Mme. Vauquer (nee de Conflans) is an elderly person, who for the pastforty years has kept a lodging-house in the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve,in the district that lies between the Latin Quarter and the FaubourgSaint-Marcel. Her house (known in the neighborhood as the MaisonVauquer) receives men and women, old and young, and no word has everbeen breathed against her respectable establishment; but, at the sametime, it must be said that as a matter of fact no young woman has beenunder her roof for thirty years, and that if a young man stays there forany length of time it is a sure sign that his allowance must be of theslenderest. In 1819, however, the time when this drama opens, there wasan almost penniless young girl among Mme. Vauquer's boarders.That word drama has been somewhat discredited of late; it has beenoverworked and twisted to strange uses in these days of dolorousliterature; but it must do service again here, not because this story isdramatic in the restricted sense of the word, but because some tears mayperhaps be shed intra et extra muros before it is over.Will any one without the walls of Paris understand it? It is open todoubt. The only audience who could appreciate the results of closeobservation, the careful reproduction of minute detail and local color,are dwellers between the heights of Montrouge and Montmartre, in a valeof crumbling stucco watered by streams of black mud, a vale of sorrowswhich are real and joys too often hollow; but this audience is soaccustomed to terrible sensations, that only some unimaginable andwell-neigh impossible woe could produce any lasting impression there.Now and again there are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of thecomplication of virtues and vices that bring them about, that egotismand selfishness are forced to pause and are moved to pity; but theimpression that they receive is like a luscious fruit, soon consumed.Civilization, like the car of Juggernaut, is scarcely stayed perceptiblyin its progress by a heart less easy to break than the others that liein its course; this also is broken, and Civilization continues on hercourse triumphant. And you, too, will do the like; you who with thisbook in your white hand will sink back among the cushions of yourarmchair, and say to yourself, "Perhaps this may amuse me." You willread the story of Father Goriot's secret woes, and, dining thereafterwith an unspoiled appetite, will lay the blame of your insensibilityupon the writer, and accuse him of exaggeration, of writing romances.Ah! once for all, this drama is neither a fiction nor a romance! All istrue,--so true, that every one can discern the elements of the tragedyin his own house, perhaps in his own heart.The lodging-house is Mme. Vauquer's own property. It is still standingin the lower end of the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, just where the roadslopes so sharply down to the Rue de l'Arbalete, that wheeled trafficseldom passes that way, because it is so stony and steep. This positionis sufficient to account for the silence prevalent in the streets shutin between the dome of the Pantheon and the dome of the Val-de-Grace,two conspicuous public buildings which give a yellowish tone to thelandscape and darken the whole district that lies beneath the shadow oftheir leaden-hued cupolas.In that district the pavements are clean and dry, there is neither mudnor water in the gutters, grass grows in the chinks of the walls. Themost heedless passer-by feels the depressing influences of a place wherethe sound of wheels creates a sensation; there is a grim look about thehouses, a suggestion of a jail about those high garden walls. A Parisianstraying into a suburb apparently composed of lodging-houses and publicinstitutions would see poverty and dullness, old age lying down to die,and joyous youth condemned to drudgery. It is the ugliest quarter ofParis, and, it may be added, the least known. But, before all things,the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve is like a bronze frame for a picture forwhich the mind cannot be too well prepared by the contemplation of sadhues and sober images. Even so, step by step the daylight decreases,and the cicerone's droning voice grows hollower as the traveler descendsinto the Catacombs. The comparison holds good! Who shall say which ismore ghastly, the sight of the bleached skulls or of dried-up humanhearts?
The front of the lodging-house is at right angles to the road, andlooks out upon a little garden, so that you see the side of the housein section, as it were, from the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve. Beneath thewall of the house front there lies a channel, a fathom wide, paved withcobble-stones, and beside it runs a graveled walk bordered by geraniumsand oleanders and pomegranates set in great blue and white glazedearthenware pots. Access into the graveled walk is afforded by a door,above which the words MAISON VAUQUER may be read, and beneath, in rathersmaller letters, "Lodgings for both sexes, etc."During the day a glimpse into the garden is easily obtained through awicket to which a bell is attached. On the opposite wall, at the furtherend of the graveled walk, a green marble arch was painted once upona time by a local artist, and in this semblance of a shrine a statuerepresenting Cupid is installed; a Parisian Cupid, so blistered anddisfigured that he looks like a candidate for one of the adjacenthospitals, and might suggest an allegory to lovers of symbolism. Thehalf-obliterated inscription on the pedestal beneath determines the dateof this work of art, for it bears witness to the widespread enthusiasmfelt for Voltaire on his return to Paris in 1777:"Whoe'er thou art, thy master see;He is, or was, or ought to be."At night the wicket gate is replaced by a solid door. The little gardenis no wider than the front of the house; it is shut in between the wallof the street and the partition wall of the neighboring house. A mantleof ivy conceals the bricks and attracts the eyes of passers-by to aneffect which is picturesque in Paris, for each of the walls is coveredwith trellised vines that yield a scanty dusty crop of fruit, andfurnish besides a subject of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and herlodgers; every year the widow trembles for her vintage.A straight path beneath the walls on either side of the garden leads toa clump of lime-trees at the further end of it; line-trees, as Mme.Vauquer persists in calling them, in spite of the fact that she was a deConflans, and regardless of repeated corrections from her lodgers.The central space between the walls is filled with artichokes androws of pyramid fruit-trees, and surrounded by a border of lettuce,pot-herbs, and parsley. Under the lime-trees there are a fewgreen-painted garden seats and a wooden table, and hither, during thedog-days, such of the lodgers as are rich enough to indulge in a cupof coffee come to take their pleasure, though it is hot enough to roasteggs even in the shade.The house itself is three stories high, without counting the atticsunder the roof. It is built of rough stone, and covered with theyellowish stucco that gives a mean appearance to almost every house inParis. There are five windows in each story in the front of the house;all the blinds visible through the small square panes are drawn up awry,so that the lines are all at cross purposes. At the side of the housethere are but two windows on each floor, and the lowest of all areadorned with a heavy iron grating.Behind the house a yard extends for some twenty feet, a space inhabitedby a happy family of pigs, poultry, and rabbits; the wood-shed issituated on the further side, and on the wall between the wood-shed andthe kitchen window hangs the meat-safe, just above the place where thesink discharges its greasy streams. The cook sweeps all the refuseout through a little door into the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, andfrequently cleanses the yard with copious supplies of water, under painof pestilence.The house might have been built on purpose for its present uses. Accessis given by a French window to the first room on the ground floor, asitting-room which looks out upon the street through the two barredwindows already mentioned. Another door opens out of it into thedining-room, which is separated from the kitchen by the well of thestaircase, the steps being constructed partly of wood, partly of tiles,which are colored and beeswaxed. Nothing can be more depressing thanthe sight of that sitting-room. The furniture is covered with horse hairwoven in alternate dull and glossy stripes. There is a round table inthe middle, with a purplish-red marble top, on which there stands, byway of ornament, the inevitable white china tea-service, covered witha half-effaced gilt network. The floor is sufficiently uneven, thewainscot rises to elbow height, and the rest of the wall space isdecorated with a varnished paper, on which the principal scenes fromTelemaque are depicted, the various classical personages beingcolored. The subject between the two windows is the banquet given byCalypso to the son of Ulysses, displayed thereon for the admiration ofthe boarders, and has furnished jokes these forty years to the youngmen who show themselves superior to their position by making fun of thedinners to which poverty condemns them. The hearth is always so cleanand neat that it is evident that a fire is only kindled there on greatoccasions; the stone chimney-piece is adorned by a couple of vasesfilled with faded artificial flowers imprisoned under glass shades, oneither side of a bluish marble clock in the very worst taste.The first room exhales an odor for which there is no name in thelanguage, and which should be called the odeur de pension. The dampatmosphere sends a chill through you as you breathe it; it has a stuffy,musty, and rancid quality; it permeates your clothing; after-dinnerscents seem to be mingled in it with smells from the kitchen andscullery and the reek of a hospital. It might be possible to describeit if some one should discover a process by which to distil from theatmosphere all the nauseating elements with which it is charged by thecatarrhal exhalations of every individual lodger, young or old. Yet,in spite of these stale horrors, the sitting-room is as charming andas delicately perfumed as a boudoir, when compared with the adjoiningdining-room.The paneled walls of that apartment were once painted some color, nowa matter of conjecture, for the surface is incrusted with accumulatedlayers of grimy deposit, which cover it with fantastic outlines. Acollection of dim-ribbed glass decanters, metal discs with a satin sheenon them, and piles of blue-edged earthenware plates of Touraine warecover the sticky surfaces of the sideboards that line the room. In acorner stands a box containing a set of numbered pigeon-holes, in whichthe lodgers' table napkins, more or less soiled and stained with wine,are kept. Here you see that indestructible furniture never met withelsewhere, which finds its way into lodging-houses much as the wrecks ofour civilization drift into hospitals for incurables. You expect in suchplaces as these to find the weather-house whence a Capuchin issues onwet days; you look to find the execrable engravings which spoil yourappetite, framed every one in a black varnished frame, with a giltbeading round it; you know the sort of tortoise-shell clock-case, inlaidwith brass; the green stove, the Argand lamps, covered with oil anddust, have met your eyes before. The oilcloth which covers the longtable is so greasy that a waggish externe will write his name on thesurface, using his thumb-nail as a style. The chairs are broken-downinvalids; the wretched little hempen mats slip away from under yourfeet without slipping away for good; and finally, the foot-warmers aremiserable wrecks, hingeless, charred, broken away about the holes. Itwould be impossible to give an idea of the old, rotten, shaky, cranky,worm-eaten, halt, maimed, one-eyed, rickety, and ramshackle condition ofthe furniture without an exhaustive description, which would delaythe progress of the story to an extent that impatient people would notpardon. The red tiles of the floor are full of depressions brought aboutby scouring and periodical renewings of color. In short, there isno illusory grace left to the poverty that reigns here; it is dire,parsimonious, concentrated, threadbare poverty; as yet it has not sunkinto the mire, it is only splashed by it, and though not in rags as yet,its clothing is ready to drop to pieces.This apartment is in all its glory at seven o'clock in the morning,when Mme. Vauquer's cat appears, announcing the near approach of hismistress, and jumps upon the sideboards to sniff at the milk in thebowls, each protected by a plate, while he purrs his morning greeting tothe world. A moment later the widow shows her face; she is tricked outin a net cap attached to a false front set on awry, and shuffles intothe room in her slipshod fashion. She is an oldish woman, with a bloatedcountenance, and a nose like a parrot's beak set in the middle ofit; her fat little hands (she is as sleek as a church rat) and hershapeless, slouching figure are in keeping with the room that reeks ofmisfortune, where hope is reduced to speculate for the meaneststakes. Mme. Vauquer alone can breathe that tainted air without beingdisheartened by it. Her face is as fresh as a frosty morning in autumn;there are wrinkles about the eyes that vary in their expression fromthe set smile of a ballet-dancer to the dark, suspicious scowl ofa discounter of bills; in short, she is at once the embodiment andinterpretation of her lodging-house, as surely as her lodging-houseimplies the existence of its mistress. You can no more imagine the onewithout the other, than you can think of a jail without a turnkey. Theunwholesome corpulence of the little woman is produced by the life sheleads, just as typhus fever is bred in the tainted air of a hospital.The very knitted woolen petticoat that she wears beneath a skirt madeof an old gown, with the wadding protruding through the rents in thematerial, is a sort of epitome of the sitting-room, the dining-room,and the little garden; it discovers the cook, it foreshadows thelodgers--the picture of the house is completed by the portrait of itsmistress.Mme. Vauquer at the age of fifty is like all women who "have seen a dealof trouble." She has the glassy eyes and innocent air of a traffickerin flesh and blood, who will wax virtuously indignant to obtain a higherprice for her services, but who is quite ready to betray a Georges ora Pichegru, if a Georges or a Pichegru were in hiding and still to bebetrayed, or for any other expedient that may alleviate her lot. Still,"she is a good woman at bottom," said the lodgers who believed thatthe widow was wholly dependent upon the money that they paid her, andsympathized when they heard her cough and groan like one of themselves.What had M. Vauquer been? The lady was never very explicit on this head.How had she lost her money? "Through trouble," was her answer. He hadtreated her badly, had left her nothing but her eyes to cry over hiscruelty, the house she lived in, and the privilege of pitying nobody,because, so she was wont to say, she herself had been through everypossible misfortune.Sylvie, the stout cook, hearing her mistress' shuffling footsteps,hastened to serve the lodgers' breakfasts. Beside those who lived in thehouse, Mme. Vauquer took boarders who came for their meals; but theseexternes usually only came to dinner, for which they paid thirtyfrancs a month.At the time when this story begins, the lodging-house contained seveninmates. The best rooms in the house were on the first story, Mme.Vauquer herself occupying the least important, while the rest were letto a Mme. Couture, the widow of a commissary-general in the service ofthe Republic. With her lived Victorine Taillefer, a schoolgirl, to whomshe filled the place of mother. These two ladies paid eighteen hundredfrancs a year.The two sets of rooms on the second floor were respectively occupied byan old man named Poiret and a man of forty or thereabouts, the wearerof a black wig and dyed whiskers, who gave out that he was a retiredmerchant, and was addressed as M. Vautrin. Two of the four rooms onthe third floor were also let--one to an elderly spinster, a Mlle.Michonneau, and the other to a retired manufacturer of vermicelli,Italian paste and starch, who allowed the others to address him as"Father Goriot." The remaining rooms were allotted to various birds ofpassage, to impecunious students, who like "Father Goriot" and Mlle.Michonneau, could only muster forty-five francs a month to pay for theirboard and lodging. Mme. Vauquer had little desire for lodgers of thissort; they ate too much bread, and she only took them in default ofbetter.At that time one of the rooms was tenanted by a law student, a young manfrom the neighborhood of Angouleme, one of a large family who pinchedand starved themselves to spare twelve hundred francs a year for him.Misfortune had accustomed Eugene de Rastignac, for that was his name, towork. He belonged to the number of young men who know as children thattheir parents' hopes are centered on them, and deliberately preparethemselves for a great career, subordinating their studies from thefirst to this end, carefully watching the indications of the course ofevents, calculating the probable turn that affairs will take, that theymay be the first to profit by them. But for his observant curiosity, andthe skill with which he managed to introduce himself into the salonsof Paris, this story would not have been colored by the tones oftruth which it certainly owes to him, for they are entirely due to hispenetrating sagacity and desire to fathom the mysteries of an appallingcondition of things, which was concealed as carefully by the victim asby those who had brought it to pass.Above the third story there was a garret where the linen was hung todry, and a couple of attics. Christophe, the man-of-all-work, slept inone, and Sylvie, the stout cook, in the other. Beside the seven inmatesthus enumerated, taking one year with another, some eight law or medicalstudents dined in the house, as well as two or three regular comers wholived in the neighborhood. There were usually eighteen people at dinner,and there was room, if need be, for twenty at Mme. Vauquer's table; atbreakfast, however, only the seven lodgers appeared. It was almost likea family party. Every one came down in dressing-gown and slippers,and the conversation usually turned on anything that had happenedthe evening before; comments on the dress or appearance of the dinnercontingent were exchanged in friendly confidence.These seven lodgers were Mme. Vauquer's spoiled children. Among themshe distributed, with astronomical precision, the exact proportion ofrespect and attention due to the varying amounts they paid for theirboard. One single consideration influenced all these human beings throwntogether by chance. The two second-floor lodgers only paid seventy-twofrancs a month. Such prices as these are confined to the FaubourgSaint-Marcel and the district between La Bourbe and the Salpetriere;and, as might be expected, poverty, more or less apparent, weighed uponthem all, Mme. Couture being the sole exception to the rule.The dreary surroundings were reflected in the costumes of the inmates ofthe house; all were alike threadbare. The color of the men's coats wereproblematical; such shoes, in more fashionable quarters, are only to beseen lying in the gutter; the cuffs and collars were worn and frayed atthe edges; every limp article of clothing looked like the ghost of itsformer self. The women's dresses were faded, old-fashioned, dyed andre-dyed; they wore gloves that were glazed with hard wear, much-mendedlace, dingy ruffles, crumpled muslin fichus. So much for theirclothing; but, for the most part, their frames were solid enough; theirconstitutions had weathered the storms of life; their cold, hard faceswere worn like coins that have been withdrawn from circulation, butthere were greedy teeth behind the withered lips. Dramas brought to aclose or still in progress are foreshadowed by the sight of such actorsas these, not the dramas that are played before the footlights andagainst a background of painted canvas, but dumb dramas of life,frost-bound dramas that sere hearts like fire, dramas that do not endwith the actors' lives.Mlle. Michonneau, that elderly young lady, screened her weak eyes fromthe daylight by a soiled green silk shade with a rim of brass, an objectfit to scare away the Angel of Pity himself. Her shawl, with its scanty,draggled fringe, might have covered a skeleton, so meagre and angularwas the form beneath it. Yet she must have been pretty and shapely once.What corrosive had destroyed the feminine outlines? Was it trouble,or vice, or greed? Had she loved too well? Had she been a second-handclothes dealer, a frequenter of the backstairs of great houses, or hadshe been merely a courtesan? Was she expiating the flaunting triumphsof a youth overcrowded with pleasures by an old age in which she wasshunned by every passer-by? Her vacant gaze sent a chill through you;her shriveled face seemed like a menace. Her voice was like the shrill,thin note of the grasshopper sounding from the thicket when winter is athand. She said that she had nursed an old gentleman, ill of catarrh ofthe bladder, and left to die by his children, who thought that he hadnothing left. His bequest to her, a life annuity of a thousand francs,was periodically disputed by his heirs, who mingled slander with theirpersecutions. In spite of the ravages of conflicting passions, her faceretained some traces of its former fairness and fineness of tissue, somevestiges of the physical charms of her youth still survived.M. Poiret was a sort of automaton. He might be seen any day sailing likea gray shadow along the walks of the Jardin des Plantes, on his head ashabby cap, a cane with an old yellow ivory handle in the tips of histhin fingers; the outspread skirts of his threadbare overcoat failedto conceal his meagre figure; his breeches hung loosely on his shrunkenlimbs; the thin, blue-stockinged legs trembled like those of a drunkenman; there was a notable breach of continuity between the dingy whitewaistcoat and crumpled shirt frills and the cravat twisted about athroat like a turkey gobbler's; altogether, his appearance set peoplewondering whether this outlandish ghost belonged to the audacious raceof the sons of Japhet who flutter about on the Boulevard Italien. Whatdevouring kind of toil could have so shriveled him? What devouringpassions had darkened that bulbous countenance, which would have seemedoutrageous as a caricature? What had he been? Well, perhaps he had beenpart of the machinery of justice, a clerk in the office to which theexecutioner sends in his accounts,--so much for providing black veilsfor parricides, so much for sawdust, so much for pulleys and cord forthe knife. Or he might have been a receiver at the door of a publicslaughter-house, or a sub-inspector of nuisances. Indeed, the manappeared to have been one of the beasts of burden in our great socialmill; one of those Parisian Ratons whom their Bertrands do not even knowby sight; a pivot in the obscure machinery that disposes of misery andthings unclean; one of those men, in short, at sight of whom we areprompted to remark that, "After all, we cannot do without them."Stately Paris ignores the existence of these faces bleached by moral orphysical suffering; but, then, Paris is in truth an ocean that no linecan plumb. You may survey its surface and describe it; but no matter hownumerous and painstaking the toilers in this sea, there will always belonely and unexplored regions in its depths, caverns unknown, flowersand pearls and monsters of the deep overlooked or forgotten by thedivers of literature. The Maison Vauquer is one of these curiousmonstrosities.Two, however, of Mme. Vauquer's boarders formed a striking contrast tothe rest. There was a sickly pallor, such as is often seen in anaemicgirls, in Mlle. Victorine Taillefer's face; and her unvarying expressionof sadness, like her embarrassed manner and pinched look, was inkeeping with the general wretchedness of the establishment in the RueNueve-Saint-Genevieve, which forms a background to this picture; but herface was young, there was youthfulness in her voice and elasticityin her movements. This young misfortune was not unlike a shrub, newlyplanted in an uncongenial soil, where its leaves have already begunto wither. The outlines of her figure, revealed by her dress of thesimplest and cheapest materials, were also youthful. There was the samekind of charm about her too slender form, her faintly colored face andlight-brown hair, that modern poets find in mediaeval statuettes; and asweet expression, a look of Christian resignation in the dark gray eyes.She was pretty by force of contrast; if she had been happy, she wouldhave been charming. Happiness is the poetry of woman, as the toiletteis her tinsel. If the delightful excitement of a ball had made the paleface glow with color; if the delights of a luxurious life had broughtthe color to the wan cheeks that were slightly hollowed already; if lovehad put light into the sad eyes, then Victorine might have ranked amongthe fairest; but she lacked the two things which create woman a secondtime--pretty dresses and love-letters.A book might have been made of her story. Her father was persuaded thathe had sufficient reason for declining to acknowledge her, and allowedher a bare six hundred francs a year; he had further taken measuresto disinherit his daughter, and had converted all his real estate intopersonalty, that he might leave it undivided to his son. Victorine'smother had died broken-hearted in Mme. Couture's house; and thelatter, who was a near relation, had taken charge of the little orphan.Unluckily, the widow of the commissary-general to the armies of theRepublic had nothing in the world but her jointure and her widow'spension, and some day she might be obliged to leave the helpless,inexperienced girl to the mercy of the world. The good soul, therefore,took Victorine to mass every Sunday, and to confession once a fortnight,thinking that, in any case, she would bring up her ward to be devout.She was right; religion offered a solution of the problem of theyoung girl's future. The poor child loved the father who refused toacknowledge her. Once every year she tried to see him to deliver hermother's message of forgiveness, but every year hitherto she had knockedat that door in vain; her father was inexorable. Her brother, her onlymeans of communication, had not come to see her for four years, and hadsent her no assistance; yet she prayed to God to unseal her father'seyes and to soften her brother's heart, and no accusations mingled withher prayers. Mme. Couture and Mme. Vauquer exhausted the vocabularyof abuse, and failed to find words that did justice to the banker'siniquitous conduct; but while they heaped execrations on themillionaire, Victorine's words were as gentle as the moan of the woundeddove, and affection found expression even in the cry drawn from her bypain.Eugene de Rastignac was a thoroughly southern type; he had a faircomplexion, blue eyes, black hair. In his figure, manner, and his wholebearing it was easy to see that he had either come of a noble family,or that, from his earliest childhood, he had been gently bred. If hewas careful of his wardrobe, only taking last year's clothes intodaily wear, still upon occasion he could issue forth as a young man offashion. Ordinarily he wore a shabby coat and waistcoat, the limp blackcravat, untidily knotted, that students affect, trousers that matchedthe rest of his costume, and boots that had been resoled.Vautrin (the man of forty with the dyed whiskers) marked a transitionstage between these two young people and the others. He was the kind ofman that calls forth the remark: "He looks a jovial sort!" He hadbroad shoulders, a well-developed chest, muscular arms, and strongsquare-fisted hands; the joints of his fingers were covered with tuftsof fiery red hair. His face was furrowed by premature wrinkles; therewas a certain hardness about it in spite of his bland and insinuatingmanner. His bass voice was by no means unpleasant, and was in keepingwith his boisterous laughter. He was always obliging, always in goodspirits; if anything went wrong with one of the locks, he would soonunscrew it, take it to pieces, file it, oil and clean and set it inorder, and put it back in its place again; "I am an old hand at it,"he used to say. Not only so, he knew all about ships, the sea, France,foreign countries, men, business, law, great houses and prisons,--therewas nothing that he did not know. If any one complained rather more thanusual, he would offer his services at once. He had several times lentmoney to Mme. Vauquer, or to the boarders; but, somehow, those whom heobliged felt that they would sooner face death than fail to repay him; acertain resolute look, sometimes seen on his face, inspired fear of him,for all his appearance of easy good-nature. In the way he spat there wasan imperturbable coolness which seemed to indicate that this was aman who would not stick at a crime to extricate himself from a falseposition. His eyes, like those of a pitiless judge, seemed to go tothe very bottom of all questions, to read all natures, all feelings andthoughts. His habit of life was very regular; he usually went out afterbreakfast, returning in time for dinner, and disappeared for the restof the evening, letting himself in about midnight with a latch key, aprivilege that Mme. Vauquer accorded to no other boarder. But then hewas on very good terms with the widow; he used to call her "mamma," andput his arm round her waist, a piece of flattery perhaps not appreciatedto the full! The worthy woman might imagine this to be an easy feat;but, as a matter of fact, no arm but Vautrin's was long enough toencircle her.It was a characteristic trait of his generously to pay fifteen francs amonth for the cup of coffee with a dash of brandy in it, which he tookafter dinner. Less superficial observers than young men engulfed by thewhirlpool of Parisian life, or old men, who took no interest in anythingthat did not directly concern them, would not have stopped short at thevaguely unsatisfactory impression that Vautrin made upon them. He knewor guessed the concerns of every one about him; but none of them hadbeen able to penetrate his thoughts, or to discover his occupation. Hehad deliberately made his apparent good-nature, his unfailing readinessto oblige, and his high spirits into a barrier between himself and therest of them, but not seldom he gave glimpses of appalling depthsof character. He seemed to delight in scourging the upper classes ofsociety with the lash of his tongue, to take pleasure in convicting itof inconsistency, in mocking at law and order with some grim jest worthyof Juvenal, as if some grudge against the social system rankled in him,as if there were some mystery carefully hidden away in his life.Mlle. Taillefer felt attracted, perhaps unconsciously, by the strengthof the one man, and the good looks of the other; her stolen glances andsecret thoughts were divided between them; but neither of them seemedto take any notice of her, although some day a chance might alter herposition, and she would be a wealthy heiress. For that matter, there wasnot a soul in the house who took any trouble to investigate the variouschronicles of misfortunes, real or imaginary, related by the rest. Eachone regarded the others with indifference, tempered by suspicion; it wasa natural result of their relative positions. Practical assistance notone could give, this they all knew, and they had long since exhaustedtheir stock of condolence over previous discussions of their grievances.They were in something the same position as an elderly couple who havenothing left to say to each other. The routine of existence kept them incontact, but they were parts of a mechanism which wanted oil. There wasnot one of them but would have passed a blind man begging in the street,not one that felt moved to pity by a tale of misfortune, not one whodid not see in death the solution of the all-absorbing problem of miserywhich left them cold to the most terrible anguish in others.The happiest of these hapless beings was certainly Mme. Vauquer, whoreigned supreme over this hospital supported by voluntary contributions.For her, the little garden, which silence, and cold, and rain, anddrought combined to make as dreary as an Asian steppe, was a pleasantshaded nook; the gaunt yellow house, the musty odors of a back shop hadcharms for her, and for her alone. Those cells belonged to her. She fedthose convicts condemned to penal servitude for life, and her authoritywas recognized among them. Where else in Paris would they have foundwholesome food in sufficient quantity at the prices she charged them,and rooms which they were at liberty to make, if not exactly elegant orcomfortable, at any rate clean and healthy? If she had committed someflagrant act of injustice, the victim would have borne it in silence.Such a gathering contained, as might have been expected, the elementsout of which a complete society might be constructed. And, as in aschool, as in the world itself, there was among the eighteen men andwomen who met round the dinner table a poor creature, despised byall the others, condemned to be the butt of all their jokes. At thebeginning of Eugene de Rastignac's second twelvemonth, this figuresuddenly started out into bold relief against the background of humanforms and faces among which the law student was yet to live foranother two years to come. This laughing-stock was the retiredvermicelli-merchant, Father Goriot, upon whose face a painter, like thehistorian, would have concentrated all the light in his picture.How had it come about that the boarders regarded him with ahalf-malignant contempt? Why did they subject the oldest among theirnumber to a kind of persecution, in which there was mingled some pity,but no respect for his misfortunes? Had he brought it on himself by someeccentricity or absurdity, which is less easily forgiven or forgottenthan more serious defects? The question strikes at the root of many asocial injustice. Perhaps it is only human nature to inflict sufferingon anything that will endure suffering, whether by reason of its genuinehumility, or indifference, or sheer helplessness. Do we not, one andall, like to feel our strength even at the expense of some one or ofsomething? The poorest sample of humanity, the street arab, will pullthe bell handle at every street door in bitter weather, and scramble upto write his name on the unsullied marble of a monument.In the year 1813, at the age of sixty-nine or thereabouts, "FatherGoriot" had sold his business and retired--to Mme. Vauquer's boardinghouse. When he first came there he had taken the rooms now occupied byMme. Couture; he had paid twelve hundred francs a year like a man towhom five louis more or less was a mere trifle. For him Mme. Vauquer hadmade various improvements in the three rooms destined for his use, inconsideration of a certain sum paid in advance, so it was said, for themiserable furniture, that is to say, for some yellow cotton curtains, afew chairs of stained wood covered with Utrecht velvet, several wretchedcolored prints in frames, and wall papers that a little suburban tavernwould have disdained. Possibly it was the careless generosity with whichFather Goriot allowed himself to be overreached at this period of hislife (they called him Monsieur Goriot very respectfully then) that gaveMme. Vauquer the meanest opinion of his business abilities; she lookedon him as an imbecile where money was concerned.Goriot had brought with him a considerable wardrobe, the gorgeousoutfit of a retired tradesman who denies himself nothing. Mme. Vauquer'sastonished eyes beheld no less than eighteen cambric-fronted shirts, thesplendor of their fineness being enhanced by a pair of pins each bearinga large diamond, and connected by a short chain, an ornament whichadorned the vermicelli-maker's shirt front. He usually wore a coat ofcorn-flower blue; his rotund and portly person was still further setoff by a clean white waistcoat, and a gold chain and seals which dangledover that broad expanse. When his hostess accused him of being "a bitof a beau," he smiled with the vanity of a citizen whose foible isgratified. His cupboards (ormoires, as he called them in the populardialect) were filled with a quantity of plate that he brought with him.The widow's eyes gleamed as she obligingly helped him to unpack thesoup ladles, table-spoons, forks, cruet-stands, tureens, dishes,and breakfast services--all of silver, which were duly arranged uponshelves, besides a few more or less handsome pieces of plate, allweighing no inconsiderable number of ounces; he could not bring himselfto part with these gifts that reminded him of past domestic festivals."This was my wife's present to me on the first anniversary of ourwedding day," he said to Mme. Vauquer, as he put away a little silverposset dish, with two turtle-doves billing on the cover. "Poor dear! shespent on it all the money she had saved before we were married. Doyou know, I would sooner scratch the earth with my nails for a living,madame, than part with that. But I shall be able to take my coffee outof it every morning for the rest of my days, thank the Lord! I am not tobe pitied. There's not much fear of my starving for some time to come."Finally, Mme. Vauquer's magpie's eye had discovered and read certainentries in the list of