Father Goriot

“Take this down, Daddy Lachapelle,” he went on, addressing a little, white-haired old man who had seated himself at the end of the table; and after drawing a printed form from the portfolio, was proceeding to draw up a document.  “I acknowledge myself to be Jacques Collin, otherwise known as Trompe-la-Mort, condemned to twenty years’ penal servitude, and I have just proved that I have come fairly by my nickname.—­If I had as much as raised my hand,” he went on, addressing the other lodgers, “those three sneaking wretches yonder would have drawn claret on Mamma Vauquer’s domestic hearth.  The rogues have laid their heads together to set a trap for me.”

Mme. Vauquer felt sick and faint at these words.

“Good Lord!” she cried, “this does give one a turn; and me at the Gaite with him only last night!” she said to Sylvie.

“Summon your philosophy, mamma,” Collin resumed.  “Is it a misfortune to have sat in my box at the Gaite yesterday evening?  After all, are you better than we are?  The brand upon our shoulders is less shameful than the brand set on your hearts, you flabby members of a society rotten to the core.  Not the best man among you could stand up to me.”  His eyes rested upon Rastignac, to whom he spoke with a pleasant smile that seemed strangely at variance with the savage expression in his eyes.—­“Our little bargain still holds good, dear boy; you can accept any time you like!  Do you understand?” And he sang: 

     “A charming girl is my Fanchette
      In her simplicity.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself,” he went on; “I can get in my money.  They are too much afraid of me to swindle me.”

The convicts’ prison, its language and customs, its sudden sharp transitions from the humorous to the horrible, its appalling grandeur, its triviality and its dark depths, were all revealed in turn by the speaker’s discourse; he seemed to be no longer a man, but the type and mouthpiece of a degenerate race, a brutal, supple, clear-headed race of savages.  In one moment Collin became the poet of an inferno, wherein all thoughts and passions that move human nature (save repentance) find a place.  He looked about him like a fallen archangel who is for war to the end.  Rastignac lowered his eyes, and acknowledged this kinship claimed by crime as an expiation of his own evil thoughts.

“Who betrayed me?” said Collin, and his terrible eyes traveled round the room.  Suddenly they rested on Mlle. Michonneau.

“It was you, old cat!” he said.  “That sham stroke of apoplexy was your doing, lynx eyes! . . .  Two words from me, and your throat would be cut in less than a week, but I forgive you, I am a Christian.  You did not sell me either.  But who did?——­Aha! you may rummage upstairs,” he shouted, hearing the police officers opening his cupboards and taking possession of his effects.  “The nest is empty, the birds flew away yesterday, and you will be none the wiser.  My ledgers are here,” he said tapping his forehead.  “Now I know who sold me!  It could only be that blackguard Fil-de-Soie.  That is who it was, old catchpoll, eh?” he said, turning to the chief.  “It was timed so neatly to get the banknotes up above there.  There is nothing left for you—­spies!  As for Fil-de-Soie, he will be under the daisies in less than a fortnight, even if you were to tell off the whole force to protect him.  How much did you give the Michonnette?” he asked of the police officers.  “A thousand crowns?  Oh you Ninon in decay, Pompadour in tatters, Venus of the graveyard, I was worth more than that!  If you had given me warning, you should have had six thousand francs.  Ah! you had no suspicion of that, old trafficker in flesh and blood, or I should have had the preference.  Yes, I would have given six thousand francs to save myself an inconvenient journey and some loss of money,” he said, as they fastened the handcuffs on his wrists.  “These folks will amuse themselves by dragging out this business till the end of time to keep me idle.  If they were to send me straight to jail, I should soon be back at my old tricks in spite of the duffers at the Quai des Orfevres.  Down yonder they will all turn themselves inside out to help their general—­their good Trompe-la-Mort—­to get clear away.  Is there a single one among you that can say, as I can, that he has ten thousand brothers ready to do anything for him?” he asked proudly.  “There is some good there,” he said tapping his heart; “I have never betrayed any one!—­Look you here, you slut,” he said to the old maid, “they are all afraid of me, do you see? but the sight of you turns them sick.  Rake in your gains.”

