Father Goriot

The next day Rastignac dressed himself very elegantly, and about three o’clock in the afternoon went to call on Mme. de Restaud.  On the way thither he indulged in the wild intoxicating dreams which fill a young head so full of delicious excitement.  Young men at his age take no account of obstacles nor of dangers; they see success in every direction; imagination has free play, and turns their lives into a romance; they are saddened or discouraged by the collapse of one of the visionary schemes that have no existence save in their heated fancy.  If youth 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. de Restaud and what he should say to her.  He equipped himself with wit, rehearsed repartees in the course of an imaginary conversation, and prepared certain neat speeches a la Talleyrand, conjuring up a series of small events which should prepare the way for the declaration on which he had based his future; and during these musings the law student was bespattered with mud, and by the time he reached the Palais Royal he was obliged to have his boots blacked and his trousers brushed.

“If I were rich,” he said, as he changed the five-franc piece he had brought 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 de Restaud.  He bore the contemptuous glances of the servants, who had seen him cross the court on foot, with the cold fury of a man who knows that he will succeed some day.  He understood the meaning of their glances at once, 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 Paris seemed to be implied by this visible and manifest sign of luxury and extravagance.  A fine horse, in magnificent harness, was pawing the ground, 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 of wit was bolted fast; he grew positively stupid.  He sent up his name to the Countess, and waited in the ante-chamber, standing on one foot before a window that looked out upon the court; mechanically he leaned his elbow against the sash, and stared before him.  The time seemed long; he would have left the house but for the southern tenacity of purpose which 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 the dining-room, there is some one already there.”

Rastignac was impressed with a sense of the formidable power of the lackey who can accuse or condemn his masters by a word; he coolly opened the door by which the man had just entered the ante-chamber, meaning, no doubt, to show these insolent flunkeys that he was familiar with the house; but he found that he had thoughtlessly precipitated himself into a small room full of dressers, where lamps were standing, and hot-water pipes, on which towels were being dried; a dark passage and a back staircase lay beyond it.  Stifled laughter from the ante-chamber added to his confusion.

“This way to the drawing-room, sir,” said the servant, with the exaggerated 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 in the water; but just as he turned, a door opened at the further end of the dark passage, dimly lighted by a small lamp.  Rastignac heard voices and the sound of a kiss; one of the speakers was Mme. de Restaud, the other was Father Goriot.  Eugene followed the servant through the dining-room into the drawing-room; he went to a window that looked out into the courtyard, and stood there for a while.  He meant to know whether this Goriot was really the Goriot that he knew.  His heart beat unwontedly fast; he remembered Vautrin’s hideous insinuations.  A well-dressed young man suddenly emerged from the room almost as Eugene entered it, saying impatiently to the servant who stood at the door:  “I am going, Maurice.  Tell Madame la Comtesse that I waited more than half an hour for her.”

Whereupon this insolent being, who, doubtless, had a right to be insolent, sang an Italian trill, and went towards the window where Eugene was standing, moved thereto quite as much by a desire to see the student’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 had emerged from a door at the foot of the back staircase.  The worthy soul was preparing to open his umbrella regardless of the fact that the great gate had opened to admit a tilbury, in which a young man with a ribbon at his button-hole was seated.  Father Goriot had scarcely time to start back and save himself.  The horse took fright at the umbrella, swerved, and dashed forward towards the flight of steps.  The young man looked round in annoyance, saw Father Goriot, and greeted him as he went out with constrained courtesy, such as people usually show to a money-lender so long as they require his services, or the sort of respect they feel it necessary to show for some one whose reputation has been blown upon, so that they blush to acknowledge his acquaintance.  Father Goriot gave him a little friendly nod and a good-natured smile.  All this happened with lightning speed.  Eugene was so deeply interested that he forgot that he was not alone till he suddenly heard the Countess’ voice.

