Father Goriot

Vautrin went out.  He would not wait to hear the student’s repudiation, he wished to put Eugene at his ease.  He seemed to understand the secret springs of the faint resistance still made by the younger man; the struggles in which men seek to preserve their self-respect by justifying their blameworthy actions to themselves.

“He may do as he likes; I shall not marry Mlle. Taillefer, that is certain,” said Eugene to himself.

He regarded this man with abhorrence, and yet the very cynicism of Vautrin’s ideas, and the audacious way in which he used other men for his own ends, raised him in the student’s eyes; but the thought of a compact threw Eugene into a fever of apprehension, and not until he had recovered somewhat did he dress, call for a cab, and go to Mme. de Restaud’s.

For some days the Countess had paid more and more attention to a young man whose every step seemed a triumphal progress in the great world; it seemed to her that he might be a formidable power before long.  He paid Messieurs de Trailles and d’Ajuda, played at whist for part of the evening, and made good his losses.  Most men who have their way to make are more or less of fatalists, and Eugene was superstitious; he chose to consider that his luck was heaven’s reward for his perseverance in the right way.  As soon as possible on the following morning he asked Vautrin whether the bill he had given was still in the other’s possession; and on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he repaid the three thousand francs with a not unnatural relief.

“Everything is going on well,” said Vautrin.

“But I am not your accomplice,” said Eugene.

“I know, I know,” Vautrin broke in.  “You are still acting like a child.  You are making mountains out of molehills at the outset.”

Two days later, Poiret and Mlle. Michonneau were sitting together on a bench in the sun.  They had chosen a little frequented alley in the Jardin des Plantes, and a gentleman was chatting with them, the same person, as a matter of fact, about whom the medical student had, not without good reason, his own suspicions.

“Mademoiselle,” this M. Gondureau was saying, “I do not see any cause for your scruples.  His Excellency, Monseigneur the Minister of Police——­”

“Yes, his Excellency is taking a personal interest in the matter,” said Gondureau.

Who would think it probable that Poiret, a retired clerk, doubtless possessed of some notions of civic virtue, though there might be nothing else in his head—­who would think it likely that such a man would continue to lend an ear to this supposed independent gentleman of the Rue de Buffon, when the latter dropped the mask of a decent citizen by that word “police,” and gave a glimpse of the features of a detective from the Rue de Jerusalem?  And yet nothing was more natural.  Perhaps the following remarks from the hitherto unpublished records made by certain observers will throw a light on the particular species to which Poiret belonged in the great family of fools.  There is a race of quill-drivers, confined in the columns of the budget between the first degree of latitude (a kind of administrative Greenland where the salaries begin at twelve hundred francs) to the third degree, a more temperate zone, where incomes grow from three to six thousand francs, a climate where the bonus flourishes like a half-hardy annual in spite of some difficulties of culture.  A characteristic trait that best reveals the feeble narrow-mindedness of these inhabitants of petty officialdom is a kind of involuntary, mechanical, and instinctive reverence for the Grand Lama of every Ministry, known to the rank and file only by his signature (an illegible scrawl) and by his title—­“His Excellency Monseigneur le Ministre,” five words which produce as much effect as the il Bondo Cani of the Calife de Bagdad, five words which in the eyes of this low order of intelligence represent a sacred power from which there is no appeal.  The Minister is administratively infallible for the clerks in the employ of the Government, as the Pope is infallible for good Catholics.  Something of this peculiar radiance invests everything he does or says, or that is said or done in his name; the robe of office covers everything and legalizes everything done by his orders; does not his very title—­His Excellency—­vouch for the purity of his intentions and the righteousness of his will, and serve as a sort of passport and introduction to ideas that otherwise would not be entertained for a moment?  Pronounce the words “His Excellency,” and these poor folk will forthwith proceed to do what they would not do for their own interests.  Passive obedience is as well known in a Government department as in the army itself; and the administrative system silences consciences, annihilates the individual, and ends (give it time enough) by fashioning a man into a vise or a thumbscrew, and he becomes part of the machinery of Government.  Wherefore, M. Gondureau, who seemed to know something of human nature, recognized Poiret at once as one of those dupes of officialdom, and brought out for his benefit, at the proper moment, the deus ex machina, the magical words “His Excellency,” so as to dazzle Poiret just as he himself unmasked his batteries, for he took Poiret and the Michonneau for the male and female of the same species.

“If his Excellency himself, his Excellency the Minister . . .  Ah! that is quite another thing,” said Poiret.

“You seem to be guided by this gentleman’s opinion, and you hear what he says,” said the man of independent means, addressing Mlle. Michonneau.  “Very well, his Excellency is at this moment absolutely certain that the so-called Vautrin, who lodges at the Maison Vauquer, is a convict who escaped from penal servitude at Toulon, where he is known by the nickname Trompe-la-Mort.”

