Pere Goriot

  “Oh! what ails you, father?” she cried in real alarm.

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Goriot; “it will go off. There is something heavy pressing on my forehead, a little headache.... Ah! poor Nasie, what a life lies before her!”

  Just as he spoke, the Countess came back again and flung herself on her knees before him. “Forgive me!” she cried.

  “Come,” said her father, “you are hurting me still more.”

  “Monsieur,” the Countess said, turning to Rastignac, “misery made me unjust to you. You will be a brother to me, will you not?” and she held out her hand. Her eyes were full of tears as she spoke.

  “Nasie,” cried Delphine, flinging her arms round her sister, “my little Nasie, let us forget and forgive.”

  “No, no,” cried Nasie; “I shall never forget!”

  “Dear angels,” cried Goriot, “it is as if a dark curtain over my eyes had been raised; your voices have called me back to life. Kiss each other once more. Well, now, Nasie, that bill will save you, won’t it?”

  “I hope so. I say, papa, will you write your name on it?”

  “There! how stupid of me to forget that! But I am not feeling at all well, Nasie, so you must not remember it against me. Send and let me know as soon as you are out of your strait. No, I will go to you. No, after all, I will not go; I might meet your husband, and I should kill him on the spot. And as for signing away your property, I shall have a word to say about that. Quick, my child, and keep Maxime in order in future.”

  Eugène was too bewildered to speak.

  “Poor Anastasie, she always had a violent temper,” said Mme. de Nucingen, “but she has a good heart.”

  “She came back for the endorsement,” said Eugène in Delphine’s ear.

  “Do you think so?”

  “I only wish I could think otherwise. Do not trust her,” he answered, raising his eyes as if he confided to heaven the thoughts that he did not venture to express.

  “Yes. She is always acting a part to some extent.”

  “How do you feel now, dear Père Goriot?” asked Rastignac.

  “I should like to go to sleep,” he replied.

  Eugène helped him to bed, and Delphine sat by the bedside, holding his hand until he fell asleep. Then she went.

  “This evening at the Italiens,” she said to Eugène, “and you can let me know how he is. To-morrow you will leave this place, monsieur. Let us go into your room.—Oh! how frightful!” she cried on the threshold. “Why, you are even worse lodged than our father. Eugène, you have behaved well. I would love you more if that were possible; but, dear boy, if you are to succeed in life, you must not begin by flinging twelve thousand francs out of the windows like that. The Comte de Trailles is a confirmed gambler. My sister shuts her eyes to it. He would have made the twelve thousand francs in the same way that he wins and loses heaps of gold.”

  A groan from the next room brought them back to Goriot’s bedside; to all appearance he was asleep, but the two lovers caught the words, “They are not happy!” Whether he was awake or sleeping, the tone in which they were spoken went to his daughter’s heart. She stole up to the pallet-bed on which her father lay, and kissed his forehead. He opened his eyes.

  “Ah! Delphine!” he said.

  “How are you now?” she asked.

  “Quite comfortable. Do not worry about me; I shall get up presently. Don’t stay with me, children; go, go and be happy.”

  Eugene went back with Delphine as far as her door; but he was not easy about Goriot, and would not stay to dinner, as she proposed. He wanted to be back at the Maison Vauquer. Père Goriot had left his room, and was just sitting down to dinner as he came in. Bianchon had placed himself where he could watch the old man carefully; and when the old vermicelli maker took up his square of bread and smelled it to find out the quality of the flour, the medical student, studying him closely, saw that the action was purely mechanical, and shook his head.

  “Just come and sit over here, hospitaller of Cochin,” said Eugène.

  Bianchon went the more willingly because his change of place brought him next to the old lodger.

  “What is wrong with him?” asked Rastignac.

  “It is all up with him, or I am much mistaken! Something very extraordinary must have taken place; he looks to me as if he were in imminent danger of serous apoplexy. The lower part of his face is composed enough, but the upper part is drawn and distorted. Then there is that peculiar look about the eyes that indicates an effusion of serum in the brain; they look as though they were covered with a film of fine dust, do you notice? I shall know more about it by to-morrow morning.”