“Oh!  Maxime, were you going away?” she said reproachfully, with a shade of pique in her manner.  The Countess had not seen the incident nor the entrance of the tilbury.  Rastignac turned abruptly and saw her standing before him, coquettishly dressed in a loose white cashmere gown with knots of rose-colored ribbon here and there; her hair was carelessly coiled about her head, as is the wont of Parisian women in the morning; there was a soft fragrance about her—­doubtless she was fresh from a bath;—­her graceful form seemed more flexible, her beauty more luxuriant.  Her eyes glistened.  A young man can see everything at a glance; he feels the radiant influence of woman as a plant discerns and absorbs its nutriment from the air; he did not need to touch her hands to feel their cool freshness.  He saw faint rose tints through the cashmere of the dressing gown; it had fallen slightly open, giving glimpses of a bare throat, on which the student’s eyes rested.  The Countess had no need of the adventitious aid of corsets; her girdle defined the outlines of her slender waist; her throat was a challenge to love; her feet, thrust into slippers, were daintily small.  As Maxime took 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 have taken as a hint to depart.

Maxime, as the Countess Anastasie had called the young man with the haughty insolence of bearing, looked from Eugene to the lady, and from the lady to Eugene; it was sufficiently evident that he wished to be rid of the latter.  An exact and faithful rendering of the glance might be given in the words:  “Look here, my dear; I hope you intend to send this little whipper-snapper about his business.”

The Countess consulted the young man’s face with an intent submissiveness that betrays all the secrets of a woman’s heart, and Rastignac all at once began to hate him violently.  To begin with, the sight of the fair carefully arranged curls on the other’s comely head had convinced him that his own crop was hideous; Maxime’s boots, moreover, were elegant and spotless, while his own, in spite of all his care, bore some traces of his recent walk; and, finally, Maxime’s overcoat fitted the outline of his figure gracefully, he looked like a pretty woman, while Eugene was wearing a black coat at half-past two.  The quick-witted child of the Charente felt the disadvantage at which he was placed beside this tall, slender dandy, with the clear gaze and the pale face, one of those men who would ruin orphan children without scruple.  Mme. de Restaud fled into the next room without waiting for Eugene to speak; shaking out the skirts of her dressing-gown in her flight, so that she looked like a white butterfly, and Maxime hurried after her.  Eugene, in a fury, followed Maxime and the Countess, and the three stood once more face to face by the hearth in the large drawing-room.  The law student felt quite sure that the odious Maxime found him in the way, and even at the risk of displeasing Mme. de Restaud, he meant to annoy the dandy.  It had struck him all at once that he had seen the young man before at Mme. de Beauseant’s ball; he guessed the relation between Maxime and Mme. de Restaud; and with the youthful audacity that commits prodigious blunders or achieves signal success, he said 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 would wait till he was insulted, so as to fire first and kill his man.  Eugene was a sportsman and a good shot, but he had not yet hit the bulls’s eye twenty times out of twenty-two.  The young Count dropped into a low chair by the hearth, took up the tongs, and made up the fire so violently and so sulkily, that Anastasie’s fair face suddenly clouded over.  She turned to Eugene, with a cool, questioning glance that asked plainly, “Why do you not go?” a glance which well-bred people regard as a cue to make their 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 suddenly appeared.  He had left his hat outside, and did not greet the Countess; he looked meditatively at Rastignac, and held out his hand to Maxime with a cordial “Good morning,” that astonished Eugene not a little.  The young provincial did not understand the amenities of a triple alliance.

“M. de Restaud,” said the Countess, introducing her husband to the law student.

Eugene bowed profoundly.

“This gentleman,” she continued, presenting Eugene to her husband, “is M. de Rastignac; he is related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseant through the Marcillacs; I had the pleasure of meeting him at her last ball.”

Related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseant through the Marcillacs! These words, on which the countess threw ever so slight an emphasis, by reason of the pride that the mistress of a house takes in showing that she only receives people of distinction as visitors in her house, produced a magical effect.  The Count’s stiff manner relaxed at once as he 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 suddenly dropped his insolent manner.  The mighty name had all the power of a fairy’s wand; those closed compartments in the southern brain flew open again; Rastignac’s carefully drilled faculties returned.  It was as if a sudden light had pierced the obscurity of this upper world of Paris, and he began to see, though everything was indistinct as yet.  Mme. Vauquer’s lodging-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, the Chevalier 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 younger branch of the family, and the younger branch is all the poorer because my great-uncle, the Vice-Admiral, lost all that he had in the King’s service.  The Government during the Revolution refused to admit our claims 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 the Warwick.”

