“Ah! well, yes, I ought not to have touched you,” said the poor father,

wiping his hands on his trousers, “but I have been packing up my things;

I did not know that you were coming to see me.”

He was glad that he had drawn down her wrath upon himself.

“Ah!” he sighed, as he sat down, “you children have broken my heart

between you. This is killing me. My head feels as if it were on fire.

Be good to each other and love each other! This will be the death of

me! Delphine! Nasie! come, be sensible; you are both in the wrong. Come,

Dedel,” he added, looking through his tears at the Baroness, “she must

have twelve thousand francs, you see; let us see if we can find them for

her. Oh, my girls, do not look at each other like that!” and he sank on

his knees beside Delphine. “Ask her to forgive you--just to please

me,” he said in her ear. “She is more miserable than you are. Come now,

Dedel.”

“Poor Nasie!” said Delphine, alarmed at the wild extravagant grief in

her father’s face, “I was in the wrong, kiss me----”

“Ah! that is like balm to my heart,” cried Father Goriot. “But how are

we to find twelve thousand francs? I might offer myself as a substitute

in the army----”

“Oh! father dear!” they both cried, flinging their arms about him. “No,

no!”

“God reward you for the thought. We are not worth it, are we, Nasie?”

asked Delphine.

“And besides, father dear, it would only be a drop in the bucket,”

observed the Countess.

“But is flesh and blood worth nothing?” cried the old man in his

despair. “I would give body and soul to save you, Nasie. I would do a

murder for the man who would rescue you. I would do, as Vautrin did, go

to the hulks, go----” he stopped as if struck by a thunderbolt, and put

both hands to his head. “Nothing left!” he cried, tearing his hair. “If

I only knew of a way to steal money, but it is so hard to do it, and

then you can’t set to work by yourself, and it takes time to rob a bank.

Yes, it is time I was dead; there is nothing left me to do but to die. I

am no good in the world; I am no longer a father! No. She has come to me

in her extremity, and, wretch that I am, I have nothing to give her. Ah!

you put your money into a life annuity, old scoundrel; and had you not

daughters? You did not love them. Die, die in a ditch, like the dog that

you are! Yes, I am worse than a dog; a beast would not have done as I

have done! Oh! my head... it throbs as if it would burst.”

“Papa!” cried both the young women at once, “do, pray, be reasonable!”

and they clung to him to prevent him from dashing his head against the

wall. There was a sound of sobbing.

Eugene, greatly alarmed, took the bill that bore Vautrin’s signature,

saw that the stamp would suffice for a larger sum, altered the figures,

made it into a regular bill for twelve thousand francs, payable to

Goriot’s order, and went to his neighbor’s room.

“Here is the money, madame,” he said, handing the piece of paper to her.

“I was asleep; your conversation awoke me, and by this means I learned

all that I owed to M. Goriot. This bill can be discounted, and I shall

meet it punctually at the due date.”

The Countess stood motionless and speechless, but she held the bill in

her fingers.

“Delphine,” she said, with a white face, and her whole frame quivering

with indignation, anger, and rage, “I forgave you everything; God is my

witness that I forgave you, but I cannot forgive this! So this gentleman

was there all the time, and you knew it! Your petty spite has let you

to wreak your vengeance on me by betraying my secrets, my life, my

children’s lives, my shame, my honor! There, you are nothing to me any

longer. I hate you. I will do all that I can to injure you. I will...”

Anger paralyzed her; the words died in her dry parched throat.

“Why, he is my son, my child; he is your brother, your preserver!” cried

Goriot. “Kiss his hand, Nasie! Stay, I will embrace him myself,” he

said, straining Eugene to his breast in a frenzied clasp. “Oh my boy! I

will be more than a father to you; if I had God’s power, I would fling

worlds at your feet. Why don’t you kiss him, Nasie? He is not a man, but

an angel, a angel out of heaven.”

“Never mind her, father; she is mad just now.”

“Mad! am I? And what are you?” cried Mme. de Restaud.

“Children, children, I shall die if you go on like this,” cried the

old man, and he staggered and fell on the bed as if a bullet had struck

him.--“They are killing me between them,” he said to himself.

The Countess fixed her eyes on Eugene, who stood stock still; all his

faculties were numbed by this violent scene.

“Sir?...” she said, doubt and inquiry in her face, tone, and bearing;

she took no notice now of her father nor of Delphine, who was hastily

unfastening his waistcoat.

“Madame,” said Eugene, answering the question before it was asked, “I

will meet the bill, and keep silence about it.”

“You have killed our father, Nasie!” said Delphine, pointing to Goriot,

who lay unconscious on the bed. The Countess fled.

“I freely forgive her,” said the old man, opening his eyes; “her

position is horrible; it would turn an older head than hers. Comfort

Nasie, and be nice to her, Delphine; promise it to your poor father

before he dies,” he asked, holding Delphine’s hand in a convulsive

clasp.

“Oh! what ails you, father?” she cried in real alarm.

“Nothing, nothing,” said Goriot; “it will go off. There is something

heavy pressing on my forehead, a little headache.... Ah! poor Nasie,

what a life lies before her!”

Just as he spoke, the Countess came back again and flung herself on her

knees before him. “Forgive me!” she cried.

“Come,” said her father, “you are hurting me still more.”

“Monsieur,” the Countess said, turning to Rastignac, “misery made me

unjust to you. You will be a brother to me, will you not?” and she held

out her hand. Her eyes were full of tears as she spoke.

“Nasie,” cried Delphine, flinging her arms round her sister, “my little

Nasie, let us forget and forgive.”

“No, no,” cried Nasie; “I shall never forget!”

“Dear angels,” cried Goriot, “it is as if a dark curtain over my eyes

had been raised; your voices have called me back to life. Kiss each

other once more. Well, now, Nasie, that bill will save you, won’t it?”

“I hope so. I say, papa, will you write your name on it?”

“There! how stupid of me to forget that! But I am not feeling at all

well, Nasie, so you must not remember it against me. Send and let me

know as soon as you are out of your strait. No, I will go to you. No,

after all, I will not go; I might meet your husband, and I should kill

him on the spot. And as for signing away your property, I shall have

a word to say about that. Quick, my child, and keep Maxime in order in

future.”

Eugene was too bewildered to speak.

“Poor Anastasie, she always had a violent temper,” said Mme. de

Nucingen, “but she has a good heart.”

“She came back for the endorsement,” said Eugene in Delphine’s ear.

“Do you think so?”

“I only wish I could think otherwise. Do not trust her,” he answered,

raising his eyes as if he confided to heaven the thoughts that he did

not venture to express.

“Yes. She is always acting a part to some extent.”

“How do you feel now, dear Father Goriot?” asked Rastignac.

“I should like to go to sleep,” he replied.

Eugene helped him to bed, and Delphine sat by the bedside, holding his

hand until he fell asleep. Then she went.