He was silent for a moment, and looked round at the lodgers’ faces.

“What dolts you are, all of you!  Have you never seen a convict before?  A convict of Collin’s stamp, whom you see before you, is a man less weak-kneed than others; he lifts up his voice against the colossal fraud of the Social Contract, as Jean Jacques did, whose pupil he is proud to declare himself.  In short, I stand here single-handed against a Government and a whole subsidized machinery of tribunals and police, and I am a match for them all.”

“Ye gods!” cried the painter, “what a magnificent sketch one might make of him!”

“Look here, you gentlemen-in-waiting to his highness the gibbet, master of ceremonies to the widow” (a nickname full of sombre poetry, given by prisoners to the guillotine), “be a good fellow, and tell me if it really was Fil-de-Soie who sold me.  I don’t want him to suffer for some one else, that would not be fair.”

But before the chief had time to answer, the rest of the party returned from making their investigations upstairs.  Everything had been opened and inventoried.  A few words passed between them and the chief, and the official preliminaries were complete.

“Gentlemen,” said Collin, addressing the lodgers, “they will take me away directly.  You have all made my stay among you very agreeable, and I shall look back upon it with gratitude.  Receive my adieux, and permit me to send you figs from Provence.”

He advanced a step or two, and then turned to look once more at Rastignac.

“Good-bye, Eugene,” he said, in a sad and gentle tone, a strange transition from his previous rough and stern manner.  “If you should be hard up, I have left you a devoted friend,” and, in spite of his shackles, he managed to assume a posture of defence, called, “One, two!” like a fencing-master, and lunged.  “If anything goes wrong, apply in that quarter.  Man and money, all at your service.”

The strange speaker’s manner was sufficiently burlesque, so that no one but Rastignac knew that there was a serious meaning underlying the pantomime.

As soon as the police, soldiers, and detectives had left the house, Sylvie, who was rubbing her mistress’ temples with vinegar, looked round at the bewildered lodgers.

“Well,” said she, “he was a man, he was, for all that.”

Her words broke the spell.  Every one had been too much excited, too much moved by very various feelings to speak.  But now the lodgers began to look at each other, and then all eyes were turned at once on Mlle. Michonneau, a thin, shriveled, dead-alive, mummy-like figure, crouching by the stove; her eyes were downcast, as if she feared that the green eye-shade could not shut out the expression of those faces from her.  This figure and the feeling of repulsion she had so long excited were explained all at once.  A smothered murmur filled the room; it was so unanimous, that it seemed as if the same feeling of loathing had pitched all the voices in one key.  Mlle. Michonneau heard it, and did not stir.  It was Bianchon who was the first to move; he bent over his neighbor, and said in a low voice, “If that creature is going to stop here, and have dinner with us, I shall clear out.”

In the twinkling of an eye it was clear that every one in the room, save Poiret, was of the medical student’s opinion, so that the latter, strong in the support of the majority, went up to that elderly person.

“You are more intimate with Mlle. Michonneau than the rest of us,” he said; “speak to her, make her understand that she must go, and go at once.”

“At once!” echoed Poiret in amazement.

Then he went across to the crouching figure, and spoke a few words in her ear.

“I have paid beforehand for the quarter; I have as much right to be here as any one else,” she said, with a viperous look at the boarders.

“Never mind that! we will club together and pay you the money back,” said Rastignac.

“Monsieur is taking Collin’s part” she said, with a questioning, malignant glance at the law student; “it is not difficult to guess why.”

Eugene started forward at the words, as if he meant to spring upon her and wring her neck.  That glance, and the depths of treachery that it revealed, had been a hideous enlightenment.

“Let her alone!” cried the boarders.

Rastignac folded his arms and was silent.

“Let us have no more of Mlle. Judas,” said the painter, turning to Mme. Vauquer.  “If you don’t show the Michonneau the door, madame, we shall all leave your shop, and wherever we go we shall say that there are only convicts and spies left there.  If you do the other thing, we will hold our tongues about the business; for when all is said and done, it might happen in the best society until they brand them on the forehead, when they send them to the hulks.  They ought not to let convicts go about Paris disguised like decent citizens, so as to carry on their antics like a set of rascally humbugs, which they are.”