Maxime looked at Mme. de Restaud and shrugged his shoulders, as who should say, “If he is going to discuss nautical matters with that fellow, 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 smile and said: 

“Come with me, Maxime; I have something to say to you.  We will leave you two gentlemen to sail in company on board the Warwick and the Vengeur.”

She rose to her feet and signed to Maxime to follow her, mirth and mischief in her whole attitude, and the two went in the direction of the boudoir.  The morganatic couple (to use a convenient German expression which has no exact equivalent) had reached the door, when the Count interrupted himself in his talk with Eugene.

“Anastasie!” he cried pettishly, “just stay a moment, dear; you know very well that——­”

“I am coming back in a minute,” she interrupted; “I have a commission for Maxime to execute, and I want to tell him about it.”

She came back almost immediately.  She had noticed the inflection in her husband’s voice, and knew that it would not be safe to retire to the boudoir; like all women who are compelled to study their husbands’ characters in order to have their own way, and whose business it is to know exactly how far they can go without endangering a good understanding, she was very careful to avoid petty collisions in domestic life.  It was Eugene who had brought about this untoward incident; so the Countess looked at Maxime and indicated the law student with an air of exasperation.  M. de Trailles addressed the Count, the Countess, and Eugene with the pointed remark, “You are busy, I do not want 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 her husband together once more.  She followed Maxime into the little drawing-room, where they sat together sufficiently long to feel sure that Rastignac had taken his leave.

The law student heard their laughter, and their voices, and the pauses in their talk; he grew malicious, exerted his conversational powers for M. de Restaud, flattered him, and drew him into discussions, to the end that he might see the Countess again and discover the nature of her relations with Father Goriot.  This Countess with a husband and a lover, for Maxime clearly was her lover, was a mystery.  What was the secret tie that bound her to the old tradesman?  This mystery he meant to penetrate, hoping by its means to gain a sovereign ascendency over this fair typical Parisian.

“Anastasie!” the Count called again to his wife.

“Poor Maxime!” she said, addressing the young man.  “Come, we must resign ourselves.  This evening——­”

“I hope, Nasie,” he said in her ear, “that you will give orders not to admit that youngster, whose eyes light up like live coals when he looks at you.  He will make you a declaration, and compromise you, and then you will compel me to kill him.”

“Are you mad, Maxime?” she said.  “A young lad of a student is, on the contrary, a capital lightning-conductor; is not that so?  Of course, I mean to make Restaud furiously jealous of him.”

Maxime burst out laughing, and went out, followed by the Countess, who stood 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 had been closed after him.

“What do you think, dear?” cried the Count, her husband, “this gentleman’s family estate is not far from Verteuil, on the Charente; his great-uncle and my grandfather were acquainted.”

“Delighted to find that we have acquaintances in common,” said the Countess, 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 at the gate, Father Goriot, my next door neighbor in the house where I am lodging.”

At the sound of this name, and the prefix that embellished it, the Count, who was stirring the fire, let the tongs fall as though they had burned 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’s vexation, then she reddened; clearly she was embarrassed, her answer was made in a tone that she tried to make natural, and with an air of assumed 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 her mind, and asked, “Are you fond of music, M. de Rastignac?”

“Exceedingly,” answered Eugene, flushing, and disconcerted by a dim suspicion that he had somehow been guilty of a clumsy piece of folly.

“Do you sing?” she cried, going to the piano, and, sitting down before it, 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’s name, but the effect seemed to be entirely opposite to that produced by the formula “related to Mme. de Beauseant.”  His position was not unlike that of some visitor permitted as a favor to inspect a private collection of curiosities, when by inadvertence he comes into collision with a glass case full of sculptured figures, and three or four heads, imperfectly secured, fall at the shock.  He wished the earth would open and swallow him.  Mme. de Restaud’s expression was reserved and chilly, her eyes had grown indifferent, and sedulously avoided meeting those of the unlucky student of law.

“Madame,” he said, “you wish to talk with M. de Restaud; permit me to wish you good-day——­”

The Countess interrupted him by a gesture, saying hastily, “Whenever you come 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. de Restaud, who insisted, in spite of his remonstrances, on accompanying him into the hall.