“This evening at the Italiens,” she said to Eugene, “and you can let me

know how he is. To-morrow you will leave this place, monsieur. Let us go

into your room.--Oh! how frightful!” she cried on the threshold. “Why,

you are even worse lodged than our father. Eugene, you have behaved

well. I would love you more if that were possible; but, dear boy, if you

are to succeed in life, you must not begin by flinging twelve thousand

francs out of the windows like that. The Comte de Trailles is a

confirmed gambler. My sister shuts her eyes to it. He would have made

the twelve thousand francs in the same way that he wins and loses heaps

of gold.”

A groan from the next room brought them back to Goriot’s bedside; to all

appearances he was asleep, but the two lovers caught the words, “They

are not happy!” Whether he was awake or sleeping, the tone in which they

were spoken went to his daughter’s heart. She stole up to the pallet-bed

on which her father lay, and kissed his forehead. He opened his eyes.

“Ah! Delphine!” he said.

“How are you now?” she asked.

“Quite comfortable. Do not worry about me; I shall get up presently.

Don’t stay with me, children; go, go and be happy.”

Eugene went back with Delphine as far as her door; but he was not easy

about Goriot, and would not stay to dinner, as she proposed. He wanted

to be back at the Maison Vauquer. Father Goriot had left his room,

and was just sitting down to dinner as he came in. Bianchon had placed

himself where he could watch the old man carefully; and when the old

vermicelli maker took up his square of bread and smelled it to find out

the quality of the flour, the medical student, studying him closely, saw

that the action was purely mechanical, and shook his head.

“Just come and sit over here, hospitaller of Cochin,” said Eugene.

Bianchon went the more willingly because his change of place brought him

next to the old lodger.

“What is wrong with him?” asked Rastignac.

“It is all up with him, or I am much mistaken! Something very

extraordinary must have taken place; he looks to me as if he were

in imminent danger of serous apoplexy. The lower part of his face is

composed enough, but the upper part is drawn and distorted. Then there

is that peculiar look about the eyes that indicates an effusion of serum

in the brain; they look as though they were covered with a film of fine

dust, do you notice? I shall know more about it by to-morrow morning.”

“Is there any cure for it?”

“None. It might be possible to stave death off for a time if a way could

be found of setting up a reaction in the lower extremities; but if the

symptoms do not abate by to-morrow evening, it will be all over with

him, poor old fellow! Do you know what has happened to bring this on?

There must have been some violent shock, and his mind has given way.”

“Yes, there was,” said Rastignac, remembering how the two daughters had

struck blow on blow at their father’s heart.

“But Delphine at any rate loves her father,” he said to himself.

That evening at the opera Rastignac chose his words carefully, lest he

should give Mme. de Nucingen needless alarm.

“Do not be anxious about him,” she said, however, as soon as Eugene

began, “our father has really a strong constitution, but this morning

we gave him a shock. Our whole fortunes were in peril, so the thing was

serious, you see. I could not live if your affection did not make me

insensible to troubles that I should once have thought too hard to bear.

At this moment I have but one fear left, but one misery to dread--to

lose the love that has made me feel glad to live. Everything else is as

nothing to me compared with our love; I care for nothing else, for you

are all the world to me. If I feel glad to be rich, it is for your sake.

To my shame be it said, I think of my lover before my father. Do you ask

why? I cannot tell you, but all my life is in you. My father gave me a

heart, but you have taught it to beat. The whole world may condemn me;

what does it matter if I stand acquitted in your eyes, for you have

no right to think ill of me for the faults which a tyrannous love has

forced me to commit for you! Do you think me an unnatural daughter? Oh!

no, no one could help loving such a dear kind father as ours. But how

could I hide the inevitable consequences of our miserable marriages from

him? Why did he allow us to marry when we did? Was it not his duty to

think for us and foresee for us? To-day I know he suffers as much as we

do, but how can it be helped? And as for comforting him, we could not

comfort him in the least. Our resignation would give him more pain and

hurt him far more than complaints and upbraidings. There are times in

life when everything turns to bitterness.”

Eugene was silent, the artless and sincere outpouring made an impression

on him.

Parisian women are often false, intoxicated with vanity, selfish and

self-absorbed, frivolous and shallow; yet of all women, when they love,

they sacrifice their personal feelings to their passion; they rise but

so much the higher for all the pettiness overcome in their nature, and

become sublime. Then Eugene was struck by the profound discernment and

insight displayed by this woman in judging of natural affection, when a

privileged affection had separated and set her at a distance apart. Mme.

de Nucingen was piqued by the silence,

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“I am thinking about what you said just now. Hitherto I have always felt

sure that I cared far more for you than you did for me.”

She smiled, and would not give way to the happiness she felt, lest their

talk should exceed the conventional limits of propriety. She had never

heard the vibrating tones of a sincere and youthful love; a few more

words, and she feared for her self-control.

“Eugene,” she said, changing the conversation, “I wonder whether you

know what has been happening? All Paris will go to Mme. de Beauseant’s

to-morrow. The Rochefides and the Marquis d’Ajuda have agreed to keep

the matter a profound secret, but to-morrow the king will sign the

marriage-contract, and your poor cousin the Vicomtesse knows nothing

of it as yet. She cannot put off her ball, and the Marquis will not be

there. People are wondering what will happen?”

“The world laughs at baseness and connives at it. But this will kill

Mme. de Beauseant.”

“Oh, no,” said Delphine, smiling, “you do not know that kind of woman.

Why, all Paris will be there, and so shall I; I ought to go there for

your sake.”

“Perhaps, after all, it is one of those absurd reports that people set

in circulation here.”

“We shall know the truth to-morrow.”

Eugene did not return to the Maison Vauquer. He could not forego the

pleasure of occupying his new rooms in the Rue d’Artois. Yesterday

evening he had been obliged to leave Delphine soon after midnight, but

that night it was Delphine who stayed with him until two o’clock in the

morning. He rose late, and waited for Mme. de Nucingen, who came about

noon to breakfast with him. Youth snatches eagerly at these rosy moments

of happiness, and Eugene had almost forgotten Goriot’s existence.

The pretty things that surrounded him were growing familiar; this

domestication in itself was one long festival for him, and Mme. de

Nucingen was there to glorify it all by her presence. It was four

o’clock before they thought of Goriot, and of how he had looked forward

to the new life in that house. Eugene said that the old man ought to be

moved at once, lest he should grow too ill to move. He left Delphine

and hurried back to the lodging-house. Neither Father Goriot nor young

Bianchon was in the dining-room with the others.

“Aha!” said the painter as Eugene came in, “Father Goriot has broken

down at last. Bianchon is upstairs with him. One of his daughters--the

Comtesse de Restaurama--came to see the old gentleman, and he would get

up and go out, and made himself worse. Society is about to lose one of

its brightest ornaments.”

Rastignac sprang to the staircase.

