaze of Vautrin. It was the same

look that had read his thoughts before--the look that had such power to

waken evil thoughts in his heart. He shuddered.

“Well, dear boy,” said the escaped convict, “I am likely to cheat death

for a good while yet. According to these ladies, I have had a stroke

that would have felled an ox, and come off with flying colors.”

“A bull you might say,” cried the widow.

“You really might be sorry to see me still alive,” said Vautrin in

Rastignac’s ear, thinking that he guessed the student’s thoughts. “You

must be mighty sure of yourself.”

“Mlle. Michonneau was talking the day before yesterday about a gentleman

named _Trompe-la-Mort_,” said Bianchon; “and, upon my word, that name

would do very well for you.”

Vautrin seemed thunderstruck. He turned pale, and staggered back.

He turned his magnetic glance, like a ray of vivid light, on Mlle.

Michonneau; the old maid shrank and trembled under the influence of that

strong will, and collapsed into a chair. The mask of good-nature had

dropped from the convict’s face; from the unmistakable ferocity of that

sinister look, Poiret felt that the old maid was in danger, and hastily

stepped between them. None of the lodgers understood this scene in the

least, they looked on in mute amazement. There was a pause. Just then

there was a sound of tramping feet outside; there were soldiers there,

it seemed, for there was a ring of several rifles on the pavement of

the street. Collin was mechanically looking round the walls for a way of

escape, when four men entered by way of the sitting-room.

“In the name of the King and the Law!” said an officer, but the words

were almost lost in a murmur of astonishment.

Silence fell on the room. The lodgers made way for three of the men, who

had each a hand on a cocked pistol in a side pocket. Two policemen, who

followed the detectives, kept the entrance to the sitting-room, and two

more men appeared in the doorway that gave access to the staircase. A

sound of footsteps came from the garden, and again the rifles of several

soldiers rang on the cobblestones under the window. All chance of

salvation by flight was cut off for Trompe-la-Mort, to whom all eyes

instinctively turned. The chief walked straight up to him, and commenced

operations by giving him a sharp blow on the head, so that the wig fell

off, and Collin’s face was revealed in all its ugliness. There was

a terrible suggestion of strength mingled with cunning in the short,

brick-red crop of hair, the whole head was in harmony with his powerful

frame, and at that moment the fires of hell seemed to gleam from his

eyes. In that flash the real Vautrin shone forth, revealed at once

before them all; they understood his past, his present, and future, his

pitiless doctrines, his actions, the religion of his own good pleasure,

the majesty with which his cynicism and contempt for mankind invested

him, the physical strength of an organization proof against all trials.

The blood flew to his face, and his eyes glared like the eyes of a wild

cat. He started back with savage energy and a fierce growl that drew

exclamations of alarm from the lodgers. At that leonine start the police

caught at their pistols under cover of the general clamor. Collin saw

the gleaming muzzles of the weapons, saw his danger, and instantly gave

proof of a power of the highest order. There was something horrible and

majestic in the spectacle of the sudden transformation in his face; he

could only be compared to a cauldron full of the steam that can send

mountains flying, a terrific force dispelled in a moment by a drop

of cold water. The drop of water that cooled his wrathful fury was a

reflection that flashed across his brain like lightning. He began to

smile, and looked down at his wig.

“You are not in the politest of humors to-day,” he remarked to the

chief, and he held out his hands to the policemen with a jerk of his

head.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “put on the bracelets or the handcuffs. I call on

those present to witness that I make no resistance.”

A murmur of admiration ran through the room at the sudden outpouring

like fire and lava flood from this human volcano, and its equally sudden

cessation.

“There’s a sell for you, master crusher,” the convict added, looking at

the famous director of police.

“Come, strip!” said he of the Petite Rue Saint-Anne, contemptuously.

“Why?” asked Collin. “There are ladies present; I deny nothing, and

surrender.”

He paused, and looked round the room like an orator who is about to

overwhelm his audience.