“Neither your mistress nor I are at home to that gentleman when he calls,” 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, I do not know how.  And now I am going to spoil my hat and coat into the bargain.  I ought to stop in my corner, grind away at law, and never look to be anything but a boorish country magistrate.  How can I go into society, when to manage properly you want a lot of cabs, varnished boots, gold watch chains, and all sorts of things; you have to wear white doeskin gloves that cost six francs in the morning, and primrose kid 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 had probably just deposited a wedding party at their door, and asked nothing better than a chance of making a little money for himself without his employer’s knowledge, saw that Eugene had no umbrella, remarked his black coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, and varnished boots, and stopped and looked at him inquiringly.  Eugene, in the blind desperation that drives a young man to plunge deeper and deeper into an abyss, as if he might hope to find a fortunate issue in its lowest depths, nodded in reply to the driver’s signal, and stepped into the cab; a few stray petals of orange blossom and scraps of wire bore witness to its recent occupation by a wedding party.

“Where am I to drive, sir?” demanded the man, who, by this time, had taken off his white gloves.

“Confound it!” Eugene said to himself, “I am in for it now, and at least I 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 to confusion.  This young man of fashion, species incerta, did not know that there were two Hotels Beauseant; he was not aware how rich he was in relations who did not care about him.

“The Vicomte de Beauseant, Rue——­”

“De Grenelle,” interrupted the driver, with a jerk of his head.  “You see, there are the hotels of the Marquis and Comte de Beauseant in the Rue Saint-Dominique,” he added, drawing up the step.

“I know all about that,” said Eugene, severely.—­“Everybody is laughing at me to-day, it seems!” he said to himself, as he deposited his hat on the 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 thoroughly aristocratic fashion.  Goriot has cost me ten francs already, the old scoundrel.  My word!  I will tell Mme. de Beauseant about my adventure; perhaps it may amuse her.  Doubtless she will know the secret of the criminal relation between that handsome woman and the old rat without a tail.  It would be better to find favor in my cousin’s eyes than to come in contact with that shameless woman, who seems to me to have very expensive tastes.  Surely the beautiful Vicomtesse’s personal interest would turn the scale for me, when the mere mention of her name produces such an effect.  Let us look higher.  If you set yourself to carry the heights of heaven, you must face God.”

The innumerable thoughts that surged through his brain might be summed up in these phrases.  He grew calmer, and recovered something of his assurance as he watched the falling rain.  He told himself that though he was about to squander two of the precious five-franc pieces that remained 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,” almost put him in spirits.  A Swiss, in scarlet and gold, appeared, the great door groaned on its hinges, and Rastignac, with sweet satisfaction, beheld his equipage pass under the archway and stop before the flight of 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, he heard smothered laughter from the peristyle.  Three or four lackeys were making merry over the festal appearance of the vehicle.  In another moment the law student was enlightened as to the cause of their hilarity; he felt the full force of the contrast between his equipage and one of the smartest broughams in Paris; a coachman, with powdered hair, seemed to find it difficult to hold a pair of spirited horses, who stood chafing the bit.  In Mme. de Restaud’s courtyard, in the Chaussee d’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 man of 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 in Paris who were not already appropriated, and that the capture of one of 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 glass door was opened for him; the servants were as solemn as jackasses under the curry comb.  So far, Eugene had only been in the ballroom on the ground floor of the Hotel Beauseant; the fete had followed so closely on the invitation, that he had not had time to call on his cousin, and had therefore never seen Mme. de Beauseant’s apartments; he was about to behold for the first time a great lady among the wonderful and elegant surroundings that reveal her character and reflect her daily life.  He was the more curious, because Mme. de Restaud’s drawing-room had provided him with a standard of comparison.

At half-past four the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was visible.  Five minutes earlier she would not have received her cousin, but Eugene knew nothing of the recognized routine of various houses in Paris.  He was conducted up the wide, white-painted, crimson-carpeted staircase, between the gilded balusters and masses of flowering plants, to Mme. de Beauseant’s apartments.  He did not know the rumor current about Mme. de Beauseant, one of the biographies told, with variations, in whispers, every evening in the salons of Paris.