“Hey! Monsieur Eugene!”

“Monsieur Eugene, the mistress is calling you,” shouted Sylvie.

“It is this, sir,” said the widow. “You and M. Goriot should by rights

have moved out on the 15th of February. That was three days ago; to-day

is the 18th, I ought really to be paid a month in advance; but if you

will engage to pay for both, I shall be quite satisfied.”

“Why can’t you trust him?”

“Trust him, indeed! If the old gentleman went off his head and died,

those daughters of his would not pay me a farthing, and his things won’t

fetch ten francs. This morning he went out with all the spoons and

forks he has left, I don’t know why. He had got himself up to look quite

young, and--Lord, forgive me--but I thought he had rouge on his cheeks;

he looked quite young again.”

“I will be responsible,” said Eugene, shuddering with horror, for he

foresaw the end.

He climbed the stairs and reached Father Goriot’s room. The old man was

tossing on his bed. Bianchon was with him.

“Good-evening, father,” said Eugene.

The old man turned his glassy eyes on him, smiled gently, and said:

“How is _she_?”

“She is quite well. But how are you?”

“There is nothing much the matter.”

“Don’t tire him,” said Bianchon, drawing Eugene into a corner of the

room.

“Well?” asked Rastignac.

“Nothing but a miracle can save him now. Serous congestion has set in;

I have put on mustard plasters, and luckily he can feel them, they are

acting.”

“Is it possible to move him?”

“Quite out of the question. He must stay where he is, and be kept as

quiet as possible----”

“Dear Bianchon,” said Eugene, “we will nurse him between us.”

“I have had the head physician round from my hospital to see him.”

“And what did he say?”

“He will give no opinion till to-morrow evening. He promised to look in

again at the end of the day. Unluckily, the preposterous creature must

needs go and do something foolish this morning; he will not say what it

was. He is as obstinate as a mule. As soon as I begin to talk to him

he pretends not to hear, and lies as if he were asleep instead of

answering, or if he opens his eyes he begins to groan. Some time this

morning he went out on foot in the streets, nobody knows where he went,

and he took everything that he had of any value with him. He has been

driving some confounded bargain, and it has been too much for his

strength. One of his daughters has been here.”

“Was it the Countess?” asked Eugene. “A tall, dark-haired woman, with

large bright eyes, slender figure, and little feet?”

“Yes.”

“Leave him to me for a bit,” said Rastignac. “I will make him confess;

he will tell me all about it.”

“And meanwhile I will get my dinner. But try not to excite him; there is

still some hope left.”

“All right.”

“How they will enjoy themselves to-morrow,” said Father Goriot when they

were alone. “They are going to a grand ball.”

“What were you doing this morning, papa, to make yourself so poorly this

evening that you have to stop in bed?”

“Nothing.”

“Did not Anastasie come to see you?” demanded Rastignac.

“Yes,” said Father Goriot.

“Well, then, don’t keep anything from me. What more did she want of

you?”

“Oh, she was very miserable,” he answered, gathering up all his strength

to speak. “It was this way, my boy. Since that affair of the diamonds,

Nasie has not had a penny of her own. For this ball she had ordered a

golden gown like a setting for a jewel. Her mantuamaker, a woman without

a conscience, would not give her credit, so Nasie’s waiting-woman

advanced a thousand francs on account. Poor Nasie! reduced to such

shifts! It cut me to the heart to think of it! But when Nasie’s maid

saw how things were between her master and mistress, she was afraid of

losing her money, and came to an understanding with the dressmaker, and

the woman refuses to send the ball-dress until the money is paid. The

gown is ready, and the ball is to-morrow night! Nasie was in despair.

She wanted to borrow my forks and spoons to pawn them. Her husband is

determined that she shall go and wear the diamonds, so as to contradict

the stories that are told all over Paris. How can she go to that

heartless scoundrel and say, ‘I owe a thousand francs to my dressmaker;

pay her for me!’ She cannot. I saw that myself. Delphine will be there

too in a superb toilette, and Anastasie ought not to be outshone by her

younger sister. And then--she was drowned in tears, poor girl! I felt

so humbled yesterday when I had not the twelve thousand francs, that I

would have given the rest of my miserable life to wipe out that wrong.

You see, I could have borne anything once, but latterly this want of

money has broken my heart. Oh! I did not do it by halves; I titivated

myself up a bit, and went out and sold my spoons and forks and buckles

for six hundred francs; then I went to old Daddy Gobseck, and sold a

year’s interest on my annuity for four hundred francs down. Pshaw! I can

live on dry bread, as I did when I was a young man; if I have done it

before, I can do it again. My Nasie shall have one happy evening, at any

rate. She shall be smart. The banknote for a thousand francs is under

my pillow; it warms me to have it lying there under my head, for it is

going to make my poor Nasie happy. She can turn that bad girl Victoire

out of the house. A servant that cannot trust her mistress, did any one

ever hear the like! I shall be quite well to-morrow. Nasie is coming at

ten o’clock. They must not think that I am ill, or they will not go to

the ball; they will stop and take care of me. To-morrow Nasie will come

and hold me in her arms as if I were one of her children; her kisses

will make me well again. After all, I might have spent the thousand

francs on physic; I would far rather give them to my little Nasie, who

can charm all the pain away. At any rate, I am some comfort to her in

her misery; and that makes up for my unkindness in buying an annuity.

She is in the depths, and I cannot draw her out of them now. Oh! I will

go into business again, I will buy wheat in Odessa; out there, wheat

fetches a quarter of the price it sells for here. There is a law against

the importation of grain, but the good folk who made the law forgot to

prohibit the introduction of wheat products and food stuffs made from

corn. Hey! hey!... That struck me this morning. There is a fine trade to

be done in starch.”

Eugene, watching the old man’s face, thought that his friend was

light-headed.

“Come,” he said, “do not talk any more, you must rest----” Just then

Bianchon came up, and Eugene went down to dinner.

The two students sat up with him that night, relieving each other in

turn. Bianchon brought up his medical books and studied; Eugene wrote

letters home to his mother and sisters. Next morning Bianchon thought

the symptoms more hopeful, but the patient’s condition demanded

continual attention, which the two students alone were willing to

give--a task impossible to describe in the squeamish phraseology of the

epoch. Leeches must be applied to the wasted body, the poultices and

hot foot-baths, and other details of the treatment required the physical

strength and devotion of the two young men. Mme. de Restaud did not

come; but she sent a messenger for the money.

“I expected she would come herself; but it would have been a pity for

her to come, she would have been anxious about me,” said the father, and

to all appearances he was well content.

At seven o’clock that evening Therese came with a letter from Delphine.