“Take this down, Daddy Lachapelle,” he went on, addressing a little,

white-haired old man who had seated himself at the end of the table; and

after drawing a printed form from the portfolio, was proceeding to draw

up a document. “I acknowledge myself to be Jacques Collin, otherwise

known as Trompe-la-Mort, condemned to twenty years’ penal servitude, and

I have just proved that I have come fairly by my nickname.--If I had

as much as raised my hand,” he went on, addressing the other lodgers,

“those three sneaking wretches yonder would have drawn claret on Mamma

Vauquer’s domestic hearth. The rogues have laid their heads together to

set a trap for me.”

Mme. Vauquer felt sick and faint at these words.

“Good Lord!” she cried, “this does give one a turn; and me at the Gaite

with him only last night!” she said to Sylvie.

“Summon your philosophy, mamma,” Collin resumed. “Is it a misfortune to

have sat in my box at the Gaite yesterday evening? After all, are you

better than we are? The brand upon our shoulders is less shameful than

the brand set on your hearts, you flabby members of a society rotten

to the core. Not the best man among you could stand up to me.” His

eyes rested upon Rastignac, to whom he spoke with a pleasant smile

that seemed strangely at variance with the savage expression in his

eyes.--“Our little bargain still holds good, dear boy; you can accept

any time you like! Do you understand?” And he sang:

“A charming girl is my Fanchette

In her simplicity.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself,” he went on; “I can get in my money. They

are too much afraid of me to swindle me.”

The convicts’ prison, its language and customs, its sudden sharp

transitions from the humorous to the horrible, its appalling grandeur,

its triviality and its dark depths, were all revealed in turn by the

speaker’s discourse; he seemed to be no longer a man, but the type and

mouthpiece of a degenerate race, a brutal, supple, clear-headed race of

savages. In one moment Collin became the poet of an inferno, wherein all

thoughts and passions that move human nature (save repentance) find a

place. He looked about him like a fallen archangel who is for war to the

end. Rastignac lowered his eyes, and acknowledged this kinship claimed

by crime as an expiation of his own evil thoughts.

“Who betrayed me?” said Collin, and his terrible eyes traveled round the

room. Suddenly they rested on Mlle. Michonneau.

“It was you, old cat!” he said. “That sham stroke of apoplexy was your

doing, lynx eyes!... Two words from me, and your throat would be cut in

less than a week, but I forgive you, I am a Christian. You did not sell

me either. But who did?----Aha! you may rummage upstairs,” he shouted,

hearing the police officers opening his cupboards and taking possession

of his effects. “The nest is empty, the birds flew away yesterday, and

you will be none the wiser. My ledgers are here,” he said tapping his

forehead. “Now I know who sold me! It could only be that blackguard

Fil-de-Soie. That is who it was, old catchpoll, eh?” he said, turning to

the chief. “It was timed so neatly to get the banknotes up above there.

There is nothing left for you--spies! As for Fil-de-Soie, he will be

under the daisies in less than a fortnight, even if you were to tell off

the whole force to protect him. How much did you give the Michonnette?”

he asked of the police officers. “A thousand crowns? Oh you Ninon in

decay, Pompadour in tatters, Venus of the graveyard, I was worth more

than that! If you had given me warning, you should have had six thousand

francs. Ah! you had no suspicion of that, old trafficker in flesh and

blood, or I should have had the preference. Yes, I would have given six

thousand francs to save myself an inconvenient journey and some loss of

money,” he said, as they fastened the handcuffs on his wrists. “These

folks will amuse themselves by dragging out this business till the end

of time to keep me idle. If they were to send me straight to jail, I

should soon be back at my old tricks in spite of the duffers at the Quai

des Orfevres. Down yonder they will all turn themselves inside out to

help their general--their good Trompe-la-Mort--to get clear away. Is

there a single one among you that can say, as I can, that he has ten

thousand brothers ready to do anything for him?” he asked proudly.

“There is some good there,” he said tapping his heart; “I have never

betrayed any one!--Look you here, you slut,” he said to the old maid,

“they are all afraid of me, do you see? but the sight of you turns them

sick. Rake in your gains.”