For three years past her name had been spoken of in connection with that of one of the most wealthy and distinguished Portuguese nobles, the Marquis d’Ajuda-Pinto.  It was one of those innocent liaisons which possess so much charm for the two thus attached to each other that they find the presence of a third person intolerable.  The Vicomte de Beauseant, therefore, had himself set an example to the rest of the world by respecting, with as good a grace as might be, this morganatic union.  Any one who came to call on the Vicomtesse in the early days of this friendship was sure to find the Marquis d’Ajuda-Pinto there.  As, under the circumstances, Mme. de Beauseant could not very well shut her door against these visitors, she gave them such a cold reception, and showed so much interest in the study of the ceiling, that no one could fail to understand how much he bored her; and when it became known in Paris that Mme. de Beauseant was bored by callers between two and four o’clock, she was left in perfect solitude during that interval.  She went 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 installed them.  But M. d’Ajuda-Pinto must marry, and a Mlle. de Rochefide was the young lady.  In the whole fashionable world there was but one person who as yet knew nothing of the arrangement, and that was Mme. de Beauseant.  Some of her friends had hinted at the possibility, and she had laughed at them, believing that envy had prompted those ladies to try to make mischief.  And now, though the bans were about to be published, and although the handsome Portuguese had come that day to break the news to the Vicomtesse, he had not found courage as yet to say one word about his treachery.  How was it?  Nothing is doubtless more difficult than the notification of an ultimatum of this kind.  There are men who feel more at their ease when they stand up before another man who threatens their lives with sword or pistol than in the presence of a woman who, after two hours of lamentations and reproaches, falls into a dead swoon and requires salts.  At this moment, therefore, M. d’Ajuda-Pinto was on thorns, and anxious to take his leave.  He told himself that in some way or other the news would reach Mme. de Beauseant; he would write, it would be much better to do it by letter, and not to utter the words that should stab her to the heart.

So when the servant announced M. Eugene de Rastignac, the Marquis d’Ajuda-Pinto trembled with joy.  To be sure, a loving woman shows even more ingenuity in inventing doubts of her lover than in varying the monotony of his happiness; and when she is about to be forsaken, she instinctively interprets every gesture as rapidly as Virgil’s courser detected the presence of his companion by snuffing the breeze.  It was impossible, therefore, that Mme. de Beauseant should not detect that involuntary thrill of satisfaction; slight though it was, it was appalling in its artlessness.

Eugene had yet to learn that no one in Paris should present himself in any house without first making himself acquainted with the whole history of its owner, and of its owner’s wife and family, so that he may avoid making any of the terrible blunders which in Poland draw forth the picturesque exclamation, “Harness five bullocks to your cart!” probably because you will need them all to pull you out of the quagmire into which a false step has plunged you.  If, down to the present day, our language has no name for these conversational disasters, it is probably because they are believed to be impossible, the publicity given in Paris to every scandal is so prodigious.  After the awkward incident at Mme. de Restaud’s, no one but Eugene could have reappeared in his character of bullock-driver in Mme. de Beauseant’s drawing-room.  But if Mme. de Restaud and M. de Trailles had found him horribly in the way, M. d’Ajuda hailed his coming with relief.

“Good-bye,” said the Portuguese, hurrying to the door, as Eugene made his entrance into a dainty little pink-and-gray drawing-room, where luxury seemed nothing more than good taste.

“Until this evening,” said Mme. de Beauseant, turning her head to give the 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 not pay the slightest attention to Eugene, who stood there dazzled by the sparkling marvels around him; he began to think that this was some story out of the Arabian Nights made real, and did not know where to hide himself, when the woman before him seemed to be unconscious of his existence.  The Vicomtesse had raised the forefinger of her right hand, and gracefully signed to the Marquis to seat himself beside her.  The Marquis felt the imperious sway of passion in her gesture; he came back towards her.  Eugene watched him, not without a feeling of envy.

“That is the owner of the brougham!” he said to himself.  “But is it necessary to have a pair of spirited horses, servants in livery, and torrents 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, his throat 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 month among them.  This swift comparison between his present condition and the aims he had in view helped to benumb his faculties.