“What are you doing, dear friend? I have been loved for a very

little while, and I am neglected already? In the confidences of

heart and heart, I have learned to know your soul--you are too

noble not to be faithful for ever, for you know that love with all

its infinite subtle changes of feeling is never the same. Once you

said, as we were listening to the Prayer in _Mose in Egitto_, ‘For

some it is the monotony of a single note; for others, it is the

infinite of sound.’ Remember that I am expecting you this evening

to take me to Mme. de Beauseant’s ball. Every one knows now that

the King signed M. d’Ajuda’s marriage-contract this morning, and

the poor Vicomtesse knew nothing of it until two o’clock this

afternoon. All Paris will flock to her house, of course, just as a

crowd fills the Place de Greve to see an execution. It is

horrible, is it not, to go out of curiosity to see if she will

hide her anguish, and whether she will die courageously? I

certainly should not go, my friend, if I had been at her house

before; but, of course, she will not receive society any more

after this, and all my efforts would be in vain. My position is a

very unusual one, and besides, I am going there partly on your

account. I am waiting for you. If you are not beside me in less

than two hours, I do not know whether I could forgive such

treason.”

Rastignac took up a pen and wrote:

“I am waiting till the doctor comes to know if there is any hope of

your father’s life. He is lying dangerously ill. I will come and

bring you the news, but I am afraid it may be a sentence of death.

When I come you can decide whether you can go to the ball.--Yours

a thousand times.”

At half-past eight the doctor arrived. He did not take a very hopeful

view of the case, but thought that there was no immediate danger.

Improvements and relapses might be expected, and the good man’s life and

reason hung in the balance.

“It would be better for him to die at once,” the doctor said as he took

leave.

Eugene left Goriot to Bianchon’s care, and went to carry the sad news to

Mme. de Nucingen. Family feeling lingered in her, and this must put an

end for the present to her plans of amusement.

“Tell her to enjoy her evening as if nothing had happened,” cried

Goriot. He had been lying in a sort of stupor, but he suddenly sat

upright as Eugene went out.

Eugene, half heartbroken, entered Delphine’s. Her hair had been dressed;

she wore her dancing slippers; she had only to put on her ball-dress;

but when the artist is giving the finishing stroke to his creation, the

last touches require more time than the whole groundwork of the picture.

“Why, you are not dressed!” she cried.

“Madame, your father----”

“My father again!” she exclaimed, breaking in upon him. “You need not

teach me what is due to my father, I have known my father this long

while. Not a word, Eugene. I will hear what you have to say when you

are dressed. My carriage is waiting, take it, go round to your rooms and

dress, Therese has put out everything in readiness for you. Come back

as soon as you can; we will talk about my father on the way to Mme. de

Beauseant’s. We must go early; if we have to wait our turn in a row of

carriages, we shall be lucky if we get there by eleven o’clock.”

“Madame----”

“Quick! not a word!” she cried, darting into her dressing-room for a

necklace.

“Do go, Monsieur Eugene, or you will vex madame,” said Therese, hurrying

him away; and Eugene was too horror-stricken by this elegant parricide

to resist.

He went to his rooms and dressed, sad, thoughtful, and dispirited. The

world of Paris was like an ocean of mud for him just then; and it seemed

that whoever set foot in that black mire must needs sink into it up to

the chin.

“Their crimes are paltry,” said Eugene to himself. “Vautrin was

greater.”

He had seen society in its three great phases--Obedience, Struggle,

and Revolt; the Family, the World, and Vautrin; and he hesitated in his

choice. Obedience was dull, Revolt impossible, Struggle hazardous.

His thoughts wandered back to the home circle. He thought of the quiet

uneventful life, the pure happiness of the days spent among those who

loved him there. Those loving and beloved beings passed their lives in

obedience to the natural laws of the hearth, and in that obedience found

a deep and constant serenity, unvexed by torments such as these. Yet,

for all his good impulses, he could not bring himself to make profession

of the religion of pure souls to Delphine, nor to prescribe the duties

of piety to her in the name of love. His education had begun to bear its

fruits; he loved selfishly already. Besides, his tact had discovered to

him the real nature of Delphine; he divined instinctively that she was

capable of stepping over her father’s corpse to go to the ball; and

within himself he felt that he had neither the strength of mind to play

the part of mentor, nor the strength of character to vex her, nor the

courage to leave her to go alone.

“She would never forgive me for putting her in the wrong over it,” he

said to himself. Then he turned the doctor’s dictum over in his mind;

he tried to believe that Goriot was not so dangerously ill as he had

imagined, and ended by collecting together a sufficient quantity of

traitorous excuses for Delphine’s conduct. She did not know how ill her

father was; the kind old man himself would have made her go to the ball

if she had gone to see him. So often it happens that this one or that

stands condemned by the social laws that govern family relations;

and yet there are peculiar circumstances in the case, differences of

temperament, divergent interests, innumerable complications of family

life that excuse the apparent offence.

Eugene did not wish to see too clearly; he was ready to sacrifice his

conscience to his mistress. Within the last few days his whole life had

undergone a change. Woman had entered into his world and thrown it into

chaos, family claims dwindled away before her; she had appropriated

all his being to her uses. Rastignac and Delphine found each other at

a crisis in their lives when their union gave them the most poignant

bliss. Their passion, so long proved, had only gained in strength by the

gratified desire that often extinguishes passion. This woman was his,

and Eugene recognized that not until then had he loved her; perhaps love

is only gratitude for pleasure. This woman, vile or sublime, he adored

for the pleasure she had brought as her dower; and Delphine loved

Rastignac as Tantalus would have loved some angel who had satisfied his

hunger and quenched the burning thirst in his parched throat.

“Well,” said Mme. de Nucingen when he came back in evening dress, “how

is my father?”

“Very dangerously ill,” he answered; “if you will grant me a proof of

your affections, we will just go in to see him on the way.”

“Very well,” she said. “Yes, but afterwards. Dear Eugene, do be nice,

and don’t preach to me. Come.”

They set out. Eugene said nothing for a while.

“What is it now?” she asked.

“I can hear the death-rattle in your father’s throat,” he said almost

angrily. And with the hot indignation of youth, he told the story of

Mme. de Restaud’s vanity and cruelty, of her father’s final act of

self-sacrifice, that had brought about this struggle between life

and death, of the price that had been paid for Anastasie’s golden

embroideries. Delphine cried.

“I shall look frightful,” she thought. She dried her tears.

“I will nurse my father; I will not leave his bedside,” she said aloud.

“Ah! now you are as I would have you,” exclaimed Rastignac.

The lamps of five hundred carriages lit up the darkness about the Hotel

de Beauseant. A gendarme in all the glory of his uniform stood on either

side of the brightly lighted gateway. The great world was flocking

thither that night in its eager curiosity to see the great lady at the

moment of her fall, and the rooms on the ground floor were already full

to overflowing, when Mme. de Nucingen and Rastignac appeared. Never

since Louis XIV. tore her lover away from La grand Mademoiselle, and

the whole court hastened to visit that unfortunate princess, had a

disastrous love affair made such a sensation in Paris. But the youngest

daughter of the almost royal house of Burgundy had risen proudly above

her pain, and moved till the last moment like a queen in this world--its

vanities had always been valueless for her, save in so far as they

contributed to the triumph of her passion. The salons were filled with

the most beautiful women in Paris, resplendent in their toilettes, and

radiant with smiles. Ministers and ambassadors, the most distinguished

men at court, men bedizened with decorations, stars, and ribbons, men

who bore the most illustrious names in France, had gathered about the

Vicomtesse.