shareholders in the funds, and, after a roughcalculation, was disposed to credit Goriot (worthy man) with somethinglike ten thousand francs a year. From that day forward Mme. Vauquer(nee de Conflans), who, as a matter of fact, had seen forty-eightsummers, though she would only own to thirty-nine of them--Mme. Vauquerhad her own ideas. Though Goriot's eyes seemed to have shrunk in theirsockets, though they were weak and watery, owing to some glandularaffection which compelled him to wipe them continually, she consideredhim to be a very gentlemanly and pleasant-looking man. Moreover, thewidow saw favorable indications of character in the well-developedcalves of his legs and in his square-shaped nose, indications stillfurther borne out by the worthy man's full-moon countenance and lookof stupid good-nature. This, in all probability, was a strongly-buildanimal, whose brains mostly consisted in a capacity for affection. Hishair, worn in ailes de pigeon, and duly powdered every morning by thebarber from the Ecole Polytechnique, described five points on his lowforehead, and made an elegant setting to his face. Though his mannerswere somewhat boorish, he was always as neat as a new pin and he tookhis snuff in a lordly way, like a man who knows that his snuff-box isalways likely to be filled with maccaboy, so that when Mme. Vauquer laydown to rest on the day of M. Goriot's installation, her heart, like alarded partridge, sweltered before the fire of a burning desire to shakeoff the shroud of Vauquer and rise again as Goriot. She would marryagain, sell her boarding-house, give her hand to this fine flower ofcitizenship, become a lady of consequence in the quarter, and ask forsubscriptions for charitable purposes; she would make little Sundayexcursions to Choisy, Soissy, Gentilly; she would have a box at thetheatre when she liked, instead of waiting for the author's tickets thatone of her boarders sometimes gave her, in July; the whole Eldorado ofa little Parisian household rose up before Mme. Vauquer in herdreams. Nobody knew that she herself possessed forty thousand francs,accumulated sou by sou, that was her secret; surely as far as moneywas concerned she was a very tolerable match. "And in other respects,I am quite his equal," she said to herself, turning as if to assureherself of the charms of a form that the portly Sylvie found moulded indown feathers every morning.For three months from that day Mme. Veuve Vauquer availed herself ofthe services of M. Goriot's coiffeur, and went to some expense over hertoilette, expense justifiable on the ground that she owed it to herselfand her establishment to pay some attention to appearances when suchhighly-respectable persons honored her house with their presence. Sheexpended no small amount of ingenuity in a sort of weeding process ofher lodgers, announcing her intention of receiving henceforward none butpeople who were in every way select. If a stranger presented himself,she let him know that M. Goriot, one of the best known and mosthighly-respected merchants in Paris, had singled out her boarding-housefor a residence. She drew up a prospectus headed MAISON VAUQUER, inwhich it was asserted that hers was "one of the oldest and most highlyrecommended boarding-houses in the Latin Quarter." "From the windowsof the house," thus ran the prospectus, "there is a charming view ofthe Vallee des Gobelins (so there is--from the third floor), and abeautiful garden, extending down to an avenue of lindens at thefurther end." Mention was made of the bracing air of the place and itsquiet situation.It was this prospectus that attracted Mme. la Comtesse de l'Ambermesnil,a widow of six and thirty, who was awaiting the final settlement of herhusband's affairs, and of another matter regarding a pension due to heras the wife of a general who had died "on the field of battle." On thisMme. Vauquer saw to her table, lighted a fire daily in the sitting-roomfor nearly six months, and kept the promise of her prospectus, evengoing to some expense to do so. And the Countess, on her side, addressedMme. Vauquer as "my dear," and promised her two more boarders, theBaronne de Vaumerland and the widow of a colonel, the late Comte dePicquoisie, who were about to leave a boarding-house in the Marais,where the terms were higher than at the Maison Vauquer. Both theseladies, moreover, would be very well to do when the people at theWar Office had come to an end of their formalities. "But Governmentdepartments are always so dilatory," the lady added.After dinner the two widows went together up to Mme. Vauquer's room, andhad a snug little chat over some cordial and various delicacies reservedfor the mistress of the house. Mme. Vauquer's ideas as to Goriot werecordially approved by Mme. de l'Ambermesnil; it was a capital notion,which for that matter she had guessed from the very first; in heropinion the vermicelli maker was an excellent man."Ah! my dear lady, such a well-preserved man of his age, as sound as myeyesight--a man who might make a woman happy!" said the widow.The good-natured Countess turned to the subject of Mme. Vauquer's dress,which was not in harmony with her projects. "You must put yourself on awar footing," said she.After much serious consideration the two widows went shoppingtogether--they purchased a hat adorned with ostrich feathers and a capat the Palais Royal, and the Countess took her friend to the Magasin dela Petite Jeannette, where they chose a dress and a scarf. Thus equippedfor the campaign, the widow looked exactly like the prize animal hungout for a sign above an a la mode beef shop; but she herself was so muchpleased with the improvement, as she considered it, in her appearance,that she felt that she lay under some obligation to the Countess; and,though by no means open-handed, she begged that lady to accept a hatthat cost twenty francs. The fact was that she needed the Countess'services on the delicate mission of sounding Goriot; the countess mustsing her praises in his ears. Mme. de l'Ambermesnil lent herself verygood-naturedly to this manoeuvre, began her operations, and succeeded inobtaining a private interview; but the overtures that she made, with aview to securing him for herself, were received with embarrassment, notto say a repulse. She left him, revolted by his coarseness."My angel," said she to her dear friend, "you will make nothing of thatman yonder. He is absurdly suspicious, and he is a mean curmudgeon, anidiot, a fool; you would never be happy with him."After what had passed between M. Goriot and Mme. de l'Ambermesnil, theCountess would no longer live under the same roof. She left the nextday, forgot to pay for six months' board, and left behind her wardrobe,cast-off clothing to the value of five francs. Eagerly and persistentlyas Mme. Vauquer sought her quondam lodger, the Comtesse de l'Ambermesnilwas never heard of again in Paris. The widow often talked of thisdeplorable business, and regretted her own too confiding disposition. Asa matter of fact, she was as suspicious as a cat; but she was like manyother people, who cannot trust their own kin and put themselves at themercy of the next chance comer--an odd but common phenomenon, whosecauses may readily be traced to the depths of the human heart.Perhaps there are people who know that they have nothing more to lookfor from those with whom they live; they have shown the emptiness oftheir hearts to their housemates, and in their secret selves they areconscious that they are severely judged, and that they deserve tobe judged severely; but still they feel an unconquerable craving forpraises that they do not hear, or they are consumed by a desire toappear to possess, in the eyes of a new audience, the qualities whichthey have not, hoping to win the admiration or affection of strangers atthe risk of forfeiting it again some day. Or, once more, there are othermercenary natures who never do a kindness to a friend or a relationsimply because these have a claim upon them, while a service done to astranger brings its reward to self-love. Such natures feel but littleaffection for those who are nearest to them; they keep their kindnessfor remoter circles of acquaintance, and show most to those who dwell onits utmost limits. Mme. Vauquer belonged to both these essentially mean,false, and execrable classes."If I had been there at the time," Vautrin would say at the end of thestory, "I would have shown her up, and that misfortune would not havebefallen you. I know that kind of phiz!"Like all narrow natures, Mme. Vauquer was wont to confine her attentionto events, and did not go very deeply into the causes that brought themabout; she likewise preferred to throw the blame of her own mistakes onother people, so she chose to consider that the honest vermicelli makerwas responsible for her misfortune. It had opened her eyes, so she said,with regard to him. As soon as she saw that her blandishments were invain, and that her outlay on her toilette was money thrown away, she wasnot slow to discover the reason of his indifference. It became plainto her at once that there was some other attraction, to use her ownexpression. In short, it was evident that the hope she had so fondlycherished was a baseless delusion, and that she would "never makeanything out of that man yonder," in the Countess' forcible phrase.The Countess seemed to have been a judge of character. Mme. Vauquer'saversion was naturally more energetic than her friendship, for herhatred was not in proportion to her love, but to her disappointedexpectations. The human heart may find here and there a resting-placeshort of the highest height of affection, but we seldom stop in thesteep, downward slope of hatred. Still, M. Goriot was a lodger, andthe widow's wounded self-love could not vent itself in an explosion ofwrath; like a monk harassed by the prior of his convent, she was forcedto stifle her sighs of disappointment, and to gulp down her craving forrevenge. Little minds find gratification for their feelings, benevolentor otherwise, by a constant exercise of petty ingenuity. The widowemployed her woman's malice to devise a system of covert persecution.She began by a course of retrenchment--various luxuries which had foundtheir way to the table appeared there no more."No more gherkins, no more anchovies; they have made a fool of me!" shesaid to Sylvie one morning, and they returned to the old bill of fare.The thrifty frugality necessary to those who mean to make their way inthe world had become an inveterate habit of life with M. Goriot. Soup,boiled beef, and a dish of vegetables had been, and always would be, thedinner he liked best, so Mme. Vauquer found it very difficult to annoya boarder whose tastes were so simple. He was proof against her malice,and in desperation she spoke to him and of him slightingly before theother lodgers, who began to amuse themselves at his expense, and sogratified her desire for revenge.Towards the end of the first year the widow's suspicions had reachedsuch a pitch that she began to wonder how it was that a retired merchantwith a secure income of seven or eight thousand livres, the owner ofsuch magnificent plate and jewelry handsome enough for a kept mistress,should be living in her house. Why should he devote so small aproportion of his money to his expenses? Until the first year was nearlyat an end, Goriot had dined out once or twice every week, but theseoccasions came less frequently, and at last he was scarcely absent fromthe dinner-table twice a month. It was hardly expected that Mme. Vauquershould regard the increased regularity of her boarder's habits withcomplacency, when those little excursions of his had been so much to herinterest. She attributed the change not so much to a gradual diminutionof fortune as to a spiteful wish to annoy his hostess. It is one of themost detestable habits of a Liliputian mind to credit other people withits own malignant pettiness.Unluckily, towards the end of the second year, M. Goriot's conduct gavesome color to the idle talk about him. He asked Mme. Vauquer to give hima room on the second floor, and to make a corresponding reduction inher charges. Apparently, such strict economy was called for, that he didwithout a fire all through the winter. Mme. Vauquer asked to be paid inadvance, an arrangement to which M. Goriot consented, and thenceforwardshe spoke of him as "Father Goriot."What had brought about this decline and fall? Conjecture was keen, butinvestigation was difficult. Father Goriot was not communicative; inthe sham countess' phrase he was "a curmudgeon." Empty-headed people whobabble about their own affairs because they have nothing else to occupythem, naturally conclude that if people say nothing of their doings itis because their doings will not bear being talked about; so the highlyrespectable merchant became a scoundrel, and the late beau was an oldrogue. Opinion fluctuated. Sometimes, according to Vautrin, who cameabout this time to live in the Maison Vauquer, Father Goriot was a manwho went on 'Change and dabbled (to use the sufficiently expressivelanguage of the Stock Exchange) in stocks and shares after he had ruinedhimself by heavy speculation. Sometimes it was held that he was one ofthose petty gamblers who nightly play for small stakes until they win afew francs. A theory that he was a detective in the employ of the HomeOffice found favor at one time, but Vautrin urged that "Goriot was notsharp enough for one of that sort." There were yet other solutions;Father Goriot was a skinflint, a shark of a money-lender, a manwho lived by selling lottery tickets. He was by turns all the mostmysterious brood of vice and shame and misery; yet, however vile hislife might be, the feeling of repulsion which he aroused in others wasnot so strong that he must be banished from their society--he paidhis way. Besides, Goriot had his uses, every one vented his spleen orsharpened his wit on him; he was pelted with jokes and belabored withhard words. The general consensus of opinion was in favor of a theorywhich seemed the most likely; this was Mme. Vauquer's view. Accordingto her, the man so well preserved at his time of life, as sound as hereyesight, with whom a woman might be very happy, was a libertine who hadstrange tastes. These are the facts upon which Mme. Vauquer's slanderswere based.Early one morning, some few months after the departure of the unluckyCountess who had managed to live for six months at the widow's expense,Mme. Vauquer (not yet dressed) heard the rustle of a silk dress anda young woman's light footstep on the stair; some one was going toGoriot's room. He seemed to expect the visit, for his door stood ajar.The portly Sylvie presently came up to tell her mistress that a girl toopretty to be honest, "dressed like a goddess," and not a speck of mudon her laced cashmere boots, had glided in from the street like a snake,had found the kitchen, and asked for M. Goriot's room. Mme. Vauquerand the cook, listening, overheard several words affectionately spokenduring the visit, which lasted for some time. When M. Goriot wentdownstairs with the lady, the stout Sylvie forthwith took her basketand followed the lover-like couple, under pretext of going to do hermarketing."M. Goriot must be awfully rich, all the same, madame," she reportedon her return, "to keep her in such style. Just imagine it! There was asplendid carriage waiting at the corner of the Place de l'Estrapade, andshe got into it."While they were at dinner that evening, Mme. Vauquer went to the windowand drew the curtain, as the sun was shining into Goriot's eyes."You are beloved of fair ladies, M. Goriot--the sun seeks you out," shesaid, alluding to his visitor. "Peste! you have good taste; she wasvery pretty.""That was my daughter," he said, with a kind of pride in his voice, andthe rest chose to consider this as the fatuity of an old man who wishesto save appearances.A month after this visit M. Goriot received another. The same daughterwho had come to see him that morning came again after dinner, this timein evening dress. The boarders, in deep discussion in the dining-room,caught a glimpse of a lovely, fair-haired woman, slender, graceful, andmuch too distinguished-looking to be a daughter of Father Goriot's."Two of them!" cried the portly Sylvie, who did not recognize the ladyof the first visit.A few days later, and another young lady--a tall, well-moulded brunette,with dark hair and bright eyes--came to ask for M. Goriot."Three of them!" said Sylvie.Then the second daughter, who had first come in the morning to see herfather, came shortly afterwards in the evening. She wore a ball dress,and came in a carriage."Four of them!" commented Mme. Vauquer and her plump handmaid. Sylviesaw not a trace of resemblance between this great lady and the girl inher simple morning dress who had entered her kitchen on the occasion ofher first visit.At that time Goriot was paying twelve hundred francs a year to hislandlady, and Mme. Vauquer saw nothing out of the common in the factthat a rich man had four or five mistresses; nay, she thought it veryknowing of him to pass them off as his daughters. She was not at allinclined to draw a hard-and-fast line, or to take umbrage at his sendingfor them to the Maison Vauquer; yet, inasmuch as these visits explainedher boarder's indifference to her, she went so far (at the end of thesecond year) as to speak of him as an "ugly old wretch." When at lengthher boarder declined to nine hundred francs a year, she asked him veryinsolently what he took her house to be, after meeting one of theseladies on the stairs. Father Goriot answered that the lady was hiseldest daughter."So you have two or three dozen daughters, have you?" said Mme. Vauquersharply."I have only two," her boarder answered meekly, like a ruined man who isbroken in to all the cruel usage of misfortune.
Towards the end of the third year Father Goriot reduced his expensesstill further; he went up to the third story, and now paid forty-fivefrancs a month. He did without snuff, told his hairdresser that he nolonger required his services, and gave up wearing powder. When Goriotappeared for the first time in this condition, an exclamation ofastonishment broke from his hostess at the color of his hair--a dingyolive gray. He had grown sadder day by day under the influence of somehidden trouble; among all the faces round the table, his was themost woe-begone. There was no longer any doubt. Goriot was an elderlylibertine, whose eyes had only been preserved by the skill of thephysician from the malign influence of the remedies necessitated by thestate of his health. The disgusting color of his hair was a result ofhis excesses and of the drugs which he had taken that he might continuehis career. The poor old man's mental and physical condition affordedsome grounds for the absurd rubbish talked about him. When his outfitwas worn out, he replaced the fine linen by calico at fourteen sousthe ell. His diamonds, his gold snuff-box, watch-chain and trinkets,disappeared one by one. He had left off wearing the corn-flower bluecoat, and was sumptuously arrayed, summer as well as winter, in a coarsechestnut-brown coat, a plush waistcoat, and doeskin breeches. He grewthinner and thinner; his legs were shrunken, his cheeks, once so puffedout by contented bourgeois prosperity, were covered with wrinkles, andthe outlines of the jawbones were distinctly visible; there were deepfurrows in his forehead. In the fourth year of his residence in the RueNeuve-Sainte-Genevieve he was no longer like his former self. The halevermicelli manufacturer, sixty-two years of age, who had looked scarceforty, the stout, comfortable, prosperous tradesman, with an almostbucolic air, and such a brisk demeanor that it did you good to look athim; the man with something boyish in his smile, had suddenly sunk intohis dotage, and had become a feeble, vacillating septuagenarian.The keen, bright blue eyes had grown dull, and faded to a steel-graycolor; the red inflamed rims looked as though they had shed tears ofblood. He excited feelings of repulsion in some, and of pity in others.The young medical students who came to the house noticed the droopingof his lower lip and the conformation of the facial angle; and, afterteasing him for some time to no purpose, they declared that cretinismwas setting in.One evening after dinner Mme. Vauquer said half banteringly to him, "Sothose daughters of yours don't come to see you any more, eh?" meaning toimply her doubts as to his paternity; but Father Goriot shrank as if hishostess had touched him with a sword-point."They come sometimes," he said in a tremulous voice."Aha! you still see them sometimes?" cried the students. "Bravo, FatherGoriot!"The old man scarcely seemed to hear the witticisms at his expense thatfollowed on the words; he had relapsed into the dreamy state of mindthat these superficial observers took for senile torpor, due to his lackof intelligence. If they had only known, they might have been deeplyinterested by the problem of his condition; but few problems were moreobscure. It was easy, of course, to find out whether Goriot had reallybeen a vermicelli manufacturer; the amount of his fortune was readilydiscoverable; but the old people, who were most inquisitive as to hisconcerns, never went beyond the limits of the Quarter, and lived inthe lodging-house much as oysters cling to a rock. As for the rest, thecurrent of life in Paris daily awaited them, and swept them away withit; so soon as they left the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, they forgot theexistence of the old man, their butt at dinner. For those narrow souls,or for careless youth, the misery in Father Goriot's withered faceand its dull apathy were quite incompatible with wealth or any sort ofintelligence. As for the creatures whom he called his daughters, allMme. Vauquer's boarders were of her opinion. With the faculty for severelogic sedulously cultivated by elderly women during long evenings ofgossip till they can always find an hypothesis to fit all circumstances,she was wont to reason thus:"If Father Goriot had daughters of his own as rich as those ladies whocame here seemed to be, he would not be lodging in my house, on thethird floor, at forty-five francs a month; and he would not go aboutdressed like a poor man."No objection could be raised to these inferences. So by the end ofthe month of November 1819, at the time when the curtain rises on thisdrama, every one in the house had come to have a very decided opinion asto the poor old man. He had never had either wife or daughter; excesseshad reduced him to this sluggish condition; he was a sort of humanmollusk who should be classed among the capulidoe, so one of the dinnercontingent, an employe at the Museum, who had a pretty wit of his own.Poiret was an eagle, a gentleman, compared with Goriot. Poiret wouldjoin the talk, argue, answer when he was spoken to; as a matter offact, his talk, arguments, and responses contributed nothing to theconversation, for Poiret had a habit of repeating what the others saidin different words; still, he did join in the talk; he was alive, andseemed capable of feeling; while Father Goriot (to quote the Museumofficial again) was invariably at zero degrees--Reaumur.Eugene de Rastignac had just returned to Paris in a state of mind notunknown to young men who are conscious of unusual powers, and to thosewhose faculties are so stimulated by a difficult position, that for thetime being they rise above the ordinary level.Rastignac's first year of study for the preliminary examinations in lawhad left him free to see the sights of Paris and to enjoy some of itsamusements. A student has not much time on his hands if he sets himselfto learn the repertory of every theatre, and to study the ins and outsof the labyrinth of Paris. To know its customs; to learn the language,and become familiar with the amusements of the capital, he must exploreits recesses, good and bad, follow the studies that please him best, andform some idea of the treasures contained in galleries and museums.At this stage of his career a student grows eager and excited about allsorts of follies that seem to him to be of immense importance. He hashis hero, his great man, a professor at the College de France, paidto talk down to the level of his audience. He adjusts his cravat, andstrikes various attitudes for the benefit of the women in the firstgalleries at the Opera-Comique. As he passes through all thesesuccessive initiations, and breaks out of his sheath, the horizons oflife widen around him, and at length he grasps the plan of society withthe different human strata of which it is composed.If he begins by admiring the procession of carriages on sunny afternoonsin the Champs-Elysees, he soon reaches the further stage of envyingtheir owners. Unconsciously, Eugene had served his apprenticeship beforehe went back to Angouleme for the long vacation after taking his degreesas bachelor of arts and bachelor of law. The illusions of childhood hadvanished, so also had the ideas he brought with him from the provinces;he had returned thither with an intelligence developed, with loftierambitions, and saw things as they were at home in the old manor house.His father and mother, his two brothers and two sisters, with an agedaunt, whose whole fortune consisted in annuities, lived on the littleestate of Rastignac. The whole property brought in about three thousandfrancs; and though the amount varied with the season (as must alwaysbe the case in a vine-growing district), they were obliged to spare anunvarying twelve hundred francs out of their income for him. He sawhow constantly the poverty, which they had generously hidden from him,weighed upon them; he could not help comparing the sisters, who hadseemed so beautiful to his boyish eyes, with women in Paris, who hadrealized the beauty of his dreams. The uncertain future of the wholefamily depended upon him. It did not escape his eyes that not a crumbwas wasted in the house, nor that the wine they drank was made from thesecond pressing; a multitude of small things, which it is useless tospeak of in detail here, made him burn to distinguish himself, and hisambition to succeed increased tenfold.He meant, like all great souls, that his success should be owingentirely to his merits; but his was pre-eminently a southerntemperament, the execution of his plans was sure to be marred by thevertigo that seizes on youth when youth sees itself alone in a wide sea,uncertain how to spend its energies, whither to steer its course, howto adapt its sails to the winds. At first he determined to fling himselfheart and soul into his work, but he was diverted from this purpose bythe need of society and connections; then he saw how great an influencewomen exert in social life, and suddenly made up his mind to go outinto this world to seek a protectress there. Surely a clever andhigh-spirited young man, whose wit and courage were set off to advantageby a graceful figure and the vigorous kind of beauty that readilystrikes a woman's imagination, need not despair of finding aprotectress. These ideas occurred to him in his country walks with hissisters, whom he had once joined so gaily. The girls thought him verymuch changed.His aunt, Mme. de Marcillac, had been presented at court, and had movedamong the brightest heights of that lofty region. Suddenly the youngman's ambition discerned in those recollections of hers, which had beenlike nursery fairy tales to her nephews and nieces, the elements ofa social success at least as important as the success which he hadachieved at the Ecole de Droit. He began to ask his aunt about thoserelations; some of the old ties might still hold good. After muchshaking of the branches of the family tree, the old lady came to theconclusion that of all persons who could be useful to her nephew amongthe selfish genus of rich relations, the Vicomtesse de Beauseant wasthe least likely to refuse. To this lady, therefore, she wrote in theold-fashioned style, recommending Eugene to her; pointing out toher nephew that if he succeeded in pleasing Mme. de Beauseant, theVicomtesse would introduce him to other relations. A few days after hisreturn to Paris, therefore, Rastignac sent his aunt's letter to Mme.de Beauseant. The Vicomtesse replied by an invitation to a ball forthe following evening. This was the position of affairs at the MaisonVauquer at the end of November 1819.A few days later, after Mme. de Beauseant's ball, Eugene came in at twoo'clock in the morning. The persevering student meant to make up for thelost time by working until daylight. It was the first time that he hadattempted to spend the night in this way in that silent quarter. Thespell of a factitious energy was upon him; he had beheld the pomp andsplendor of the world. He had not dined at the Maison Vauquer; theboarders probably would think that he would walk home at daybreak fromthe dance, as he had done sometimes on former occasions, after a fete atthe Prado, or a ball at the Odeon, splashing his silk stockings thereby,and ruining his pumps.It so happened that Christophe took a look into the street beforedrawing the bolts of the door; and Rastignac, coming in at thatmoment, could go up to his room without making any noise, followed byChristophe, who made a great deal. Eugene exchanged his dress suit for ashabby overcoat and slippers, kindled a fire with some blocks of patentfuel, and prepared for his night's work in such a sort that the faintsounds he made were drowned by Christophe's heavy tramp on the stairs.Eugene sat absorbed in thought for a few moments before plunging intohis law books. He had just become aware of the fact that the Vicomtessede Beauseant was one of the queens of fashion, that her house wasthought to be the pleasantest in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And notonly so, she was, by right of her fortune, and the name she bore, one ofthe most conspicuous figures in that aristocratic world. Thanks to theaunt, thanks to Mme. de Marcillac's letter of introduction, the poorstudent had been kindly received in that house before he knew the extentof the favor thus shown to him. It was almost like a patent of nobilityto be admitted to those gilded salons; he had appeared in the mostexclusive circle in Paris, and now all doors were open for him. Eugenehad been dazzled at first by the brilliant assembly, and had scarcelyexchanged a few words with the Vicomtesse; he had been content to singleout a goddess among this throng of Parisian divinities, one of thosewomen who are sure to attract a young man's fancy.The Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud was tall and gracefully made; shehad one of the prettiest figures in Paris. Imagine a pair of great darkeyes, a magnificently moulded hand, a shapely foot. There was a fieryenergy in her movements; the Marquis de Ronquerolles had called her "athoroughbred," "a pure pedigree," these figures of speech have replacedthe "heavenly angel" and Ossianic nomenclature; the old mythology oflove is extinct, doomed to perish by modern dandyism. But for Rastignac,Mme. Anastasie de Restaud was the woman for whom he had sighed. He hadcontrived to write his name twice upon the list of partners upon herfan, and had snatched a few words with her during the first quadrille."Where shall I meet you again, Madame?" he asked abruptly, and the tonesof his voice were full of the vehement energy that women like so well."Oh, everywhere!" said she, "in the Bois, at the Bouffons, in my ownhouse."With the impetuosity of his adventurous southern temper, he did all hecould to cultivate an acquaintance with this lovely countess, making thebest of his opportunities in the quadrille and during a waltz that shegave him. When he told her that he was a cousin of Mme. de Beauseant's,the Countess, whom he took for a great lady, asked him to call at herhouse, and after her parting smile, Rastignac felt convinced that hemust make this visit. He was so lucky as to light upon some one who didnot laugh at his ignorance, a fatal defect among the gilded and insolentyouth of that period; the coterie of Maulincourts, Maximes de Trailles,de Marsays, Ronquerolles, Ajuda-Pintos, and Vandenesses who shone therein all the glory of coxcombry among the best-dressed women of fashionin Paris--Lady Brandon, the Duchesse de Langeais, the Comtesse deKergarouet, Mme. de Serizy, the Duchesse de Carigliano, the ComtesseFerraud, Mme. de Lanty, the Marquise d'Aiglemont, Mme. Firmiani,the Marquise de Listomere and the Marquise d'Espard, the Duchesse deMaufrigneuse and the Grandlieus. Luckily, therefore, for him, the novicehappened upon the Marquis de Montriveau, the lover of the Duchesse deLangeais, a general as simple as a child; from him Rastignac learnedthat the Comtesse lived in the Rue du Helder.Ah, what it is to be young, eager to see the world, greedily on thewatch for any chance that brings you nearer the woman of your dreams,and behold two houses open their doors to you! To set foot in theVicomtesse de Beauseant's house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; to fallon your knees before a Comtesse de Restaud in the Chaussee d'Antin;to look at one glance across a vista of Paris drawing-rooms, consciousthat, possessing sufficient good looks, you may hope to find aid andprotection there in a feminine heart! To feel ambitious enough to spurnthe tight-rope on which you must walk with the steady head of an acrobatfor whom a fall is impossible, and to find in a charming woman the bestof all balancing poles.He sat there with his thoughts for a while, Law on the one hand, andPoverty on the other, beholding a radiant vision of a woman rise abovethe dull, smouldering fire. Who would not have paused and questionedthe future as Eugene was doing? who would not have pictured it full ofsuccess? His wondering thoughts took wings; he was transported outof the present into that blissful future; he was sitting by Mme. deRestaud's side, when a sort of sigh, like the grunt of an overburdenedSt. Joseph, broke the silence of the night. It vibrated through thestudent, who took the sound for a death groan. He opened his doornoiselessly, went out upon the landing, and saw a thin streak of lightunder Father Goriot's door. Eugene feared that his neighbor had beentaken ill; he went over and looked through the keyhole; the old manwas busily engaged in an occupation so singular and so suspicious thatRastignac thought he was only doing a piece of necessary serviceto society to watch the self-styled vermicelli maker's nocturnalindustries.The table was upturned, and Goriot had doubtless in some way secured asilver plate and cup to the bar before knotting a thick rope round them;he was pulling at this rope with such enormous force that they werebeing crushed and twisted out of shape; to all appearance he meant toconvert the richly wrought metal into ingots."Peste! what a man!" said Rastignac, as he watched Goriot's musculararms; there was not a sound in the room while the old man, with the aidof the rope, was kneading the silver like dough. "Was he then, indeed,a thief, or a receiver of stolen goods, who affected imbecility anddecrepitude, and lived like a beggar that he might carry on his pursuitsthe more securely?" Eugene stood for a moment revolving these questions,then he looked again through the keyhole.Father Goriot had unwound his coil of rope; he had covered the tablewith a blanket, and was now employed in rolling the flattened massof silver into a bar, an operation which he performed with marvelousdexterity."Why, he must be as strong as Augustus, King of Poland!" said Eugene tohimself when the bar was nearly finished.Father Goriot looked sadly at his handiwork, tears fell from hiseyes, he blew out the dip which had served him for a light while hemanipulated the silver, and Eugene heard him sigh as he lay down again."He is mad," thought the student."Poor child!" Father Goriot said aloud. Rastignac, hearing thosewords, concluded to keep silence; he would not hastily condemn hisneighbor. He was just in the doorway of his room when a strange soundfrom the staircase below reached his ears; it might have been madeby two men coming up in list slippers. Eugene listened; two men therecertainly were, he could hear their breathing. Yet there had been nosound of opening the street door, no footsteps in the passage. Suddenly,too, he saw a faint gleam of light on the second story; it came from M.Vautrin's room."There are a good many mysteries here for a lodging-house!" he said tohimself.He went part of the way downstairs and listened again. The rattle ofgold reached his ears. In another moment the light was put out, andagain he distinctly heard the breathing of two men, but no sound of adoor being opened or shut. The two men went downstairs, the faint soundsgrowing fainter as they went."Who is there?" cried Mme. Vauquer out of her bedroom window."I, Mme. Vauquer," answered Vautrin's deep bass voice. "I am coming in.""That is odd! Christophe drew the bolts," said Eugene, going back to hisroom. "You have to sit up at night, it seems, if you really mean to knowall that is going on about you in Paris."These incidents turned his thought from his ambitious dreams; he betookhimself to his work, but his thought wandered back to Father Goriot'ssuspicious occupation; Mme. de Restaud's face swam again and againbefore his eyes like a vision of a brilliant future; and at last he laydown and slept with clenched fists. When a young man makes up his mindthat he will work all night, the chances are that seven times out often he will sleep till morning. Such vigils do not begin before we areturned twenty.The next morning Paris was wrapped in one of the dense fogs that throwthe most punctual people out in their calculations as to the time; eventhe most business-like folk fail to keep their