第 九 章 · 第9章

“Then what was Father Goriot doing there?”

“Doing?” said Vautrin. “Nothing; he was bent on his own undoing. He is a

simpleton, stupid enough to ruin himself by running after----”

“There he is!” cried Sylvie.

“Christophe,” cried Father Goriot’s voice, “come upstairs with me.”

Christophe went up, and shortly afterwards came down again.

“Where are you going?” Mme. Vauquer asked of her servant.

“Out on an errand for M. Goriot.”

“What may that be?” said Vautrin, pouncing on a letter in Christophe’s

hand. “_Mme. la Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud_,” he read. “Where are you

going with it?” he added, as he gave the letter back to Christophe.

“To the Rue du Helder. I have orders to give this into her hands

myself.”

“What is there inside it?” said Vautrin, holding the letter up to the

light. “A banknote? No.” He peered into the envelope. “A receipted

account!” he cried. “My word! ‘tis a gallant old dotard. Off with you,

old chap,” he said, bringing down a hand on Christophe’s head, and

spinning the man round like a thimble; “you will have a famous tip.”

By this time the table was set. Sylvie was boiling the milk, Mme.

Vauquer was lighting a fire in the stove with some assistance from

Vautrin, who kept humming to himself:

“The same old story everywhere,

A roving heart and a roving glance.”

When everything was ready, Mme. Couture and Mlle. Taillefer came in.

“Where have you been this morning, fair lady?” said Mme. Vauquer,

turning to Mme. Couture.

“We have just been to say our prayers at Saint-Etienne du Mont. To-day

is the day when we must go to see M. Taillefer. Poor little thing! She

is trembling like a leaf,” Mme. Couture went on, as she seated herself

before the fire and held the steaming soles of her boots to the blaze.

“Warm yourself, Victorine,” said Mme. Vauquer.

“It is quite right and proper, mademoiselle, to pray to Heaven to soften

your father’s heart,” said Vautrin, as he drew a chair nearer to the

orphan girl; “but that is not enough. What you want is a friend who

will give the monster a piece of his mind; a barbarian that has three

millions (so they say), and will not give you a dowry; and a pretty girl

needs a dowry nowadays.”

“Poor child!” said Mme. Vauquer. “Never mind, my pet, your wretch of a

father is going just the way to bring trouble upon himself.”

Victorine’s eyes filled with tears at the words, and the widow checked

herself at a sign from Mme. Couture.

“If we could only see him!” said the Commissary-General’s widow; “if I

could speak to him myself and give him his wife’s last letter! I

have never dared to run the risk of sending it by post; he knew my

handwriting----”

“‘Oh woman, persecuted and injured innocent!’” exclaimed Vautrin,

breaking in upon her. “So that is how you are, is it? In a few days’

time I will look into your affairs, and it will be all right, you shall

see.”

“Oh! sir,” said Victorine, with a tearful but eager glance at Vautrin,

who showed no sign of being touched by it, “if you know of any way

of communicating with my father, please be sure and tell him that his

affection and my mother’s honor are more to me than all the money in the

world. If you can induce him to relent a little towards me, I will pray

to God for you. You may be sure of my gratitude----”

“_The same old story everywhere_,” sang Vautrin, with a satirical

intonation. At this juncture, Goriot, Mlle. Michonneau, and Poiret came

downstairs together; possibly the scent of the gravy which Sylvie was

making to serve with the mutton had announced breakfast. The seven

people thus assembled bade each other good-morning, and took their

places at the table; the clock struck ten, and the student’s footstep

was heard outside.

“Ah! here you are, M. Eugene,” said Sylvie; “every one is breakfasting

at home to-day.”

The student exchanged greetings with the lodgers, and sat down beside

Goriot.

“I have just met with a queer adventure,” he said, as he helped himself

abundantly to the mutton, and cut a slice of bread, which Mme. Vauquer’s

eyes gauged as usual.

“An adventure?” queried Poiret.

“Well, and what is there to astonish you in that, old boy?” Vautrin

asked of Poiret. “M. Eugene is cut out for that kind of thing.”

Mlle. Taillefer stole a timid glance at the young student.

“Tell us about your adventure!” demanded M. Vautrin.

“Yesterday evening I went to a ball given by a cousin of mine, the

Vicomtesse de Beauseant. She has a magnificent house; the rooms are hung

with silk--in short, it was a splendid affair, and I was as happy as a

king---”

“Fisher,” put in Vautrin, interrupting.

“What do you mean, sir?” said Eugene sharply.

“I said ‘fisher,’ because kingfishers see a good deal more fun than

kings.”

“Quite true; I would much rather be the little careless bird than a

king,” said Poiret the ditto-ist, “because----”

“In fact”--the law-student cut him short--“I danced with one of the

handsomest women in the room, a charming countess, the most exquisite

creature I have ever seen. There was peach blossom in her hair, and she

had the loveliest bouquet of flowers--real flowers, that scented the

air----but there! it is no use trying to describe a woman glowing with

the dance. You ought to have seen her! Well, and this morning I met this

divine countess about nine o’clock, on foot in the Rue de Gres. Oh! how

my heart beat! I began to think----”

“That she was coming here,” said Vautrin, with a keen look at the

student. “I expect that she was going to call on old Gobseck, a

money-lender. If ever you explore a Parisian woman’s heart, you will

find the money-lender first, and the lover afterwards. Your countess is

called Anastasie de Restaud, and she lives in the Rue du Helder.”

