Father Goriot

“Oh! they will come!  Come to me, darlings, and give me one more kiss; one last kiss, the Viaticum for your father, who will pray God for you in heaven.  I will tell Him that you have been good children to your father, and plead your cause with God!  After all, it is not their fault.  I tell you they are innocent, my friend.  Tell every one that it is not their fault, and no one need be distressed on my account.  It is all my own fault, I taught them to trample upon me.  I loved to have it so.  It is no one’s affair but mine; man’s justice and God’s justice have nothing to do in it.  God would be unjust if He condemned them for anything they may have done to me.  I did not behave to them properly; I was stupid enough to resign my rights.  I would have humbled myself in the dust for them.  What could you expect?  The most beautiful nature, the noblest soul, would have been spoiled by such indulgence.  I am a wretch, I am justly punished.  I, and I only, am to blame for all their sins; I spoiled them.  To-day they are as eager for pleasure as they used to be for sugar-plums.  When they were little girls I indulged them in every whim.  They had a carriage of their own when they were fifteen.  They have never been crossed.  I am guilty, and not they—­but I sinned through love.

“My heart would open at the sound of their voices.  I can hear them; they are coming.  Yes! yes! they are coming.  The law demands that they should be present at their father’s deathbed; the law is on my side.  It would only cost them the hire of a cab.  I would pay that.  Write to them, tell them that I have millions to leave to them!  On my word of honor, yes.  I am going to manufacture Italian paste foods at Odessa.  I understand the trade.  There are millions to be made in it.  Nobody has thought of the scheme as yet.  You see, there will be no waste, no damage in transit, as there always is with wheat and flour.  Hey! hey! and starch too; there are millions to be made in the starch trade!  You will not be telling a lie.  Millions, tell them; and even if they really come because they covet the money, I would rather let them deceive me; and I shall see them in any case.  I want my children!  I gave them life; they are mine, mine!” and he sat upright.  The head thus raised, with its scanty white hair, seemed to Eugene like a threat; every line that could still speak spoke of menace.

“There, there, dear father,” said Eugene, “lie down again; I will write to them at once.  As soon as Bianchon comes back I will go for them myself, if they do not come before.”

“If they do not come?” repeated the old man, sobbing.  “Why, I shall be dead before then; I shall die in a fit of rage, of rage!  Anger is getting the better of me.  I can see my whole life at this minute.  I have been cheated!  They do not love me—­they have never loved me all their lives!  It is all clear to me.  They have not come, and they will not come.  The longer they put off their coming, the less they are likely to give me this joy.  I know them.  They have never cared to guess my disappointments, my sorrows, my wants; they never cared to know my life; they will have no presentiment of my death; they do not even know the secret of my tenderness for them.  Yes, I see it all now.  I have laid my heart open so often, that they take everything I do for them as a matter of course.  They might have asked me for the very eyes out of my head and I would have bidden them to pluck them out.  They think that all fathers are like theirs.  You should always make your value felt.  Their own children will avenge me.  Why, for their own sakes they should come to me!  Make them understand that they are laying up retribution for their own deathbeds.  All crimes are summed up in this one. . . .  Go to them; just tell them that if they stay away it will be parricide!  There is enough laid to their charge already without adding that to the list.  Cry aloud as I do now, ’Nasie!  Delphine! here!  Come to your father; the father who has been so kind to you is lying ill!’—­Not a sound; no one comes!  Then am I do die like a dog?  This is to be my reward—­I am forsaken at the last.  They are wicked, heartless women; curses on them, I loathe them.  I shall rise at night from my grave to curse them again; for, after all, my friends, have I done wrong?  They are behaving very badly to me, eh? . . .  What am I saying?  Did you not tell me just now that Delphine is in the room?  She is more tender-hearted than her sister. . . .  Eugene, you are my son, you know.  You will love her; be a father to her!  Her sister is very unhappy.  And there are their fortunes!  Ah, God!  I am dying, this anguish is almost more than I can bear!  Cut off my head; leave me nothing but my heart.”