“Trompe-la-Mort?” said Pioret.  “Dear me, he is very lucky if he deserves that nickname.”

“Well, yes,” said the detective.  “They call him so because he has been so lucky as not to lose his life in the very risky businesses that he has carried through.  He is a dangerous man, you see!  He has qualities that are out of the common; the thing he is wanted for, in fact, was a matter which gained him no end of credit with his own set——­”

“Then is he a man of honor?” asked Poiret.

“Yes, according to his notions.  He agreed to take another man’s crime upon himself—­a forgery committed by a very handsome young fellow that he had taken a great fancy to, a young Italian, a bit of a gambler, who has since gone into the army, where his conduct has been unexceptionable.”

“But if his Excellency the Minister of Police is certain that M. Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, why should he want me?” asked Mlle. Michonneau.

“Oh yes,” said Poiret, “if the Minister, as you have been so obliging as to tell us, really knows for a certainty——­”

“Certainty is not the word; he only suspects.  You will soon understand how things are.  Jacques Collin, nicknamed Trompe-la-Mort, is in the confidence of every convict in the three prisons; he is their man of business and their banker.  He makes a very good thing out of managing their affairs, which want a man of mark to see about them.”

“Ha! ha! do you see the pun, mademoiselle?” asked Poiret.  “This gentleman calls himself a man of mark because he is a marked man —­branded, you know.”

“This so-called Vautrin,” said the detective, “receives the money belonging to my lords the convicts, invests it for them, and holds it at the disposal of those who escape, or hands it over to their families if they leave a will, or to their mistresses when they draw upon him for their benefit.”

“Their mistresses!  You mean their wives,” remarked Poiret.

“No, sir.  A convict’s wife is usually an illegitimate connection.  We call them concubines.”

“Then they all live in a state of concubinage?”

“Naturally.”

“Why, these are abominations that his Excellency ought not to allow.  Since you have the honor of seeing his Excellency, you, who seem to have philanthropic ideas, ought really to enlighten him as to their immoral conduct—­they are setting a shocking example to the rest of society.”

“But the Government does not hold them up as models of all the virtues, my dear sir——­”

“Of course not, sir; but still——­”

“Just let the gentleman say what he has to say, dearie,” said Mlle. Michonneau.

“You see how it is, mademoiselle,” Gondureau continued.  “The Government may have the strongest reasons for getting this illicit hoard into its hands; it mounts up to something considerable, by all that we can make out.  Trompe-la-Mort not only holds large sums for his friends the convicts, but he has other amounts which are paid over to him by the Society of the Ten Thousand——­”

“Ten Thousand Thieves!” cried Pioret in alarm.

“No.  The Society of the Ten Thousand is not an association of petty offenders, but of people who set about their work on a large scale —­they won’t touch a matter unless there are ten thousand francs in it.  It is composed of the most distinguished of the men who are sent straight to the Assize Courts when they come up for trial.  They know the Code too well to risk their necks when they are nabbed.  Collin is their confidential agent and legal adviser.  By means of the large sums of money at his disposal he has established a sort of detective system of his own; it is widespread and mysterious in its workings.  We have had spies all about him for a twelvemonth, and yet we could not manage to fathom his games.  His capital and his cleverness are at the service of vice and crime; this money furnishes the necessary funds for a regular army of blackguards in his pay who wage incessant war against society.  If we can catch Trompe-la-Mort, and take possession of his funds, we should strike at the root of this evil.  So this job is a kind of Government affair—­a State secret—­and likely to redound to the honor of those who bring the thing to a successful conclusion.  You, sir, for instance, might very well be taken into a Government department again; they might make you secretary to a Commissary of Police; you could accept that post without prejudice to your retiring pension.”

Mlle. Michonneau interposed at this point with, “What is there to hinder Trompe-la-Mort from making off with the money?”

“Oh!” said the detective, “a man is told off to follow him everywhere he goes, with orders to kill him if he were to rob the convicts.  Then it is not quite as easy to make off with a lot of money as it is to run away with a young lady of family.  Besides, Collin is not the sort of fellow to play such a trick; he would be disgraced, according to his notions.”

“You are quite right, sir,” said Poiret, “utterly disgraced he would be.”

“But none of all this explains why you do not come and take him without more ado,” remarked Mlle. Michonneau.

“Very well, mademoiselle, I will explain—­but,” he added in her ear, “keep your companion quiet, or I shall never have done.  The old boy ought to pay people handsomely for listening to him.—­Trompe-la-Mort, when he came back here,” he went on aloud “slipped into the skin of an honest man; he turned up disguised as a decent Parisian citizen, and took up his quarters in an unpretending lodging-house.  He is cunning, that he is!  You don’t catch him napping.  Then M. Vautrin is a man of consequence, who transacts a good deal of business.”