The student stared hard at Vautrin. Father Goriot raised his head at the

words, and gave the two speakers a glance so full of intelligence and

uneasiness that the lodgers beheld him with astonishment.

“Then Christophe was too late, and she must have gone to him!” cried

Goriot, with anguish in his voice.

“It is just as I guessed,” said Vautrin, leaning over to whisper in Mme.

Vauquer’s ear.

Goriot went on with his breakfast, but seemed unconscious of what he was

doing. He had never looked more stupid nor more taken up with his own

thoughts than he did at that moment.

“Who the devil could have told you her name, M. Vautrin?” asked Eugene.

“Aha! there you are!” answered Vautrin. “Old Father Goriot there knew it

quite well! and why should I not know it too?”

“M. Goriot?” the student cried.

“What is it?” asked the old man. “So she was very beautiful, was she,

yesterday night?”

“Who?”

“Mme. de Restaud.”

“Look at the old wretch,” said Mme. Vauquer, speaking to Vautrin; “how

his eyes light up!”

“Then does he really keep her?” said Mlle. Michonneau, in a whisper to

the student.

“Oh! yes, she was tremendously pretty,” Eugene answered. Father Goriot

watched him with eager eyes. “If Mme. de Beauseant had not been there,

my divine countess would have been the queen of the ball; none of the

younger men had eyes for any one else. I was the twelfth on her list,

and she danced every quadrille. The other women were furious. She must

have enjoyed herself, if ever creature did! It is a true saying

that there is no more beautiful sight than a frigate in full sail, a

galloping horse, or a woman dancing.”

“So the wheel turns,” said Vautrin; “yesterday night at a duchess’

ball, this morning in a money-lender’s office, on the lowest rung of the

ladder--just like a Parisienne! If their husbands cannot afford to pay

for their frantic extravagance, they will sell themselves. Or if

they cannot do that, they will tear out their mothers’ hearts to find

something to pay for their splendor. They will turn the world upside

down. Just a Parisienne through and through!”

Father Goriot’s face, which had shone at the student’s words like the

sun on a bright day, clouded over all at once at this cruel speech of

Vautrin’s.

“Well,” said Mme. Vauquer, “but where is your adventure? Did you speak

to her? Did you ask her if she wanted to study law?”

“She did not see me,” said Eugene. “But only think of meeting one of the

prettiest women in Paris in the Rue des Gres at nine o’clock! She could

not have reached home after the ball till two o’clock this morning.

Wasn’t it queer? There is no place like Paris for this sort of

adventures.”

“Pshaw! much funnier things than _that_ happen here!” exclaimed Vautrin.

Mlle. Taillefer had scarcely heeded the talk, she was so absorbed by the

thought of the new attempt that she was about to make. Mme. Couture made

a sign that it was time to go upstairs and dress; the two ladies went

out, and Father Goriot followed their example.

“Well, did you see?” said Mme. Vauquer, addressing Vautrin and the rest

of the circle. “He is ruining himself for those women, that is plain.”

“Nothing will ever make me believe that that beautiful Comtesse de

Restaud is anything to Father Goriot,” cried the student.

“Well, and if you don’t,” broke in Vautrin, “we are not set on

convincing you. You are too young to know Paris thoroughly yet; later on

you will find out that there are what we call men with a passion----”

Mlle. Michonneau gave Vautrin a quick glance at these words. They seemed

to be like the sound of a trumpet to a trooper’s horse. “Aha!” said

Vautrin, stopping in his speech to give her a searching glance, “so we

have had our little experiences, have we?”

The old maid lowered her eyes like a nun who sees a statue.

“Well,” he went on, “when folk of that kind get a notion into their

heads, they cannot drop it. They must drink the water from some

particular spring--it is stagnant as often as not; but they will sell

their wives and families, they will sell their own souls to the devil to

get it. For some this spring is play, or the stock-exchange, or music,

or a collection of pictures or insects; for others it is some woman who

can give them the dainties they like. You might offer these last all the

women on earth--they would turn up their noses; they will have the only

one who can gratify their passion. It often happens that the woman

does not care for them at all, and treats them cruelly; they buy their

morsels of satisfaction very dear; but no matter, the fools are never

tired of it; they will take their last blanket to the pawnbroker’s to

give their last five-franc piece to her. Father Goriot here is one of

that sort. He is discreet, so the Countess exploits him--just the way of

the gay world. The poor old fellow thinks of her and of nothing else.

In all other respects you see he is a stupid animal; but get him on

that subject, and his eyes sparkle like diamonds. That secret is not

difficult to guess. He took some plate himself this morning to the

melting-pot, and I saw him at Daddy Gobseck’s in the Rue des Gres. And

now, mark what follows--he came back here, and gave a letter for the

Comtesse de Restaud to that noodle of a Christophe, who showed us the

address; there was a receipted bill inside it. It is clear that it was

an urgent matter if the Countess also went herself to the old money

lender. Father Goriot has financed her handsomely. There is no need to

tack a tale together; the thing is self-evident. So that shows you, sir

student, that all the time your Countess was smiling, dancing, flirting,

swaying her peach-flower crowned head, with her gown gathered into her

hand, her slippers were pinching her, as they say; she was thinking of

her protested bills, or her lover’s protested bills.”