appointments in suchweather, and ordinary mortals wake up at noon and fancy it is eighto'clock. On this morning it was half-past nine, and Mme. Vauquerstill lay abed. Christophe was late, Sylvie was late, but the two satcomfortably taking their coffee as usual. It was Sylvie's custom to takethe cream off the milk destined for the boarders' breakfast for herown, and to boil the remainder for some time, so that madame should notdiscover this illegal exaction."Sylvie," said Christophe, as he dipped a piece of toast into thecoffee, "M. Vautrin, who is not such a bad sort, all the same, had twopeople come to see him again last night. If madame says anything, mindyou say nothing about it.""Has he given you something?""He gave me a five-franc piece this month, which is as good as saying,'Hold your tongue.'""Except him and Mme. Couture, who doesn't look twice at every penny,there's no one in the house that doesn't try to get back with the lefthand all that they give with the right at New Year," said Sylvie."And, after all," said Christophe, "what do they give you? A miserablefive-franc piece. There is Father Goriot, who has cleaned his shoeshimself these two years past. There is that old beggar Poiret, who goeswithout blacking altogether; he would sooner drink it than put it on hisboots. Then there is that whipper-snapper of a student, who gives me acouple of francs. Two francs will not pay for my brushes, and he sellshis old clothes, and gets more for them than they are worth. Oh! they'rea shabby lot!""Pooh!" said Sylvie, sipping her coffee, "our places are the best in theQuarter, that I know. But about that great big chap Vautrin, Christophe;has any one told you anything about him?""Yes. I met a gentleman in the street a few days ago; he said to me,'There's a gentleman in your place, isn't there? a tall man that dyeshis whiskers?' I told him, 'No, sir; they aren't dyed. A gay fellowlike him hasn't the time to do it.' And when I told M. Vautrin aboutit afterwards, he said, 'Quite right, my boy. That is the way toanswer them. There is nothing more unpleasant than to have your littleweaknesses known; it might spoil many a match.'""Well, and for my part," said Sylvie, "a man tried to humbug me at themarket wanting to know if I had seen him put on his shirt. Such bosh!There," she cried, interrupting herself, "that's a quarter to tenstriking at the Val-de-Grace, and not a soul stirring!""Pooh! they are all gone out. Mme. Couture and the girl went out ateight o'clock to take the wafer at Saint-Etienne. Father Goriot startedoff somewhere with a parcel, and the student won't be back from hislecture till ten o'clock. I saw them go while I was sweeping the stairs;Father Goriot knocked up against me, and his parcel was as hard as iron.What is the old fellow up to, I wonder? He is as good as a plaything forthe rest of them; they can never let him alone; but he is a good man,all the same, and worth more than all of them put together. He doesn'tgive you much himself, but he sometimes sends you with a message toladies who fork out famous tips; they are dressed grandly, too.""His daughters, as he calls them, eh? There are a dozen of them.""I have never been to more than two--the two who came here.""There is madame moving overhead; I shall have to go, or she will raisea fine racket. Just keep an eye on the milk, Christophe; don't let thecat get at it."Sylvie went up to her mistress' room."Sylvie! How is this? It's nearly ten o'clock, and you let me sleep likea dormouse! Such a thing has never happened before.""It's the fog; it is that thick, you could cut it with a knife.""But how about breakfast?""Bah! the boarders are possessed, I'm sure. They all cleared out beforethere was a wink of daylight.""Do speak properly, Sylvie," Mme. Vauquer retorted; "say a blink ofdaylight.""Ah, well, madame, whichever you please. Anyhow, you can have breakfastat ten o'clock. La Michonnette and Poiret have neither of them stirred.There are only those two upstairs, and they are sleeping like the logsthey are.""But, Sylvie, you put their names together as if----""As if what?" said Sylvie, bursting into a guffaw. "The two of them makea pair.""It is a strange thing, isn't it, Sylvie, how M. Vautrin got in lastnight after Christophe had bolted the door?""Not at all, madame. Christophe heard M. Vautrin, and went down andundid the door. And here are you imagining that----?""Give me my bodice, and be quick and get breakfast ready. Dish up therest of the mutton with the potatoes, and you can put the stewed pearson the table, those at five a penny."A few moments later Mme. Vauquer came down, just in time to see the catknock down a plate that covered a bowl of milk, and begin to lap in allhaste."Mistigris!" she cried.The cat fled, but promptly returned to rub against her ankles."Oh! yes, you can wheedle, you old hypocrite!" she said. "Sylvie!Sylvie!""Yes, madame; what is it?""Just see what the cat has done!""It is all that stupid Christophe's fault. I told him to stop and laythe table. What has become of him? Don't you worry, madame; FatherGoriot shall have it. I will fill it up with water, and he won't knowthe difference; he never notices anything, not even what he eats.""I wonder where the old heathen can have gone?" said Mme. Vauquer,setting the plates round the table."Who knows? He is up to all sorts of tricks.""I have overslept myself," said Mme. Vauquer."But madame looks as fresh as a rose, all the same."The door bell rang at that moment, and Vautrin came through thesitting-room, singing loudly:"'Tis the same old story everywhere,A roving heart and a roving glance.."Oh! Mamma Vauquer! good-morning!" he cried at the sight of his hostess,and he put his arm gaily round her waist."There! have done----""'Impertinence!' Say it!" he answered. "Come, say it! Now, isn't thatwhat you really mean? Stop a bit, I will help you to set the table. Ah!I am a nice man, am I not?"For the locks of brown and the golden hairA sighing lover..."Oh! I have just seen something so funny----.... led by chance.""What?" asked the widow."Father Goriot in the goldsmith's shop in the Rue Dauphine at half-pasteight this morning. They buy old spoons and forks and gold lace there,and Goriot sold a piece of silver plate for a good round sum. It hadbeen twisted out of shape very neatly for a man that's not used to thetrade.""Really? You don't say so?""Yes. One of my friends is expatriating himself; I had been to see himoff on board the Royal Mail steamer, and was coming back here. I waitedafter that to see what Father Goriot would do; it is a comical affair.He came back to this quarter of the world, to the Rue des Gres, and wentinto a money-lender's house; everybody knows him, Gobseck, a stuck-uprascal, that would make dominoes out of his father's bones, a Turk,a heathen, an old Jew, a Greek; it would be a difficult matter to robhim, for he puts all his coin into the Bank.""Then what was Father Goriot doing there?""Doing?" said Vautrin. "Nothing; he was bent on his own undoing. He is asimpleton, 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'shand. "Mme. la Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud," he read. "Where are yougoing 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 handsmyself.""What is there inside it?" said Vautrin, holding the letter up to thelight. "A banknote? No." He peered into the envelope. "A receiptedaccount!" he cried. "My word! 'tis a gallant old dotard. Off with you,old chap," he said, bringing down a hand on Christophe's head, andspinning 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 fromVautrin, 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-dayis the day when we must go to see M. Taillefer. Poor little thing! Sheis trembling like a leaf," Mme. Couture went on, as she seated herselfbefore 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 softenyour father's heart," said Vautrin, as he drew a chair nearer to theorphan girl; "but that is not enough. What you want is a friend whowill give the monster a piece of his mind; a barbarian that has threemillions (so they say), and will not give you a dowry; and a pretty girlneeds a dowry nowadays.""Poor child!" said Mme. Vauquer. "Never mind, my pet, your wretch of afather is going just the way to bring trouble upon himself."Victorine's eyes filled with tears at the words, and the widow checkedherself at a sign from Mme. Couture."If we could only see him!" said the Commissary-General's widow; "if Icould speak to him myself and give him his wife's last letter! Ihave never dared to run the risk of sending it by post; he knew myhandwriting----""'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 shallsee.""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 wayof communicating with my father, please be sure and tell him that hisaffection and my mother's honor are more to me than all the money in theworld. If you can induce him to relent a little towards me, I will prayto God for you. You may be sure of my gratitude----""The same old story everywhere," sang Vautrin, with a satiricalintonation. At this juncture, Goriot, Mlle. Michonneau, and Poiret camedownstairs together; possibly the scent of the gravy which Sylvie wasmaking to serve with the mutton had announced breakfast. The sevenpeople thus assembled bade each other good-morning, and took theirplaces at the table; the clock struck ten, and the student's footstepwas heard outside."Ah! here you are, M. Eugene," said Sylvie; "every one is breakfastingat home to-day."The student exchanged greetings with the lodgers, and sat down besideGoriot."I have just met with a queer adventure," he said, as he helped himselfabundantly to the mutton, and cut a slice of bread, which Mme. Vauquer'seyes gauged as usual."An adventure?" queried Poiret."Well, and what is there to astonish you in that, old boy?" Vautrinasked 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, theVicomtesse de Beauseant. She has a magnificent house; the rooms are hungwith silk--in short, it was a splendid affair, and I was as happy as aking---""Fisher," put in Vautrin, interrupting."What do you mean, sir?" said Eugene sharply."I said 'fisher,' because kingfishers see a good deal more fun thankings.""Quite true; I would much rather be the little careless bird than aking," said Poiret the ditto-ist, "because----""In fact"--the law-student cut him short--"I danced with one of thehandsomest women in the room, a charming countess, the most exquisitecreature I have ever seen. There was peach blossom in her hair, and shehad the loveliest bouquet of flowers--real flowers, that scented theair----but there! it is no use trying to describe a woman glowing withthe dance. You ought to have seen her! Well, and this morning I met thisdivine countess about nine o'clock, on foot in the Rue de Gres. Oh! howmy heart beat! I began to think----""That she was coming here," said Vautrin, with a keen look at thestudent. "I expect that she was going to call on old Gobseck, amoney-lender. If ever you explore a Parisian woman's heart, you willfind the money-lender first, and the lover afterwards. Your countess iscalled Anastasie de Restaud, and she lives in the Rue du Helder."The student stared hard at Vautrin. Father Goriot raised his head at thewords, and gave the two speakers a glance so full of intelligence anduneasiness that the lodgers beheld him with astonishment."Then Christophe was too late, and she must have gone to him!" criedGoriot, 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 wasdoing. He had never looked more stupid nor more taken up with his ownthoughts 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 itquite 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; "howhis eyes light up!""Then does he really keep her?" said Mlle. Michonneau, in a whisper tothe student."Oh! yes, she was tremendously pretty," Eugene answered. Father Goriotwatched 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 theyounger 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 musthave enjoyed herself, if ever creature did! It is a true sayingthat there is no more beautiful sight than a frigate in full sail, agalloping 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 theladder--just like a Parisienne! If their husbands cannot afford to payfor their frantic extravagance, they will sell themselves. Or ifthey cannot do that, they will tear out their mothers' hearts to findsomething to pay for their splendor. They will turn the world upsidedown. Just a Parisienne through and through!"Father Goriot's face, which had shone at the student's words like thesun on a bright day, clouded over all at once at this cruel speech ofVautrin's."Well," said Mme. Vauquer, "but where is your adventure? Did you speakto 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 theprettiest women in Paris in the Rue des Gres at nine o'clock! She couldnot 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 ofadventures.""Pshaw! much funnier things than that happen here!" exclaimed Vautrin.Mlle. Taillefer had scarcely heeded the talk, she was so absorbed by thethought of the new attempt that she was about to make. Mme. Couture madea sign that it was time to go upstairs and dress; the two ladies wentout, and Father Goriot followed their example."Well, did you see?" said Mme. Vauquer, addressing Vautrin and the restof the circle. "He is ruining himself for those women, that is plain.""Nothing will ever make me believe that that beautiful Comtesse deRestaud is anything to Father Goriot," cried the student."Well, and if you don't," broke in Vautrin, "we are not set onconvincing you. You are too young to know Paris thoroughly yet; later onyou will find out that there are what we call men with a passion----"Mlle. Michonneau gave Vautrin a quick glance at these words. They seemedto be like the sound of a trumpet to a trooper's horse. "Aha!" saidVautrin, stopping in his speech to give her a searching glance, "so wehave 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 theirheads, they cannot drop it. They must drink the water from someparticular spring--it is stagnant as often as not; but they will selltheir wives and families, they will sell their own souls to the devil toget 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 whocan give them the dainties they like. You might offer these last all thewomen on earth--they would turn up their noses; they will have the onlyone who can gratify their passion. It often happens that the womandoes not care for them at all, and treats them cruelly; they buy theirmorsels of satisfaction very dear; but no matter, the fools are nevertired of it; they will take their last blanket to the pawnbroker's togive their last five-franc piece to her. Father Goriot here is one ofthat sort. He is discreet, so the Countess exploits him--just the way ofthe 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 onthat subject, and his eyes sparkle like diamonds. That secret is notdifficult to guess. He took some plate himself this morning to themelting-pot, and I saw him at Daddy Gobseck's in the Rue des Gres. Andnow, mark what follows--he came back here, and gave a letter for theComtesse de Restaud to that noodle of a Christophe, who showed us theaddress; there was a receipted bill inside it. It is clear that it wasan urgent matter if the Countess also went herself to the old moneylender. Father Goriot has financed her handsomely. There is no need totack a tale together; the thing is self-evident. So that shows you, sirstudent, that all the time your Countess was smiling, dancing, flirting,swaying her peach-flower crowned head, with her gown gathered into herhand, her slippers were pinching her, as they say; she was thinking ofher protested bills, or her lover's protested bills.""You have made me wild to know the truth," cried Eugene; "I will go tocall on Mme. de Restaud to-morrow.""Yes," echoed Poiret; "you must go and call on Mme. de Restaud.""And perhaps you will find Father Goriot there, who will take paymentfor the assistance he politely rendered."Eugene looked disgusted. "Why, then, this Paris of yours is a slough.""And an uncommonly queer slough, too," replied Vautrin. "The mudsplashes you as you drive through it in your carriage--you are arespectable person; you go afoot and are splashed--you are a scoundrel.You are so unlucky as to walk off with something or other belongingto somebody else, and they exhibit you as a curiosity in the Place duPalais-de-Justice; you steal a million, and you are pointed out in everysalon as a model of virtue. And you pay thirty millions for the policeand the courts of justice, for the maintenance of law and order! Apretty slate of things it is!""What," cried Mme. Vauquer, "has Father Goriot really melted down hissilver posset-dish?""There were two turtle-doves on the lid, were there not?" asked Eugene."Yes, that there were.""Then, was he fond of it?" said Eugene. "He cried while he was breakingup the cup and plate. I happened to see him by accident.""It was dear to him as his own life," answered the widow."There! you see how infatuated the old fellow is!" cried Vautrin. "Thewoman yonder can coax the soul out of him."The student went up to his room. Vautrin went out, and a few momentslater Mme. Couture and Victorine drove away in a cab which Sylvie hadcalled for them. Poiret gave his arm to Mlle. Michonneau, and they wenttogether to spend the two sunniest hours of the day in the Jardin desPlantes."Well, those two are as good as married," was the portly Sylvie'scomment. "They are going out together to-day for the first time. Theyare such a couple of dry sticks that if they happen to strike againsteach other they will draw sparks like flint and steel.""Keep clear of Mlle. Michonneau's shawl, then," said Mme. Vauquer,laughing; "it would flare up like tinder."At four o'clock that evening, when Goriot came in, he saw, by the lightof two smoky lamps, that Victorine's eyes were red. Mme. Vauquer waslistening to the history of the visit made that morning to M. Taillefer;it had been made in vain. Taillefer was tired of the annual applicationmade by his daughter and her elderly friend; he gave them a personalinterview in order to arrive at an understanding with them."My dear lady," said Mme. Couture, addressing Mme. Vauquer, "justimagine it; he did not even ask Victorine to sit down, she was standingthe whole time. He said to me quite coolly, without putting himself in apassion, that we might spare ourselves the trouble of going there; thatthe young lady (he would not call her his daughter) was injuring hercause by importuning him (importuning! once a year, the wretch!); thatas Victorine's mother had nothing when he married her, Victorine oughtnot to expect anything from him; in fact, he said the most cruel things,that made the poor child burst out crying. The little thing threwherself at her father's feet and spoke up bravely; she said that sheonly persevered in her visits for her mother's sake; that she wouldobey him without a murmur, but that she begged him to read her poor deadmother's farewell letter. She took it up and gave it to him, saying themost beautiful things in the world, most beautifully expressed; I do notknow where she learned them; God must have put them into her head, forthe poor child was inspired to speak so nicely that it made me cry likea fool to hear her talk. And what do you think the monster was doing allthe time? Cutting his nails! He took the letter that poor Mme. Tailleferhad soaked with tears, and flung it on to the chimney-piece. 'That isall right,' he said. He held out his hands to raise his daughter, butshe covered them with kisses, and he drew them away again. Scandalous,isn't it? And his great booby of a son came in and took no notice of hissister.""What inhuman wretches they must be!" said Father Goriot."And then they both went out of the room," Mme. Couture went on, withoutheeding the worthy vermicelli maker's exclamation; "father and son bowedto me, and asked me to excuse them on account of urgent business! Thatis the history of our call. Well, he has seen his daughter at any rate.How he can refuse to acknowledge her I cannot think, for they are asalike as two peas."The boarders dropped in one after another, interchanging greetings andempty jokes that certain classes of Parisians regard as humorous andwitty. Dulness is their prevailing ingredient, and the whole pointconsists in mispronouncing a word or a gesture. This kind of argot isalways changing. The essence of the jest consists in some catchwordsuggested by a political event, an incident in the police courts, astreet song, or a bit of burlesque at some theatre, and forgotten in amonth. Anything and everything serves to keep up a game of battledoreand shuttlecock with words and ideas. The diorama, a recent invention,which carried an optical illusion a degree further than panoramas, hadgiven rise to a mania among art students for ending every word withrama. The Maison Vauquer had caught the infection from a young artistamong the boarders."Well, Monsieur-r-r Poiret," said the employe from the Museum, "howis your health-orama?" Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned toMme. Couture and Victorine with a "Ladies, you seem melancholy.""Is dinner ready?" cried Horace Bianchon, a medical student, and afriend of Rastignac's; "my stomach is sinking usque ad talones.""There is an uncommon frozerama outside," said Vautrin. "Make roomthere, Father Goriot! Confound it, your foot covers the whole front ofthe stove.""Illustrious M. Vautrin," put in Bianchon, "why do you say frozerama?It is incorrect; it should be frozenrama.""No, it shouldn't," said the official from the Museum; "frozerama isright by the same rule that you say 'My feet are froze.'""Ah! ah!""Here is his Excellency the Marquis de Rastignac, Doctor of the Law ofContraries," cried Bianchon, seizing Eugene by the throat, and almostthrottling him."Hallo there! hallo!"Mlle. Michonneau came noiselessly in, bowed to the rest of the party,and took her place beside the three women without saying a word."That old bat always makes me shudder," said Bianchon in a low voice,indicating Mlle. Michonneau to Vautrin. "I have studied Gall's system,and I am sure she has the bump of Judas.""Then you have seen a case before?" said Vautrin."Who has not?" answered Bianchon. "Upon my word, that ghastly old maidlooks just like one of the long worms that will gnaw a beam through,give them time enough.""That is the way, young man," returned he of the forty years and thedyed whiskers:"The rose has lived the life of a rose--A morning's space.""Aha! here is a magnificent soupe-au-rama," cried Poiret as Christophecame in bearing the soup with cautious heed."I beg your pardon, sir," said Mme. Vauquer; "it is soupe aux choux."All the young men roared with laughter."Had you there, Poiret!""Poir-r-r-rette! she had you there!""Score two points to Mamma Vauquer," said Vautrin."Did any of you notice the fog this morning?" asked the official."It was a frantic fog," said Bianchon, "a fog unparalleled, doleful,melancholy, sea-green, asthmatical--a Goriot of a fog!""A Goriorama," said the art student, "because you couldn't see a thingin it.""Hey! Milord Gaoriotte, they air talking about yoo-o-ou!"Father Goriot, seated at the lower end of the table, close to the doorthrough which the servant entered, raised his face; he had smelt at ascrap of bread that lay under his table napkin, an old trick acquired inhis commercial capacity, that still showed itself at times."Well," Madame Vauquer cried in sharp tones, that rang above the rattleof spoons and plates and the sound of other voices, "and is thereanything the matter with the bread?""Nothing whatever, madame," he answered; "on the contrary, it is made ofthe best quality of corn; flour from Etampes.""How could you tell?" asked Eugene."By the color, by the flavor.""You knew the flavor by the smell, I suppose," said Mme. Vauquer. "Youhave grown so economical, you will find out how to live on the smell ofcooking at last.""Take out a patent for it, then," cried the Museum official; "you wouldmake a handsome fortune.""Never mind him," said the artist; "he does that sort of thing to deludeus into thinking that he was a vermicelli maker.""Your nose is a corn-sampler, it appears?" inquired the official."Corn what?" asked Bianchon."Corn-el.""Corn-et.""Corn-elian.""Corn-ice.""Corn-ucopia.""Corn-crake.""Corn-cockle.""Corn-orama."The eight responses came like a rolling fire from every part of theroom, and the laughter that followed was the more uproarious becausepoor Father Goriot stared at the others with a puzzled look, like aforeigner trying to catch the meaning of words in a language which hedoes not understand."Corn?..." he said, turning to Vautrin, his next neighbor."Corn on your foot, old man!" said Vautrin, and he drove Father Goriot'scap down over his eyes by a blow on the crown.The poor old man thus suddenly attacked was for a moment too bewilderedto do anything. Christophe carried off his plate, thinking that he hadfinished his soup, so that when Goriot had pushed back his cap from hiseyes his spoon encountered the table. Every one burst out laughing. "Youare a disagreeable joker, sir," said the old man, "and if you take anyfurther liberties with me----""Well, what then, old boy?" Vautrin interrupted."Well, then, you shall pay dearly for it some day----""Down below, eh?" said the artist, "in the little dark corner where theyput naughty boys.""Well, mademoiselle," Vautrin said, turning to Victorine, "you areeating nothing. So papa was refractory, was he?""A monster!" said Mme. Couture."Mademoiselle might make application for aliment pending her suit; sheis not eating anything. Eh! eh! just see how Father Goriot is staring atMlle. Victorine."The old man had forgotten his dinner, he was so absorbed in gazing atthe poor girl; the sorrow in her face was unmistakable,--the slightedlove of a child whose father would not recognize her."We are mistaken about Father Goriot, my dear boy," said Eugene in a lowvoice. "He is not an idiot, nor wanting in energy. Try your Gall systemon him, and let me know what you think. I saw him crush a silver dishlast night as if it had been made of wax; there seems to be somethingextraordinary going on in his mind just now, to judge by his face. Hislife is so mysterious that it must be worth studying. Oh! you may laugh,Bianchon; I am not joking.""The man is a subject, is he?" said Bianchon; "all right! I will dissecthim, if he will give me the chance.""No; feel his bumps.""Hm!--his stupidity might perhaps be contagious."
The next day Rastignac dressed himself very elegantly, and about threeo'clock in the afternoon went to call on Mme. de Restaud. On the waythither he indulged in the wild intoxicating dreams which fill a younghead so full of delicious excitement. Young men at his age takeno account of obstacles nor of dangers; they see success in everydirection; imagination has free play, and turns their lives into aromance; they are saddened or discouraged by the collapse of one of thevisionary schemes that have no existence save in their heated fancy. Ifyouth were not ignorant and timid, civilization would be impossible.Eugene took unheard-of pains to keep himself in a spotless condition,but on his way through the streets he began to think about Mme. deRestaud and what he should say to her. He equipped himself with wit,rehearsed repartees in the course of an imaginary conversation, andprepared certain neat speeches a la Talleyrand, conjuring up a series ofsmall events which should prepare the way for the declaration on whichhe had based his future; and during these musings the law student wasbespattered with mud, and by the time he reached the Palais Royal he wasobliged to have his boots blacked and his trousers brushed."If I were rich," he said, as he changed the five-franc piece he hadbrought with him in case anything might happen, "I would take a cab,then I could think at my ease."At last he reached the Rue du Helder, and asked for the Comtesse deRestaud. He bore the contemptuous glances of the servants, who had seenhim cross the court on foot, with the cold fury of a man who knows thathe will succeed some day. He understood the meaning of their glances atonce, for he had felt his inferiority as soon as he entered the court,where a smart cab was waiting. All the delights of life in Parisseemed to be implied by this visible and manifest sign of luxury andextravagance. A fine horse, in magnificent harness, was pawing theground, and all at once the law student felt out of humor with himself.Every compartment in his brain which he had thought to find so full ofwit was bolted fast; he grew positively stupid. He sent up his nameto the Countess, and waited in the ante-chamber, standing on one footbefore a window that looked out upon the court; mechanically he leanedhis elbow against the sash, and stared before him. The time seemed long;he would have left the house but for the southern tenacity of purposewhich works miracles when it is single-minded."Madame is in her boudoir, and cannot see any one at present, sir,"said the servant. "She gave me no answer; but if you will go into thedining-room, there is some one already there."Rastignac was impressed with a sense of the formidable power of thelackey who can accuse or condemn his masters by a word; he coolly openedthe door by which the man had just entered the ante-chamber, meaning,no doubt, to show these insolent flunkeys that he was familiar with thehouse; but he found that he had thoughtlessly precipitated himself intoa small room full of dressers, where lamps were standing, and hot-waterpipes, on which towels were being dried; a dark passage and a backstaircase lay beyond it. Stifled laughter from the ante-chamber added tohis confusion."This way to the drawing-room, sir," said the servant, with theexaggerated respect which seemed to be one more jest at his expense.Eugene turned so quickly that he stumbled against a bath. By good luck,he managed to keep his hat on his head, and saved it from immersion inthe water; but just as he turned, a door opened at the further end ofthe dark passage, dimly lighted by a small lamp. Rastignac heard voicesand the sound of a kiss; one of the speakers was Mme. de Restaud,the other was Father Goriot. Eugene followed the servant through thedining-room into the drawing-room; he went to a window that lookedout into the courtyard, and stood there for a while. He meant to knowwhether this Goriot was really the Goriot that he knew. His heartbeat unwontedly fast; he remembered Vautrin's hideous insinuations. Awell-dressed young man suddenly emerged from the room almost as Eugeneentered it, saying impatiently to the servant who stood at the door: "Iam going, Maurice. Tell Madame la Comtesse that I waited more than halfan hour for her."Whereupon this insolent being, who, doubtless, had a right to beinsolent, sang an Italian trill, and went towards the window whereEugene was standing, moved thereto quite as much by a desire to see thestudent's face as by a wish to look out into the courtyard."But M. le Comte had better wait a moment longer; madame is disengaged,"said Maurice, as he returned to the ante-chamber.Just at that moment Father Goriot appeared close to the gate; he hademerged from a door at the foot of the back staircase. The worthy soulwas preparing to open his umbrella regardless of the fact that the greatgate had opened to admit a tilbury, in which a young man with a ribbonat his button-hole was seated. Father Goriot had scarcely time to startback and save himself. The horse took fright at the umbrella, swerved,and dashed forward towards the flight of steps. The young man lookedround in annoyance, saw Father Goriot, and greeted him as he went outwith constrained courtesy, such as people usually show to a money-lenderso long as they require his services, or the sort of respect they feelit necessary to show for some one whose reputation has been blown upon,so that they blush to acknowledge his acquaintance. Father Goriot gavehim a little friendly nod and a good-natured smile. All this happenedwith lightning speed. Eugene was so deeply interested that he forgotthat he was not alone till he suddenly heard the Countess' voice."Oh! Maxime, were you going away?" she said reproachfully, with a shadeof pique in her manner. The Countess had not seen the incident nor theentrance of the tilbury. Rastignac turned abruptly and saw her standingbefore him, coquettishly dressed in a loose white cashmere gown withknots of rose-colored ribbon here and there; her hair was carelesslycoiled about her head, as is the wont of Parisian women in the morning;there was a soft fragrance about her--doubtless she was fresh froma bath;--her graceful form seemed more flexible, her beauty moreluxuriant. Her eyes glistened. A young man can see everything at aglance; he feels the radiant influence of woman as a plant discerns andabsorbs its nutriment from the air; he did not need to touch her handsto feel their cool freshness. He saw faint rose tints through thecashmere of the dressing gown; it had fallen slightly open, givingglimpses of a bare throat, on which the student's eyes rested. TheCountess had no need of the adventitious aid of corsets; her girdledefined the outlines of her slender waist; her throat was a challengeto love; her feet, thrust into slippers, were daintily small. As Maximetook her hand and kissed it, Eugene became aware of Maxime's existence,and the Countess saw Eugene."Oh! is that you M. de Rastignac? I am very glad to see you," she said,but there was something in her manner that a shrewd observer would havetaken as a hint to depart.Maxime, as the Countess Anastasie had called the young man with thehaughty insolence of bearing, looked from Eugene to the lady, and fromthe lady to Eugene; it was sufficiently evident that he wished to be ridof the latter. An exact and faithful rendering of the glance might begiven in the words: "Look here, my dear; I hope you intend to send thislittle whipper-snapper about his business."The Countess consulted the young man's face with an intentsubmissiveness that betrays all the secrets of a woman's heart, andRastignac all at once began to hate him violently. To begin with, thesight of the fair carefully arranged curls on the other's comelyhead had convinced him that his own crop was hideous; Maxime's boots,moreover, were elegant and spotless, while his own, in spite of allhis care, bore some traces of his recent walk; and, finally, Maxime'sovercoat fitted the outline of his figure gracefully, he looked like apretty woman, while Eugene was wearing a black coat at half-past two.The quick-witted child of the Charente felt the disadvantage at which hewas placed beside this tall, slender dandy, with the clear gaze andthe pale face, one of those men who would ruin orphan children withoutscruple. Mme. de Restaud fled into the next room without waiting forEugene to speak; shaking out the skirts of her dressing-gown in herflight, so that she looked like a white butterfly, and Maxime hurriedafter her. Eugene, in a fury, followed Maxime and the Countess, andthe three stood once more face to face by the hearth in the largedrawing-room. The law student felt quite sure that the odious Maximefound him in the way, and even at the risk of displeasing Mme. deRestaud, he meant to annoy the dandy. It had struck him all at once thathe had seen the young man before at Mme. de Beauseant's ball; he guessedthe relation between Maxime and Mme. de Restaud; and with the youthfulaudacity that commits prodigious blunders or achieves signal success, hesaid to himself, "This is my rival; I mean to cut him out."Rash resolve! He did not know that M. le Comte Maxime de Trailles wouldwait till he was insulted, so as to fire first and kill his man. Eugenewas a sportsman and a good shot, but he had not yet hit the bulls's eyetwenty times out of twenty-two. The young Count dropped into a low chairby the hearth, took up the tongs, and made up the fire so violently andso sulkily, that Anastasie's fair face suddenly clouded over. She turnedto Eugene, with a cool, questioning glance that asked plainly, "Why doyou not go?" a glance which well-bred people regard as a cue to maketheir exit.Eugene assumed an amiable expression."Madame," he began, "I hastened to call upon you----"He stopped short. The door opened, and the owner of the tilbury suddenlyappeared. He had left his hat outside, and did not greet the Countess;he looked meditatively at Rastignac, and held out his hand to Maximewith a cordial "Good morning," that astonished Eugene not a little. Theyoung provincial did not understand the amenities of a triple alliance."M. de Restaud," said the Countess, introducing her husband to the lawstudent.Eugene bowed profoundly."This gentleman," she continued, presenting Eugene to her husband,"is M. de Rastignac; he is related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseantthrough the Marcillacs; I had the pleasure of meeting him at her lastball."Related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseant through the Marcillacs!These words, on which the countess threw ever so slight an emphasis, byreason of the pride that the mistress of a house takes in showingthat she only receives people of distinction as visitors in her house,produced a magical effect. The Count's stiff manner relaxed at once ashe returned the student's bow."Delighted to have an opportunity of making your acquaintance," he said.Maxime de Trailles himself gave Eugene an uneasy glance, and suddenlydropped his insolent manner. The mighty name had all the power of afairy's wand; those closed compartments in the southern brain flew openagain; Rastignac's carefully drilled faculties returned. It was as if asudden light had pierced the obscurity of this upper world of Paris, andhe