“Christophe!” shouted Eugene, alarmed by the way in which the old man moaned, and by his cries, “go for M. Bianchon, and send a cab here for me.—­I am going to fetch them, dear father; I will bring them back to you.”

“Make them come!  Compel them to come!  Call out the Guard, the military, anything and everything, but make them come!” He looked at Eugene, and a last gleam of intelligence shone in his eyes.  “Go to the authorities, to the Public Prosecutor, let them bring them here; come they shall!”

“But you have cursed them.”

“Who said that!” said the old man in dull amazement.  “You know quite well that I love them, I adore them!  I shall be quite well again if I can see them. . . .  Go for them, my good neighbor, my dear boy, you are kind-hearted; I wish I could repay you for your kindness, but I have nothing to give you now, save the blessing of a dying man.  Ah! if I could only see Delphine, to tell her to pay my debt to you.  If the other cannot come, bring Delphine to me at any rate.  Tell her that unless she comes, you will not love her any more.  She is so fond of you that she will come to me then.  Give me something to drink!  There is a fire in my bowels.  Press something against my forehead!  If my daughters would lay their hands there, I think I should get better. . . . Mon Dieu! who will recover their money for them when I am gone? . . .  I will manufacture vermicelli out in Odessa; I will go to Odessa for their sakes.”

“Here is something to drink,” said Eugene, supporting the dying man on his left arm, while he held a cup of tisane to Goriot’s lips.

“How you must love your own father and mother!” said the old man, and grasped the student’s hand in both of his.  It was a feeble, trembling grasp.  “I am going to die; I shall die without seeing my daughters; do you understand?  To be always thirsting, and never to drink; that has been my life for the last ten years. . . .  I have no daughters, my sons-in-law killed them.  No, since their marriages they have been dead to me.  Fathers should petition the Chambers to pass a law against marriage.  If you love your daughters, do not let them marry.  A son-in-law is a rascal who poisons a girl’s mind and contaminates her whole nature.  Let us have no more marriages!  It robs us of our daughters; we are left alone upon our deathbeds, and they are not with us then.  They ought to pass a law for dying fathers.  This is awful!  It cries for vengeance!  They cannot come, because my sons-in-law forbid them! . . .  Kill them! . . .  Restaud and the Alsatian, kill them both!  They have murdered me between them! . . .  Death or my daughters! . . .  Ah! it is too late, I am dying, and they are not here! . . .  Dying without them! . . .  Nasie!  Fifine!  Why do you not come to me?  Your papa is going——­”

“Dear Father Goriot, calm yourself.  There, there, lie quietly and rest; don’t worry yourself, don’t think.”

“I shall not see them.  Oh! the agony of it!”

“You shall see them.”

“Really?” cried the old man, still wandering.  “Oh! shall I see them; I shall see them and hear their voices.  I shall die happy.  Ah! well, after all, I do not wish to live; I cannot stand this much longer; this pain that grows worse and worse.  But, oh! to see them, to touch their dresses—­ah! nothing but their dresses, that is very little; still, to feel something that belongs to them.  Let me touch their hair with my fingers . . . their hair . . .”

His head fell back on the pillow, as if a sudden heavy blow had struck him down, but his hands groped feebly over the quilt, as if to find his daughters’ hair.

“My blessing on them . . .” he said, making an effort, “my blessing . . .”

His voice died away.  Just at that moment Bianchon came into the room.

“I met Christophe,” he said; “he is gone for your cab.”

Then he looked at the patient, and raised the closed eyelids with his fingers.  The two students saw how dead and lustreless the eyes beneath had grown.

“He will not get over this, I am sure,” said Bianchon.  He felt the old man’s pulse, and laid a hand over his heart.

“The machinery works still; more is the pity, in his state it would be better for him to die.”

“Ah! my word, it would!”

“What is the matter with you?  You are as pale as death.”

“Dear fellow, the moans and cries that I have just heard. . . .  There is a God!  Ah! yes, yes, there is a God, and He has made a better world for us, or this world of ours would be a nightmare.  I could have cried like a child; but this is too tragical, and I am sick at heart.

“We want a lot of things, you know; and where is the money to come from?”