At this Mme. Vauquer recovered miraculously.  She sat up and folded her arms; her eyes were wide open now, and there was no sign of tears in them.

“Why, do you really mean to be the ruin of my establishment, my dear sir?  There is M. Vautrin——­Goodness,” she cried, interrupting herself, “I can’t help calling him by the name he passed himself off by for an honest man!  There is one room to let already, and you want me to turn out two more lodgers in the middle of the season, when no one is moving——­”

“Gentlemen, let us take our hats and go and dine at Flicoteaux’s in the Place Sorbonne,” cried Bianchon.

Mme. Vauquer glanced round, and saw in a moment on which side her interest lay.  She waddled across to Mlle. Michonneau.

“Come, now,” she said; “you would not be the ruin of my establishment, would you, eh?  There’s a dear, kind soul.  You see what a pass these gentlemen have brought me to; just go up to your room for this evening.”

“Never a bit of it!” cried the boarders.  “She must go, and go this minute!”

“But the poor lady has had no dinner,” said Poiret, with piteous entreaty.

“She can go and dine where she likes,” shouted several voices.

“Turn her out, the spy!”

“Turn them both out!  Spies!”

“Gentlemen,” cried Poiret, his heart swelling with the courage that love gives to the ovine male, “respect the weaker sex.”

“Spies are of no sex!” said the painter.

“A precious sexorama!”

“Turn her into the streetorama!”

“Gentlemen, this is not manners!  If you turn people out of the house, it ought not to be done so unceremoniously and with no notice at all.  We have paid our money, and we are not going,” said Poiret, putting on his cap, and taking a chair beside Mlle. Michonneau, with whom Mme. Vauquer was remonstrating.

“Naughty boy!” said the painter, with a comical look; “run away, naughty little boy!”

“Look here,” said Bianchon; “if you do not go, all the rest of us will,” and the boarders, to a man, made for the sitting-room-door.

“Oh! mademoiselle, what is to be done?” cried Mme. Vauquer.  “I am a ruined woman.  You can’t stay here; they will go further, do something violent.”

Mlle. Michonneau rose to her feet.

“She is going!—­She is not going!—­She is going!—­No, she isn’t.”

These alternate exclamations, and a suggestion of hostile intentions, borne out by the behavior of the insurgents, compelled Mlle. Michonneau to take her departure.  She made some stipulations, speaking in a low voice in her hostess’ ear, and then—­“I shall go to Mme. Buneaud’s,” she said, with a threatening look.

“Go where you please, mademoiselle,” said Mme. Vauquer, who regarded this choice of an opposition establishment as an atrocious insult.  “Go and lodge with the Buneaud; the wine would give a cat the colic, and the food is cheap and nasty.”

The boarders stood aside in two rows to let her pass; not a word was spoken.  Poiret looked so wistfully after Mlle. Michonneau, and so artlessly revealed that he was in two minds whether to go or stay, that the boarders, in their joy at being quit of Mlle. Michonneau, burst out laughing at the sight of him.

“Hist—­st!  Poiret,” shouted the painter.  “Hallo!  I say, Poiret, hallo!” The employe from the Museum began to sing: 

     “Partant pour la Syrie,
      Le jeune et beau Dunois . . .”

“Get along with you; you must be dying to go, trahit sua quemque voluptas!” said Bianchon.

“Every one to his taste—­free rendering from Virgil,” said the tutor.

Mlle. Michonneau made a movement as if to take Poiret’s arm, with an appealing glance that he could not resist.  The two went out together, the old maid leaning upon him, and there was a burst of applause, followed by peals of laughter.

“Bravo, Poiret!”

“Who would have thought it of old Poiret!”

“Apollo Poiret!”

“Mars Poiret!”

“Intrepid Poiret!”

A messenger came in at that moment with a letter for Mme. Vauquer, who read it through, and collapsed in her chair.