The music of the orchestra vibrated in wave after wave of sound from the

golden ceiling of the palace, now made desolate for its queen.

Madame de Beauseant stood at the door of the first salon to receive the

guests who were styled her friends. She was dressed in white, and wore

no ornament in the plaits of hair braided about her head; her face was

calm; there was no sign there of pride, nor of pain, nor of joy that

she did not feel. No one could read her soul; she stood there like some

Niobe carved in marble. For a few intimate friends there was a tinge of

satire in her smile; but no scrutiny saw any change in her, nor had she

looked otherwise in the days of the glory of her happiness. The most

callous of her guests admired her as young Rome applauded some gladiator

who could die smiling. It seemed as if society had adorned itself for a

last audience of one of its sovereigns.

“I was afraid that you would not come,” she said to Rastignac.

“Madame,” he said, in an unsteady voice, taking her speech as a

reproach, “I shall be the last to go, that is why I am here.”

“Good,” she said, and she took his hand. “You are perhaps the only one

I can trust here among all these. Oh, my friend, when you love, love

a woman whom you are sure that you can love always. Never forsake a

woman.”

She took Rastignac’s arm, and went towards a sofa in the card-room.

“I want you to go to the Marquis,” she said. “Jacques, my footman, will

go with you; he has a letter that you will take. I am asking the Marquis

to give my letters back to me. He will give them all up, I like to think

that. When you have my letters, go up to my room with them. Some one

shall bring me word.”

She rose to go to meet the Duchesse de Langeais, her most intimate

friend, who had come like the rest of the world.

Rastignac went. He asked for the Marquis d’Ajuda at the Hotel Rochefide,

feeling certain that the latter would be spending his evening there, and

so it proved. The Marquis went to his own house with Rastignac, and gave

a casket to the student, saying as he did so, “They are all there.”

He seemed as if he was about to say something to Eugene, to ask

about the ball, or the Vicomtesse; perhaps he was on the brink of

the confession that, even then, he was in despair, and knew that his

marriage had been a fatal mistake; but a proud gleam shone in his eyes,

and with deplorable courage he kept his noblest feelings a secret.

“Do not even mention my name to her, my dear Eugene.” He grasped

Rastignac’s hand sadly and affectionately, and turned away from him.

Eugene went back to the Hotel Beauseant, the servant took him to the

Vicomtesse’s room. There were signs there of preparations for a journey.

He sat down by the fire, fixed his eyes on the cedar wood casket, and

fell into deep mournful musings. Mme. de Beauseant loomed large in these

imaginings, like a goddess in the Iliad.

“Ah! my friend!...” said the Vicomtesse; she crossed the room and laid

her hand on Rastignac’s shoulder. He saw the tears in his cousin’s

uplifted eyes, saw that one hand was raised to take the casket, and that

the fingers of the other trembled. Suddenly she took the casket, put it

in the fire, and watched it burn.

“They are dancing,” she said. “They all came very early; but death

will be long in coming. Hush! my friend,” and she laid a finger on

Rastignac’s lips, seeing that he was about to speak. “I shall never see

Paris again. I am taking my leave of the world. At five o’clock this

morning I shall set out on my journey; I mean to bury myself in the

remotest part of Normandy. I have had very little time to make my

arrangements; since three o’clock this afternoon I have been busy

signing documents, setting my affairs in order; there was no one whom I

could send to...”

She broke off.

“He was sure to be...”

Again she broke off; the weight of her sorrow was more than she could

bear. In such moments as these everything is agony, and some words are

impossible to utter.

“And so I counted upon you to do me this last piece of service

this evening,” she said. “I should like to give you some pledge of

friendship. I shall often think of you. You have seemed to me to be kind

and noble, fresh-hearted and true, in this world where such qualities

are seldom found. I should like you to think sometimes of me. Stay,” she

said, glancing about her, “there is this box that has held my gloves.

Every time I opened it before going to a ball or to the theatre, I used

to feel that I must be beautiful, because I was so happy; and I never

touched it except to lay some gracious memory in it: there is so much

of my old self in it, of a Madame de Beauseant who now lives no longer.

Will you take it? I will leave directions that it is to be sent to

you in the Rue d’Artois.--Mme. de Nucingen looked very charming this

evening. Eugene, you must love her. Perhaps we may never see each other

again, my friend; but be sure of this, that I shall pray for you who

have been kind to me.--Now, let us go downstairs. People shall not think

that I am weeping. I have all time and eternity before me, and where

I am going I shall be alone, and no one will ask me the reason of my

tears. One last look round first.”

She stood for a moment. Then she covered her eyes with her hands for

an instant, dashed away the tears, bathed her face with cold water, and

took the student’s arm.

“Let us go!” she said.

This suffering, endured with such noble fortitude, shook Eugene with

a more violent emotion than he had felt before. They went back to the

ballroom, and Mme. de Beauseant went through the rooms on Eugene’s

arm--the last delicately gracious act of a gracious woman. In another

moment he saw the sisters, Mme. de Restaud and Mme. de Nucingen. The

Countess shone in all the glory of her magnificent diamonds; every stone

must have scorched like fire, she was never to wear them again. Strong

as love and pride might be in her, she found it difficult to meet her

husband’s eyes. The sight of her was scarcely calculated to lighten

Rastignac’s sad thoughts; through the blaze of those diamonds he seemed

to see the wretched pallet-bed on which Father Goriot was lying. The

Vicomtesse misread his melancholy; she withdrew her hand from his arm.

“Come,” she said, “I must not deprive you of a pleasure.”

Eugene was soon claimed by Delphine. She was delighted by the impression

that she had made, and eager to lay at her lover’s feet the homage

she had received in this new world in which she hoped to live and move

henceforth.

“What do you think of Nasie?” she asked him.

“She has discounted everything, even her own father’s death,” said

Rastignac.

Towards four o’clock in the morning the rooms began to empty. A little

later the music ceased, and the Duchesse de Langeais and Rastignac were

left in the great ballroom. The Vicomtesse, who thought to find the

student there alone, came back there at last. She had taken leave of M.

de Beauseant, who had gone off to bed, saying again as he went, “It is

a great pity, my dear, to shut yourself up at your age! Pray stay among

us.”

Mme. de Beauseant saw the Duchesse, and, in spite of herself, an

exclamation broke from her.

“I saw how it was, Clara,” said Mme. de Langeais. “You are going from

among us, and you will never come back. But you must not go until you

have heard me, until we have understood each other.”