Rastignac took out his watch.

“There, be quick and pawn it.  I do not want to stop on the way to the Rue du Helder; there is not a moment to lose, I am afraid, and I must wait here till Christophe comes back.  I have not a farthing; I shall have to pay the cabman when I get home again.”

Rastignac rushed down the stairs, and drove off to the Rue du Helder.  The awful scene through which he had just passed quickened his imagination, and he grew fiercely indignant.  He reached Mme. de Restaud’s house only to be told by the servant that his mistress could see no one.

“But I have brought a message from her father, who is dying,” Rastignac told the man.

“The Count has given us the strictest orders, sir——­”

“If it is M. de Restaud who has given the orders, tell him that his father-in-law is dying, and that I am here, and must speak with him at once.”

The man went out.

Eugene waited for a long while.  “Perhaps her father is dying at this moment,” he thought.

Then the man came back, and Eugene followed him to the little drawing-room.  M. de Restaud was standing before the fireless grate, and did not ask his visitor to seat himself.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said Rastignac, “M.  Goriot, your father-in-law, is lying at the point of death in a squalid den in the Latin Quarter.  He has not a penny to pay for firewood; he is expected to die at any moment, and keeps calling for his daughter——­”

“I feel very little affection for M. Goriot, sir, as you probably are aware,” the Count answered coolly.  “His character has been compromised in connection with Mme. de Restaud; he is the author of the misfortunes that have embittered my life and troubled my peace of mind.  It is a matter of perfect indifference to me if he lives or dies.  Now you know my feelings with regard to him.  Public opinion may blame me, but I care nothing for public opinion.  Just now I have other and much more important matters to think about than the things that fools and chatterers may say about me.  As for Mme. de Restaud, she cannot leave the house; she is in no condition to do so.  And, besides, I shall not allow her to leave it.  Tell her father that as soon as she has done her duty by her husband and child she shall go to see him.  If she has any love for her father, she can be free to go to him, if she chooses, in a few seconds; it lies entirely with her——­”

“Monsieur le Comte, it is no business of mine to criticise your conduct; you can do as you please with your wife, but may I count upon your keeping your word with me?  Well, then, promise me to tell her that her father has not twenty-four hours to live; that he looks in vain for her, and has cursed her already as he lies on his deathbed, —­that is all I ask.”

“You can tell her yourself,” the Count answered, impressed by the thrill of indignation in Eugene’s voice.

The Count led the way to the room where his wife usually sat.  She was drowned in tears, and lay crouching in the depths of an armchair, as if she were tired of life and longed to die.  It was piteous to see her.  Before venturing to look at Rastignac, she glanced at her husband in evident and abject terror that spoke of complete prostration of body and mind; she seemed crushed by a tyranny both mental and physical.  The Count jerked his head towards her; she construed this as a permission to speak.

“I heard all that you said, monsieur.  Tell my father that if he knew all he would forgive me. . . .  I did not think there was such torture in the world as this; it is more than I can endure, monsieur!—­But I will not give way as long as I live,” she said, turning to her husband.  “I am a mother.—­Tell my father that I have never sinned against him in spite of appearances!” she cried aloud in her despair.

Eugene bowed to the husband and wife; he guessed the meaning of the scene, and that this was a terrible crisis in the Countess’ life.  M. de Restaud’s manner had told him that his errand was a fruitless one; he saw that Anastasie had no longer any liberty of action.  He came away mazed and bewildered, and hurried to Mme. de Nucingen.  Delphine was in bed.

“Poor dear Eugene, I am ill,” she said.  “I caught cold after the ball, and I am afraid of pneumonia.  I am waiting for the doctor to come.”

“If you were at death’s door,” Eugene broke in, “you must be carried somehow to your father.  He is calling for you.  If you could hear the faintest of those cries, you would not feel ill any longer.”

“Eugene, I dare say my father is not quite so ill as you say; but I cannot bear to do anything that you do not approve, so I will do just as you wish.  As for him, he would die of grief I know if I went out to see him and brought on a dangerous illness.  Well, I will go as soon as I have seen the doctor.—­Ah!” she cried out, “you are not wearing your watch, how is that?”