began to see, though everything was indistinct as yet. Mme. Vauquer'slodging-house and Father Goriot were very far remote from his thoughts."I thought that the Marcillacs were extinct," the Comte de Restaud said,addressing Eugene."Yes, they are extinct," answered the law student. "My great-uncle, theChevalier de Rastignac, married the heiress of the Marcillac family.They had only one daughter, who married the Marechal de Clarimbault,Mme. de Beauseant's grandfather on the mother's side. We are the youngerbranch of the family, and the younger branch is all the poorer becausemy great-uncle, the Vice-Admiral, lost all that he had in the King'sservice. The Government during the Revolution refused to admit ourclaims when the Compagnie des Indes was liquidated.""Was not your great-uncle in command of the Vengeur before 1789?""Yes.""Then he would be acquainted with my grandfather, who commanded theWarwick."Maxime looked at Mme. de Restaud and shrugged his shoulders, as whoshould say, "If he is going to discuss nautical matters with thatfellow, it is all over with us." Anastasie understood the glance that M.de Trailles gave her. With a woman's admirable tact, she began to smileand said:"Come with me, Maxime; I have something to say to you. We will leaveyou two gentlemen to sail in company on board the Warwick and theVengeur."She rose to her feet and signed to Maxime to follow her, mirth andmischief in her whole attitude, and the two went in the direction of theboudoir. The morganatic couple (to use a convenient German expressionwhich has no exact equivalent) had reached the door, when the Countinterrupted himself in his talk with Eugene."Anastasie!" he cried pettishly, "just stay a moment, dear; you knowvery well that----""I am coming back in a minute," she interrupted; "I have a commissionfor Maxime to execute, and I want to tell him about it."She came back almost immediately. She had noticed the inflection in herhusband's voice, and knew that it would not be safe to retire to theboudoir; like all women who are compelled to study their husbands'characters in order to have their own way, and whose business it isto know exactly how far they can go without endangering a goodunderstanding, she was very careful to avoid petty collisions indomestic life. It was Eugene who had brought about this untowardincident; so the Countess looked at Maxime and indicated the law studentwith an air of exasperation. M. de Trailles addressed the Count, theCountess, and Eugene with the pointed remark, "You are busy, I do notwant to interrupt you; good-day," and he went."Just wait a moment, Maxime!" the Count called after him."Come and dine with us," said the Countess, leaving Eugene and herhusband together once more. She followed Maxime into the littledrawing-room, where they sat together sufficiently long to feel surethat Rastignac had taken his leave.The law student heard their laughter, and their voices, and the pausesin their talk; he grew malicious, exerted his conversational powers forM. de Restaud, flattered him, and drew him into discussions, to theend that he might see the Countess again and discover the nature of herrelations with Father Goriot. This Countess with a husband and a lover,for Maxime clearly was her lover, was a mystery. What was the secret tiethat bound her to the old tradesman? This mystery he meant to penetrate,hoping by its means to gain a sovereign ascendency over this fairtypical Parisian."Anastasie!" the Count called again to his wife."Poor Maxime!" she said, addressing the young man. "Come, we must resignourselves. This evening----""I hope, Nasie," he said in her ear, "that you will give orders not toadmit that youngster, whose eyes light up like live coals when he looksat you. He will make you a declaration, and compromise you, and then youwill compel me to kill him.""Are you mad, Maxime?" she said. "A young lad of a student is, on thecontrary, a capital lightning-conductor; is not that so? Of course, Imean to make Restaud furiously jealous of him."Maxime burst out laughing, and went out, followed by the Countess, whostood at the window to watch him into his carriage; he shook his whip,and made his horse prance. She only returned when the great gate hadbeen closed after him."What do you think, dear?" cried the Count, her husband, "thisgentleman's family estate is not far from Verteuil, on the Charente; hisgreat-uncle and my grandfather were acquainted.""Delighted to find that we have acquaintances in common," said theCountess, with a preoccupied manner."More than you think," said Eugene, in a low voice."What do you mean?" she asked quickly."Why, only just now," said the student, "I saw a gentleman go out atthe gate, Father Goriot, my next door neighbor in the house where I amlodging."At the sound of this name, and the prefix that embellished it, theCount, who was stirring the fire, let the tongs fall as though they hadburned his fingers, and rose to his feet."Sir," he cried, "you might have called him 'Monsieur Goriot'!"The Countess turned pale at first at the sight of her husband'svexation, then she reddened; clearly she was embarrassed, her answerwas made in a tone that she tried to make natural, and with an air ofassumed carelessness:"You could not know any one who is dearer to us both..."She broke off, glanced at the piano as if some fancy had crossed hermind, and asked, "Are you fond of music, M. de Rastignac?""Exceedingly," answered Eugene, flushing, and disconcerted by a dimsuspicion that he had somehow been guilty of a clumsy piece of folly."Do you sing?" she cried, going to the piano, and, sitting down beforeit, she swept her fingers over the keyboard from end to end. R-r-r-rah!"No, madame."The Comte de Restaud walked to and fro."That is a pity; you are without one great means of success.--Ca-ro,ca-a-ro, ca-a-a-ro, non du-bi-ta-re," sang the Countess.Eugene had a second time waved a magic wand when he uttered Goriot'sname, but the effect seemed to be entirely opposite to that produced bythe formula "related to Mme. de Beauseant." His position was notunlike that of some visitor permitted as a favor to inspect a privatecollection of curiosities, when by inadvertence he comes into collisionwith a glass case full of sculptured figures, and three or four heads,imperfectly secured, fall at the shock. He wished the earth would openand swallow him. Mme. de Restaud's expression was reserved and chilly,her eyes had grown indifferent, and sedulously avoided meeting those ofthe unlucky student of law."Madame," he said, "you wish to talk with M. de Restaud; permit me towish you good-day----"The Countess interrupted him by a gesture, saying hastily, "Whenever youcome to see us, both M. de Restaud and I shall be delighted to see you."Eugene made a profound bow and took his leave, followed by M. deRestaud, who insisted, in spite of his remonstrances, on accompanyinghim into the hall."Neither your mistress nor I are at home to that gentleman when hecalls," the Count said to Maurice.As Eugene set foot on the steps, he saw that it was raining."Come," said he to himself, "somehow I have just made a mess of it, Ido not know how. And now I am going to spoil my hat and coat into thebargain. I ought to stop in my corner, grind away at law, and neverlook to be anything but a boorish country magistrate. How can I gointo society, when to manage properly you want a lot of cabs, varnishedboots, gold watch chains, and all sorts of things; you have to wearwhite doeskin gloves that cost six francs in the morning, and primrosekid gloves every evening? A fig for that old humbug of a Goriot!"When he reached the street door, the driver of a hackney coach, who hadprobably just deposited a wedding party at their door, and asked nothingbetter than a chance of making a little money for himself without hisemployer's knowledge, saw that Eugene had no umbrella, remarked hisblack coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, and varnished boots, andstopped and looked at him inquiringly. Eugene, in the blind desperationthat drives a young man to plunge deeper and deeper into an abyss, as ifhe might hope to find a fortunate issue in its lowest depths, noddedin reply to the driver's signal, and stepped into the cab; a few straypetals of orange blossom and scraps of wire bore witness to its recentoccupation by a wedding party."Where am I to drive, sir?" demanded the man, who, by this time, hadtaken off his white gloves."Confound it!" Eugene said to himself, "I am in for it now, and at leastI will not spend cab-hire for nothing!--Drive to the Hotel Beauseant,"he said aloud."Which?" asked the man, a portentous word that reduced Eugene toconfusion. This young man of fashion, species incerta, did not know thatthere were two Hotels Beauseant; he was not aware how rich he was inrelations who did not care about him."The Vicomte de Beauseant, Rue----""De Grenelle," interrupted the driver, with a jerk of his head. "Yousee, there are the hotels of the Marquis and Comte de Beauseant in theRue Saint-Dominique," he added, drawing up the step."I know all about that," said Eugene, severely.--"Everybody is laughingat me to-day, it seems!" he said to himself, as he deposited his hat onthe opposite seat. "This escapade will cost me a king's ransom, but,at any rate, I shall call on my so-called cousin in a thoroughlyaristocratic fashion. Goriot has cost me ten francs already, the oldscoundrel. My word! I will tell Mme. de Beauseant about my adventure;perhaps it may amuse her. Doubtless she will know the secret of thecriminal relation between that handsome woman and the old rat without atail. It would be better to find favor in my cousin's eyes than tocome in contact with that shameless woman, who seems to me to have veryexpensive tastes. Surely the beautiful Vicomtesse's personal interestwould turn the scale for me, when the mere mention of her name producessuch an effect. Let us look higher. If you set yourself to carry theheights of heaven, you must face God."The innumerable thoughts that surged through his brain might be summedup in these phrases. He grew calmer, and recovered something of hisassurance as he watched the falling rain. He told himself that thoughhe was about to squander two of the precious five-franc pieces thatremained to him, the money was well laid out in preserving his coat,boots, and hat; and his cabman's cry of "Gate, if you please," almostput him in spirits. A Swiss, in scarlet and gold, appeared, the greatdoor groaned on its hinges, and Rastignac, with sweet satisfaction,beheld his equipage pass under the archway and stop before the flightof steps beneath the awning. The driver, in a blue-and-red greatcoat,dismounted and let down the step. As Eugene stepped out of the cab, heheard smothered laughter from the peristyle. Three or four lackeyswere making merry over the festal appearance of the vehicle. Inanother moment the law student was enlightened as to the cause of theirhilarity; he felt the full force of the contrast between his equipageand one of the smartest broughams in Paris; a coachman, with powderedhair, seemed to find it difficult to hold a pair of spirited horses, whostood chafing the bit. In Mme. de Restaud's courtyard, in the Chausseed'Antin, he had seen the neat turnout of a young man of six-and-twenty;in the Faubourg Saint-Germain he found the luxurious equipage of a manof rank; thirty thousand francs would not have purchased it."Who can be here?" said Eugene to himself. He began to understand,though somewhat tardily, that he must not expect to find many women inParis who were not already appropriated, and that the capture of oneof these queens would be likely to cost something more than bloodshed."Confound it all! I expect my cousin also has her Maxime."He went up the steps, feeling that he was a blighted being. The glassdoor was opened for him; the servants were as solemn as jackasses underthe curry comb. So far, Eugene had only been in the ballroom on theground floor of the Hotel Beauseant; the fete had followed so closely onthe invitation, that he had not had time to call on his cousin, and hadtherefore never seen Mme. de Beauseant's apartments; he was about tobehold for the first time a great lady among the wonderful and elegantsurroundings that reveal her character and reflect her daily life.He was the more curious, because Mme. de Restaud's drawing-room hadprovided him with a standard of comparison.At half-past four the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was visible. Five minutesearlier she would not have received her cousin, but Eugene knew nothingof the recognized routine of various houses in Paris. He was conductedup the wide, white-painted, crimson-carpeted staircase, between thegilded balusters and masses of flowering plants, to Mme. de Beauseant'sapartments. He did not know the rumor current about Mme. de Beauseant,one of the biographies told, with variations, in whispers, every eveningin the salons of Paris.For three years past her name had been spoken of in connection withthat of one of the most wealthy and distinguished Portuguese nobles,the Marquis d'Ajuda-Pinto. It was one of those innocent liaisons whichpossess so much charm for the two thus attached to each other thatthey find the presence of a third person intolerable. The Vicomte deBeauseant, therefore, had himself set an example to the rest of theworld by respecting, with as good a grace as might be, this morganaticunion. Any one who came to call on the Vicomtesse in the early days ofthis friendship was sure to find the Marquis d'Ajuda-Pinto there. As,under the circumstances, Mme. de Beauseant could not very well shut herdoor against these visitors, she gave them such a cold reception, andshowed so much interest in the study of the ceiling, that no one couldfail to understand how much he bored her; and when it became known inParis that Mme. de Beauseant was bored by callers between two and fouro'clock, she was left in perfect solitude during that interval. Shewent to the Bouffons or to the Opera with M. de Beauseant and M.d'Ajuda-Pinto; and M. de Beauseant, like a well-bred man of the world,always left his wife and the Portuguese as soon as he had installedthem. But M. d'Ajuda-Pinto must marry, and a Mlle. de Rochefide was theyoung lady. In the whole fashionable world there was but one person whoas yet knew nothing of the arrangement, and that was Mme. de Beauseant.Some of her friends had hinted at the possibility, and she had laughedat them, believing that envy had prompted those ladies to try to makemischief. And now, though the bans were about to be published, andalthough the handsome Portuguese had come that day to break the news tothe Vicomtesse, he had not found courage as yet to say one word abouthis treachery. How was it? Nothing is doubtless more difficult than thenotification of an ultimatum of this kind. There are men who feel moreat their ease when they stand up before another man who threatens theirlives with sword or pistol than in the presence of a woman who, aftertwo hours of lamentations and reproaches, falls into a dead swoon andrequires salts. At this moment, therefore, M. d'Ajuda-Pinto was onthorns, and anxious to take his leave. He told himself that in someway or other the news would reach Mme. de Beauseant; he would write, itwould be much better to do it by letter, and not to utter the words thatshould stab her to the heart.So when the servant announced M. Eugene de Rastignac, the Marquisd'Ajuda-Pinto trembled with joy. To be sure, a loving woman shows evenmore ingenuity in inventing doubts of her lover than in varying themonotony of his happiness; and when she is about to be forsaken, sheinstinctively interprets every gesture as rapidly as Virgil's courserdetected the presence of his companion by snuffing the breeze. It wasimpossible, therefore, that Mme. de Beauseant should not detect thatinvoluntary thrill of satisfaction; slight though it was, it wasappalling in its artlessness.Eugene had yet to learn that no one in Paris should present himself inany house without first making himself acquainted with the whole historyof its owner, and of its owner's wife and family, so that he may avoidmaking any of the terrible blunders which in Poland draw forth thepicturesque exclamation, "Harness five bullocks to your cart!" probablybecause you will need them all to pull you out of the quagmire intowhich a false step has plunged you. If, down to the present day, ourlanguage has no name for these conversational disasters, it is probablybecause they are believed to be impossible, the publicity given in Paristo every scandal is so prodigious. After the awkward incident at Mme. deRestaud's, no one but Eugene could have reappeared in his characterof bullock-driver in Mme. de Beauseant's drawing-room. But if Mme. deRestaud and M. de Trailles had found him horribly in the way, M. d'Ajudahailed his coming with relief."Good-bye," said the Portuguese, hurrying to the door, as Eugene madehis entrance into a dainty little pink-and-gray drawing-room, whereluxury seemed nothing more than good taste."Until this evening," said Mme. de Beauseant, turning her head to givethe Marquis a glance. "We are going to the Bouffons, are we not?""I cannot go," he said, with his fingers on the door handle.Mme. de Beauseant rose and beckoned to him to return. She did notpay the slightest attention to Eugene, who stood there dazzled by thesparkling marvels around him; he began to think that this was some storyout of the Arabian Nights made real, and did not know where to hidehimself, when the woman before him seemed to be unconscious of hisexistence. The Vicomtesse had raised the forefinger of her right hand,and gracefully signed to the Marquis to seat himself beside her. TheMarquis felt the imperious sway of passion in her gesture; he came backtowards her. Eugene watched him, not without a feeling of envy."That is the owner of the brougham!" he said to himself. "But is itnecessary to have a pair of spirited horses, servants in livery, andtorrents of gold to draw a glance from a woman here in Paris?"The demon of luxury gnawed at his heart, greed burned in his veins, histhroat was parched with the thirst of gold.He had a hundred and thirty francs every quarter. His father, mother,brothers, sisters, and aunt did not spend two hundred francs a monthamong them. This swift comparison between his present condition and theaims he had in view helped to benumb his faculties."Why not?" the Vicomtesse was saying, as she smiled at the Portuguese."Why cannot you come to the Italiens?""Affairs! I am to dine with the English Ambassador.""Throw him over."When a man once enters on a course of deception, he is compelled toadd lie to lie. M. d'Ajuda therefore said, smiling, "Do you lay yourcommands on me?""Yes, certainly.""That was what I wanted to have you say to me," he answered, dissemblinghis feelings in a glance which would have reassured any other woman.He took the Vicomtesse's hand, kissed it, and went.Eugene ran his fingers through his hair, and constrained himself to bow.He thought that now Mme. de Beauseant would give him her attention;but suddenly she sprang forward, rushed to a window in the gallery, andwatched M. d'Ajuda step into his carriage; she listened to the orderthat he gave, and heard the Swiss repeat it to the coachman:"To M. de Rochefide's house."Those words, and the way in which M. d'Ajuda flung himself back in thecarriage, were like a lightning flash and a thunderbolt for her; shewalked back again with a deadly fear gnawing at her heart. The mostterrible catastrophes only happen among the heights. The Vicomtessewent to her own room, sat down at a table, and took up a sheet of daintynotepaper."When, instead of dining with the English Ambassador,"she wrote, "you go to the Rochefides, you owe me anexplanation, which I am waiting to hear."She retraced several of the letters, for her hand was trembling so thatthey were indistinct; then she signed the note with an initial C for"Claire de Bourgogne," and rang the bell."Jacques," she said to the servant, who appeared immediately, "takethis note to M. de Rochefide's house at half-past seven and ask for theMarquis d'Ajuda. If M. d'Ajuda is there, leave the note without waitingfor an answer; if he is not there, bring the note back to me.""Madame la Vicomtess, there is a visitor in the drawing-room.""Ah! yes, of course," she said, opening the door.Eugene was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, but at last theVicomtesse appeared; she spoke to him, and the tremulous tones of hervoice vibrated through his heart."Pardon me, monsieur," she said; "I had a letter to write. Now I amquite at liberty."She scarcely knew what she was saying, for even as she spoke shethought, "Ah! he means to marry Mlle. de Rochefide? But is he stillfree? This evening the marriage shall be broken off, or else... Butbefore to-morrow I shall know.""Cousin..." the student replied."Eh?" said the Countess, with an insolent glance that sent a coldshudder through Eugene; he understood what that "Eh?" meant; he hadlearned a great deal in three hours, and his wits were on the alert. Hereddened:"Madame..." he began; he hesitated a moment, and then went on."Pardon me; I am in such need of protection that the nearest scrap ofrelationship could do me no harm."Mme. de Beauseant smiled but there was sadness in her smile; even nowshe felt forebodings of the coming pain, the air she breathed was heavywith the storm that was about to burst."If you knew how my family are situated," he went on, "you would love toplay the part of a beneficent fairy godmother who graciously clears theobstacles from the path of her protege.""Well, cousin," she said, laughing, "and how can I be of service toyou?""But do I know even that? I am distantly related to you, and thisobscure and remote relationship is even now a perfect godsend to me. Youhave confused my ideas; I cannot remember the things that I meant to sayto you. I know no one else here in Paris.... Ah! if I could only ask youto counsel me, ask you to look upon me as a poor child who would faincling to the hem of your dress, who would lay down his life for you.""Would you kill a man for me?""Two," said Eugene."You, child. Yes, you are a child," she said, keeping back the tearsthat came to her eyes; "you would love sincerely.""Oh!" he cried, flinging up his head.The audacity of the student's answer interested the Vicomtesse in him.The southern brain was beginning to scheme for the first time. BetweenMme. de Restaud's blue boudoir and Mme. de Beauseant's rose-coloreddrawing-room he had made a three years' advance in a kind of law whichis not a recognized study in Paris, although it is a sort of higherjurisprudence, and, when well understood, is a highroad to success ofevery kind."Ah! that is what I meant to say!" said Eugene. "I met Mme. de Restaudat your ball, and this morning I went to see her."You must have been very much in the way," said Mme. de Beauseant,smiling as she spoke."Yes, indeed. I am a novice, and my blunders will set every one againstme, if you do not give me your counsel. I believe that in Paris it isvery difficult to meet with a young, beautiful, and wealthy woman offashion who would be willing to teach me, what you women can explain sowell--life. I shall find a M. de Trailles everywhere. So I have come toyou to ask you to give me a key to a puzzle, to entreat you to tell mewhat sort of blunder I made this morning. I mentioned an old man----""Madame la Duchess de Langeais," Jacques cut the student short; Eugenegave expression to his intense annoyance by a gesture."If you mean to succeed," said the Vicomtesse in a low voice, "in thefirst place you must not be so demonstrative.""Ah! good morning, dear," she continued, and rising and crossing theroom, she grasped the Duchess' hands as affectionately as if they hadbeen sisters; the Duchess responded in the prettiest and most graciousway."Two intimate friends!" said Rastignac to himself. "Henceforward I shallhave two protectresses; those two women are great friends, no doubt, andthis newcomer will doubtless interest herself in her friend's cousin.""To what happy inspiration do I owe this piece of good fortune, dearAntoinette?" asked Mme. de Beauseant."Well, I saw M. d'Ajuda-Pinto at M. de Rochefide's door, so I thoughtthat if I came I should find you alone."Mme. de Beauseant's mouth did not tighten, her color did not rise, herexpression did not alter, or rather, her brow seemed to clear as theDuchess uttered those deadly words."If I had known that you were engaged----" the speaker added, glancingat Eugene."This gentleman is M. Eugene de Rastignac, one of my cousins," said theVicomtesse. "Have you any news of General de Montriveau?" she continued."Serizy told me yesterday that he never goes anywhere now; has he beento see you to-day?"It was believed that the Duchess was desperately in love with M. deMontriveau, and that he was a faithless lover; she felt the question inher very heart, and her face flushed as she answered:"He was at the Elysee yesterday.""In attendance?""Claire," returned the Duchess, and hatred overflowed in the glances shethrew at Mme. de Beauseant; "of course you know that M. d'Ajuda-Pintois going to marry Mlle. de Rochefide; the bans will be publishedto-morrow."This thrust was too cruel; the Vicomtesse's face grew white, but sheanswered, laughing, "One of those rumors that fools amuse themselveswith. What should induce M. d'Ajuda to take one of the noblest namesin Portugal to the Rochefides? The Rochefides were only ennobledyesterday.""But Bertha will have two hundred thousand livres a year, they say.""M. d'Ajuda is too wealthy to marry for money.""But, my dear, Mlle. de Rochefide is a charming girl.""Indeed?""And, as a matter of fact, he is dining with them to-day; the thingis settled. It is very surprising to me that you should know so littleabout it."Mme. de Beauseant turned to Rastignac. "What was the blunder that youmade, monsieur?" she asked. "The poor boy is only just launched into theworld, Antoinette, so that he understands nothing of all this thatwe are speaking of. Be merciful to him, and let us finish our talkto-morrow. Everything will be announced to-morrow, you know, andyour kind informal communication can be accompanied by officialconfirmation."The Duchess gave Eugene one of those insolent glances that measure a manfrom head to foot, and leave him crushed and annihilated."Madame, I have unwittingly plunged a dagger into Mme. de Restaud'sheart; unwittingly--therein lies my offence," said the student of law,whose keen brain had served him sufficiently well, for he had detectedthe biting epigrams that lurked beneath this friendly talk. "Youcontinue to receive, possibly you fear, those who know the amount ofpain that they deliberately inflict; but a clumsy blunderer who has noidea how deeply he wounds is looked upon as a fool who does not know howto make use of his opportunities, and every one despises him."Mme. de Beauseant gave the student a glance, one of those glances inwhich a great soul can mingle dignity and gratitude. It was like balmto the law student, who was still smarting under the Duchess' insolentscrutiny; she had looked at him as an auctioneer might look at somearticle to appraise its value."Imagine, too, that I had just made some progress with the Comte deRestaud; for I should tell you, madame," he went on, turning to theDuchess with a mixture of humility and malice in his manner, "that asyet I am only a poor devil of a student, very much alone in the world,and very poor----""You should not tell us that, M. de Rastignac. We women never care aboutanything that no one else will take.""Bah!" said Eugene. "I am only two-and-twenty, and I must make up mymind to the drawbacks of my time of life. Besides, I am confessingmy sins, and it would be impossible to kneel in a more charmingconfessional; you commit your sins in one drawing-room, and receiveabsolution for them in another."The Duchess' expression grew colder, she did not like the flippant toneof these remarks, and showed that she considered them to be in badtaste by turning to the Vicomtesse with--"This gentleman has only justcome----"Mme. de Beauseant began to laugh outright at her cousin and at theDuchess both."He has only just come to Paris, dear, and is in search of some one whowill give him lessons in good taste.""Mme. la Duchesse," said Eugene, "is it not natural to wish to beinitiated into the mysteries which charm us?" ("Come, now," he said tohimself, "my language is superfinely elegant, I'm sure.")"But Mme. de Restaud is herself, I believe, M. de Trailles' pupil," saidthe Duchess."Of that I had no idea, madame," answered the law student, "so I rashlycame between them. In fact, I got on very well with the lady's husband,and his wife tolerated me for a time until I took it into my head totell them that I knew some one of whom I had just caught a glimpse as hewent out by a back staircase, a man who had given the Countess a kiss atthe end of a passage.""Who was it?" both women asked together."An old man who lives at the rate of two louis a month in the FaubourgSaint-Marceau, where I, a poor student, lodge likewise. He is a trulyunfortunate creature, everybody laughs at him--we all call him 'FatherGoriot.'""Why, child that you are," cried the Vicomtesse, "Mme. de Restaud was aMlle. Goriot!""The daughter of a vermicelli manufacturer," the Duchess added; "andwhen the little creature went to Court, the daughter of a pastry-cookwas presented on the same day. Do you remember, Claire? The King beganto laugh, and made some joke in Latin about flour. People--what wasit?--people----""Ejusdem farinoe," said Eugene."Yes, that was it," said the Duchess."Oh! is that her father?" the law student continued, aghast."Yes, certainly; the old man had two daughters; he dotes on them, so tospeak, though they will scarcely acknowledge him.""Didn't the second daughter marry a banker with a German name?" theVicomtesse asked, turning to Mme. de Langeais, "a Baron de Nucingen? Andher name is Delphine, is it not? Isn't she a fair-haired woman who hasa side-box at the Opera? She comes sometimes to the Bouffons, and laughsloudly to attract attention."The Duchess smiled and said:"I wonder at you, dear. Why do you take so much interest in people ofthat kind? One must have been as madly in love as Restaud was, to beinfatuated with Mlle. Anastasie and her flour sacks. Oh! he will notfind her a good bargain! She is in M. de Trailles' hands, and he willruin her.""And they do not acknowledge their father!" Eugene repeated."Oh! well, yes, their father, the father, a father," replied theVicomtesse, "a kind father who gave them each five or six hundredthousand francs, it is said, to secure their happiness by marryingthem well; while he only kept eight or ten thousand livres a year forhimself, thinking that his daughters would always be his daughters,thinking that in them he would live his life twice over again, thatin their houses he should find two homes, where he would be lovedand looked up to, and made much of. And in two years' time both hissons-in-law had turned him out of their houses as if he were one of thelowest outcasts."Tears came into Eugene's eyes. He was still under the spell of youthfulbeliefs, he had just left home, pure and sacred feelings had beenstirred within him, and this was his first day on the battlefield ofcivilization in Paris. Genuine feeling is so infectious that for amoment the three looked at each other in silence."Eh, mon Dieu!" said Mme. de Langeais; "yes, it seems very horrible,and yet we see such things every day. Is there not a reason for it?Tell me, dear, have you ever really thought what a son-in-law is? Ason-in-law is the man for whom we bring up, you and I, a dear littleone, bound to us very closely in innumerable ways; for seventeen yearsshe will be the joy of her family, its 'white soul,' as Lamartine says,and suddenly she will become its scourge. When HE comes and takes herfrom us, his love from the very beginning is like an axe laid to theroot of all the old affection in our darling's heart, and all the tiesthat bound her to her family are severed. But yesterday our littledaughter thought of no one but her mother and father, as we had nothought that was not for her; by to-morrow she will have become ahostile stranger. The tragedy is always going on under our eyes. On theone hand you see a father who has sacrificed himself to his son, andhis daughter-in-law shows him the last degree of insolence. On the otherhand, it is the son-in-law who turns his wife's mother out of the house.I sometimes hear it said that there is nothing dramatic about society inthese days; but the Drama of the Son-in-law is appalling, to say nothingof our marriages, which have come to be very poor farces. I can explainhow it all came about in the old vermicelli maker's case. I think Irecollect that Foriot----""Goriot, madame.""Yes, that Moriot was once President of his Section during theRevolution. He was in the secret of the famous scarcity of grain, andlaid the foundation of his fortune in those days by selling flour forten times its cost. He had as much flour as he wanted. My grandmother'ssteward sold him immense quantities. No doubt Noriot shared the plunderwith the Committee of Public Salvation, as that sort of person alwaysdid. I recollect the steward telling my grandmother that she might liveat Grandvilliers in complete security, because her corn was as good asa certificate of civism. Well, then, this Loriot, who sold corn tothose butchers, has never had but one passion, they say--he idolizes hisdaughters. He settled one of them under Restaud's roof, and grafted theother into the Nucingen family tree, the Baron de Nucingen being a richbanker who had turned Royalist. You can quite understand that so long asBonaparte was Emperor, the two sons-in-law could manage to put up withthe old Ninety-three; but after the restoration of the Bourbons, M. deRestaud felt bored by the old man's society, and the banker was stillmore tired of it. His daughters were still fond of him; they wanted'to keep the goat and the cabbage,' so they used to see Joriot wheneverthere was no one there, under pretence of affection. 'Come to-day, papa,we shall have you all to ourselves, and that will be much nicer!'and all that sort of thing. As for me, dear, I believe that love hassecond-sight: poor Ninety-three; his heart must have bled. He saw thathis daughters were ashamed of him, that if they loved their husbandshis visits must make mischief. So he immolated himself. He made thesacrifice because he was a father; he went into voluntary exile. Hisdaughters were satisfied, so he thought that he had done the best thinghe could; but it was a family crime, and father and daughters wereaccomplices. You see this sort of thing everywhere. What could this oldDoriot have been but a splash of mud in his daughters' drawing-rooms? Hewould only have been in the way, and bored other people, besides beingbored himself. And this that happened between father and daughters mayhappen to the prettiest woman in Paris and the man she loves the best;if her love grows tiresome, he will go; he will descend to the basesttrickery to leave her. It is the same with all love and friendship. Ourheart is a treasury; if you pour out all its wealth at once, you arebankrupt. We show no more mercy to the affection that reveals its utmostextent than we do to another kind of prodigal who has not a penny left.Their father had given them all he had. For twenty years he had givenhis whole heart to them; then, one day, he gave them all his fortunetoo. The lemon was squeezed; the girls left the rest in the gutter.""The world is very base," said the Vicomtesse, plucking at the threadsof her shawl. She did not raise her head as she spoke; the words thatMme. de Langeais had meant for her in the course of her story had cuther to the quick."Base? Oh, no," answered the Duchess; "the world goes its own way, thatis all. If I speak in this way, it is only to show that I am not dupedby it. I think as you do," she said, pressing the Vicomtesse's hand."The world is a slough; let us try to live on the heights above it."She rose to her feet and kissed Mme. de Beauseant on the forehead asshe said: "You look very charming to-day, dear. I have never seen such alovely color in your cheeks before."Then she went out with a slight inclination of the head to the cousin."Father Goriot is sublime!" said Eugene to himself, as he remembered howhe had watched his neighbor work the silver vessel into a shapeless massthat night.Mme. de Beauseant did not hear him; she was absorbed in her ownthoughts. For several minutes the silence remained unbroken till thelaw student became almost paralyzed with embarrassment, and was equallyafraid to go or stay or speak a word."The world is basely ungrateful and ill-natured," said the Vicomtesseat last. "No sooner does a trouble befall you than a friend is readyto bring the tidings and to probe your heart with the point of adagger while calling on you to admire the handle. Epigrams and sarcasmsalready! Ah! I will defend myself!"She raised her head like the great lady that she was, and lightningsflashed from her proud eyes."Ah!" she said, as she saw Eugene, "are you there?""Still," he said piteously."Well, then, M. de Rastignac, deal with the world as it deserves. Youare determined to succeed? I will help you. You shall sound the depthsof corruption in woman; you shall measure the extent of man's pitifulvanity. Deeply as I am versed in such learning, there were pages in thebook of life that I had not read. Now I know all. The more cold-bloodedyour calculations, the further you will go. Strike ruthlessly; you willbe feared. Men and women for you must be nothing more than post-horses;take a fresh relay, and leave the last to drop by the roadside; in thisway you will reach the goal of your ambition. You will be nothing here,you see, unless a woman interests herself in you; and she must be youngand wealthy, and a woman of the world. Yet, if you have a heart, lockit carefully away like a treasure; do not let any one suspect it, or youwill be lost; you would cease to be the executioner, you would takethe victim's place. And if ever you should love, never let your secretescape you! Trust no one until you are very sure of the heart to whichyou open your heart. Learn to mistrust every one; take every precautionfor the sake of the love which does not exist as yet. Listen,Miguel"--the name slipped from her so naturally that she did notnotice her mistake--"there is something still more appalling than theingratitude of daughters who have cast off their old father and wishthat he were dead, and that is a rivalry between two sisters. Restaudcomes of a good family, his wife has been received into their circle;she has been presented at court; and her sister, her wealthy sister,Mme. Delphine de Nucingen, the wife of a great capitalist, is consumedwith envy, and ready to die of spleen. There is gulf set between thesisters--indeed, they are sisters no longer--the two women who refuseto acknowledge their father do not acknowledge each other. So Mme. deNucingen would lap up all the mud that lies between the Rue Saint-Lazareand the Rue de Grenelle to gain admittance to my salon. She fanciedthat she should gain her end through de Marsay; she has made herselfde Marsay's slave, and she bores him. De Marsay cares very little abouther. If you will introduce her to me, you will be her darling, herBenjamin; she will idolize you. If, after that, you can love her, do so;if not, make her useful. I will ask her to come once or twice to one ofmy great crushes, but I will never receive her here in the morning. Iwill bow to her when I see her, and that will be quite sufficient.You have shut the Comtesse de Restaud's door against you by mentioningFather Goriot's name. Yes, my good friend, you may call at her housetwenty times, and every time out of the twenty you will find that sheis not at home. The servants have their orders, and will not admit you.Very well, then, now let Father Goriot gain the right of entry into hersister's house for you. The beautiful Mme. de Nucingen will give thesignal for a battle. As soon as she singles you out, other women willbegin to lose their heads about you, and her enemies and rivals andintimate friends will all try to take you from her. There are women whowill fall in love with a man because another woman has chosen him; likethe city madams, poor things, who copy our millinery, and hope therebyto acquire our manners. You will have a success, and in Paris success iseverything; it is the key of power. If the women credit you with wit andtalent, the men will follow suit so long as you do not undeceive themyourself. There will be nothing you may not aspire to; you will goeverywhere, and you will find out what the world is--an assemblage offools and knaves. But you must be neither the one nor the other. I amgiving you my name like Ariadne's clue of thread to take with you intothe labyrinth; make no unworthy use of it," she said, with a queenlyglance and curve of her throat; "give it back to me unsullied. And now,go; leave me. We women also have our battles to fight.""And if you should ever need some one who would gladly set a match to atrain for you----""Well?" she asked.He tapped his heart, smiled in answer to his cousin's smile, and went.It was five o'clock, and Eugene was hungry; he was afraid lest he shouldnot be in time for dinner, a misgiving which made him feel that it waspleasant to be borne so quickly across Paris. This sensation of physicalcomfort left his mind free to grapple with the thoughts that assailedhim. A mortification usually sends a young man of his age into a furiousrage; he shakes his fist at society, and vows vengeance when his beliefin himself is shaken. Just then Rastignac was overwhelmed by the words,"You have shut the Countess' door against you.""I shall call!" he said to himself, "and if Mme. de Beauseant is right,if I never find her at home--I... well, Mme. de Restaud shall meet mein every salon in Paris. I will learn to fence and have some pistolpractice, and kill that Maxime of hers!""And money?" cried an inward monitor. "How about money, where is thatto come from?" And all at once the wealth displayed in the Countess deRestaud's drawing-room rose before his eyes. That was the luxury whichGoriot's daughter had loved too well, the gilding, the ostentatioussplendor, the unintelligent luxury of the parvenu, the riotousextravagance of a courtesan. Then the attractive vision suddenly wentunder an eclipse as he remembered the stately grandeur of the Hotel deBeauseant. As his fancy wandered among these lofty regions in the greatworld of Paris, innumerable dark thoughts gathered in his heart; hisideas widened, and his conscience grew more elastic. He saw the world asit is; saw how the rich lived beyond the jurisdiction of law and publicopinion, and found in success the ultima ratio mundi."Vautrin is right, success is virtue!" he said to himself.