She took her friend’s arm, and they went together into the next room.

There the Duchess looked at her with tears in her eyes; she held her

friend in close embrace and kissed her cheek.

“I could not let you go without a word, dearest; the remorse would have

been too hard to bear. You can count upon me as surely as upon yourself.

You have shown yourself great this evening; I feel that I am worthy

of our friendship, and I mean to prove myself worthy of it. I have not

always been kind; I was in the wrong; forgive me, dearest; I wish I

could unsay anything that may have hurt you; I take back those words.

One common sorrow has brought us together again, for I do not know which

of us is the more miserable. M. de Montriveau was not here to-night;

do you understand what that means?--None of those who saw you to-night,

Clara, will ever forget you. I mean to make one last effort. If I fail,

I shall go into a convent. Clara, where are you going?”

“Into Normandy, to Courcelles. I shall love and pray there until the day

when God shall take me from this world.--M. de Rastignac!” called the

Vicomtesse, in a tremulous voice, remembering that the young man was

waiting there.

The student knelt to kiss his cousin’s hand.

“Good-bye, Antoinette!” said Mme. de Beauseant. “May you be happy.”--She

turned to the student. “You are young,” she said; “you have some beliefs

still left. I have been privileged, like some dying people, to find

sincere and reverent feeling in those about me as I take my leave of

this world.”

It was nearly five o’clock that morning when Rastignac came away. He had

put Mme. de Beauseant into her traveling carriage, and received her last

farewells, spoken amid fast-falling tears; for no greatness is so great

that it can rise above the laws of human affection, or live beyond

the jurisdiction of pain, as certain demagogues would have the people

believe. Eugene returned on foot to the Maison Vauquer through the cold

and darkness. His education was nearly complete.

“There is no hope for poor Father Goriot,” said Bianchon, as Rastignac

came into the room. Eugene looked for a while at the sleeping man, then

he turned to his friend. “Dear fellow, you are content with the modest

career you have marked out for yourself; keep to it. I am in hell, and

I must stay there. Believe everything that you hear said of the world,

nothing is too impossibly bad. No Juvenal could paint the horrors hidden

away under the covering of gems and gold.”

At two o’clock in the afternoon Bianchon came to wake Rastignac, and

begged him to take charge of Goriot, who had grown worse as the day wore

on. The medical student was obliged to go out.

“Poor old man, he has not two days to live, maybe not many hours,” he

said; “but we must do our utmost, all the same, to fight the disease. It

will be a very troublesome case, and we shall want money. We can nurse

him between us, of course, but, for my own part, I have not a penny. I

have turned out his pockets, and rummaged through his drawers--result,

nix. I asked him about it while his mind was clear, and he told me he

had not a farthing of his own. What have you?”

“I have twenty francs left,” said Rastignac; “but I will take them to

the roulette table, I shall be sure to win.”

“And if you lose?”

“Then I shall go to his sons-in-law and his daughters and ask them for

money.”

“And suppose they refuse?” Bianchon retorted. “The most pressing thing

just now is not really money; we must put mustard poultices, as hot as

they can be made, on his feet and legs. If he calls out, there is still

some hope for him. You know how to set about doing it, and besides,

Christophe will help you. I am going round to the dispensary to persuade

them to let us have the things we want on credit. It is a pity that

we could not move him to the hospital; poor fellow, he would be better

there. Well, come along, I leave you in charge; you must stay with him

till I come back.”

The two young men went back to the room where the old man was lying.

Eugene was startled at the change in Goriot’s face, so livid, distorted,

and feeble.

“How are you, papa?” he said, bending over the pallet-bed. Goriot

turned his dull eyes upon Eugene, looked at him attentively, and did not

recognize him. It was more than the student could bear; the tears came

into his eyes.

“Bianchon, ought we to have the curtains put up in the windows?”

“No, the temperature and the light do not affect him now. It would be a

good thing for him if he felt heat or cold; but we must have a fire in

any case to make tisanes and heat the other things. I will send round a

few sticks; they will last till we can have in some firewood. I burned

all the bark fuel you had left, as well as his, poor man, yesterday and

during the night. The place is so damp that the water stood in drops on

the walls; I could hardly get the room dry. Christophe came in and swept

the floor, but the place is like a stable; I had to burn juniper, the

smell was something horrible.

“_Mon Dieu!_” said Rastignac. “To think of those daughters of his.”

“One moment, if he asks for something to drink, give him this,” said the

house student, pointing to a large white jar. “If he begins to groan,

and the belly feels hot and hard to the touch, you know what to do; get

Christophe to help you. If he should happen to grow much excited, and

begin to talk a good deal and even to ramble in his talk, do not be

alarmed. It would not be a bad symptom. But send Christophe to the

Hospice Cochin. Our doctor, my chum, or I will come and apply moxas. We

had a great consultation this morning while you were asleep. A surgeon,

a pupil of Gall’s came, and our house surgeon, and the head physician

from the Hotel-Dieu. Those gentlemen considered that the symptoms were

very unusual and interesting; the case must be carefully watched, for

it throws a light on several obscure and rather important scientific

problems. One of the authorities says that if there is more pressure of

serum on one or other portion of the brain, it should affect his mental

capacities in such and such directions. So if he should talk, notice

very carefully what kind of ideas his mind seems to run on; whether

memory, or penetration, or the reasoning faculties are exercised;

whether sentiments or practical questions fill his thoughts; whether he

makes forecasts or dwells on the past; in fact; you must be prepared

to give an accurate report of him. It is quite likely that the

extravasation fills the whole brain, in which case he will die in the

imbecile state in which he is lying now. You cannot tell anything about

these mysterious nervous diseases. Suppose the crash came here,” said

Bianchon, touching the back of the head, “very strange things have been

known to happen; the brain sometimes partially recovers, and death is

delayed. Or the congested matter may pass out of the brain altogether

through channels which can only be determined by a post-mortem

examination. There is an old man at the Hospital for Incurables, an

imbecile patient, in his case the effusion has followed the direction of

the spinal cord; he suffers horrid agonies, but he lives.”

“Did they enjoy themselves?” It was Father Goriot who spoke. He had

recognized Eugene.

“Oh! he thinks of nothing but his daughters,” said Bianchon. “Scores

of times last night he said to me, ‘They are dancing now! She has her

dress.’ He called them by their names. He made me cry, the devil take

it, calling with that tone in his voice, for ‘Delphine! my little

Delphine! and Nasie!’ Upon my word,” said the medical student, “it was

enough to make any one burst out crying.”

“Delphine,” said the old man, “she is there, isn’t she? I knew she was

there,” and his eyes sought the door.

“I am going down now to tell Sylvie to get the poultices ready,” said

Bianchon. “They ought to go on at once.”

Rastignac was left alone with the old man. He sat at the foot of the

bed, and gazed at the face before him, so horribly changed that it was

shocking to see.