Eugene reddened.

“Eugene, Eugene! if you have sold it already or lost it. . . .  Oh! it would be very wrong of you!”

The student bent over Delphine and said in her ear, “Do you want to know?  Very well, then, you shall know.  Your father has nothing left to pay for the shroud that they will lay him in this evening.  Your watch has been pawned, for I had nothing either.”

Delphine sprang out of bed, ran to her desk, and took out her purse.  She gave it to Eugene, and rang the bell, crying: 

“I will go, I will go at once, Eugene.  Leave me, I will dress.  Why, I should be an unnatural daughter!  Go back; I will be there before you.  —­Therese,” she called to the waiting-woman, “ask M. de Nucingen to come upstairs at once and speak to me.”

Eugene was almost happy when he reached the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve; he was so glad to bring the news to the dying man that one of his daughters was coming.  He fumbled in Delphine’s purse for money, so as to dismiss the cab at once; and discovered that the young, beautiful, and wealthy woman of fashion had only seventy francs in her private purse.  He climbed the stairs and found Bianchon supporting Goriot, while the house surgeon from the hospital was applying moxas to the patient’s back—­under the direction of the physician, it was the last expedient of science, and it was tried in vain.

“Can you feel them?” asked the physician.  But Goriot had caught sight of Rastignac, and answered, “They are coming, are they not?”

“There is hope yet,” said the surgeon; “he can speak.”

“Yes,” said Eugene, “Delphine is coming.”

“Oh! that is nothing!” said Bianchon; “he has been talking about his daughters all the time.  He calls for them as a man impaled calls for water, they say——­”

“We may as well give up,” said the physician, addressing the surgeon.  “Nothing more can be done now; the case is hopeless.”

Bianchon and the house surgeon stretched the dying man out again on his loathsome bed.

“But the sheets ought to be changed,” added the physician.  “Even if there is no hope left, something is due to human nature.  I shall come back again, Bianchon,” he said, turning to the medical student.  “If he complains again, rub some laudanum over the diaphragm.”

He went, and the house surgeon went with him.

“Come, Eugene, pluck up heart, my boy,” said Bianchon, as soon as they were alone; “we must set about changing his sheets, and put him into a clean shirt.  Go and tell Sylvie to bring some sheets and come and help us to make the bed.”

Eugene went downstairs, and found Mme. Vauquer engaged in setting the table; Sylvie was helping her.  Eugene had scarcely opened his mouth before the widow walked up to him with the acidulous sweet smile of a cautious shopkeeper who is anxious neither to lose money nor to offend a customer.

“My dear Monsieur Eugene,” she said, when he had spoken, “you know quite as well as I do that Father Goriot has not a brass farthing left.  If you give out clean linen for a man who is just going to turn up his eyes, you are not likely to see your sheets again, for one is sure to be wanted to wrap him in.  Now, you owe me a hundred and forty-four francs as it is, add forty francs for the pair of sheets, and then there are several little things, besides the candle that Sylvie will give you; altogether it will all mount up to at least two hundred francs, which is more than a poor widow like me can afford to lose.  Lord! now, Monsieur Eugene, look at it fairly.  I have lost quite enough in these five days since this run of ill-luck set in for me.  I would rather than ten crowns that the old gentlemen had moved out as you said.  It sets the other lodgers against the house.  It would not take much to make me send him to the workhouse.  In short, just put yourself in my place.  I have to think of my establishment first, for I have my own living to make.”

Eugene hurried up to Goriot’s room.

“Bianchon,” he cried, “the money for the watch?”

“There it is on the table, or the three hundred and sixty odd francs that are left of it.  I paid up all the old scores out of it before they let me have the things.  The pawn ticket lies there under the money.”

Rastignac hurried downstairs.

“Here, madame” he said in disgust, “let us square accounts.  M. Goriot will not stay much longer in your house, nor shall I——­”

“Yes, he will go out feet foremost, poor old gentleman,” she said, counting the francs with a half-facetious, half-lugubrious expression.