Arrived in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, he rushed up to his room forten francs wherewith to satisfy the demands of the cabman, and wentin to dinner. He glanced round the squalid room, saw the eighteenpoverty-stricken creatures about to feed like cattle in their stalls,and the sight filled him with loathing. The transition was too sudden,and the contrast was so violent that it could not but act as a powerfulstimulant; his ambition developed and grew beyond all social bounds. Onthe one hand, he beheld a vision of social life in its most charmingand refined forms, of quick-pulsed youth, of fair, impassioned facesinvested with all the charm of poetry, framed in a marvelous setting ofluxury or art; and, on the other hand, he saw a sombre picture, the miryverge beyond these faces, in which passion was extinct and nothing wasleft of the drama but the cords and pulleys and bare mechanism. Mme. deBeauseant's counsels, the words uttered in anger by the forsaken lady,her petulant offer, came to his mind, and poverty was a ready expositor.Rastignac determined to open two parallel trenches so as to insuresuccess; he would be a learned doctor of law and a man of fashion.Clearly he was still a child! Those two lines are asymptotes, and willnever meet."You are very dull, my lord Marquis," said Vautrin, with one of theshrewd glances that seem to read the innermost secrets of another mind."I am not in the humor to stand jokes from people who call me 'my lordMarquis,'" answered Eugene. "A marquis here in Paris, if he is not theveriest sham, ought to have a hundred thousand livres a year at least;and a lodger in the Maison Vauquer is not exactly Fortune's favorite."Vautrin's glance at Rastignac was half-paternal, half-contemptuous."Puppy!" it seemed to say; "I should make one mouthful of him!" Then heanswered:"You are in a bad humor; perhaps your visit to the beautiful Comtesse deRestaud was not a success.""She has shut her door against me because I told her that her fatherdined at our table," cried Rastignac.Glances were exchanged all round the room; Father Goriot looked down."You have sent some snuff into my eye," he said to his neighbor, turninga little aside to rub his hand over his face."Any one who molests Father Goriot will have henceforward to reckon withme," said Eugene, looking at the old man's neighbor; "he is worth allthe rest of us put together.--I am not speaking of the ladies," headded, turning in the direction of Mlle. Taillefer.Eugene's remarks produced a sensation, and his tone silenced thedinner-table. Vautrin alone spoke. "If you are going to champion FatherGoriot, and set up for his responsible editor into the bargain, youhad need be a crack shot and know how to handle the foils," he said,banteringly."So I intend," said Eugene."Then you are taking the field to-day?""Perhaps," Rastignac answered. "But I owe no account of myself to anyone, especially as I do not try to find out what other people do of anight."Vautrin looked askance at Rastignac."If you do not mean to be deceived by the puppets, my boy, you mustgo behind and see the whole show, and not peep through holes in thecurtain. That is enough," he added, seeing that Eugene was about to flyinto a passion. "We can have a little talk whenever you like."There was a general feeling of gloom and constraint. Father Goriot wasso deeply dejected by the student's remark that he did not notice thechange in the disposition of his fellow-lodgers, nor know that he hadmet with a champion capable of putting an end to the persecution."Then, M. Goriot sitting there is the father of a countess," said Mme.Vauquer in a low voice."And of a baroness," answered Rastignac."That is about all he is capable of," said Bianchon to Rastignac; "Ihave taken a look at his head; there is only one bump--the bump ofPaternity; he must be an eternal father."Eugene was too intent on his thoughts to laugh at Bianchon's joke. Hedetermined to profit by Mme. de Beauseant's counsels, and was askinghimself how he could obtain the necessary money. He grew grave. The widesavannas of the world stretched before his eyes; all things lay beforehim, nothing was his. Dinner came to an end, the others went, and he wasleft in the dining-room."So you have seen my daughter?" Goriot spoke tremulously, and the soundof his voice broke in upon Eugene's dreams. The young man took theelder's hand, and looked at him with something like kindness in hiseyes."You are a good and noble man," he said. "We will have some talk aboutyour daughters by and by."He rose without waiting for Goriot's answer, and went to his room. Therehe wrote the following letter to his mother:--"My Dear Mother,--Can you nourish your child from your breastagain? I am in a position to make a rapid fortune, but I wanttwelve hundred francs--I must have them at all costs. Say nothingabout this to my father; perhaps he might make objections, andunless I have the money, I may be led to put an end to myself, andso escape the clutches of despair. I will tell you everything whenI see you. I will not begin to try to describe my presentsituation; it would take volumes to put the whole story clearlyand fully. I have not been gambling, my kind mother, I owe no onea penny; but if you would preserve the life that you gave me, youmust send me the sum I mention. As a matter of fact, I go to seethe Vicomtesse de Beauseant; she is using her influence for me; Iam obliged to go into society, and I have not a penny to lay outon clean gloves. I can manage to exist on bread and water, or gowithout food, if need be, but I cannot do without the tools withwhich they cultivate the vineyards in this country. I mustresolutely make up my mind at once to make my way, or stick in themire for the rest of my days. I know that all your hopes are seton me, and I want to realize them quickly. Sell some of your oldjewelry, my kind mother; I will give you other jewels very soon. Iknow enough of our affairs at home to know all that such asacrifice means, and you must not think that I would lightly askyou to make it; I should be a monster if I could. You must thinkof my entreaty as a cry forced from me by imperative necessity.Our whole future lies in the subsidy with which I must begin myfirst campaign, for life in Paris is one continual battle. If youcannot otherwise procure the whole of the money, and are forced tosell our aunt's lace, tell her that I will send her some stillhandsomer," and so forth.He wrote to ask each of his sisters for their savings--would theydespoil themselves for him, and keep the sacrifice a secret from thefamily? To his request he knew that they would not fail to respondgladly, and he added to it an appeal to their delicacy by touching thechord of honor that vibrates so loudly in young and high-strung natures.Yet when he had written the letters, he could not help feelingmisgivings in spite of his youthful ambition; his heart beat fast, andhe trembled. He knew the spotless nobleness of the lives buried away inthe lonely manor house; he knew what trouble and what joy his requestwould cause his sisters, and how happy they would be as they talkedat the bottom of the orchard of that dear brother of theirs in Paris.Visions rose before his eyes; a sudden strong light revealed hissisters secretly counting over their little store, devising some girlishstratagem by which the money could be sent to him incognito, essaying,for the first time in their lives, a piece of deceit that reached thesublime in its unselfishness."A sister's heart is a diamond for purity, a deep sea of tenderness!" hesaid to himself. He felt ashamed of those letters.What power there must be in the petitions put up by such hearts;how pure the fervor that bears their souls to Heaven in prayer! Whatexquisite joy they would find in self-sacrifice! What a pang for hismother's heart if she could not send him all that he asked for! And thisnoble affection, these sacrifices made at such terrible cost, were toserve as the ladder by which he meant to climb to Delphine de Nucingen.A few tears, like the last grains of incense flung upon the sacredalter fire of the hearth, fell from his eyes. He walked up and down,and despair mingled with his emotion. Father Goriot saw him through thehalf-open door."What is the matter, sir?" he asked from the threshold."Ah! my good neighbor, I am as much a son and brother as you are afather. You do well to fear for the Comtesse Anastasie; there is one M.Maxime de Trailles, who will be her ruin."Father Goriot withdrew, stammering some words, but Eugene failed tocatch their meaning.The next morning Rastignac went out to post his letters. Up to the lastmoment he wavered and doubted, but he ended by flinging them into thebox. "I shall succeed!" he said to himself. So says the gambler; so saysthe great captain; but the three words that have been the salvation ofsome few, have been the ruin of many more.A few days after this Eugene called at Mme. de Restaud's house; she wasnot at home. Three times he tried the experiment, and three times hefound her doors closed against him, though he was careful to choose anhour when M. de Trailles was not there. The Vicomtesse was right.The student studied no longer. He put in an appearance at lecturessimply to answer to his name, and after thus attesting his presence,departed forthwith. He had been through a reasoning process familiar tomost students. He had seen the advisability of deferring his studiesto the last moment before going up for his examinations; he made up hismind to cram his second and third years' work into the third year, whenhe meant to begin to work in earnest, and to complete his studies in lawwith one great effort. In the meantime he had fifteen months in which tonavigate the ocean of Paris, to spread the nets and set the lines thatwould bring him a protectress and a fortune. Twice during that week hesaw Mme. de Beauseant; he did not go to her house until he had seen theMarquis d'Ajuda drive away.Victory for yet a few more days was with the great lady, the most poeticfigure in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; and the marriage of the Marquisd'Ajuda-Pinto with Mlle. de Rochefide was postponed. The dread of losingher happiness filled those days with a fever of joy unknown before,but the end was only so much the nearer. The Marquis d'Ajuda and theRochefides agreed that this quarrel and reconciliation was a veryfortunate thing; Mme. de Beauseant (so they hoped) would graduallybecome reconciled to the idea of the marriage, and in the end would bebrought to sacrifice d'Ajuda's morning visits to the exigencies of aman's career, exigencies which she must have foreseen. In spite of themost solemn promises, daily renewed, M. d'Ajuda was playing a part,and the Vicomtesse was eager to be deceived. "Instead of taking a leapheroically from the window, she is falling headlong down the staircase,"said her most intimate friend, the Duchesse de Langeais. Yet thisafter-glow of happiness lasted long enough for the Vicomtesse to be ofservice to her young cousin. She had a half-superstitious affection forhim. Eugene had shown her sympathy and devotion at a crisis when a womansees no pity, no real comfort in any eyes; when if a man is ready withsoothing flatteries, it is because he has an interested motive.Rastignac made up his mind that he must learn the whole of Goriot'sprevious history; he would come to his bearings before attempting toboard the Maison de Nucingen. The results of his inquiries may be givenbriefly as follows:--In the days before the Revolution, Jean-Joachim Goriot was simply aworkman in the employ of a vermicelli maker. He was a skilful, thriftyworkman, sufficiently enterprising to buy his master's business whenthe latter fell a chance victim to the disturbances of 1789. Goriotestablished himself in the Rue de la Jussienne, close to the CornExchange. His plain good sense led him to accept the position ofPresident of the Section, so as to secure for his business theprotection of those in power at that dangerous epoch. This prudent stephad led to success; the foundations of his fortune were laid in the timeof the Scarcity (real or artificial), when the price of grain of allkinds rose enormously in Paris. People used to fight for bread at thebakers' doors; while other persons went to the grocers' shops and boughtItalian paste foods without brawling over it. It was during this yearthat Goriot made the money, which, at a later time, was to give himall the advantage of the great capitalist over the small buyer; he had,moreover, the usual luck of average ability; his mediocrity was thesalvation of him. He excited no one's envy, it was not even suspectedthat he was rich till the peril of being rich was over, and all hisintelligence was concentrated, not on political, but on commercialspeculations. Goriot was an authority second to none on all questionsrelating to corn, flour, and "middlings"; and the production, storage,and quality of grain. He could estimate the yield of the harvest, andforesee market prices; he bought his cereals in Sicily, and importedRussian wheat. Any one who had heard him hold forth on the regulationsthat control the importation and exportation of grain, who had seen hisgrasp of the subject, his clear insight into the principles involved,his appreciation of weak points in the way that the system worked,would have thought that here was the stuff of which a minister is made.Patient, active, and persevering, energetic and prompt in action, hesurveyed his business horizon with an eagle eye. Nothing there took himby surprise; he foresaw all things, knew all that was happening, andkept his own counsel; he was a diplomatist in his quick comprehensionof a situation; and in the routine of business he was as patient andplodding as a soldier on the march. But beyond this business horizon hecould not see. He used to spend his hours of leisure on the threshold ofhis shop, leaning against the framework of the door. Take him fromhis dark little counting-house, and he became once more the rough,slow-witted workman, a man who cannot understand a piece of reasoning,who is indifferent to all intellectual pleasures, and falls asleep atthe play, a Parisian Dolibom in short, against whose stupidity otherminds are powerless.Natures of this kind are nearly all alike; in almost all of them youwill find some hidden depth of sublime affection. Two all-absorbingaffections filled the vermicelli maker's heart to the exclusion of everyother feeling; into them he seemed to put all the forces of his nature,as he put the whole power of his brain into the corn trade. He hadregarded his wife, the only daughter of a rich farmer of La Brie, with adevout admiration; his love for her had been boundless. Goriot hadfelt the charm of a lovely and sensitive nature, which, in its delicatestrength, was the very opposite of his own. Is there any instinct moredeeply implanted in the heart of man than the pride of protection, aprotection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and defencelesscreature? Join love thereto, the warmth of gratitude that all generoussouls feel for the source of their pleasures, and you have theexplanation of many strange incongruities in human nature.After seven years of unclouded happiness, Goriot lost his wife. It wasvery unfortunate for him. She was beginning to gain an ascendency overhim in other ways; possibly she might have brought that barren soilunder cultivation, she might have widened his ideas and given otherdirections to his thoughts. But when she was dead, the instinct offatherhood developed in him till it almost became a mania. All theaffection balked by death seemed to turn to his daughters, and he foundfull satisfaction for his heart in loving them. More or less brilliantproposals were made to him from time to time; wealthy merchants orfarmers with daughters vied with each other in offering inducementsto him to marry again; but he determined to remain a widower. Hisfather-in-law, the only man for whom he felt a decided friendship, gaveout that Goriot had made a vow to be faithful to his wife's memory. Thefrequenters of the Corn Exchange, who could not comprehend this sublimepiece of folly, joked about it among themselves, and found a ridiculousnickname for him. One of them ventured (after a glass over a bargain)to call him by it, and a blow from the vermicelli maker's fist sent himheadlong into a gutter in the Rue Oblin. He could think of nothing elsewhen his children were concerned; his love for them made him fidgetyand anxious; and this was so well known, that one day a competitor, whowished to get rid of him to secure the field to himself, told Goriotthat Delphine had just been knocked down by a cab. The vermicelli makerturned ghastly pale, left the Exchange at once, and did not return forseveral days afterwards; he was ill in consequence of the shock and thesubsequent relief on discovering that it was a false alarm. This time,however, the offender did not escape with a bruised shoulder; at acritical moment in the man's affairs, Goriot drove him into bankruptcy,and forced him to disappear from the Corn Exchange.As might have been expected, the two girls were spoiled. With an incomeof sixty thousand francs, Goriot scarcely spent twelve hundred onhimself, and found all his happiness in satisfying the whims of the twogirls. The best masters were engaged, that Anastasie and Delphinemight be endowed with all the accomplishments which distinguish a goodeducation. They had a chaperon--luckily for them, she was a womanwho had good sense and good taste;--they learned to ride; they had acarriage for their use; they lived as the mistress of a rich old lordmight live; they had only to express a wish, their father would hastento give them their most extravagant desires, and asked nothing of themin return but a kiss. Goriot had raised the two girls to the level ofthe angels; and, quite naturally, he himself was left beneath them. Poorman! he loved them even for the pain that they gave him.When the girls were old enough to be married, they were left free tochoose for themselves. Each had half her father's fortune as her dowry;and when the Comte de Restaud came to woo Anastasie for her beauty,her social aspirations led her to leave her father's house for a moreexalted sphere. Delphine wished for money; she married Nucingen, abanker of German extraction, who became a Baron of the Holy RomanEmpire. Goriot remained a vermicelli maker as before. His daughtersand his sons-in-law began to demur; they did not like to see him stillengaged in trade, though his whole life was bound up with his business.For five years he stood out against their entreaties, then he yielded,and consented to retire on the amount realized by the sale of hisbusiness and the savings of the last few years. It was this capitalthat Mme. Vauquer, in the early days of his residence with her, hadcalculated would bring in eight or ten thousand livres in a year. He hadtaken refuge in her lodging-house, driven there by despair when he knewthat his daughters were compelled by their husbands not only to refuseto receive him as an inmate in their houses, but even to see him no moreexcept in private.This was all the information which Rastignac gained from a M. Muretwho had purchased Goriot's business, information which confirmedthe Duchesse de Langeais' suppositions, and herewith the preliminaryexplanation of this obscure but terrible Parisian tragedy comes to anend.Towards the end of the first week in December Rastignac received twoletters--one from his mother, and one from his eldest sister. His heartbeat fast, half with happiness, half with fear, at the sight of thefamiliar handwriting. Those two little scraps of paper contained lifeor death for his hopes. But while he felt a shiver of dread as heremembered their dire poverty at home, he knew their love for him sowell that he could not help fearing that he was draining their verylife-blood. His mother's letter ran as follows:--"MY DEAR CHILD,--I am sending you the money that you asked for.Make a good use of it. Even to save your life I could not raise solarge a sum a second time without your father's knowledge, andthere would be trouble about it. We should be obliged to mortgagethe land. It is impossible to judge of the merits of schemes ofwhich I am ignorant; but what sort of schemes can they be, thatyou should fear to tell me about them? Volumes of explanationwould not have been needed; we mothers can understand at a word,and that word would have spared me the anguish of uncertainty. Ido not know how to hide the painful impression that your letterhas made upon me, my dear son. What can you have felt when youwere moved to send this chill of dread through my heart? It musthave been very painful to you to write the letter that gave me somuch pain as I read it. To what courses are you committed? You aregoing to appear to be something that you are not, and your wholelife and success depends upon this? You are about to see a societyinto which you cannot enter without rushing into expense that youcannot afford, without losing precious time that is needed foryour studies. Ah! my dear Eugene, believe your mother, crookedways cannot lead to great ends. Patience and endurance are the twoqualities most needed in your position. I am not scolding you; Ido not want any tinge of bitterness to spoil our offering. I amonly talking like a mother whose trust in you is as great as herforesight for you. You know the steps that you must take, and I,for my part, know the purity of heart, and how good yourintentions are; so I can say to you without a doubt, 'Go forward,beloved!' If I tremble, it is because I am a mother, but myprayers and blessings will be with you at every step. Be verycareful, dear boy. You must have a man's prudence, for it lieswith you to shape the destinies of five others who are dear toyou, and must look to you. Yes, our fortunes depend upon you, andyour success is ours. We all pray to God to be with you in allthat you do. Your aunt Marcillac has been most generous beyondwords in this matter; she saw at once how it was, even down toyour gloves. 'But I have a weakness for the eldest!' she saidgaily. You must love your aunt very much, dear Eugene. I shallwait till you have succeeded before telling you all that she hasdone for you, or her money would burn your fingers. You, who areyoung, do not know what it is to part with something that is apiece of your past! But what would we not sacrifice for yoursakes? Your aunt says that I am to send you a kiss on the foreheadfrom her, and that kiss is to bring you luck again and again, shesays. She would have written you herself, the dear kind-heartedwoman, but she is troubled with the gout in her fingers just now.Your father is very well. The vintage of 1819 has turned outbetter than we expected. Good-bye, dear boy; I will say nothingabout your sisters, because Laure is writing to you, and I mustlet her have the pleasure of giving you all the home news. Heavensend that you may succeed! Oh! yes, dear Eugene, you must succeed.I have come, through you, to a knowledge of a pain so sharp that Ido not think I could endure it a second time. I have come to knowwhat it is to be poor, and to long for money for my children'ssake. There, good-bye! Do not leave us for long without news ofyou; and here, at the last, take a kiss from your mother."By the time Eugene had finished the letter he was in tears. He thoughtof Father Goriot crushing his silver keepsake into a shapeless massbefore he sold it to meet his daughter's bill of exchange."Your mother has broken up her jewels for you," he said to himself;"your aunt shed tears over those relics of hers before she sold themfor your sake. What right have you to heap execrations on Anastasie? Youhave followed her example; you have selfishly sacrificed others to yourown future, and she sacrifices her father to her lover; and of you two,which is the worse?"He was ready to renounce his attempts; he could not bear to takethat money. The fires of remorse burned in his heart, and gave himintolerable pain, the generous secret remorse which men seldom take intoaccount when they sit in judgment upon their fellow-men; but perhapsthe angels in heaven, beholding it, pardon the criminal whom our justicecondemns. Rastignac opened his sister's letter; its simplicity andkindness revived his heart."Your letter came just at the right time, dear brother. Agathe andI had thought of so many different ways of spending our money,that we did not know what to buy with it; and now you have comein, and, like the servant who upset all the watches that belongedto the King of Spain, you have restored harmony; for, really andtruly, we did not know which of all the things we wanted we wantedmost, and we were always quarreling about it, never thinking, dearEugene, of a way of spending our money which would satisfy uscompletely. Agathe jumped for you. Indeed, we have been like twomad things all day, 'to such a prodigious degree' (as aunt wouldsay), that mother said, with her severe expression, 'Whatever canbe the matter with you, mesdemoiselles?' I think if we had beenscolded a little, we should have been still better pleased. Awoman ought to be very glad to suffer for one she loves! I,however, in my inmost soul, was doleful and cross in the midst ofall my joy. I shall make a bad wife, I am afraid, I am too fond ofspending. I had bought two sashes and a nice little stiletto forpiercing eyelet-holes in my stays, trifles that I really did notwant, so that I have less than that slow-coach Agathe, who is soeconomical, and hoards her money like a magpie. She had twohundred francs! And I have only one hundred and fifty! I am nicelypunished; I could throw my sash down the well; it will be painfulto me to wear it now. Poor dear, I have robbed you. And Agathe wasso nice about it. She said, 'Let us send the three hundred andfifty francs in our two names!' But I could not help telling youeverything just as it happened.""Do you know how we managed to keep your commandments? We took ourglittering hoard, we went out for a walk, and when once fairly onthe highway we ran all the way to Ruffec, where we handed over thecoin, without more ado, to M. Grimbert of the Messageries Royales.We came back again like swallows on the wing. 'Don't you thinkthat happiness has made us lighter?' Agathe said. We said allsorts of things, which I shall not tell you, Monsieur le Parisien,because they were all about you. Oh, we love you dearly, dearbrother; it was all summed up in those few words. As for keepingthe secret, little masqueraders like us are capable of anything(according to our aunt), even of holding our tongues. Our motherhas been on a mysterious journey to Angouleme, and the aunt wentwith her, not without solemn councils, from which we were shutout, and M. le Baron likewise. They are silent as to the weightypolitical considerations that prompted their mission, andconjectures are rife in the State of Rastignac. The Infantas areembroidering a muslin robe with open-work sprigs for her Majestythe Queen; the work progresses in the most profound secrecy. Therebe but two more breadths to finish. A decree has gone forth thatno wall shall be built on the side of Verteuil, but that a hedgeshall be planted instead thereof. Our subjects may sustain somedisappointment of fruit and espaliers, but strangers will enjoya fair prospect. Should the heir-presumptive lackpocket-handkerchiefs, be it known unto him that the dowager Ladyof Marcillac, exploring the recesses of her drawers and boxes(known respectively as Pompeii and Herculaneum), having brought tolight a fair piece of cambric whereof she wotted not, the PrincessesAgathe and Laure place at their brother's disposal their thread,their needles, and hands somewhat of the reddest. The two youngPrinces, Don Henri and Don Gabriel, retain their fatal habits ofstuffing themselves with grape-jelly, of teasing their sisters, oftaking their pleasure by going a-bird-nesting, and of cuttingswitches for themselves from the osier-beds, maugre the laws ofthe realm. Moreover, they list not to learn naught, wherefore thePapal Nuncio (called of the commonalty, M. le Cure) threateneththem with excommunication, since that they neglect the sacredcanons of grammatical construction for the construction of othercanon, deadly engines made of the stems of elder.""Farewell, dear brother, never did letter carry so many wishes foryour success, so much love fully satisfied. You will have a greatdeal to tell us when you come home! You will tell me everything,won't you? I am the oldest. From something the aunt let fall, wethink you must have had some success.""Something was said of a lady, but nothing more was said...""Of course not, in our family! Oh, by-the-by, Eugene, would yourather that we made that piece of cambric into shirts for youinstead of pocket-handkerchiefs? If you want some really niceshirts at once, we ought to lose no time in beginning upon them;and if the fashion is different now in Paris, send us one for apattern; we want more particularly to know about the cuffs. Good-bye! Good-bye! Take my kiss on the left side of your forehead, onthe temple that belongs to me, and to no one else in the world. Iam leaving the other side of the sheet for Agathe, who hassolemnly promised not to read a word that I have written; but, allthe same, I mean to sit by her side while she writes, so as to bequite sure that she keeps her word.