“Naturally,” said Poiret to himself.

“And suppose that the Minister were to make a mistake and get hold of the real Vautrin, he would put every one’s back up among the business men in Paris, and public opinion would be against him.  M. le Prefet de Police is on slippery ground; he has enemies.  They would take advantage of any mistake.  There would be a fine outcry and fuss made by the Opposition, and he would be sent packing.  We must set about this just as we did about the Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-Helene; if he had been the real Comte de Sainte-Helene, we should have been in the wrong box.  We want to be quite sure what we are about.”

“Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman,” said Mlle. Michonneau briskly.

“Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him,” said the detective.  “I will tell you a secret—­he does not like them.”

“Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did agree to identify him for two thousand francs.”

“Nothing simpler,” said the stranger.  “I will send you a little bottle containing a dose that will send a rush of blood to the head; it will do him no harm whatever, but he will fall down as if he were in a fit.  The drug can be put into wine or coffee; either will do equally well.  You carry your man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not dying.  As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the shoulder, and presto! the letters will appear.”

“Why, that is just nothing at all,” said Poiret.

“Well, do you agree?” said Gondureau, addressing the old maid.

“But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all,” said Mlle. Michonneau; “am I to have the two thousand francs all the same?”

“No.”

“What will you give me then?”

“Five hundred francs.”

“It is such a thing to do for so little!  It lies on your conscience just the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir.”

“I assure you,” said Poiret, “that mademoiselle has a great deal of conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable person, and very intelligent.”

“Well, now,” Mlle. Michonneau went on, “make it three thousand francs if he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at all if he is an ordinary man.”

“Done!” said Gondureau, “but on the condition that the thing is settled to-morrow.”

“Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor first.”

“You are a sly one,” said the detective as he rose to his feet.  “Good-bye till to-morrow, then.  And if you should want to see me in a hurry, go to the Petite Rue Saint-Anne at the bottom of the Cour de la Sainte-Chapelle.  There is one door under the archway.  Ask there for M. Gondureau.”

Bianchon, on his way back from Cuvier’s lecture, overheard the sufficiently striking nickname of Trompe-la-Mort, and caught the celebrated chief detective’s “Done!”

“Why didn’t you close with him?  It would be three hundred francs a year,” said Poiret to Mlle. Michonneau.

“Why didn’t I?” she asked.  “Why, it wants thinking over.  Suppose that M. Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, perhaps we might do better for ourselves with him.  Still, on the other hand, if you ask him for money, it would put him on his guard, and he is just the man to clear out without paying, and that would be an abominable sell.”

“And suppose you did warn him,” Poiret went on, “didn’t that gentleman say that he was closely watched?  You would spoil everything.”

“Anyhow,” thought Mlle. Michonneau, “I can’t abide him.  He says nothing but disagreeable things to me.”

“But you can do better than that,” Poiret resumed.  “As that gentleman said (and he seemed to me to be a very good sort of man, besides being very well got up), it is an act of obedience to the laws to rid society of a criminal, however virtuous he may be.  Once a thief, always a thief.  Suppose he were to take it into his head to murder us all?  The deuce!  We should be guilty of manslaughter, and be the first to fall victims into the bargain!”

Mlle. Michonneau’s musings did not permit her to listen very closely to the remarks that fell one by one from Poiret’s lips like water dripping from a leaky tap.  When once this elderly babbler began to talk, he would go on like clockwork unless Mlle. Michonneau stopped him.  He started on some subject or other, and wandered on through parenthesis after parenthesis, till he came to regions as remote as possible from his premises without coming to any conclusions by the way.

By the time they reached the Maison Vauquer he had tacked together a whole string of examples and quotations more or less irrelevant to the subject in hand, which led him to give a full account of his own deposition in the case of the Sieur Ragoulleau versus Dame Morin, when he had been summoned as a witness for the defence.

As they entered the dining-room, Eugene de Rastignac was talking apart with Mlle. Taillefer; the conversation appeared to be of such thrilling interest that the pair never noticed the two older lodgers as they passed through the room.  None of this was thrown away on Mlle. Michonneau.

“I knew how it would end,” remarked that lady, addressing Poiret.  “They have been making eyes at each other in a heartrending way for a week past.”

“Yes,” he answered.  “So she was found guilty.”

“Who?”

“Mme. Morin.”

“I am talking about Mlle. Victorine,” said Mlle, Michonneau, as she entered Poiret’s room with an absent air, “and you answer, ’Mme. Morin.’  Who may Mme. Morin be?”

“What can Mlle. Victorine be guilty of?” demanded Poiret.

“Guilty of falling in love with M. Eugene de Rastignac and going further and further without knowing exactly where she is going, poor innocent!”