Chương Chương 26 · 第26章

Father Goriot was sublime. Eugene had never yet seen his face light

up as it did now with the passionate fervor of a father’s love. It is

worthy of remark that strong feeling has a very subtle and pervasive

power; the roughest nature, in the endeavor to express a deep and

sincere affection, communicates to others the influence that has put

resonance into the voice, and eloquence into every gesture, wrought a

change in the very features of the speaker; for under the inspiration

of passion the stupidest human being attains to the highest eloquence of

ideas, if not of language, and seems to move in some sphere of light.

In the old man’s tones and gesture there was something just then of the

same spell that a great actor exerts over his audience. But does not the

poet in us find expression in our affections?

“Well,” said Eugene, “perhaps you will not be sorry to hear that she is

pretty sure to break with de Marsay before long. That sprig of fashion

has left her for the Princesse Galathionne. For my part, I fell in love

with Mme. Delphine this evening.”

“Stuff!” said Father Goriot.

“I did indeed, and she did not regard me with aversion. For a whole hour

we talked of love, and I am to go to call on her on Saturday, the day

after to-morrow.”

“Oh! how I should love you, if she should like you. You are

kind-hearted; you would never make her miserable. If you were to forsake

her, I would cut your throat at once. A woman does not love twice, you

see! Good heavens! what nonsense I am talking, M. Eugene! It is cold;

you ought not to stay here. _Mon Dieu!_ so you have heard her speak?

What message did she give you for me?”

“None at all,” said Eugene to himself; aloud he answered, “She told me

to tell you that your daughter sends you a good kiss.”

“Good-night, neighbor! Sleep well, and pleasant dreams to you! I have

mine already made for me by that message from her. May God grant you

all your desires! You have come in like a good angel on me to-night, and

brought with you the air that my daughter breathes.”

“Poor old fellow!” said Eugene as he lay down. “It is enough to melt a

heart of stone. His daughter no more thought of him than of the Grand

Turk.”

Ever after this conference Goriot looked upon his neighbor as a

friend, a confidant such as he had never hoped to find; and there was

established between the two the only relationship that could attach this

old man to another man. The passions never miscalculate. Father Goriot

felt that this friendship brought him closer to his daughter Delphine;

he thought that he should find a warmer welcome for himself if the

Baroness should care for Eugene. Moreover, he had confided one of his

troubles to the younger man. Mme. de Nucingen, for whose happiness he

prayed a thousand times daily, had never known the joys of love. Eugene

was certainly (to make use of his own expression) one of the nicest

young men that he had ever seen, and some prophetic instinct seemed to

tell him that Eugene was to give her the happiness which had not been

hers. These were the beginnings of a friendship that grew up between the

old man and his neighbor; but for this friendship the catastrophe of the

drama must have remained a mystery.

The affection with which Father Goriot regarded Eugene, by whom he

seated himself at breakfast, the change in Goriot’s face, which as a

rule, looked as expressionless as a plaster cast, and a few words that

passed between the two, surprised the other lodgers. Vautrin, who saw

Eugene for the first time since their interview, seemed as if he would

fain read the student’s very soul. During the night Eugene had had some

time in which to scan the vast field which lay before him; and now, as

he remembered yesterday’s proposal, the thought of Mlle. Taillefer’s

dowry came, of course, to his mind, and he could not help thinking

of Victorine as the most exemplary youth may think of an heiress. It

chanced that their eyes met. The poor girl did not fail to see that

Eugene looked very handsome in his new clothes. So much was said in

the glance, thus exchanged, that Eugene could not doubt but that he was

associated in her mind with the vague hopes that lie dormant in a girl’s

heart and gather round the first attractive newcomer. “Eight hundred

thousand francs!” a voice cried in his ears, but suddenly he took refuge

in the memories of yesterday evening, thinking that his extemporized

passion for Mme. de Nucingen was a talisman that would preserve him from

this temptation.

“They gave Rossini’s _Barber of Seville_ at the Italiens yesterday

evening,” he remarked. “I never heard such delicious music. Good

gracious! how lucky people are to have a box at the Italiens!”

Father Goriot drank in every word that Eugene let fall, and watched him

as a dog watches his master’s slightest movement.

“You men are like fighting cocks,” said Mme. Vauquer; “you do what you

like.”

“How did you get back?” inquired Vautrin.

“I walked,” answered Eugene.

“For my own part,” remarked the tempter, “I do not care about doing

things by halves. If I want to enjoy myself that way, I should prefer

to go in my carriage, sit in my own box, and do the thing comfortably.