  “Is there any cure for it?”

  “None. It might be possible to stave death off for a time if a way could be found of setting up a reaction in the lower extremities ; but if the symptoms do not abate by to-morrow evening, it will be all over with him, poor old fellow! Do you know what has happened to bring this on? There must have been some violent shock, and his mind has given way.”

  “Yes, there was,” said Rastignac, remembering how the two daughters had struck blow on blow at their father’s heart.

  “But Delphine at any rate loves her father,” he said to himself.

  That evening at the opera Rastignac chose his words carefully, lest he should give Mme. de Nucingen needless alarm.

  “Do not be anxious about him,” she said, however, as soon as Eugène began, “our father has really a strong constitution, but this morning we gave him a shock. Our whole fortunes were in peril, so the thing was serious, you see. I could not live if your affection did not make me insensible to troubles that I should once have thought too hard to bear. At this moment I have but one fear left, but one misery to dread—to lose the love that has made me feel glad to live. Everything else is as nothing to me compared with your love; I care for nothing else, for you are all the world to me. If I feel glad to be rich, it is for your sake. To my shame be it said, I think of my lover before my father. Do you ask why? I cannot tell you, but all my life is in you. My father gave me a heart, but you have taught it to beat. The whole world may condemn me; what does it matter if I stand acquitted in your eyes, for you have no right to think ill of me for the faults which a tyrannous love has forced me to commit for you! Do you think me an unnatural daughter? Oh! no, no one could help loving such a dear kind father as ours. But how could I hide the inevitable consequences of our miserable marriages from him? Why did he allow us to marry when we did? Was it not his duty to think for us and foresee for us? To-day I know he suffers as much as we do, but how can it be helped? And as for comforting him, we could not comfort him in the least. Our resignation would give him more pain and hurt him far more than complaints and upbraidings. There are times in life when everything turns to bitterness.”

  Eugène was silent, the artless and sincere outpouring made an impression on him.

  Parisian women are often false, intoxicated with vanity, selfish and self-absorbed, frivolous and shallow; yet of all women, when they love, they sacrifice their personal feelings to their passion; they rise but so much the higher for all the pettiness overcome in their nature, and become sublime. Then Eugène was struck by the profound discernment and insight displayed by this woman in judging of natural affection, when a privileged affection had separated and set her at a distance apart. Mme. de Nucingen was piqued by the silence.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “I am thinking about what you said just now. Hitherto I have always felt sure that I cared far more for you than you did for me.”

  She smiled, and would not give way to the happiness she felt, lest their talk should exceed the conventional limits of propriety. She had never heard the vibrating tones of a sincere and youthful love; a few more words, and she feared for her self-control.

  “Eugène,” she said, changing the conversation, “I wonder whether you know what has been happening? All Paris will go to Mme. de Beauséant’s to-morrow. The Rochefides and t
he Marquis d’Ajuda have agreed to keep the matter a profound secret, but to-morrow the King will sign the marriage-contract, and your poor cousin the Vicomtesse knows nothing of it as yet. She cannot put off her ball, and the Marquis will not be there. People are wondering what will happen?”

  “The world laughs at baseness and connives at it. But this will kill Mme. de Beauséant.”

  “Oh, no,” said Delphine, smiling, “you do not know that kind of woman. Why, all Paris will be there, and so shall I; I ought to go there for your sake.”

  “Perhaps, after all, it is one of those absurd reports that people set in circulation here.”

  “We shall know the truth to-morrow.”

  Eugène did not return to the Maison Vauquer. He could not forego the pleasure of occupying his new rooms in the Rue d‘Artois. Yesterday evening he had been obliged to leave Delphine soon after midnight, but that night it was Delphine who stayed with him until two o’clock in the morning. He rose late, and waited for Mme. de Nucingen, who came about noon to breakfast with him. Youth snatches eagerly at these rosy moments of happiness, and Eugène had almost forgotten Goriot’s existence. The pretty things that surrounded him were growing familiar; this domestication in itself was one long festival for him, and Mme. de Nucingen was there to glorify it all by her presence. It was four o’clock before they thought of Goriot, and of how he had looked forward to the new life in that house. Eugène said that the old man ought to be moved at once, lest he should grow too ill to move. He left Delphine, and hurried back to the lodging-house. Neither Père Goriot nor young Bianchon was in the dining-room with the others.