--Your loving sister,"LAURE DE RASTIGNAC.""Yes!" said Eugene to himself. "Yes! Success at all costs now! Richescould not repay such devotion as this. I wish I could give them everysort of happiness! Fifteen hundred and fifty francs," he went on after apause. "Every shot must go to the mark! Laure is right. Trust a woman!I have only calico shirts. Where some one else's welfare is concerned, ayoung girl becomes as ingenious as a thief. Guileless where she herselfis in question, and full of foresight for me,--she is like a heavenlyangel forgiving the strange incomprehensible sins of earth."The world lay before him. His tailor had been summoned and sounded, andhad finally surrendered. When Rastignac met M. de Trailles, he had seenat once how great a part the tailor plays in a young man's career; atailor is either a deadly enemy or a staunch friend, with an invoicefor a bond of friendship; between these two extremes there is, alack! nomiddle term. In this representative of his craft Eugene discovered a manwho understood that his was a sort of paternal function for young menat their entrance into life, who regarded himself as a stepping-stonebetween a young man's present and future. And Rastignac in gratitudemade the man's fortune by an epigram of a kind in which he excelled at alater period of his life."I have twice known a pair of trousers turned out by him make a match oftwenty thousand livres a year!"Fifteen hundred francs, and as many suits of clothes as he chose toorder! At that moment the poor child of the South felt no more doubts ofany kind. The young man went down to breakfast with the indefinable airwhich the consciousness of the possession of money gives to youth. Nosooner are the coins slipped into a student's pocket than his wealth,in imagination at least, is piled into a fantastic column, which affordshim a moral support. He begins to hold up his head as he walks; he isconscious that he has a means of bringing his powers to bear on a givenpoint; he looks you straight in the face; his gestures are quick anddecided; only yesterday he was diffident and shy, any one might havepushed him aside; to-morrow, he will take the wall of a prime minister.A miracle has been wrought in him. Nothing is beyond the reach ofhis ambition, and his ambition soars at random; he is light-hearted,generous, and enthusiastic; in short, the fledgling bird has discoveredthat he has wings. A poor student snatches at every chance pleasuremuch as a dog runs all sorts of risks to steal a bone, cracking it andsucking the marrow as he flies from pursuit; but a young man who canrattle a few runaway gold coins in his pocket can take his pleasuredeliberately, can taste the whole of the sweets of secure possession; hesoars far above earth; he has forgotten what the word poverty means;all Paris is his. Those are days when the whole world shines radiantwith light, when everything glows and sparkles before the eyes of youth,days that bring joyous energy that is never brought into harness, daysof debts and of painful fears that go hand in hand with every delight.Those who do not know the left bank of the Seine between the RueSaint-Jacques and the Rue des Saints-Peres know nothing of life."Ah! if the women of Paris but knew," said Rastignac, as he devouredMme. Vauquer's stewed pears (at five for a penny), "they would come herein search of a lover."Just then a porter from the Messageries Royales appeared at the door ofthe room; they had previously heard the bell ring as the wicket openedto admit him. The man asked for M. Eugene de Rastignac, holding out twobags for him to take, and a form of receipt for his signature. Vautrin'skeen glance cut Eugene like a lash."Now you will be able to pay for those fencing lessons and go to theshooting gallery," he said."Your ship has come in," said Mme. Vauquer, eyeing the bags.Mlle. Michonneau did not dare to look at the money, for fear her eyesshould betray her cupidity."You have a kind mother," said Mme. Couture."You have a kind mother, sir," echoed Poiret."Yes, mamma has been drained dry," said Vautrin, "and now you can haveyour fling, go into society, and fish for heiresses, and dance withcountesses who have peach blossom in their hair. But take my advice,young man, and don't neglect your pistol practice."Vautrin struck an attitude, as if he were facing an antagonist.Rastignac, meaning to give the porter a tip, felt in his pockets andfound nothing. Vautrin flung down a franc piece on the table."Your credit is good," he remarked, eyeing the student, and Rastignacwas forced to thank him, though, since the sharp encounter of wits atdinner that day, after Eugene came in from calling on Mme. de Beauseant,he had made up his mind that Vautrin was insufferable. For a week, infact, they had both kept silence in each other's presence, and watchedeach other. The student tried in vain to account to himself for thisattitude.An idea, of course, gains in force by the energy with which itis expressed; it strikes where the brain sends it, by a law asmathematically exact as the law that determines the course of a shellfrom a mortar. The amount of impression it makes is not to be determinedso exactly. Sometimes, in an impressible nature, the idea works havoc,but there are, no less, natures so robustly protected, that this sortof projectile falls flat and harmless on skulls of triple brass,as cannon-shot against solid masonry; then there are flaccid andspongy-fibred natures into which ideas from without sink like spentbullets into the earthworks of a redoubt. Rastignac's head was somethingof the powder-magazine order; the least shock sufficed to bring about anexplosion. He was too quick, too young, not to be readily accessibleto ideas; and open to that subtle influence of thought and feeling inothers which causes so many strange phenomena that make an impressionupon us of which we are all unconscious at the time. Nothing escaped hismental vision; he was lynx-eyed; in him the mental powers of perception,which seem like duplicates of the senses, had the mysterious powerof swift projection that astonishes us in intellects of a highorder--slingers who are quick to detect the weak spot in any armor.In the past month Eugene's good qualities and defects had rapidlydeveloped with his character. Intercourse with the world and theendeavor to satisfy his growing desires had brought out his defects.But Rastignac came from the South side of the Loire, and had the goodqualities of his countrymen. He had the impetuous courage of the South,that rushes to the attack of a difficulty, as well as the southernimpatience of delay or suspense. These traits are held to be defects inthe North; they made the fortune of Murat, but they likewise cut shorthis career. The moral would appear to be that when the dash and boldnessof the South side of the Loire meets, in a southern temperament, withthe guile of the North, the character is complete, and such a man willgain (and keep) the crown of Sweden.Rastignac, therefore, could not stand the fire from Vautrin's batteriesfor long without discovering whether this was a friend or a foe. He feltas if this strange being was reading his inmost soul, and dissectinghis feelings, while Vautrin himself was so close and secretive thathe seemed to have something of the profound and unmoved serenity ofa sphinx, seeing and hearing all things and saying nothing. Eugene,conscious of that money in his pocket, grew rebellious."Be so good as to wait a moment," he said to Vautrin, as the latterrose, after slowly emptying his coffee-cup, sip by sip."What for?" inquired the older man, as he put on his large-brimmed hatand took up the sword-cane that he was wont to twirl like a man who willface three or four footpads without flinching."I will repay you in a minute," returned Eugene. He unsealed one of thebags as he spoke, counted out a hundred and forty francs, and pushedthem towards Mme. Vauquer. "Short reckonings make good friends" headded, turning to the widow; "that clears our accounts till the end ofthe year. Can you give me change for a five-franc piece?""Good friends make short reckonings," echoed Poiret, with a glance atVautrin."Here is your franc," said Rastignac, holding out the coin to the sphinxin the black wig."Any one might think that you were afraid to owe me a trifle," exclaimedthis latter, with a searching glance that seemed to read the young man'sinmost thoughts; there was a satirical and cynical smile on Vautrin'sface such as Eugene had seen scores of times already; every time he sawit, it exasperated him almost beyond endurance."Well... so I am," he answered. He held both the bags in his hand, andhad risen to go up to his room.Vautrin made as if he were going out through the sitting-room, and thestudent turned to go through the second door that opened into the squarelobby at the foot of the staircase."Do you know, Monsieur le Marquis de Rastignacorama, that what you weresaying just now was not exactly polite?" Vautrin remarked, as he rattledhis sword-cane across the panels of the sitting-room door, and came upto the student.Rastignac looked coolly at Vautrin, drew him to the foot of thestaircase, and shut the dining-room door. They were standing in thelittle square lobby between the kitchen and the dining-room; the placewas lighted by an iron-barred fanlight above a door that gave accessinto the garden. Sylvie came out of her kitchen, and Eugene chose thatmoment to say:"Monsieur Vautrin, I am not a marquis, and my name is notRastignacorama.""They will fight," said Mlle. Michonneau, in an indifferent tone."Fight!" echoed Poiret."Not they," replied Mme. Vauquer, lovingly fingering her pile of coins."But there they are under the lime-trees," cried Mlle. Victorine, whohad risen so that she might see out into the garden. "Poor young man! hewas in the right, after all.""We must go upstairs, my pet," said Mme. Couture; "it is no business ofours."At the door, however, Mme. Couture and Victorine found their progressbarred by the portly form of Sylvie the cook."What ever can have happened?" she said. "M. Vautrin said to M. Eugene,'Let us have an explanation!' then he took him by the arm, and therethey are, out among the artichokes."Vautrin came in while she was speaking. "Mamma Vauquer," he saidsmiling, "don't frighten yourself at all. I am only going to try mypistols under the lime-trees.""Oh! monsieur," cried Victorine, clasping her hands as she spoke, "whydo you want to kill M. Eugene?"Vautrin stepped back a pace or two, and gazed at Victorine."Oh! this is something fresh!" he exclaimed in a bantering tone, thatbrought the color into the poor girl's face. "That young fellow yonderis very nice, isn't he?" he went on. "You have given me a notion, mypretty child; I will make you both happy."Mme. Couture laid her hand on the arm of her ward, and drew the girlaway, as she said in her ear:"Why, Victorine, I cannot imagine what has come over you this morning.""I don't want any shots fired in my garden," said Mme. Vauquer. "Youwill frighten the neighborhood and bring the police up here all in amoment.""Come, keep cool, Mamma Vauquer," answered Vautrin. "There, there; it'sall right; we will go to the shooting-gallery."He went back to Rastignac, laying his hand familiarly on the young man'sarm."When I have given you ocular demonstration of the fact that I can puta bullet through the ace on a card five times running at thirty-fivepaces," he said, "that won't take away your appetite, I suppose? Youlook to me to be inclined to be a trifle quarrelsome this morning, andas if you would rush on your death like a blockhead.""Do you draw back?" asked Eugene."Don't try to raise my temperature," answered Vautrin, "it is not coldthis morning. Let us go and sit over there," he added, pointing to thegreen-painted garden seats; "no one can overhear us. I want a littletalk with you. You are not a bad sort of youngster, and I have noquarrel with you. I like you, take Trump--(confound it!)--take Vautrin'sword for it. What makes me like you? I will tell you by-and-by.Meantime, I can tell you that I know you as well as if I had made youmyself, as I will prove to you in a minute. Put down your bags," hecontinued, pointing to the round table.Rastignac deposited his money on the table, and sat down. He wasconsumed with curiosity, which the sudden change in the manner of theman before him had excited to the highest pitch. Here was a strangebeing who, a moment ago, had talked of killing him, and now posed as hisprotector."You would like to know who I really am, what I was, and what I do now,"Vautrin went on. "You want to know too much, youngster. Come! come! keepcool! You will hear more astonishing things than that. I have hadmy misfortunes. Just hear me out first, and you shall have your turnafterwards. Here is my past in three words. Who am I? Vautrin. What doI do? Just what I please. Let us change the subject. You want to know mycharacter. I am good-natured to those who do me a good turn, or to thosewhose hearts speak to mine. These last may do anything they like withme; they may bruise my shins, and I shall not tell them to 'mind whatthey are about'; but, nom d'une pipe, the devil himself is not anuglier customer than I can be if people annoy me, or if I don't happento take to them; and you may just as well know at once that I think nomore of killing a man than of that," and he spat before him as he spoke."Only when it is absolutely necessary to do so, I do my best to kill himproperly. I am what you call an artist. I have read Benvenuto Cellini'sMemoirs, such as you see me; and, what is more, in Italian: Afine-spirited fellow he was! From him I learned to follow the exampleset us by Providence, who strikes us down at random, and to admirethe beautiful whenever and wherever it is found. And, setting otherquestions aside, is it not a glorious part to play, when you pityourself against mankind, and the luck is on your side? I have thoughta good deal about the constitution of your present social Dis-order. Aduel is downright childish, my boy! utter nonsense and folly! When oneof two living men must be got out of the way, none but an idiotwould leave chance to decide which it is to be; and in a duel it is atoss-up--heads or tails--and there you are! Now I, for instance, canhit the ace in the middle of a card five times running, send one bulletafter another through the same hole, and at thirty-five paces, moreover!With that little accomplishment you might think yourself certain ofkilling your man, mightn't you. Well, I have fired, at twenty paces, andmissed, and the rogue who had never handled a pistol in his life--lookhere!"--(he unbuttoned his waistcoat and exposed his chest, covered,like a bear's back, with a shaggy fell; the student gave a startledshudder)--"he was a raw lad, but he made his mark on me," theextraordinary man went on, drawing Rastignac's fingers over a deep scaron his breast. "But that happened when I myself was a mere boy; I wasone-and-twenty then (your age), and I had some beliefs left--in awoman's love, and in a pack of rubbish that you will be over head andears in directly. You and I were to have fought just now, weren't we?You might have killed me. Suppose that I were put under the earth, wherewould you be? You would have to clear out of this, go to Switzerland,draw on papa's purse--and he has none too much in it as it is. I mean toopen your eyes to your real position, that is what I am going to do: butI shall do it from the point of view of a man who, after studying theworld very closely, sees that there are but two alternatives--stupidobedience or revolt. I obey nobody; is that clear? Now, do you know howmuch you will want at the pace you are going? A million; and promptly,too, or that little head of ours will be swaying to and fro in thedrag-nets at Saint-Cloud, while we are gone to find out whether or nothere is a Supreme Being. I will put you in the way of that million."He stopped for a moment and looked at Eugene."Aha! you do not look so sourly at papa Vautrin now! At the mention ofthe million you look like a young girl when somebody has said, 'I willcome for you this evening!' and she betakes herself to her toilette as acat licks its whiskers over a saucer of milk. All right. Come, now, letus go into the question, young man; all between ourselves, you know.We have a papa and mamma down yonder, a great-aunt, two sisters (agedeighteen and seventeen), two young brothers (one fifteen, and the otherten), that is about the roll-call of the crew. The aunt brings up thetwo sisters; the cure comes and teaches the boys Latin. Boiled chestnutsare oftener on the table than white bread. Papa makes a suit of clotheslast a long while; if mamma has a different dress winter and summer, itis about as much as she has; the sisters manage as best they can. I knowall about it; I have lived in the south."That is how things are at home. They send you twelve hundred francs ayear, and the whole property only brings in three thousand francs alltold. We have a cook and a manservant; papa is a baron, and we must keepup appearances. Then we have our ambitions; we are connected with theBeauseants, and we go afoot through the streets; we want to be rich,and we have not a penny; we eat Mme. Vauquer's messes, and we like granddinners in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; we sleep on a truckle-bed, anddream of a mansion! I do not blame you for wanting these things. Whatsort of men do the women run after? Men of ambition. Men of ambitionhave stronger frames, their blood is richer in iron, their hearts arewarmer than those of ordinary men. Women feel that when their power isgreatest, they look their best, and that those are their happiest hours;they like power in men, and prefer the strongest even if it is a powerthat may be their own destruction. I am going to make an inventory ofyour desires in order to put the question at issue before you. Here itis:--"We are as hungry as a wolf, and those newly-cut teeth of ours aresharp; what are we to do to keep the pot boiling? In the first place,we have the Code to browse upon; it is not amusing, and we are none thewiser for it, but that cannot be helped. So far so good. We mean to makean advocate of ourselves with a prospect of one day being made Presidentof a Court of Assize, when we shall send poor devils, our betters, tothe galleys with a T.F.[*] on their shoulders, so that the rich may beconvinced that they can sleep in peace. There is no fun in that; and youare a long while coming to it; for, to begin with, there are two yearsof nauseous drudgery in Paris, we see all the lollipops that we long forout of our reach. It is tiresome to want things and never to have them.If you were a pallid creature of the mollusk order, you would havenothing to fear, but it is different when you have the hot blood ofa lion and are ready to get into a score of scrapes every day of yourlife. This is the ghastliest form of torture known in this inferno ofGod's making, and you will give in to it. Or suppose that you are a goodboy, drink nothing stronger than milk, and bemoan your hard lot; you,with your generous nature, will endure hardships that would drive a dogmad, and make a start, after long waiting, as deputy to some rascalor other in a hole of a place where the Government will fling you athousand francs a year like the scraps that are thrown to the butcher'sdog. Bark at thieves, plead the cause of the rich, send men of heartto the guillotine, that is your work! Many thanks! If you have noinfluence, you may rot in your provincial tribunal. At thirty you willbe a Justice with twelve hundred francs a year (if you have not flungoff the gown for good before then). By the time you are forty you maylook to marry a miller's daughter, an heiress with some six thousandlivres a year. Much obliged! If you have influence, you may possiblybe a Public Prosecutor by the time you are thirty; with a salary ofa thousand crowns, you could look to marry the mayor's daughter. Somepetty piece of political trickery, such as mistaking Villele for Manuelin a bulletin (the names rhyme, and that quiets your conscience), andyou will probably be a Procureur General by the time you are forty, witha chance of becoming a deputy. Please to observe, my dear boy, that ourconscience will have been a little damaged in the process, and that weshall endure twenty years of drudgery and hidden poverty, and thatour sisters are wearing Dian's livery. I have the honor to call yourattention to another fact: to wit, that there are but twenty ProcureursGeneraux at a time in all France, while there are some twenty thousandof you young men who aspire to that elevated position; that there aresome mountebanks among you who would sell their family to screw theirfortunes a peg higher. If this sort of thing sickens you, try anothercourse. The Baron de Rastignac thinks of becoming an advocate, does he?There's a nice prospect for you! Ten years of drudgery straight away.You are obliged to live at the rate of a thousand francs a month; youmust have a library of law books, live in chambers, go into society, godown on your knees to ask a solicitor for briefs, lick the dust offthe floor of the Palais de Justice. If this kind of business led toanything, I should not say no; but just give me the names of fiveadvocates here in Paris who by the time that they are fifty are makingfifty thousand francs a year! Bah! I would sooner turn pirate on thehigh seas than have my soul shrivel up inside me like that. How willyou find the capital? There is but one way, marry a woman who has money.There is no fun in it. Have you a mind to marry? You hang a stone aroundyour neck; for if you marry for money, what becomes of our exaltednotions of honor and so forth? You might as well fly in the face ofsocial conventions at once. Is it nothing to crawl like a serpent beforeyour wife, to lick her mother's feet, to descend to dirty actionsthat would sicken swine--faugh!--never mind if you at least make yourfortune. But you will be as doleful as a dripstone if you marry formoney. It is better to wrestle with men than to wrangle at home withyour wife. You are at the crossway of the roads of life, my boy; chooseyour way.[*] Travaux forces, forced labour."But you have chosen already. You have gone to see your cousin ofBeauseant, and you have had an inkling of luxury; you have been to Mme.de Restaud's house, and in Father Goriot's daughter you have seen aglimpse of the Parisienne for the first time. That day you cameback with a word written on your forehead. I knew it, I could readit--'Success!' Yes, success at any price. 'Bravo,' said I to myself,'here is the sort of fellow for me.' You wanted money. Where was it allto come from? You have drained your sisters' little hoard (all brotherssponge more or less on their sisters). Those fifteen hundred francs ofyours (got together, God knows how! in a country where there are morechestnuts than five-franc pieces) will slip away like soldiers afterpillage. And, then, what will you do? Shall you begin to work? Work, orwhat you understand by work at this moment, means, for a man of Poiret'scalibre, an old age in Mamma Vauquer's lodging-house. There are fiftythousand young men in your position at this moment, all bent as you areon solving one and the same problem--how to acquire a fortune rapidly.You are but a unit in that aggregate. You can guess, therefore, whatefforts you must make, how desperate the struggle is. There are notfifty thousand good positions for you; you must fight and devour oneanother like spiders in a pot. Do you know how a man makes his way here?By brilliant genius or by skilful corruption. You must either cut yourway through these masses of men like a cannon ball, or steal among themlike a plague. Honesty is nothing to the purpose. Men bow before thepower of genius; they hate it, and try to slander it, because geniusdoes not divide the spoil; but if genius persists, they bow before it.To sum it all up in a phrase, if they fail to smother genius in the mud,they fall on their knees and worship it. Corruption is a great powerin the world, and talent is scarce. So corruption is the weapon ofsuperfluous mediocrity; you will be made to feel the point of iteverywhere. You will see women who spend more than ten thousand francsa year on dress, while their husband's salary (his whole income) issix thousand francs. You will see officials buying estates on twelvethousand francs a year. You will see women who sell themselves body andsoul to drive in a carriage belonging to the son of a peer of France,who has a right to drive in the middle rank at Longchamp. You haveseen that poor simpleton of a Goriot obliged to meet a bill with hisdaughter's name at the back of it, though her husband has fifty thousandfrancs a year. I defy you to walk a couple of yards anywhere in Pariswithout stumbling on some infernal complication. I'll bet my head toa head of that salad that you will stir up a hornet's nest by taking afancy to the first young, rich, and pretty woman you meet. They are alldodging the law, all at loggerheads with their husbands. If I were tobegin to tell you all that vanity or necessity (virtue is not oftenmixed up in it, you may be sure), all that vanity and necessity drivethem to do for lovers, finery, housekeeping, or children, I should nevercome to an end. So an honest man is the common enemy."But do you know what an honest man is? Here, in Paris, an honest man isthe man who keeps his own counsel, and will not divide the plunder. I amnot speaking now of those poor bond-slaves who do the work of the worldwithout a reward for their toil--God Almighty's outcasts, I call them.Among them, I grant you, is virtue in all the flower of its stupidity,but poverty is no less their portion. At this moment, I think I see thelong faces those good folk would pull if God played a practical joke onthem and stayed away at the Last Judgment."Well, then, if you mean to make a fortune quickly, you must either berich to begin with, or make people believe that you are rich. It is nouse playing here except for high stakes; once take to low play, it isall up with you. If in the scores of professions that are open to you,there are ten men who rise very rapidly, people are sure to call themthieves. You can draw your own conclusions. Such is life. It is nocleaner than a kitchen; it reeks like a kitchen; and if you mean tocook your dinner, you must expect to soil your hands; the real art isin getting them clean again, and therein lies the whole morality of ourepoch. If I take this tone in speaking of the world to you, I have theright to do so; I know it well. Do you think that I am blaming it? Farfrom it; the world has always been as it is now. Moralists' strictureswill never change it. Mankind are not perfect, but one age is moreor less hypocritical than another, and then simpletons say that itsmorality is high or low. I do not think that the rich are any worse thanthe poor; man is much the same, high or low, or wherever he is. In amillion of these human cattle there may be half a score of bold spiritswho rise above the rest, above the laws; I am one of them. And you, ifyou are cleverer than your fellows, make straight to your end, and holdyour head high. But you must lay your account with envy and slander andmediocrity, and every man's hand will be against you. Napoleon met witha Minister of War, Aubry by name, who all but sent him to the colonies."Feel your pulse. Think whether you can get up morning after morning,strengthened in yesterday's purpose. In that case I will make you anoffer that no one would decline. Listen attentively. You see, I have anidea of my own. My idea is to live a patriarchal life on a vast estate,say a hundred thousand acres, somewhere in the Southern States ofAmerica. I mean to be a planter, to have slaves, to make a few snugmillions by selling my cattle, timber, and tobacco; I want to live anabsolute monarch, and to do just as I please; to lead such a life as noone here in these squalid dens of lath and plaster ever imagines. I am agreat poet; I do not write my poems, I feel them, and act them. At thismoment I have fifty thousand francs, which might possibly buy fortynegroes. I want two hundred thousand francs, because I want to havetwo hundred negroes to carry out my notions of the patriarachal lifeproperly. Negroes, you see, are like a sort of family ready grown, andthere are no inquisitive public prosecutors out there to interfere withyou. That investment in ebony ought to mean three or four million francsin ten years' time. If I am successful, no one will ask me who I am. Ishall be Mr. Four Millions, an American citizen. I shall be fifty yearsold by then, and sound and hearty still; I shall enjoy life after my ownfashion. In two words, if I find you an heiress with a million, will yougive me two hundred thousand francs? Twenty per cent commission, eh? Isthat too much? Your little wife will be very much in love with you. Oncemarried, you will show signs of uneasiness and remorse; for a couple ofweeks you will be depressed. Then, some night after sundry grimacings,comes the confession, between two kisses, 'Two hundred thousand francsof debts, my darling!' This sort of farce is played every day in Paris,and by young men of the highest fashion. When a young wife has given herheart, she will not refuse her purse. Perhaps you are thinking thatyou will lose the money for good? Not you. You will make two hundredthousand francs again by some stroke of business. With your capital andyour brains you should be able to accumulate as large a fortune as youcould wish. Ergo, in six months you will have made your own fortune,and our old friend Vautrin's, and made an amiable woman very happy, tosay nothing of your people at home, who must blow on their fingersto warm them, in the winter, for lack of firewood. You need not besurprised at my proposal, nor at the demand I make. Forty-seven outof every sixty great matches here in Paris are made after just such abargain as this. The Chamber of Notaries compels my gentleman to----""What must I do?" said Rastignac, eagerly interrupting Vautrin's speech."Next to nothing," returned the other, with a slight involuntarymovement, the suppressed exultation of the angler when he feels a biteat the end of his line. "Follow me carefully! The heart of a girl whoselife is wretched and unhappy is a sponge that will thirstily absorblove; a dry sponge that swells at the first drop of sentiment. If youpay court to a young girl whose existence is a compound of loneliness,despair, and poverty, and who has no suspicion that she will come intoa fortune, good Lord! it is quint and quatorze at piquet; it is knowingthe numbers of the lottery before-hand; it is speculating in the fundswhen you have news from a sure source; it is building up a marriage onan indestructible foundation. The girl may come in for millions, and shewill fling them, as if they were so many pebbles, at your feet. 'Takeit, my beloved! Take it, Alfred, Adolphe, Eugene!' or whoever itwas that showed his sense by sacrificing himself for her. And as forsacrificing himself, this is how I understand it. You sell a coat thatis getting shabby, so that you can take her to the Cadran bleu, treather to mushrooms on toast, and then go to the Ambigu-Comique in theevening; you pawn your watch to buy her a shawl. I need not remind youof the fiddle-faddle sentimentality that goes down so well with allwomen; you spill a few drops of water on your stationery, for instance;those are the tears you shed while far away from her. You look to me asif you were perfectly acquainted with the argot of the heart. Paris, yousee, is like a forest in the New World, where you have to deal witha score of varieties of savages--Illinois and Hurons, who live on theproceed of their social hunting. You are a hunter of millions; you setyour snares; you use lures and nets; there are many ways of hunting.Some hunt heiresses, others a legacy; some fish for souls, yet otherssell their clients, bound hand and foot. Every one who comes back fromthe chase with his game-bag well filled meets with a warm welcome ingood society. In justice to this hospitable part of the world, it mustbe said that you have to do with the most easy and good-natured ofgreat cities. If the proud aristocracies of the rest of Europe refuseadmittance among their ranks to a disreputable millionaire, Parisstretches out a hand to him, goes to his banquets, eats his dinners, andhobnobs with his infamy.""But where is such a girl to be found?" asked Eugene."Under your eyes; she is yours already.""Mlle. Victorine?""Precisely.""And what was that you said?""She is in love with you already, your little Baronne de Rastignac!""She has not a penny," Eugene continued, much mystified."Ah! now we are coming to it! Just another word or two, and it will allbe clear enough. Her father, Taillefer, is an old scoundrel; it is saidthat he murdered one of his friends at the time of the Revolution. He isone of your comedians that sets up to have opinions of his own. He is abanker--senior partner in the house of Frederic Taillefer and Company.He has one son, and means to leave all he has to the boy, to theprejudice of Victorine. For my part, I don't like to see injustice ofthis sort. I am like Don Quixote, I have a fancy for defending the weakagainst the strong. If it should please God to take that youth away fromhim, Taillefer would have only his daughter left; he would want to leavehis money to some one or other; an absurd notion, but it is only humannature, and he is not likely to have any more children, as I know.Victorine is gentle and amiable; she will soon twist her father roundher fingers, and set his head spinning like a German top by plying himwith sentiment! She will be too much touched by your devotion toforget you; you will marry her. I mean to play Providence for you,and Providence is to do my will. I have a friend whom I have attachedclosely to myself, a colonel in the Army of the Loire, who has just beentransferred into the garde royale. He has taken my advice and turnedultra-royalist; he is not one of those fools who never change theiropinions. Of all pieces of advice, my cherub, I would give youthis--don't stick to your opinions any more than to your words. If anyone asks you for them, let him have them--at a price. A man who prideshimself on going in a straight line through life is an idiot whobelieves in infallibility. There are no such things as principles; thereare only events, and there are no laws but those of expediency: a man oftalent accepts events and the circumstances in which he finds himself,and turns everything to his own ends. If laws and principles were fixedand invariable, nations would not change them as readily as we changeour shirts. The individual is not obliged to be more particular than thenation. A man whose services to France have been of the very slightestis a fetich looked on with superstitious awe because he has alwaysseen everything in red; but he is good, at the most, to be put into theMuseum of Arts and Crafts, among the automatic machines, and labeled LaFayette; while the prince at whom everybody flings a stone, the man whodespises humanity so much that he spits as many oaths as he is asked forin the face of humanity, saved France from being torn in pieces at theCongress of Vienna; and they who should have given him laurels flingmud at him. Oh! I know something of affairs, I can tell you; I have thesecrets of many men! Enough. When I find three minds in agreement asto the application of a principle, I shall have a fixed and immovableopinion--I shall have to wait a long while first. In the Tribunals youwill not find three judges of the same opinion on a single point of law.To return to the man I was telling you of. He would crucify Jesus Christagain, if I bade him. At a word from his old chum Vautrin he will picka quarrel with a scamp that will not send so much as five francs to hissister, poor girl, and" (here Vautrin rose to his feet and stood like afencing-master about to lunge)--"turn him off into the dark!" he added."How frightful!" said Eugene. "You do not really mean it? M. Vautrin,you are joking!""There! there! Keep cool!" said the other. "Don't behave like a baby.But if you find any amusement in it, be indignant, flare up! Say thatI am a scoundrel, a rascal, a rogue, a bandit; but do not call me ablackleg nor a spy! There, out with it, fire away! I forgive you; it isquite natural at your age. I was like that myself once. Only rememberthis, you will do worse things yourself some day. You will flirt withsome pretty woman and take her money. You have thought of that, ofcourse," said Vautrin, "for how are you to succeed unless love is laidunder contribution? There are no two ways about virtue, my dear student;it either is, or it is not. Talk of doing penance for your sins! It isa nice system of business, when you pay for your crime by an act ofcontrition! You seduce a woman that you may set your foot on such andsuch a rung of the social ladder; you sow dissension among the childrenof a family; you descend, in short, to every base action that can becommitted at home or abroad, to gain your own ends for your own pleasureor your profit; and can you imagine that these are acts of faith, hope,or charity? How is it that a dandy, who in a night has robbed a boy ofhalf his fortune, gets only a couple of months in prison; while a poordevil who steals a banknote for a thousand francs, with aggravatingcircumstances, is condemned to penal servitude? Those are your laws. Nota single provision but lands you in some absurdity. That man with yellowgloves and a golden tongue commits many a murder; he sheds no blood, buthe drains his victim's veins as surely; a desperado forces open a doorwith a crowbar, dark deeds both of them! You yourself will do every oneof those things that I suggest to you to-day, bar the bloodshed. Doyou believe that there is any absolute standard in this world? Despisemankind and find out the meshes that you can slip through in the net ofthe Code. The secret of a great success for which you are at a lossto account is a crime that has never been found out, because it wasproperly executed.""Silence, sir! I will not hear any more; you make me doubt myself. Atthis moment my sentiments are all my science.""Just as you please, my fine fellow; I did think you were soweak-minded," said Vautrin, "I shall say no more about it. One lastword, however," and he looked hard at the student--"you have my secret,"he said."A young man who refuses your offer knows that he must forget it.""Quite right, quite right; I am glad to hear you say so. Somebody elsemight not be so scrupulous, you see. Keep in mind what I want to do foryou. I will give you a fortnight. The offer is still open.""What a head of iron the man has!" said Eugene to himself, as he watchedVautrin walk unconcernedly away with his cane under his arm. "Yet Mme.de Beauseant said as much more gracefully; he has only stated the casein cruder language. He would tear my heart with claws of steel. Whatmade me think of going to Mme. de Nucingen? He guessed my motives beforeI knew them myself. To sum it up, that outlaw has told me more aboutvirtue than all I have learned from men and books. If virtue admits ofno compromises, I have certainly robbed my sisters," he said, throwingdown the bags on the table.He sat down again and fell, unconscious of his surroundings, into deepthought."To be faithful to an ideal of virtue! A heroic martyrdom! Pshaw! everyone believes in virtue, but who is virtuous? Nations have made an idolof Liberty, but what nation on the face of the earth is free? My youthis still like a blue and cloudless sky. If I set myself to obtain wealthor power, does it mean that I must make up my mind to lie, and fawn, andcringe, and swagger, and flatter, and dissemble? To consent to be theservant of others who have likewise fawned, and lied, and flattered?Must I cringe to them before I can hope to be their accomplice? Well,then, I decline. I mean to work nobly and with a single heart. Iwill work day and night; I will owe my fortune to nothing but my ownexertions. It may be the slowest of all roads to success, but I shalllay my head on the pillow at night untroubled by evil thoughts. Is therea greater thing than this--to look back over your life and know thatit is stainless as a lily? I and my life are like a young man and hisbetrothed. Vautrin has put before me all that comes after ten years ofmarriage. The devil! my head is swimming. I do not want to think at all;the heart is a sure guide."Eugene was roused from his musings by the voice of the stout Sylvie,who announced that the tailor had come, and Eugene therefore made hisappearance before the man with the two money bags, and was not illpleased that it should be so. When he had tried on his dress suit, heput on his new morning costume, which completely metamorphosed him."I am quite equal to M. de Trailles," he said to himself. "In short, Ilook like a gentleman.""You asked me, sir, if I knew the houses where Mme. de Nucingen goes,"Father Goriot's voice spoke from the doorway of Eugene's room."Yes.""Very well then, she is going to the Marechale Carigliano's ball onMonday. If you can manage to be there, I shall hear from you whether mytwo girls enjoyed themselves, and how they were dressed, and all aboutit in fact.""How did you find that out, my good Goriot?" said Eugene, putting achair by the fire for his visitor."Her maid told me. I hear all about their doings from Therese andConstance," he added gleefully.The old man looked like a lover who is still young enough to be madehappy by the discovery of some little stratagem which brings himinformation of his lady-love without her knowledge."You will see them both!" he said, giving artless expression to a pangof jealousy."I do not know," answered Eugene. "I will go to Mme. de Beauseant andask her for an introduction to the Marechale."Eugene felt a thrill of pleasure at the thought of appearing before theVicomtesse, dressed as henceforward he always meant to be. The "abyssesof the human heart," in the moralists' phrase, are only insidiousthoughts, involuntary promptings of personal interest. The instinct ofenjoyment turns the scale; those rapid changes of purpose which havefurnished the text for so much rhetoric are calculations prompted bythe hope of pleasure. Rastignac beholding himself well dressed andimpeccable as to gloves and boots, forgot his virtuous resolutions.Youth, moreover, when bent upon wrongdoing does not dare to beholdhimself in the mirror of consciousness; mature age has seen itself; andtherein lies the whole difference between these two phases of life.A friendship between Eugene and his neighbor, Father Goriot, hadbeen growing up for several days past. This secret friendship and theantipathy that the student had begun to entertain for Vautrin arosefrom the same psychological causes. The bold philosopher who shallinvestigate the effects of mental action upon the physical worldwill doubtless find more than one proof of the material nature of oursentiments in other animals. What physiognomist is as quick to discerncharacter as a dog is to discover from a stranger's face whether thisis a friend or no? Those by-words--"atoms," "affinities"--are factssurviving in modern languages for the confusion of philosophic wiseacreswho amuse themselves by winnowing the chaff of language to find itsgrammatical roots. We feel that we are loved. Our sentiments makethemselves felt in everything, even at a great distance. A letter isa living soul, and so faithful an echo of the voice that speaks in it,that finer natures look upon a letter as one of love's most precioustreasures. Father Goriot's affection was of the instinctive order, acanine affection raised to a sublime pitch; he had scented compassion inthe air, and the kindly respect and youthful sympathy in the student'sheart. This friendship had, however, scarcely reached the stage at whichconfidences are made. Though Eugene had spoken of his wish to meet Mme.de Nucingen, it was not because he counted on the old man to introducehim to her house, for he hoped that his own audacity might stand him ingood stead. All that Father Goriot had said as yet about his daughtershad referred to the remarks that the student had made so freely inpublic on that day of the two visits."How could you think that Mme. de Restaud bore you a grudge formentioning my name?" he had said on the day following that scene atdinner. "My daughters are very fond of me; I am a happy father; butmy sons-in-law have behaved badly to me, and rather than make troublebetween my darlings and their husbands, I choose to see my daughterssecretly. Fathers who can see their daughters at any time have no ideaof all the pleasure that all this mystery gives me; I cannot always seemine when I wish, do you understand? So when it is fine I walk out inthe Champs-Elysees, after finding out from their waiting-maids whethermy daughters mean to go out. I wait near the entrance; my heart beatsfast when the carriages begin to come; I admire them in their dresses,and as they pass they give me a little smile, and it seems as ifeverything was lighted up for me by a ray of bright sunlight. I wait,for they always go back the same way, and then I see them again; thefresh air has done them good and brought color into their cheeks; allabout me people say, 'What a beautiful woman that is!' and it does myheart good to hear them."Are they not my own flesh and blood? I love the very horses that drawthem; I envy the little lap-dog on their knees. Their happiness is mylife. Every one loves after his own fashion, and mine does no one anyharm; why should people trouble their heads about me? I am happy in myown way. Is there any law against going to see my girls in the eveningwhen they are going out to a ball? And what a disappointment it is whenI get there too late, and am told that 'Madame has gone out!' Once Iwaited till three o'clock in the morning for Nasie; I had not seen herfor two whole days. I was so pleased, that it was almost too much forme! Please do not speak of me unless it is to say how good my daughtersare to me. They are always wanting to heap presents upon me, but I willnot have it. 