“Noble natures cannot dwell in this world,” he said; “Mme de Beauseant

has fled from it, and there he lies dying. What place indeed is there in

the shallow petty frivolous thing called society for noble thoughts and

feelings?”

Pictures of yesterday’s ball rose up in his memory, in strange contrast

to the deathbed before him. Bianchon suddenly appeared.

“I say, Eugene, I have just seen our head surgeon at the hospital, and I

ran all the way back here. If the old man shows any signs of reason, if

he begins to talk, cover him with a mustard poultice from the neck to

the base of the spine, and send round for us.”

“Dear Bianchon,” exclaimed Eugene.

“Oh! it is an interesting case from a scientific point of view,” said

the medical student, with all the enthusiasm of a neophyte.

“So!” said Eugene. “Am I really the only one who cares for the poor old

man for his own sake?”

“You would not have said so if you had seen me this morning,” returned

Bianchon, who did not take offence at this speech. “Doctors who have

seen a good deal of practice never see anything but the disease, but, my

dear fellow, I can see the patient still.”

He went. Eugene was left alone with the old man, and with an

apprehension of a crisis that set in, in fact, before very long.

“Ah! dear boy, is that you?” said Father Goriot, recognizing Eugene.

“Do you feel better?” asked the law student, taking his hand.

“Yes. My head felt as if it were being screwed up in a vise, but now it

is set free again. Did you see my girls? They will be here directly; as

soon as they know that I am ill they will hurry here at once; they used

to take such care of me in the Rue de la Jussienne! Great Heavens! if

only my room was fit for them to come into! There has been a young man

here, who has burned up all my bark fuel.”

“I can hear Christophe coming upstairs,” Eugene answered. “He is

bringing up some firewood that that young man has sent you.”

“Good, but how am I to pay for the wood. I have not a penny left, dear

boy. I have given everything, everything. I am a pauper now. Well, at

least the golden gown was grand, was it not? (Ah! what pain this is!)

Thanks, Christophe! God will reward you, my boy; I have nothing left

now.”

Eugene went over to Christophe and whispered in the man’s ear, “I will

pay you well, and Sylvie too, for your trouble.”

“My daughters told you that they were coming, didn’t they, Christophe?

Go again to them, and I will give you five francs. Tell them that I am

not feeling well, that I should like to kiss them both and see them once

again before I die. Tell them that, but don’t alarm them more than you

can help.”

Rastignac signed to Christophe to go, and the man went.

“They will come before long,” the old man went on. “I know them so well.

My tender-hearted Delphine! If I am going to die, she will feel it so

much! And so will Nasie. I do not want to die; they will cry if I die;

and if I die, dear Eugene, I shall not see them any more. It will

be very dreary there where I am going. For a father it is hell to be

without your children; I have served my apprenticeship already since

they married. My heaven was in the Rue de la Jussienne. Eugene, do you

think that if I go to heaven I can come back to earth, and be near them

in spirit? I have heard some such things said. It is true? It is as if

I could see them at this moment as they used to be when we all lived

in the Rue de la Jussienne. They used to come downstairs of a morning.

‘Good-morning, papa!’ they used to say, and I would take them on my

knees; we had all sorts of little games of play together, and they had

such pretty coaxing ways. We always had breakfast together, too, every

morning, and they had dinner with me--in fact, I was a father then. I

enjoyed my children. They did not think for themselves so long as they

lived in the Rue de la Jussienne; they knew nothing of the world; they

loved me with all their hearts. _Mon Dieu!_ why could they not always

be little girls? (Oh! my head! this racking pain in my head!) Ah! ah!

forgive me, children, this pain is fearful; it must be agony indeed, for

you have used me to endure pain. _Mon Dieu!_ if only I held their hands

in mine, I should not feel it at all.--Do you think that they are on the

way? Christophe is so stupid; I ought to have gone myself. _He_ will see

them. But you went to the ball yesterday; just tell me how they looked.

They did not know that I was ill, did they, or they would not have been

dancing, poor little things? Oh! I must not be ill any longer. They

stand too much in need of me; their fortunes are in danger. And such

husbands as they are bound to! I must get well! (Oh! what pain this

is! what pain this is! ... ah! ah!)--I must get well, you see; for they

_must_ have money, and I know how to set about making some. I will go

to Odessa and manufacture starch there. I am an old hand, I will make

millions. (Oh! this is agony!)”

Goriot was silent for a moment; it seemed to require his whole strength

to endure the pain.

“If they were here, I should not complain,” he said. “So why should I

complain now?”

He seemed to grow drowsy with exhaustion, and lay quietly for a long

time. Christophe came back; and Rastignac, thinking that Goriot was

asleep, allowed the man to give his story aloud.

“First of all, sir, I went to Madame la Comtesse,” he said; “but she

and her husband were so busy that I couldn’t get to speak to her. When I

insisted that I must see her, M. de Restaud came out to me himself, and

went on like this: ‘M. Goriot is dying, is he? Very well, it is the

best thing he can do. I want Mme. de Restaud to transact some important

business, when it is all finished she can go.’ The gentleman looked

angry, I thought. I was just going away when Mme. de Restaud came out

into an ante-chamber through a door that I did not notice, and said,

‘Christophe, tell my father that my husband wants me to discuss some

matters with him, and I cannot leave the house, the life or death of my

children is at stake; but as soon as it is over, I will come.’ As for

Madame la Baronne, that is another story! I could not speak to her

either, and I did not even see her. Her waiting-woman said, ‘Ah yes, but

madame only came back from a ball at a quarter to five this morning; she

is asleep now, and if I wake her before mid-day she will be cross. As

soon as she rings, I will go and tell her that her father is worse. It

will be time enough then to tell her bad news!’ I begged and I prayed,

but, there! it was no good. Then I asked for M. le Baron, but he was

out.”

“To think that neither of his daughters should come!” exclaimed

Rastignac. “I will write to them both.”

“Neither of them!” cried the old man, sitting upright in bed. “They are

busy, they are asleep, they will not come! I knew that they would not.

Not until you are dying do you know your children.... Oh! my friend, do

not marry; do not have children! You give them life; they give you your

deathblow. You bring them into the world, and they send you out of it.

No, they will not come. I have known that these ten years. Sometimes I

have told myself so, but I did not dare to believe it.”

The tears gathered and stood without overflowing the red sockets.

“Ah! if I were rich still, if I had kept my money, if I had not given

all to them, they would be with me now; they would fawn on me and cover

my cheeks with their kisses! I should be living in a great mansion; I

should have grand apartments and servants and a fire in my room; and

_they_ would be about me all in tears, and their husbands and their

children. I should have had all that; now--I have nothing. Money brings

everything to you; even your daughters. My money. Oh! where is my money?