  “Aha!” said the painter as Eugène came in, “Père Goriot has broken down at last. Bianchon is upstairs with him. One of his daughters—the Comtesse de Restaurama—came to see the old gentleman, and he would get up and go out, and made himself worse. Society is about to lose one of its brightest ornaments.”

  Rastignac sprang to the staircase.

  “Hey! Monsieur Eugène!”

  “Monsieur Eugène, the mistress is calling you,” shouted Sylvie.

  “It is this, sir,” said the widow. “You and M. Goriot should by rights have moved out on the 15th of February. That was three days ago; to-day is the 18th, I ought really to be paid a month in advance; but if you will engage to pay for both, I shall be quite satisfied.”

  “Why can’t you trust him?”

  “Trust him, indeed! If the old gentleman went off his head and died, those daughters of his would not pay me a farthing, and his things won’t fetch ten francs. This morning he went out with all the spoons and forks he has left, I don’t know why. He had got himself up to look quite young, and—Lord, forgive me—but I thought he had rouge on his cheeks; he looked quite young again.”

  “I will be responsible,” said Eugène, shuddering with horror, for he foresaw the end.

  He climbed the stairs and reached Père Goriot’s room. The old man was tossing on his bed. Bianchon was with him.

  “Good-evening, father,” said Eugène.

  The old man turned his glassy eyes on him, smiled gently, and said:

  “How is she?”

  “She is quite well. But how are you?”

  “There is nothing much the matter.”

  “Don’t tire him,” said Bianchon, drawing Eugène into a corner of the room.

  “Well?” asked Rastignac.

  “Nothing but a miracle can save him now. Serous congestion has set in; I have put on mustard plasters, and luckily he can feel them, they are acting.”

  “Is it possible to move him?”

  “Quite out of the question. He must stay where he is, and be kept as quiet as possible ”

  “Dear Bianchon,” said Eugène, “we will nurse him between ” us.

  “I have had the head physician round from my hospital to see him.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He will give no opinion till to-morrow evening. He promised to look in again at the end of the day. Unluckily, the preposterous creature must needs go and do something foolish this morning; he will not say what it was. He is as obstinate as a mule. As soon as I begin to talk to him he pretends not to hear, and lies as if he were asleep instead of answering, or if he opens his eyes he begins to groan. Some time this morning he went out on foot in the streets, nobody knows where he went, and he took everything that he had of any value with him. He has been driving some confounded bargain, and it has been too much for his strength. One of his daughters has been here.”

  “Was it the Countess?” asked Eugène. “A tall, dark-haired woman, with large bright eyes, slender figure, and little feet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leave him to me for a bit,” said Rastignac. “I will make him confess; he will tell me all about it.”

  “And meanwhile I will get my dinner. But try not to excite him; there is still some hope left.”

  “All right.”

  “How they will enjoy themselves to-morrow,” said Père Goriot when they were alone. “They are going to a grand ball.”

  “What were you doing this morning, papa, to make yourself so poorly this evening that you have to stop in bed?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did not Anastasie come to see you?” demanded Rastignac.

  “Yes,” said Père Goriot.

  “Well, then, don’t keep anything from me. What more did she want of you?”