'Just keep your money,' I tell them. 'What should I dowith it? I want nothing.' And what am I, sir, after all? An old carcase,whose soul is always where my daughters are. When you have seen Mme.de Nucingen, tell me which you like the most," said the old man after amoment's pause, while Eugene put the last touches to his toilette. Thestudent was about to go out to walk in the Garden of the Tuileriesuntil the hour when he could venture to appear in Mme. de Beauseant'sdrawing-room.That walk was a turning-point in Eugene's career. Several women noticedhim; he looked so handsome, so young, and so well dressed. This almostadmiring attention gave a new turn to his thoughts. He forgot hissisters and the aunt who had robbed herself for him; he no longerremembered his own virtuous scruples. He had seen hovering above hishead the fiend so easy to mistake for an angel, the Devil with rainbowwings, who scatters rubies, and aims his golden shafts at palace fronts,who invests women with purple, and thrones with a glory that dazzles theeyes of fools till they forget the simple origins of royal dominion; hehad heard the rustle of that Vanity whose tinsel seems to us to be thesymbol of power. However cynical Vautrin's words had been, they had madean impression on his mind, as the sordid features of the old crone whowhispers, "A lover, and gold in torrents," remain engraven on a younggirl's memory.Eugene lounged about the walks till it was nearly five o'clock, thenhe went to Mme. de Beauseant, and received one of the terrible blowsagainst which young hearts are defenceless. Hitherto the Vicomtesse hadreceived him with the kindly urbanity, the bland grace of manner that isthe result of fine breeding, but is only complete when it comes from theheart.To-day Mme. de Beauseant bowed constrainedly, and spoke curtly:"M. de Rastignac, I cannot possibly see you, at least not at thismoment. I am engaged..."An observer, and Rastignac instantly became an observer, could read thewhole history, the character and customs of caste, in the phrase, in thetones of her voice, in her glance and bearing. He caught a glimpse ofthe iron hand beneath the velvet glove--the personality, the egoismbeneath the manner, the wood beneath the varnish. In short, he heardthat unmistakable I THE KING that issues from the plumed canopy ofthe throne, and finds its last echo under the crest of the simplestgentleman.Eugene had trusted too implicitly to the generosity of a woman; hecould not believe in her haughtiness. Like all the unfortunate, he hadsubscribed, in all good faith, the generous compact which should bindthe benefactor to the recipient, and the first article in that bond,between two large-hearted natures, is a perfect equality. The kindnesswhich knits two souls together is as rare, as divine, and as littleunderstood as the passion of love, for both love and kindness are thelavish generosity of noble natures. Rastignac was set upon going to theDuchesse de Carigliano's ball, so he swallowed down this rebuff."Madame," he faltered out, "I would not have come to trouble you abouta trifling matter; be so kind as to permit me to see you later, I canwait.""Very well, come and dine with me," she said, a little confused bythe harsh way in which she had spoken, for this lady was as genuinelykind-hearted as she was high-born.Eugene was touched by this sudden relenting, but none the less he saidto himself as he went away, "Crawl in the dust, put up with every kindof treatment. What must the rest of the world be like when one of thekindest of women forgets all her promises of befriending me in a moment,and tosses me aside like an old shoe? So it is every one for himself? Itis true that her house is not a shop, and I have put myself in the wrongby needing her help. You should cut your way through the world like acannon ball, as Vautrin said."But the student's bitter thoughts were soon dissipated by the pleasurewhich he promised himself in this dinner with the Vicomtesse. Fateseemed to determine that the smallest accidents in his life shouldcombine to urge him into a career, which the terrible sphinx of theMaison Vauquer had described as a field of battle where you must eitherslay or be slain, and cheat to avoid being cheated. You leave yourconscience and your heart at the barriers, and wear a mask on enteringinto this game of grim earnest, where, as in ancient Sparta, you mustsnatch your prize without being detected if you would deserve the crown.On his return he found the Vicomtesse gracious and kindly, as she hadalways been to him. They went together to the dining-room, where theVicomte was waiting for his wife. In the time of the Restoration theluxury of the table was carried, as is well known, to the highestdegree, and M. de Beauseant, like many jaded men of the world, had fewpleasures left but those of good cheer; in this matter, in fact, he wasa gourmand of the schools of Louis XVIII. and of the Duc d'Escars, andluxury was supplemented by splendor. Eugene, dining for the first timein a house where the traditions of grandeur had descended through manygenerations, had never seen any spectacle like this that now met hiseyes. In the time of the Empire, balls had always ended with a supper,because the officers who took part in them must be fortified forimmediate service, and even in Paris might be called upon to leave theballroom for the battlefield. This arrangement had gone out of fashionunder the Monarchy, and Eugene had so far only been asked to dances.The self-possession which pre-eminently distinguished him in later lifealready stood him in good stead, and he did not betray his amazement.Yet as he saw for the first time the finely wrought silver plate, thecompleteness of every detail, the sumptuous dinner, noiselessly served,it was difficult for such an ardent imagination not to prefer this lifeof studied and refined luxury to the hardships of the life which he hadchosen only that morning.His thoughts went back for a moment to the lodging-house, and with afeeling of profound loathing, he vowed to himself that at New Year hewould go; prompted at least as much by a desire to live among cleanersurroundings as by a wish to shake off Vautrin, whose huge hand heseemed to feel on his shoulder at that moment. When you consider thenumberless forms, clamorous or mute, that corruption takes in Paris,common-sense begins to wonder what mental aberration prompted the Stateto establish great colleges and schools there, and assemble young men inthe capital; how it is that pretty women are respected, or that the goldcoin displayed in the money-changer's wooden saucers does not take toitself wings in the twinkling of an eye; and when you come to thinkfurther, how comparatively few cases of crime there are, and to countup the misdemeanors committed by youth, is there not a certain amount ofrespect due to these patient Tantaluses who wrestle with themselves andnearly always come off victorious? The struggles of the poor studentin Paris, if skilfully drawn, would furnish a most dramatic picture ofmodern civilization.In vain Mme. de Beauseant looked at Eugene as if asking him to speak;the student was tongue-tied in the Vicomte's presence."Are you going to take me to the Italiens this evening?" the Vicomtesseasked her husband."You cannot doubt that I should obey you with pleasure," he answered,and there was a sarcastic tinge in his politeness which Eugene did notdetect, "but I ought to go to meet some one at the Varietes.""His mistress," said she to herself."Then, is not Ajuda coming for you this evening?" inquired the Vicomte."No," she answered, petulantly."Very well, then, if you really must have an arm, take that of M. deRastignac."The Vicomtess turned to Eugene with a smile."That would be a very compromising step for you," she said."'A Frenchman loves danger, because in danger there is glory,' to quoteM. de Chateaubriand," said Rastignac, with a bow.A few moments later he was sitting beside Mme. de Beauseant ina brougham, that whirled them through the streets of Paris to afashionable theatre. It seemed to him that some fairy magic had suddenlytransported him into a box facing the stage. All the lorgnettes of thehouse were pointed at him as he entered, and at the Vicomtesse in hercharming toilette. He went from enchantment to enchantment."You must talk to me, you know," said Mme. de Beauseant. "Ah! look!There is Mme. de Nucingen in the third box from ours. Her sister and M.de Trailles are on the other side."The Vicomtesse glanced as she spoke at the box where Mlle. de Rochefideshould have been; M. d'Ajuda was not there, and Mme. de Beauseant's facelighted up in a marvelous way."She is charming," said Eugene, after looking at Mme. de Nucingen."She has white eyelashes.""Yes, but she has such a pretty slender figure!""Her hands are large.""Such beautiful eyes!""Her face is long.""Yes, but length gives distinction.""It is lucky for her that she has some distinction in her face. Just seehow she fidgets with her opera-glass! The Goriot blood shows itself inevery movement," said the Vicomtesse, much to Eugene's astonishment.Indeed, Mme. de Beauseant seemed to be engaged in making a survey ofthe house, and to be unconscious of Mme. Nucingen's existence; but nomovement made by the latter was lost upon the Vicomtesse. The house wasfull of the loveliest women in Paris, so that Delphine de Nucingen wasnot a little flattered to receive the undivided attention of Mme. deBeauseant's young, handsome, and well-dressed cousin, who seemed to haveno eyes for any one else."If you look at her so persistently, you will make people talk, M. deRastignac. You will never succeed if you fling yourself at any one'shead like that.""My dear cousin," said Eugene, "you have protected me indeed so far,and now if you would complete your work, I only ask of you a favor whichwill cost you but little, and be of very great service to me. I havelost my heart.""Already!""Yes.""And to that woman!""How could I aspire to find any one else to listen to me?" he asked,with a keen glance at his cousin. "Her Grace the Duchesse de Cariglianois a friend of the Duchesse de Berri," he went on, after a pause; "youare sure to see her, will you be so kind as to present me to her, and totake me to her ball on Monday? I shall meet Mme. de Nucingen there, andenter into my first skirmish.""Willingly," she said. "If you have a liking for her already, youraffairs of the heart are like to prosper. That is de Marsay over therein the Princesse Galathionne's box. Mme. de Nucingen is racked withjealousy. There is no better time for approaching a woman, especiallyif she happens to be a banker's wife. All those ladies of theChaussee-d'Antin love revenge.""Then, what would you do yourself in such a case?""I should suffer in silence."At this point the Marquis d'Ajuda appeared in Mme. de Beauseant's box."I have made a muddle of my affairs to come to you," he said, "and I amtelling you about it, so that it may not be a sacrifice."Eugene saw the glow of joy on the Vicomtesse's face, and knew that thiswas love, and learned the difference between love and the affectationsof Parisian coquetry. He admired his cousin, grew mute, and yielded hisplace to M. d'Ajuda with a sigh."How noble, how sublime a woman is when she loves like that!" he said tohimself. "And he could forsake her for a doll! Oh! how could any oneforsake her?"There was a boy's passionate indignation in his heart. He could haveflung himself at Mme. de Beauseant's feet; he longed for the power ofthe devil if he could snatch her away and hide her in his heart, as aneagle snatches up some white yearling from the plains and bears it toits eyrie. It was humiliating to him to think that in all this galleryof fair pictures he had not one picture of his own. "To have a mistressand an almost royal position is a sign of power," he said to himself.And he looked at Mme. de Nucingen as a man measures another who hasinsulted him.The Vicomtesse turned to him, and the expression of her eyes thanked hima thousand times for his discretion. The first act came to an end justthen."Do you know Mme. de Nucingen well enough to present M. de Rastignac toher?" she asked of the Marquis d'Ajuda."She will be delighted," said the Marquis. The handsome Portuguese roseas he spoke and took the student's arm, and in another moment Eugenefound himself in Mme. de Nucingen's box."Madame," said the Marquis, "I have the honor of presenting to you theChevalier Eugene de Rastignac; he is a cousin of Mme. de Beauseant's.You have made so deep an impression upon him, that I thought I wouldfill up the measure of his happiness by bringing him nearer to hisdivinity."Words spoken half jestingly to cover their somewhat disrespectfulimport; but such an implication, if carefully disguised, never givesoffence to a woman. Mme. de Nucingen smiled, and offered Eugene theplace which her husband had just left."I do not venture to suggest that you should stay with me, monsieur,"she said. "Those who are so fortunate as to be in Mme. de Beauseant'scompany do not desire to leave it.""Madame," Eugene said, lowering his voice, "I think that to please mycousin I should remain with you. Before my lord Marquis came we werespeaking of you and of your exceedingly distinguished appearance," headded aloud.M. d'Ajuda turned and left them."Are you really going to stay with me, monsieur?" asked the Baroness."Then we shall make each other's acquaintance. Mme. de Restaud told meabout you, and has made me anxious to meet you.""She must be very insincere, then, for she has shut her door on me.""What?""Madame, I will tell you honestly the reason why; but I must crave yourindulgence before confiding such a secret to you. I am your father'sneighbor; I had no idea that Mme. de Restaud was his daughter. I wasrash enough to mention his name; I meant no harm, but I annoyed yoursister and her husband very much. You cannot think how severely theDuchesse de Langeais and my cousin blamed this apostasy on a daughter'spart, as a piece of bad taste. I told them all about it, and they bothburst out laughing. Then Mme. de Beauseant made some comparison betweenyou and your sister, speaking in high terms of you, and saying how veryfond you were of my neighbor, M. Goriot. And, indeed, how could you helploving him? He adores you so passionately that I am jealous already. Wetalked about you this morning for two hours. So this evening I was quitefull of all that your father had told me, and while I was dining with mycousin I said that you could not be as beautiful as affectionate. Mme.de Beauseant meant to gratify such warm admiration, I think, when shebrought me here, telling me, in her gracious way, that I should seeyou.""Then, even now, I owe you a debt of gratitude, monsieur," said thebanker's wife. "We shall be quite old friends in a little while.""Although a friendship with you could not be like an ordinaryfriendship," said Rastignac; "I should never wish to be your friend."Such stereotyped phrases as these, in the mouths of beginners, possessan unfailing charm for women, and are insipid only when read coldly; fora young man's tone, glance and attitude give a surpassing eloquence tothe banal phrases. Mme. de Nucingen thought that Rastignac was adorable.Then, woman-like, being at a loss how to reply to the student'soutspoken admiration, she answered a previous remark."Yes, it is very wrong of my sister to treat our poor father as shedoes," she said; "he has been a Providence to us. It was not until M. deNucingen positively ordered me only to receive him in the mornings thatI yielded the point. But I have been unhappy about it for a long while;I have shed many tears over it. This violence to my feelings, with myhusband's brutal treatment, have been two causes of my unhappy marriedlife. There is certainly no woman in Paris whose lot seems more enviablethan mine, and yet, in reality, there is not one so much to be pitied.You will think I must be out of my senses to talk to you like this; butyou know my father, and I cannot regard you as a stranger.""You will find no one," said Eugene, "who longs as eagerly as I do to beyours. What do all women seek? Happiness." (He answered his own questionin low, vibrating tones.) "And if happiness for a woman means that sheis to be loved and adored, to have a friend to whom she can pour out herwishes, her fancies, her sorrows and joys; to whom she can lay bareher heart and soul, and all her fair defects and her gracious virtues,without fear of a betrayal; believe me, the devotion and the warmth thatnever fails can only be found in the heart of a young man who, at a baresign from you, would go to his death, who neither knows nor cares toknow anything as yet of the world, because you will be all the world tohim. I myself, you see (you will laugh at my simplicity), have just comefrom a remote country district; I am quite new to this world of Paris; Ihave only known true and loving hearts; and I made up my mind that hereI should find no love. Then I chanced to meet my cousin, and to seemy cousin's heart from very near; I have divined the inexhaustibletreasures of passion, and, like Cherubino, I am the lover of all women,until the day comes when I find the woman to whom I may devote myself.As soon as I saw you, as soon as I came into the theatre this evening, Ifelt myself borne towards you as if by the current of a stream. I had sooften thought of you already, but I had never dreamed that you would beso beautiful! Mme. de Beauseant told me that I must not look so much atyou. She does not know the charm of your red lips, your fair face, norsee how soft your eyes are.... I also am beginning to talk nonsense; butlet me talk."Nothing pleases a woman better than to listen to such whispered words asthese; the most puritanical among them listens even when she ought notto reply to them; and Rastignac, having once begun, continued to pourout his story, dropping his voice, that she might lean and listen; andMme. de Nucingen, smiling, glanced from time to time at de Marsay, whostill sat in the Princesse Galathionne's box.Rastignac did not leave Mme. de Nucingen till her husband came to takeher home."Madame," Eugene said, "I shall have the pleasure of calling upon youbefore the Duchesse de Carigliano's ball.""If Matame infites you to come," said the Baron, a thickset Alsatian,with indications of a sinister cunning in his full-moon countenance,"you are quide sure of being well receifed.""My affairs seem to be in a promising way," said Eugene to himself.--"'Can you love me?' I asked her, and she did not resent it. "The bit is inthe horse's mouth, and I have only to mount and ride;" and with thathe went to pay his respects to Mme. de Beauseant, who was leaving thetheatre on d'Ajuda's arm.The student did not know that the Baroness' thoughts had been wandering;that she was even then expecting a letter from de Marsay, one of thoseletters that bring about a rupture that rends the soul; so, happy in hisdelusion, Eugene went with the Vicomtesse to the peristyle, where peoplewere waiting till their carriages were announced."That cousin of yours is hardly recognizable for the same man," said thePortuguese laughingly to the Vicomtesse, when Eugene had taken leave ofthem. "He will break the bank. He is as supple as an eel; he will go along way, of that I am sure. Who else could have picked out a woman forhim, as you did, just when she needed consolation?""But it is not certain that she does not still love the faithlesslover," said Mme. de Beauseant.The student meanwhile walked back from the Theatre-Italien to the RueNeuve-Sainte-Genevieve, making the most delightful plans as he went. Hehad noticed how closely Mme. de Restaud had scrutinized him when he satbeside Mme. de Nucingen, and inferred that the Countess' doors would notbe closed in the future. Four important houses were now open to him--forhe meant to stand well with the Marechale; he had four supporters in theinmost circle of society in Paris. Even now it was clear to him that,once involved in this intricate social machinery, he must attach himselfto a spoke of the wheel that was to turn and raise his fortunes; hewould not examine himself too curiously as to the methods, but he wascertain of the end, and conscious of the power to gain and keep hishold."If Mme. de Nucingen takes an interest in me, I will teach her how tomanage her husband. That husband of hers is a great speculator; he mightput me in the way of making a fortune by a single stroke."He did not say this bluntly in so many words; as yet, indeed, he wasnot sufficient of a diplomatist to sum up a situation, to see itspossibilities at a glance, and calculate the chances in his favor. Thesewere nothing but hazy ideas that floated over his mental horizon; theywere less cynical than Vautrin's notions; but if they had been tried inthe crucible of conscience, no very pure result would have issued fromthe test. It is by a succession of such like transactions that men sinkat last to the level of the relaxed morality of this epoch, when therehave never been so few of those who square their courses with theirtheories, so few of those noble characters who do not yield totemptation, for whom the slightest deviation from the line of rectitudeis a crime. To these magnificent types of uncompromising Right we owetwo masterpieces--the Alceste of Moliere, and, in our own day, thecharacters of Jeanie Deans and her father in Sir Walter Scott's novel.Perhaps a work which should chronicle the opposite course, which shouldtrace out all the devious courses through which a man of the world, aman of ambitions, drags his conscience, just steering clear of crimethat he may gain his end and yet save appearances, such a chroniclewould be no less edifying and no less dramatic.Rastignac went home. He was fascinated by Mme. de Nucingen; he seemed tosee her before him, slender and graceful as a swallow. He recalled theintoxicating sweetness of her eyes, her fair hair, the delicate silkentissue of the skin, beneath which it almost seemed to him that he couldsee the blood coursing; the tones of her voice still exerted a spellover him; he had forgotten nothing; his walk perhaps heated hisimagination by sending a glow of warmth through his veins. He knockedunceremoniously at Goriot's door."I have seen Mme. Delphine, neighbor," said he."Where?""At the Italiens.""Did she enjoy it?.... Just come inside," and the old man left his bed,unlocked the door, and promptly returned again.It was the first time that Eugene had been in Father Goriot's room, andhe could not control his feeling of amazement at the contrast betweenthe den in which the father lived and the costume of the daughter whomhe had just beheld. The window was curtainless, the walls were damp, inplaces the varnished wall-paper had come away and gave glimpses of thegrimy yellow plaster beneath. The wretched bed on which the old manlay boasted but one thin blanket, and a wadded quilt made out of largepieces of Mme. Vauquer's old dresses. The floor was damp and gritty.Opposite the window stood a chest of drawers made of rosewood, one ofthe old-fashioned kind with a curving front and brass handles, shapedlike rings of twisted vine stems covered with flowers and leaves. On avenerable piece of furniture with a wooden shelf stood a ewer andbasin and shaving apparatus. A pair of shoes stood in one corner; anight-table by the bed had neither a door nor marble slab. There was nota trace of a fire in the empty grate; the square walnut table withthe crossbar against which Father Goriot had crushed and twisted hisposset-dish stood near the hearth. The old man's hat was lying on abroken-down bureau. An armchair stuffed with straw and a couple ofchairs completed the list of ramshackle furniture. From the tester ofthe bed, tied to the ceiling by a piece of rag, hung a strip of somecheap material in large red and black checks. No poor drudge in agarret could be worse lodged than Father Goriot in Mme. Vauquer'slodging-house. The mere sight of the room sent a chill through you anda sense of oppression; it was like the worst cell in a prison. Luckily,Goriot could not see the effect that his surroundings produced on Eugeneas the latter deposited his candle on the night-table. The old manturned round, keeping the bedclothes huddled up to his chin."Well," he said, "and which do you like the best, Mme. de Restaud orMme. de Nucingen?""I like Mme. Delphine the best," said the law student, "because sheloves you the best."At the words so heartily spoken the old man's hand slipped out fromunder the bedclothes and grasped Eugene's."Thank you, thank you," he said, gratefully. "Then what did she sayabout me?"The student repeated the Baroness' remarks with some embellishments ofhis own, the old man listening the while as though he heard a voice fromHeaven."Dear child!" he said. "Yes, yes, she is very fond of me. But you mustnot believe all that she tells you about Anastasie. The two sisters arejealous of each other, you see, another proof of their affection. Mme.de Restaud is very fond of me too. I know she is. A father sees hischildren as God sees all of us; he looks into the very depths of theirhearts; he knows their intentions; and both of them are so loving. Oh!if I only had good sons-in-law, I should be too happy, and I daresay there is no perfect happiness here below. If I might live withthem--simply hear their voices, know that they are there, see them goand come as I used to do at home when they were still with me; why, myheart bounds at the thought.... Were they nicely dressed?""Yes," said Eugene. "But, M. Goriot, how is it that your daughters havesuch fine houses, while you live in such a den as this?""Dear me, why should I want anything better?" he replied, with seemingcarelessness. "I can't quite explain to you how it is; I am not used tostringing words together properly, but it all lies there----" he said,tapping his heart. "My real life is in my two girls, you see; and solong as they are happy, and smartly dressed, and have soft carpets undertheir feet, what does it matter what clothes I wear or where I lie downof a night? I shall never feel cold so long as they are warm; I shallnever feel dull if they are laughing. I have no troubles but theirs.When you, too, are a father, and you hear your children's little voices,you will say to yourself, 'That has all come from me.' You will feelthat those little ones are akin to every drop in your veins, that theyare the very flower of your life (and what else are they?); you willcleave so closely to them that you seem to feel every movement that theymake. Everywhere I hear their voices sounding in my ears. If they aresad, the look in their eyes freezes my blood. Some day you will findout that there is far more happiness in another's happiness than in yourown. It is something that I cannot explain, something within that sendsa glow of warmth all through you. In short, I live my life three timesover. Shall I tell you something funny? Well, then, since I have beena father, I have come to understand God. He is everywhere in the world,because the whole world comes from Him. And it is just the same with mychildren, monsieur. Only, I love my daughters better than God lovesthe world, for the world is not so beautiful as God Himself is, but mychildren are more beautiful than I am. Their lives are so bound up withmine that I felt somehow that you would see them this evening. GreatHeaven! If any man would make my little Delphine as happy as a wife iswhen she is loved, I would black his boots and run on his errands. Thatmiserable M. de Marsay is a cur; I know all about him from her maid. Alonging to wring his neck comes over me now and then. He does not loveher! does not love a pearl of a woman, with a voice like a nightingaleand shaped like a model. Where can her eyes have been when she marriedthat great lump of an Alsatian? They ought both of them to have marriedyoung men, good-looking and good-tempered--but, after all, they hadtheir own way."Father Goriot was sublime. Eugene had never yet seen his face lightup as it did now with the passionate fervor of a father's love. It isworthy of remark that strong feeling has a very subtle and pervasivepower; the roughest nature, in the endeavor to express a deep andsincere affection, communicates to others the influence that has putresonance into the voice, and eloquence into every gesture, wrought achange in the very features of the speaker; for under the inspirationof passion the stupidest human being attains to the highest eloquence ofideas, 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 thesame spell that a great actor exerts over his audience. But does not thepoet in us find expression in our affections?"Well," said Eugene, "perhaps you will not be sorry to hear that she ispretty sure to break with de Marsay before long. That sprig of fashionhas left her for the Princesse Galathionne. For my part, I fell in lovewith Mme. Delphine this evening.""Stuff!" said Father Goriot."I did indeed, and she did not regard me with aversion. For a whole hourwe talked of love, and I am to go to call on her on Saturday, the dayafter to-morrow.""Oh! how I should love you, if she should like you. You arekind-hearted; you would never make her miserable. If you were to forsakeher, I would cut your throat at once. A woman does not love twice, yousee! 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 meto tell you that your daughter sends you a good kiss.""Good-night, neighbor! Sleep well, and pleasant dreams to you! I havemine already made for me by that message from her. May God grant youall your desires! You have come in like a good angel on me to-night, andbrought with you the air that my daughter breathes.""Poor old fellow!" said Eugene as he lay down. "It is enough to melt aheart of stone. His daughter no more thought of him than of the GrandTurk."