“The house might as well be burned down at once,” cried she, “if there are to be any more of these thunderbolts!  Young Taillefer died at three o’clock this afternoon.  It serves me right for wishing well to those ladies at that poor man’s expense.  Mme. Couture and Victorine want me to send their things, because they are going to live with her father.  M. Taillefer allows his daughter to keep old Mme. Couture as her lady companion.  Four rooms to let! and five lodgers gone! . . .”

She sat up, and seemed about to burst into tears.

“Bad luck has come to lodge here, I think,” she cried.

Once more there came a sound of wheels from the street outside.

“What! another windfall for somebody!” was Sylvie’s comment.

But it was Goriot who came in, looking so radiant, so flushed with happiness, that he seemed to have grown young again.

“Goriot in a cab!” cried the boarders; “the world is coming to an end.”

The good soul made straight for Eugene, who was standing wrapped in thought in a corner, and laid a hand on the young man’s arm.

“Come,” he said, with gladness in his eyes.

“Then you haven’t heard the news?” said Eugene.  “Vautrin was an escaped convict; they have just arrested him; and young Taillefer is dead.”

“Very well, but what business is it of ours?” replied Father Goriot.  “I am going to dine with my daughter in your house, do you understand?  She is expecting you.  Come!”

He carried off Rastignac with him by main force, and they departed in as great a hurry as a pair of eloping lovers.

“Now, let us have dinner,” cried the painter, and every one drew his chair to the table.

“Well, I never,” said the portly Sylvie.  “Nothing goes right to-day!  The haricot mutton has caught!  Bah! you will have to eat it, burned as it is, more’s the pity!”

Mme. Vauquer was so dispirited that she could not say a word as she looked round the table and saw only ten people where eighteen should be; but every one tried to comfort and cheer her.  At first the dinner contingent, as was natural, talked about Vautrin and the day’s events; but the conversation wound round to such topics of interest as duels, jails, justice, prison life, and alterations that ought to be made in the laws.  They soon wandered miles away from Jacques Collin and Victorine and her brother.  There might be only ten of them, but they made noise enough for twenty; indeed, there seemed to be more of them than usual; that was the only difference between yesterday and to-day.  Indifference to the fate of others is a matter of course in this selfish world, which, on the morrow of tragedy, seeks among the events of Paris for a fresh sensation for its daily renewed appetite, and this indifference soon gained the upper hand.  Mme. Vauquer herself grew calmer under the soothing influence of hope, and the mouthpiece of hope was the portly Sylvie.

That day had gone by like a dream for Eugene, and the sense of unreality lasted into the evening; so that, in spite of his energetic character and clear-headedness, his ideas were a chaos as he sat beside Goriot in the cab.  The old man’s voice was full of unwonted happiness, but Eugene had been shaken by so many emotions that the words sounded in his ears like words spoken in a dream.

“It was finished this morning!  All three of us are going to dine there together, together!  Do you understand?  I have not dined with my Delphine, my little Delphine, these four years, and I shall have her for a whole evening!  We have been at your lodging the whole time since morning.  I have been working like a porter in my shirt sleeves, helping to carry in the furniture.  Aha! you don’t know what pretty ways she has; at table she will look after me, ’Here, papa, just try this, it is nice.’  And I shall not be able to eat.  Oh, it is a long while since I have been with her in quiet every-day life as we shall have her.”

“It really seems as if the world has been turned upside down.”

“Upside down?” repeated Father Goriot.  “Why, the world has never been so right-side up.  I see none but smiling faces in the streets, people who shake hands cordially and embrace each other, people who all look as happy as if they were going to dine with their daughter, and gobble down a nice little dinner that she went with me to order of the chef at the Cafe des Anglais.  But, pshaw! with her beside you gall and wormwood would be as sweet as honey.”

“I feel as if I were coming back to life again,” said Eugene.

“Why, hurry up there!” cried Father Goriot, letting down the window in front.  “Get on faster; I will give you five francs if you get to the place I told you of in ten minutes time.”