  “Oh, she was very miserable,” he answered, gathering up all his strength to speak. “It was this way, my boy. Since that affair of the diamonds, Nasie has not had a penny of her own. For this ball she had ordered a golden gown like a setting for a jewel. Her mantuamaker, a woman without a conscience, would not give her credit, so Nasie’s waiting-woman advanced a thousand francs on account. Poor Nasie! reduced to such shifts! It cut me to the heart to think of it! But when Nasie’s maid saw how things were between her master and mistress, she was afraid of losing her money, and came to an understanding with the dressmaker, and the woman refuses to send the ball-dress until the money is paid. The gown is ready, and the ball is to-morrow night! Nasie was in despair. She wanted to borrow my forks and spoons to pawn them. Her husband is determined that she shall go and wear the diamonds, so as to contradict the stories that are told all over Paris. How can she go to that heartless scoundrel and say, ‘I owe a thousand francs to my dressmaker; pay her for me!’ She cannot. I saw that myself. Delphine will be there too in a superb toilette, and Anastasie ought not to be outshone by her younger sister. And then—she was drowned in tears, poor girl! I felt so humbled yesterday when I had not the twelve thousand francs, that I would have given the rest of my miserable life to wipe out that wrong. You see, I could have borne anything once, but latterly this want of money has broken my heart. Oh! I did not do it by halves; I titivated myself up a bit, and went out and sold my spoons and forks and buckles for six hundred francs; then I went to old Daddy Gobseck, and sold a year’s interest in my annuity for four hundred francs down. Pshaw! I can live on dry bread, as I did when I was a young man; if I have done it before, I can do it again. My Nasie shall have one happy evening, at any rate. She shall be smart. The banknote for a thousand francs is here under my pillow; it warms me to have it lying there under my head, for it is going to make my poor Nasie happy. She can turn that bad girl Victoire out of the house. A servant that cannot trust her mistress, did any one ever hear the like! I shall be quite well to-morrow. Nasie is coming at ten o’clock. They must not think that I am ill, or they will not go to the ball; they will stop and take care of me. To-morrow Nasie will come and hold me in her arms as if I were one of her children; her kisses will make me well again. After all, I might have spent the thousand francs on physic; I would far rather give them to my little Nasie, who can charm all the pain away. At any rate, I am some comfort to her in her misery ; and that makes up for my unkindness in buying an annuity. She is in the depths, and I cannot draw her out of them now. Oh! I will go into business again, I will buy wheat in Odessa; out th
ere, wheat fetches a quarter of the price it sells for here. There is a law against the importation of grain, but the good folk who made the law forgot to prohibit the introduction of wheat products and food stuffs made from corn. Hey! hey! ... That struck me this morning. There is a fine trade to be done in starch.”

  Eugène, watching the old man’s face, thought that his friend was light-headed.

  “Come,” he said, “do not talk any more, you must rest——” Just then Bianchon came up, and Eugène went down to dinner.

  The two students sat up with him that night, relieving each other in turn. Bianchon brought up his medical books and studied; Eugène wrote letters home to his mother and sisters. Next morning Bianchon thought the symptoms more hopeful, but the patient’s condition demanded continual attention, which the two students alone were willing to give—a task impossible to describe in the squeamish phraseology of the epoch. Leeches must be applied to the wasted body, the poultices and hot foot-baths, and other details of the treatment required the physical strength and devotion of the two young men. Mme. de Restaud did not come; but she sent a messenger for the money.

  “I expected she would come herself; but it would have been a pity for her to come, she would have been anxious about me,” said the father, and to all appearance he was well content.

  At seven o’clock that evening Thérèse came with a letter from Delphine.

  “What are you doing, dear friend? I have been loved for a very little while, and am I neglected already? In the confidences of heart and heart, I have learned to know your soul—you are too noble not to be faithful for ever, for you know that love with all its infinite subtle changes of feeling is never the same. Once you said, as we were listening to the Prayer in Mosè in Egitto,cw ‘For some it is the monotony of a single note; for others, it is the infinite of sound.’ Remember that I am expecting you this evening to take me to Mme. de Beauséant’s ball. Every one knows now that the King signed M. d‘Ajuda’s marriage-contract this morning, and the poor Vicomtesse knew nothing of it until two o’clock this afternoon. All Paris will flock to her house, of course, just as a crowd fills the Place de Grève to see an execution. It is horrible, is it not, to go out of curiosity to see if she will hide her anguish, and whether she will die courageously? I certainly should not go, my friend, if I had been at her house before; but, of course, she will not receive society any more after this, and all my efforts would be in vain. My position is a very unusual one, and besides, I am going there partly on your account. I am waiting for you. If you are not beside me in less than two hours, I do not know whether I could forgive such treason.”