Ever after this conference Goriot looked upon his neighbor as afriend, a confidant such as he had never hoped to find; and there wasestablished between the two the only relationship that could attach thisold man to another man. The passions never miscalculate. Father Goriotfelt that this friendship brought him closer to his daughter Delphine;he thought that he should find a warmer welcome for himself if theBaroness should care for Eugene. Moreover, he had confided one of histroubles to the younger man. Mme. de Nucingen, for whose happiness heprayed a thousand times daily, had never known the joys of love. Eugenewas certainly (to make use of his own expression) one of the nicestyoung men that he had ever seen, and some prophetic instinct seemed totell him that Eugene was to give her the happiness which had not beenhers. These were the beginnings of a friendship that grew up between theold man and his neighbor; but for this friendship the catastrophe of thedrama must have remained a mystery.The affection with which Father Goriot regarded Eugene, by whom heseated himself at breakfast, the change in Goriot's face, which as arule, looked as expressionless as a plaster cast, and a few words thatpassed between the two, surprised the other lodgers. Vautrin, who sawEugene for the first time since their interview, seemed as if he wouldfain read the student's very soul. During the night Eugene had had sometime in which to scan the vast field which lay before him; and now, ashe remembered yesterday's proposal, the thought of Mlle. Taillefer'sdowry came, of course, to his mind, and he could not help thinkingof Victorine as the most exemplary youth may think of an heiress. Itchanced that their eyes met. The poor girl did not fail to see thatEugene looked very handsome in his new clothes. So much was said inthe glance, thus exchanged, that Eugene could not doubt but that he wasassociated in her mind with the vague hopes that lie dormant in a girl'sheart and gather round the first attractive newcomer. "Eight hundredthousand francs!" a voice cried in his ears, but suddenly he took refugein the memories of yesterday evening, thinking that his extemporizedpassion for Mme. de Nucingen was a talisman that would preserve him fromthis temptation."They gave Rossini's Barber of Seville at the Italiens yesterdayevening," he remarked. "I never heard such delicious music. Goodgracious! how lucky people are to have a box at the Italiens!"Father Goriot drank in every word that Eugene let fall, and watched himas a dog watches his master's slightest movement."You men are like fighting cocks," said Mme. Vauquer; "you do what youlike.""How did you get back?" inquired Vautrin."I walked," answered Eugene."For my own part," remarked the tempter, "I do not care about doingthings by halves. If I want to enjoy myself that way, I should preferto 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, addressingGoriot 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. Ihave found out that she will do anything in the world to be known by mycousin Mme. de Beauseant; don't forget to tell her that I love her toowell not to think of trying to arrange this."Rastignac went at once to the Ecole de Droit. He had no mind to staya moment longer than was necessary in that odious house. He wasted histime that day; he had fallen a victim to that fever of the brain thataccompanies the too vivid hopes of youth. Vautrin's arguments had sethim meditating on social life, and he was deep in these reflections whenhe happened on his friend Bianchon in the Jardin du Luxembourg."What makes you look so solemn?" said the medical student, putting anarm 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 readRousseau?""Yes.""Do you remember that he asks the reader somewhere what he would do ifhe could make a fortune by killing an old mandarin somewhere in China bymere 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 doit, 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 wellenough to lose your soul in hell for her, and that she wanted money fordresses 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 twosisters as beautiful and innocent as angels, and I want them to behappy. How am I to find two hundred thousand francs apiece for them inthe next five years? Now and then in life, you see, you must play forheavy 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 theoutset 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 thehulks you go. For my own part, I am quite contented with the little lotI mean to make for myself somewhere in the country, when I mean to stepinto my father's shoes and plod along. A man's affections are justas fully satisfied by the smallest circle as they can be by a vastcircumference. Napoleon himself could only dine once, and he could nothave more mistresses than a house student at the Capuchins. Happiness,old man, depends on what lies between the sole of your foot and thecrown 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 Chinamanlive.""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 abroad walk in the Jardin des Plantes, "I saw the Michonneau and Poiret afew minutes ago on a bench chatting with a gentleman whom I used to seein last year's troubles hanging about the Chamber of Deputies; he seemsto me, in fact, to be a detective dressed up like a decent retiredtradesman. Let us keep an eye on that couple; I will tell you why sometime. Good-bye; it is nearly four o'clock, and I must be in to answer tomy name."When Eugene reached the lodging-house, he found Father Goriot waitingfor him."Here," cried the old man, "here is a letter from her. Prettyhandwriting, eh?"Eugene broke the seal and read:--"Sir,--I have heard from my father that you are fond of Italianmusic. I shall be delighted if you will do me the pleasure ofaccepting a seat in my box. La Fodor and Pellegrini will sing onSaturday, so I am sure that you will not refuse me. M. de Nucingenand I shall be pleased if you will dine with us; we shall be quiteby ourselves. If you will come and be my escort, my husband willbe 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 thewriting-paper. "How nice it smells! Her fingers have touched it, that iscertain.""A woman does not fling herself at a man's head in this way," thestudent was thinking. "She wants to use me to bring back de Marsay;nothing but pique makes a woman do a thing like this.""Well," said Father Goriot, "what are you thinking about?"Eugene did not know the fever or vanity that possessed some women inthose days; how should he imagine that to open a door in the FaubourgSaint-Germain a banker's wife would go to almost any length. For thecoterie of the Faubourg Saint-Germain was a charmed circle, and thewomen who moved in it were at that time the queens of society; and amongthe greatest of these Dames du Petit-Chateau, as they were called,were Mme. de Beauseant and her friends the Duchesse de Langeais and theDuchesse de Maufrigneause. Rastignac was alone in his ignorance of thefrantic efforts made by women who lived in the Chausee-d'Antin to enterthis seventh heaven and shine among the brightest constellations oftheir sex. But his cautious disposition stood him in good stead,and kept his judgment cool, and the not altogether enviable power ofimposing instead of accepting conditions."Yes, I am going," he replied.So it was curiosity that drew him to Mme. de Nucingen; while, if she hadtreated him disdainfully, passion perhaps might have brought him to herfeet. Still he waited almost impatiently for to-morrow, and the hourwhen he could go to her. There is almost as much charm for a youngman in a first flirtation as there is in first love. The certainty ofsuccess is a source of happiness to which men do not confess, and allthe charm of certain women lies in this. The desire of conquest springsno less from the easiness than from the difficulty of triumph, and everypassion is excited or sustained by one or the other of these two motiveswhich divide the empire of love. Perhaps this division is one result ofthe great question of temperaments; which, after all, dominates sociallife. The melancholic temperament may stand in need of the tonic ofcoquetry, while those of nervous or sanguine complexion withdraw ifthey meet with a too stubborn resistance. In other words, the lymphatictemperament is essentially despondent, and the rhapsodic is bilious.Eugene lingered over his toilette with an enjoyment of all its littledetails that is grateful to a young man's self-love, though he will notown to it for fear of being laughed at. He thought, as he arranged hishair, that a pretty woman's glances would wander through the dark curls.He indulged in childish tricks like any young girl dressing for a dance,and gazed complacently at his graceful figure while he smoothed out thecreases of his coat."There are worse figures, that is certain," he said to himself.Then he went downstairs, just as the rest of the household were sittingdown to dinner, and took with good humor the boisterous applause excitedby his elegant appearance. The amazement with which any attention todress is regarded in a lodging-house is a very characteristic trait. Noone can put on a new coat but every one else must say his say about it."Clk! clk! clk!" cried Bianchon, making the sound with his tongueagainst the roof of his mouth, like a driver urging on a horse."He holds himself like a duke and a peer of France," said Mme. Vauquer."Are you going a-courting?" inquired Mlle. Michonneau."Cock-a-doodle-doo!" cried the artist."My compliments to my lady your wife," from the employe at the Museum."Your wife; have you a wife?" asked Poiret."Yes, in compartments, water-tight and floats, guaranteed fast color,all prices from twenty-five to forty sous, neat check patterns in thelatest fashion and best taste, will wash, half-linen, half-cotton,half-wool; a certain cure for toothache and other complaints under thepatronage of the Royal College of Physicians! children like it! a remedyfor headache, indigestion, and all other diseases affecting thethroat, eyes, and ears!" cried Vautrin, with a comical imitation of thevolubility of a quack at a fair. "And how much shall we say for thismarvel, gentlemen? Twopence? No. Nothing of the sort. All that is leftin stock after supplying the Great Mogul. All the crowned heads ofEurope, including the Gr-r-rand Duke of Baden, have been anxious to geta sight of it. Walk up! walk up! gentlemen! Pay at the desk as you goin! Strike up the music there! Brooum, la, la, trinn! la, la, boum!boum! Mister Clarinette, there you are out of tune!" he added gruffly;"I will rap your knuckles for you!""Goodness! what an amusing man!" said Mme. Vauquer to Mme. Couture; "Ishould never feel dull with him in the house."This burlesque of Vautrin's was the signal for an outburst of merriment,and under cover of jokes and laughter Eugene caught a glance from Mlle.Taillefer; she had leaned over to say a few words in Mme. Couture's ear."The cab is at the door," announced Sylvie."But where is he going to dine?" asked Bianchon."With Madame la Baronne de Nucingen.""M. Goriot's daughter," said the law student.At this, all eyes turned to the old vermicelli maker; he was gazing atEugene with something like envy in his eyes.Rastignac reached the house in the Rue Saint-Lazare, one of thosemany-windowed houses with a mean-looking portico and slender columns,which are considered the thing in Paris, a typical banker's house,decorated in the most ostentatious fashion; the walls lined with stucco,the landings of marble mosaic. Mme. de Nucingen was sitting in a littledrawing-room; the room was painted in the Italian fashion, and decoratedlike a restaurant. The Baroness seemed depressed. The effort that shemade to hide her feelings aroused Eugene's interest; it was plainthat she was not playing a part. He had expected a little flutter ofexcitement at his coming, and he found her dispirited and sad. Thedisappointment piqued his vanity."My claim to your confidence is very small, madame," he said, afterrallying her on her abstracted mood; "but if I am in the way, pleasetell me so frankly; I count on your good faith.""No, stay with me," she said; "I shall be all alone if you go. Nucingenis dining in town, and I do not want to be alone; I want to be taken outof myself.""But what is the matter?""You are the very last person whom I should tell," she exclaimed."Then I am connected in some way in this secret. I wonder what it is?""Perhaps. Yet, no," she went on; "it is a domestic quarrel, which oughtto be buried in the depths of the heart. I am very unhappy; did I nottell you so the day before yesterday? Golden chains are the heaviest ofall fetters."When a woman tells a young man that she is very unhappy, and when theyoung man is clever, and well dressed, and has fifteen hundred francslying idle in his pocket, he is sure to think as Eugene said, and hebecomes a coxcomb."What can you have left to wish for?" he answered. "You are young,beautiful, beloved, and rich.""Do not let us talk of my affairs," she said shaking her headmournfully. "We will dine together tete-a-tete, and afterwards we willgo to hear the most exquisite music. Am I to your taste?" she went on,rising and displaying her gown of white cashmere, covered with Persiandesigns in the most superb taste."I wish that you were altogether mine," said Eugene; "you are charming.""You would have a forlorn piece of property," she said, smilingbitterly. "There is nothing about me that betrays my wretchedness;and yet, in spite of appearances, I am in despair. I cannot sleep; mytroubles have broken my night's rest; I shall grow ugly.""Oh! that is impossible," cried the law student; "but I am curious toknow what these troubles can be that a devoted love cannot efface.""Ah! if I were to tell you about them, you would shun me," she said."Your love for me is as yet only the conventional gallantry that men useto masquerade in; and, if you really loved me, you would be driven todespair. I must keep silence, you see. Let us talk of something else,for pity's sake," she added. "Let me show you my rooms.""No; let us stay here," answered Eugene; he sat down on the sofabefore the fire, and boldly took Mme. de Nucingen's hand in his. Shesurrendered it to him; he even felt the pressure of her fingers in oneof the spasmodic clutches that betray terrible agitation."Listen," said Rastignac; "if you are in trouble, you ought to tell meabout it. I want to prove to you that I love you for yourself alone. Youmust speak to me frankly about your troubles, so that I can put an endto them, even if I have to kill half-a-dozen men; or I shall go, neverto return.""Very well," she cried, putting her hand to her forehead in an agony ofdespair, "I will put you to the proof, and this very moment. Yes," shesaid to herself, "I have no other resource left."She rang the bell."Are the horses put in for the master?" she asked of the servant."Yes, madame.""I shall take his carriage myself. He can have mine and my horses. Servedinner at seven o'clock.""Now, come with me," she said to Eugene, who thought as he sat inthe banker's carriage beside Mme. de Nucingen that he must surely bedreaming."To the Palais-Royal," she said to the coachman; "stop near theTheatre-Francais."She seemed to be too troubled and excited to answer the innumerablequestions that Eugene put to her. He was at a loss what to think of hermute resistance, her obstinate silence."Another moment and she will escape me," he said to himself.When the carriage stopped at last, the Baroness gave the law student aglance that silenced his wild words, for he was almost beside himself."Is it true that you love me?" she asked."Yes," he answered, and in his manner and tone there was no trace of theuneasiness that he felt."You will not think ill of me, will you, whatever I may ask of you?""No.""Are you ready to do my bidding?""Blindly.""Have you ever been to a gaming-house?" she asked in a tremulous voice."Never.""Ah! now I can breathe. You will have luck. Here is my purse," she said."Take it! there are a hundred francs in it, all that such a fortunatewoman as I can call her own. Go up into one of the gaming-houses--I donot know where they are, but there are some near the Palais-Royal. Tryyour luck with the hundred francs at a game they call roulette; loseit all or bring me back six thousand francs. I will tell you about mytroubles when you come back.""Devil take me, I'm sure, if I have a glimmer of a notion of what I amabout, but I will obey you," he added, with inward exultation, as hethought, "She has gone too far to draw back--she can refuse me nothingnow!"Eugene took the dainty little purse, inquired the way of a second-handclothes-dealer, and hurried to number 9, which happened to be thenearest gaming-house. He mounted the staircase, surrendered his hat, andasked the way to the roulette-table, whither the attendant took him, nota little to the astonishment of the regular comers. All eyes were fixedon Eugene as he asked, without bashfulness, where he was to deposit hisstakes."If you put a louis on one only of those thirty-six numbers, and itturns up, you will win thirty-six louis," said a respectable-looking,white-haired old man in answer to his inquiry.Eugene staked the whole of his money on the number 21 (his own age).There was a cry of surprise; before he knew what he had done, he hadwon."Take your money off, sir," said the old gentleman; "you don't often wintwice running by that system."Eugene took the rake that the old man handed to him, and drew in histhree thousand six hundred francs, and, still perfectly ignorant ofwhat he was about, staked again on the red. The bystanders watched himenviously as they saw him continue to play. The disc turned, and againhe won; the banker threw him three thousand six hundred francs oncemore."You have seven thousand, two hundred francs of your own," the oldgentleman said in his ear. "Take my advice and go away with yourwinnings; red has turned up eight times already. If you are charitable,you will show your gratitude for sound counsel by giving a trifle to anold prefect of Napoleon who is down on his luck."Rastignac's head was swimming; he saw ten of his louis pass into thewhite-haired man's possession, and went down-stairs with his seventhousand francs; he was still ignorant of the game, and stupefied by hisluck."So, that is over; and now where will you take me?" he asked, as soon asthe door was closed, and he showed the seven thousand francs to Mme. deNucingen.Delphine flung her arms about him, but there was no passion in that wildembrace."You have saved me!" she cried, and tears of joy flowed fast."I will tell you everything, my friend. For you will be my friend, willyou not? I am rich, you think, very rich; I have everything I want, orI seem as if I had everything. Very well, you must know that M. deNucingen does not allow me the control of a single penny; he pays allthe bills for the house expenses; he pays for my carriages and operabox; he does not give me enough to pay for my dress, and he reducesme to poverty in secret on purpose. I am too proud to beg from him. Ishould be the vilest of women if I could take his money at the price atwhich he offers it. Do you ask how I, with seven hundred thousand francsof my own, could let myself be robbed? It is because I was proud, andscorned to speak. We are so young, so artless when our married lifebegins! I never could bring myself to ask my husband for money; thewords would have made my lips bleed, I did not dare to ask; I spent mysavings first, and then the money that my poor father gave me, then Iran into debt. Marriage for me is a hideous farce; I cannot talk aboutit, let it suffice to say that Nucingen and I have separate rooms, andthat I would fling myself out of the window sooner than consent to anyother manner of life. I suffered agonies when I had to confess to mygirlish extravagance, my debts for jewelry and trifles (for our poorfather had never refused us anything, and spoiled us), but at last Ifound courage to tell him about them. After all, I had a fortune of myown. Nucingen flew into a rage; he said that I should be the ruin ofhim, and used frightful language! I wished myself a hundred feet downin the earth. He had my dowry, so he paid my debts, but he stipulated atthe same time that my expenses in future must not exceed a certain fixedsum, and I gave way for the sake of peace. And then," she went on, "Iwanted to gratify the self-love of some one whom you know. He may havedeceived me, but I should do him the justice to say that there wasnothing petty in his character. But, after all, he threw me overdisgracefully. If, at a woman's utmost need, somebody heaps gold uponher, he ought never to forsake her; that love should last for ever!But you, at one-and-twenty, you, the soul of honor, with the unsulliedconscience of youth, will ask me how a woman can bring herself to acceptmoney in such a way? Mon Dieu! is it not natural to share everythingwith the one to whom we owe our happiness? When all has been given, whyshould we pause and hesitate over a part? Money is as nothing betweenus until the moment when the sentiment that bound us together ceases toexist. Were we not bound to each other for life? Who that believes inlove foresees such an end to love? You swear to love us eternally; how,then, can our interests be separate?"You do not know how I suffered to-day when Nucingen refused to giveme six thousand francs; he spends as much as that every month on hismistress, an opera dancer! I thought of killing myself. The wildestthoughts came into my head. There have been moments in my life when Ihave envied my servants, and would have changed places with my maid. Itwas madness to think of going to our father, Anastasie and I have bledhim dry; our poor father would have sold himself if he could have raisedsix thousand francs that way. I should have driven him frantic to nopurpose. You have saved me from shame and death; I was beside myselfwith anguish. Ah! monsieur, I owed you this explanation after my madravings. When you left me just now, as soon as you were out of sight, Ilonged to escape, to run away... where, I did not know. Half the womenin Paris lead such lives as mine; they live in apparent luxury, and intheir souls are tormented by anxiety. I know of poor creatures evenmore miserable than I; there are women who are driven to ask theirtradespeople to make out false bills, women who rob their husbands. Somemen believe that an Indian shawl worth a thousand louis only cost fivehundred francs, others that a shawl costing five hundred francs is wortha hundred louis. There are women, too, with narrow incomes, who scrapeand save and starve their children to pay for a dress. I am innocentof these base meannesses. But this is the last extremity of my torture.Some women will sell themselves to their husbands, and so obtain theirway, but I, at any rate, am free. If I chose, Nucingen would cover mewith gold, but I would rather weep on the breast of a man whom I canrespect. Ah! tonight, M. de Marsay will no longer have a right to thinkof me as a woman whom he has paid." She tried to conceal her tears fromhim, hiding her face in her hands; Eugene drew them away and looked ather; she seemed to him sublime at that moment."It is hideous, is it not," she cried, "to speak in a breath of moneyand affection. You cannot love me after this," she added.The incongruity between the ideas of honor which make women so great,and the errors in conduct which are forced upon them by the constitutionof society, had thrown Eugene's thoughts into confusion; he utteredsoothing and consoling words, and wondered at the beautiful woman beforehim, and at the artless imprudence of her cry of pain."You will not remember this against me?" she asked; "promise me that youwill not.""Ah! madame, I am incapable of doing so," he said. She took his hand andheld it to her heart, a movement full of grace that expressed her deepgratitude."I am free and happy once more, thanks to you," she said. "Oh! I havefelt lately as if I were in the grasp of an iron hand. But after thisI mean to live simply and to spend nothing. You will think me just aspretty, will you not, my friend? Keep this," she went on, as she tookonly six of the banknotes. "In conscience I owe you a thousand crowns,for I really ought to go halves with you."Eugene's maiden conscience resisted; but when the Baroness said, "Iam bound to look on you as an accomplice or as an enemy," he took themoney."It shall be a last stake in reserve," he said, "in case of misfortune.""That was what I was dreading to hear," she cried, turning pale. "Oh,if you would that I should be anything to you, swear to me that you willnever re-enter a gaming-house. Great Heaven! that I should corrupt you!I should die of sorrow!"They had reached the Rue Saint-Lazare by this time. The contrast betweenthe ostentation of wealth in the house, and the wretched condition ofits mistress, dazed the student; and Vautrin's cynical words began toring in his ears."Seat yourself there," said the Baroness, pointing to a low chair besidethe fire. "I have a difficult letter to write," she added. "Tell me whatto say.""Say nothing," Eugene answered her. "Put the bills in an envelope,direct it, and send it by your maid.""Why, you are a love of a man," she said. "Ah! see what it is to havebeen well brought up. That is the Beauseant through and through," shewent on, smiling at him."She is charming," thought Eugene, more and more in love. He lookedround him at the room; there was an ostentatious character about theluxury, a meretricious taste in the splendor."Do you like it?" she asked, as she rang for the maid."Therese, take this to M. de Marsay, and give it into his handsyourself. If he is not at home, bring the letter back to me."Therese went, but not before she had given Eugene a spiteful glance.Dinner was announced. Rastignac gave his arm to Mme. de Nucingen, sheled the way into a pretty dining-room, and again he saw the luxury ofthe table which he had admired in his cousin's house."Come and dine with me on opera evenings, and we will go to the Italiensafterwards," she said."I should soon grow used to the pleasant life if it could last, but I ama poor student, and I have my way to make.""Oh! you will succeed," she said laughing. "You will see. All that youwish will come to pass. I did not expect to be so happy."It is the wont of women to prove the impossible by the possible, and toannihilate facts by presentiments. When Mme. de Nucingen and Rastignactook their places in her box at the Bouffons, her face wore a look ofhappiness that made her so lovely that every one indulged in those smallslanders against which women are defenceless; for the scandal thatis uttered lightly is often seriously believed. Those who know Paris,believe nothing that is said, and say nothing of what is done there.Eugene took the Baroness' hand in his, and by some light pressure of thefingers, or a closer grasp of the hand, they found a language in whichto express the sensations which the music gave them. It was an eveningof intoxicating delight for both; and when it ended, and they went outtogether, Mme. de Nucingen insisted on taking Eugene with her as far asthe Pont Neuf, he disputing with her the whole of the way for a singlekiss after all those that she had showered upon him so passionately atthe Palais-Royal; Eugene reproached her with inconsistency."That was gratitude," she said, "for devotion that I did not dare tohope for, but now it would be a promise.""And will you give me no promise, ingrate?"He grew vexed. Then, with one of those impatient gestures that fill alover with ecstasy, she gave him her hand to kiss, and he took it with adiscontented air that delighted her."I shall see you at the ball on Monday," she said.As Eugene went home in the moonlight, he fell to serious reflections.He was satisfied, and yet dissatisfied. He was pleased with an adventurewhich would probably give him his desire, for in the end one of theprettiest and best-dressed women in Paris would be his; but, as aset-off, he saw his hopes of fortune brought to nothing; and as soon ashe realized this fact, the vague thoughts of yesterday evening began totake a more decided shape in his mind. A check is sure to reveal to usthe strength of our hopes. The more Eugene learned of the pleasures oflife in Paris, the more impatient he felt of poverty and obscurity. Hecrumpled the banknote in his pocket, and found any quantity of plausibleexcuses for appropriating it.He reached the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve at last, and from thestairhead he saw a light in Goriot's room; the old man had lighted acandle, and set the door ajar, lest the student should pass him by, andgo to his room without "telling him all about his daughter," to usehis own expression. Eugene, accordingly, told him everything withoutreserve."Then they think that I am ruined!" cried Father Goriot, in an agony ofjealousy and desperation. "Why, I have still thirteen hundred livres ayear! Mon Dieu! Poor little girl! why did she not come to me? I wouldhave sold my rentes; she should have had some of the principal, and Iwould have bought a life-annuity with the rest. My good neighbor, whydid not you come to tell me of her difficulty? How had you theheart to go and risk her poor little hundred francs at play? This isheart-breaking work. You see what it is to have sons-in-law. Oh! if Ihad hold of them, I would wring their necks. Mon Dieu! crying! Did yousay she was crying?""With her head on my waistcoat," said Eugene."Oh! give it to me," said Father Goriot. "What! my daughter's tears havefallen there--my darling Delphine, who never used to cry when she wasa little girl! Oh! I will buy you another; do not wear it again; let mehave it. By the terms of her marriage-contract, she ought to have theuse of her property. To-morrow morning I will go and see Derville; he isan attorney. I will demand that her money should be invested in her ownname. I know the law. I am an old wolf, I will show my teeth.""Here, father; this is a banknote for a thousand francs that she wantedme to keep out of our winnings. Keep them for her, in the pocket of thewaistcoat."Goriot looked hard at Eugene, reached out and took the law student'shand, and Eugene felt a tear fall on it."You will succeed," the old man said. "God is just, you see. I know anhonest man when I see him, and I can tell you, there are not many menlike you. I am to have another dear child in you, am I? There, go tosleep; you can sleep; you are not yet a father. She was crying! and Ihave to be told about it!--and I was quietly eating my dinner, like anidiot, all the time--I, who would sell the Father, Son and Holy Ghost tosave one tear to either of them."
"An honest man!" said Eugene to himself as he lay down. "Upon my word, Ithink I will be an honest man all my life; it is so pleasant to obeythe voice of conscience." Perhaps none but believers in God do good insecret; and Eugene believed in a God.The next day Rastignac went at the appointed time to Mme. de Beauseant,who took him with her to the Duchesse de Carigliano's ball. TheMarechale received Eugene most graciously. Mme. de Nucingen was there.Delphine's dress seemed to suggest that she wished for the admirationof others, so that she might shine the more in Eugene's eyes; shewas eagerly expecting a glance from him, hiding, as she thought, thiseagerness from all beholders. This moment is full of charm for one whocan guess all that passes in a woman's mind. Who has not refrained fromgiving his opinion, to prolong her suspense, concealing his pleasurefrom a desire to tantalize, seeking a confession of love in heruneasiness, enjoying the fears that he can dissipate by a smile? Inthe course of the evening the law student suddenly comprehended hisposition; he saw that, as the cousin of Mme. de Beauseant, he was apersonage in this world. He was already credited with the conquestof Mme. de Nucingen, and for this reason was a conspicuous figure;he caught the envious glances of other young men, and experienced theearliest pleasures of coxcombry. People wondered at his luck, and scrapsof these conversations came to his ears as he went from room to room;all the women prophesied his success; and Delphine, in her dread oflosing him, promised that this evening she would not refuse the kissthat all his entreaties could scarcely win yesterday.Rastignac received several invitations. His cousin presented him toother women who were present; women who could claim to be of the highestfashion; whose houses were looked upon as pleasant; and this wasthe loftiest and most fashionable society in Paris into which he waslaunched. So this evening had all the charm of a brilliant debut; itwas an evening that he was to remember even in old age, as a woman looksback upon her first ball and the memories of her girlish triumphs.The next morning, at breakfast, he related the story of his success forthe benefit of Father Goriot and the lodgers. Vautrin began to smile ina diabolical fashion."And do you suppose," cried that cold-blooded logician, "that a youngman of fashion can live here in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, in theMaison Vauquer--an exceedingly respectable boarding-house in every way,I grant you, but an establishment that, none the less, falls shortof being fashionable? The house is comfortable, it is lordly in itsabundance; it is proud to be the temporary abode of a Rastignac; but,after all, it is in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, and luxury would beout of place here, where we only aim at the purely patriarchalorama.If you mean to cut a figure in Paris, my young friend," Vautrincontinued, with half-paternal jocularity, "you must have three horses,a tilbury for the mornings, and a closed carriage for the evening; youshould spend altogether about nine thousand francs on your stables. Youwould show yourself unworthy of your destiny if you spent no more thanthree thousand francs with your tailor, six hundred in perfumery, ahundred crowns to your shoemaker, and a hundred more to your hatter. Asfor your laundress, there goes another thousand francs; a young man offashion must of necessity make a great point of his linen; if your linencomes up to the required standard, people often do not look any further.Love and the Church demand a fair altar-cloth. That is fourteen thousandfrancs. I am saying nothing of losses at play, bets, and presents; itis impossible to allow less than two thousand francs for pocket money. Ihave led that sort of life, and I know all about these expenses. Add thecost of necessaries next; three hundred louis for provender, a thousandfrancs for a place to roost in. Well, my boy, for all these little wantsof ours we had need to have twenty-five thousand francs every year inour purse, or we shall find ourselves in the kennel, and people laughingat us, and our career is cut short, good-bye to success, and good-bye toyour mistress! I am forgetting your valet and your groom! Is Christophegoing to carry your billets-doux for you? Do you mean to employ thestationery you use at present? Suicidal policy! Hearken to the wisdomof your elders!" he went on, his bass voice growing louder at eachsyllable. "Either take up your quarters in a garret, live virtuously,and wed your work, or set about the thing in a different way."Vautrin winked and leered in the direction of Mlle. Taillefer to enforcehis remarks by a look which recalled the late tempting proposals bywhich he had sought to corrupt the student's mind.Several days went by, and Rastignac lived in a whirl of gaiety. He dinedalmost every day with Mme. de Nucingen, and went wherever she went, onlyreturning to the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve in the small hours. He roseat mid-day, and dressed to go into the Bois with Delphine if the day wasfine, squandering in this way time that was worth far more than he knew.He turned as eagerly to learn the lessons of luxury, and was as quickto feel its fascination, as the flowers of the date palm to receive thefertilizing pollen. He played high, lost and won large sums of money,and at last became accustomed to the extravagant life that young menlead in Paris. He sent fifteen hundred francs out of his first winningsto his mother and sisters, sending handsome presents as well as themoney. He had given out that he meant to leave the Maison Vauquer; butJanuary came and went, and he was still there, still unprepared to go.One rule holds good of most young men--whether rich or poor. They neverhave money for the necessaries of life, but they have always money tospare for their caprices--an anomaly which finds its explanation intheir youth and in the almost frantic eagerness with which youth graspsat pleasure. They are reckless with anything obtained on credit, whileeverything for which they must pay in ready money is made to last aslong as possible; if they cannot have all that they want, they makeup for it, it would seem, by squandering what they have. To state thematter simply--a student is far more careful of his hat than of hiscoat, because the latter being a comparatively costly article of dress,it is in the nature of things that a tailor should be a creditor; butit is otherwise with the hatter; the sums of money spent with him are somodest, that he is the most independent and unmanageable of his tribe,and it is almost impossible to bring him to terms. The young man in thebalcony of a theatre who displays a gorgeous waistcoat for the benefitof the fair owners of opera glasses, has very probably no socks in hiswardrobe, for the hosier is another of the genus of weevils that nibbleat the purse. This was Rastignac's condition. His purse was alwaysempty for Mme. Vauquer, always full at the demand of vanity; there wasa periodical ebb and flow in his fortunes, which was seldom favorableto the payment of just debts. If he was to leave that unsavory and meanabode, where from time to time his pretensions met with humiliation, thefirst step was to pay his hostess for a month's board and lodging, andthe second to purchase furniture worthy of the new lodgings he must takein his quality of dandy, a course that remained impossible. Rastignac,out of his winnings at cards, would pay his jeweler exorbitant pricesfor gold watches and chains, and then, to meet the exigencies of play,would carry them to the pawnbroker, that discreet and forbidding-lookingfriend of youth; but when it was a question of paying for board orlodging, or for the necessary implements for the cultivation of hisElysian fields, his imagination and pluck alike deserted him. There wasno inspiration to be found in vulgar necessity, in debts contracted forpast requirements. Like most of those who trust to their luck, he putoff till the last moment the payment of debts that among the bourgeoisieare regarded as sacred engagements, acting on the plan of Mirabeau,who never settled his baker's bill until it underwent a formidabletransformation into a bill of exchange.It was about this time when Rastignac was down on his luck and fell intodebt, that it became clear to the law student's mind that he must havesome more certain source of income if he meant to live as he had beendoing. But while he groaned over the thorny problems of his precarioussituation, he felt that he could not bring himself to renounce thepleasures of this extravagant life, and decided that he must continue itat all costs. His dreams of obtaining a fortune appeared more and morechimerical, and the real obstacles grew more formidable. His initiationinto the secrets of the Nucingen household had revealed to him that ifhe were to attempt to use this love affair as a means of mending hisfortunes, he must swallow down all sense of decency, and renounce allthe generous ideas which redeem the sins of youth. He had chosen thislife of apparent splendor, but secretly gnawed by the canker worm ofremorse, a life of fleeting pleasure dearly paid for by persistent pain;like Le Distrait of La Bruyere, he had descended so far as to makehis bed in a ditch; but (also like Le Distrait) he himself wasuncontaminated as yet by the mire that stained his garments."So we have killed our mandarin, have we?" said Bianchon one day as theyleft the dinner table."Not yet," he answered, "but he is at his last gasp."The medical student took this for a joke, but it was not a jest. Eugenehad dined in the house that night for the first time for a long while,and had looked thoughtful during the meal. He had taken his place besideMlle. Taillefer, and stayed through the dessert, giving his neighbor anexpressive glance from time to time. A few of the