Everything or nothing; that is my motto.”

“And a good one, too,” commented Mme. Vauquer.

“Perhaps you will see Mme. de Nucingen to-day,” said Eugene, addressing

Goriot in an undertone. “She will welcome you with open arms, I am sure;

she would want to ask you for all sorts of little details about me. I

have found out that she will do anything in the world to be known by my

cousin Mme. de Beauseant; don’t forget to tell her that I love her too

well not to think of trying to arrange this.”

Rastignac went at once to the Ecole de Droit. He had no mind to stay

a moment longer than was necessary in that odious house. He wasted his

time that day; he had fallen a victim to that fever of the brain that

accompanies the too vivid hopes of youth. Vautrin’s arguments had set

him meditating on social life, and he was deep in these reflections when

he happened on his friend Bianchon in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

“What makes you look so solemn?” said the medical student, putting an

arm through Eugene’s as they went towards the Palais.

“I am tormented by temptations.”

“What kind? There is a cure for temptation.”

“What?”

“Yielding to it.”

“You laugh, but you don’t know what it is all about. Have you read

Rousseau?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember that he asks the reader somewhere what he would do if

he could make a fortune by killing an old mandarin somewhere in China by

mere force of wishing it, and without stirring from Paris?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then?”

“Pshaw! I am at my thirty-third mandarin.”

“Seriously, though. Look here, suppose you were sure that you could do

it, and had only to give a nod. Would you do it?”

“Is he well stricken in years, this mandarin of yours? Pshaw! after all,

young or old, paralytic, or well and sound, my word for it. ... Well,

then. Hang it, no!”

“You are a good fellow, Bianchon. But suppose you loved a woman well

enough to lose your soul in hell for her, and that she wanted money for

dresses and a carriage, and all her whims, in fact?”

“Why, here you are taking away my reason, and want me to reason!”

“Well, then, Bianchon, I am mad; bring me to my senses. I have two

sisters as beautiful and innocent as angels, and I want them to be

happy. How am I to find two hundred thousand francs apiece for them in

the next five years? Now and then in life, you see, you must play for

heavy stakes, and it is no use wasting your luck on low play.”

“But you are only stating the problem that lies before every one at the

outset of his life, and you want to cut the Gordian knot with a sword.

If that is the way of it, dear boy, you must be an Alexander, or to the

hulks you go. For my own part, I am quite contented with the little lot

I mean to make for myself somewhere in the country, when I mean to step

into my father’s shoes and plod along. A man’s affections are just

as fully satisfied by the smallest circle as they can be by a vast

circumference. Napoleon himself could only dine once, and he could not

have more mistresses than a house student at the Capuchins. Happiness,

old man, depends on what lies between the sole of your foot and the

crown of your head; and whether it costs a million or a hundred louis,

the actual amount of pleasure that you receive rests entirely with you,

and is just exactly the same in any case. I am for letting that Chinaman

live.”

“Thank you, Bianchon; you have done me good. We will always be friends.”

“I say,” remarked the medical student, as they came to the end of a

broad walk in the Jardin des Plantes, “I saw the Michonneau and Poiret a

few minutes ago on a bench chatting with a gentleman whom I used to see

in last year’s troubles hanging about the Chamber of Deputies; he seems

to me, in fact, to be a detective dressed up like a decent retired

tradesman. Let us keep an eye on that couple; I will tell you why some

time. Good-bye; it is nearly four o’clock, and I must be in to answer to

my name.”

When Eugene reached the lodging-house, he found Father Goriot waiting

for him.

“Here,” cried the old man, “here is a letter from her. Pretty

handwriting, eh?”

Eugene broke the seal and read:--

“Sir,--I have heard from my father that you are fond of Italian

music. I shall be delighted if you will do me the pleasure of

accepting a seat in my box. La Fodor and Pellegrini will sing on

Saturday, so I am sure that you will not refuse me. M. de Nucingen

and I shall be pleased if you will dine with us; we shall be quite

by ourselves. If you will come and be my escort, my husband will

be glad to be relieved from his conjugal duties. Do not answer,

but simply come.--Yours sincerely, D. DE N.”

“Let me see it,” said Father Goriot, when Eugene had read the letter.

“You are going, aren’t you?” he added, when he had smelled the

writing-paper. “How nice it smells! Her fingers have touched it, that is

certain.”

“A woman does not fling herself at a man’s head in this way,” the

student was thinking. “She wants to use me to bring back de Marsay;

nothing but pique makes a woman do a thing like this.”