If I had plenty of money to leave behind me, they would nurse me and

tend me; I should hear their voices, I should see their faces. Ah, God!

who knows? They both of them have hearts of stone. I loved them too

much; it was not likely that they should love me. A father ought always

to be rich; he ought to keep his children well in hand, like unruly

horses. I have gone down on my knees to them. Wretches! this is the

crowning act that brings the last ten years to a proper close. If you

but knew how much they made of me just after they were married. (Oh!

this is cruel torture!) I had just given them each eight hundred

thousand francs; they were bound to be civil to me after that, and their

husbands too were civil. I used to go to their houses: it was ‘My kind

father’ here, ‘My dear father’ there. There was always a place for me at

their tables. I used to dine with their husbands now and then, and they

were very respectful to me. I was still worth something, they thought.

How should they know? I had not said anything about my affairs. It

is worth while to be civil to a man who has given his daughters eight

hundred thousand francs apiece; and they showed me every attention

then--but it was all for my money. Grand people are not great. I

found that out by experience! I went to the theatre with them in their

carriage; I might stay as long as I cared to stay at their evening

parties. In fact, they acknowledged me their father; publicly they owned

that they were my daughters. But I was always a shrewd one, you see,

and nothing was lost upon me. Everything went straight to the mark and

pierced my heart. I saw quite well that it was all sham and pretence,

but there is no help for such things as these. I felt less at my ease at

their dinner-table than I did downstairs here. I had nothing to say for

myself. So these grand folks would ask in my son-in-law’s ear, ‘Who may

that gentleman be?’--‘The father-in-law with the money bags; he is very

rich.’--‘The devil, he is!’ they would say, and look again at me with

the respect due to my money. Well, if I was in the way sometimes, I paid

dearly for my mistakes. And besides, who is perfect? (My head is one

sore!) Dear Monsieur Eugene, I am suffering so now, that a man might die

of the pain; but it is nothing to be compared with the pain I endured

when Anastasie made me feel, for the first time, that I had said

something stupid. She looked at me, and that glance of hers opened all

my veins. I used to want to know everything, to be learned; and one

thing I did learn thoroughly--I knew that I was not wanted here on

earth.

“The next day I went to Delphine for comfort, and what should I do there

but make some stupid blunder that made her angry with me. I was like one

driven out of his senses. For a week I did not know what to do; I did

not dare to go to see them for fear they should reproach me. And that

was how they both turned me out of the house.

“Oh God! Thou knowest all the misery and anguish that I have endured;

Thou hast counted all the wounds that have been dealt to me in these

years that have aged and changed me and whitened my hair and drained my

life; why dost Thou make me to suffer so to-day? Have I not more than

expiated the sin of loving them too much? They themselves have been the

instruments of vengeance; they have tortured me for my sin of affection.

“Ah, well! fathers know no better; I loved them so; I went back to them

as a gambler goes to the gaming table. This love was my vice, you see,

my mistress--they were everything in the world to me. They were always

wanting something or other, dresses and ornaments, and what not; their

maids used to tell me what they wanted, and I used to give them the

things for the sake of the welcome that they bought for me. But, at

the same time, they used to give me little lectures on my behavior in

society; they began about it at once. Then they began to feel ashamed of

me. That is what comes of having your children well brought up. I could

not go to school again at my time of life. (This pain is fearful! _Mon

Dieu!_ These doctors! these doctors! If they would open my head, it

would give me some relief!) Oh, my daughters, my daughters! Anastasie!

Delphine! If I could only see them! Send for the police, and make them

come to me! Justice is on my side, the whole world is on my side, I have

natural rights, and the law with me. I protest! The country will go to

ruin if a father’s rights are trampled under foot. That is easy to see.

The whole world turns on fatherly love; fatherly love is the foundation

of society; it will crumble into ruin when children do not love their

fathers. Oh! if I could only see them, and hear them, no matter what

they said; if I could simply hear their voices, it would soothe the

pain. Delphine! Delphine most of all. But tell them when they come not

to look so coldly at me as they do. Oh! my friend, my good Monsieur

Eugene, you do not know that it is when all the golden light in a glance

suddenly turns to a leaden gray. It has been one long winter here since

the light in their eyes shone no more for me. I have had nothing but

disappointments to devour. Disappointment has been my daily bread; I

have lived on humiliation and insults. I have swallowed down all the

affronts for which they sold me my poor stealthy little moments of

joy; for I love them so! Think of it! a father hiding himself to get a

glimpse of his children! I have given all my life to them, and to-day

they will not give me one hour! I am hungering and thirsting for them,

my heart is burning in me, but they will not come to bring relief in the

agony, for I am dying now, I feel that this is death. Do they not know

what it means to trample on a father’s corpse? There is a God in heaven

who avenges us fathers whether we will or no.

“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 to 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.

“Let us get this over,” said Rastignac.

“Sylvie, look out some sheets, and go upstairs to help the gentlemen.”

“You won’t forget Sylvie,” said Mme. Vauquer in Eugene’s ear; “she has

been sitting up these two nights.”

As soon as Eugene’s back was turned, the old woman hurried after her

handmaid.

“Take the sheets that have had the sides turned into the middle, number

7. Lord! they are plenty good enough for a corpse,” she said in Sylvie’s

ear.

Eugene, by this time, was part of the way upstairs, and did not overhear

the elderly economist.

“Quick,” said Bianchon, “let us change his shirt. Hold him upright.”

Eugene went to the head of the bed and supported the dying man, while

Bianchon drew off his shirt; and then Goriot made a movement as if he

tried to clutch something to his breast, uttering a low inarticulate

moaning the while, like some dumb animal in mortal pain.

“Ah! yes!” cried Bianchon. “It is the little locket and the chain

made of hair that he wants; we took it off a while ago when we put the

blisters on him. Poor fellow! he must have it again. There it lies on

the chimney-piece.”

Eugene went to the chimney-piece and found the little plait of faded

golden hair--Mme. Goriot’s hair, no doubt. He read the name on the

little round locket, ANASTASIE on the one side, DELPHINE on the other.

It was the symbol of his own heart that the father always wore on his

breast. The curls of hair inside the locket were so fine and soft that

is was plain they had been taken from two childish heads. When the old

man felt the locket once more, his chest heaved with a long deep sigh

of satisfaction, like a groan. It was something terrible to see, for it

seemed as if the last quiver of the nerves were laid bare to their eyes,

the last communication of sense to the mysterious point within whence

our sympathies come and whither they go. A delirious joy lighted up the

distorted face. The terrific and vivid force of the feeling that had

survived the power of thought made such an impression on the students,

that the dying man felt their hot tears falling on him, and gave a

shrill cry of delight.

“Nasie! Fifine!”

“There is life in him yet,” said Bianchon.

“What does he go on living for?” said Sylvie.

“To suffer,” answered Rastignac.

Bianchon made a sign to his friend to follow his example, knelt down and

pressed his arms under the sick man, and Rastignac on the other side did

the same, so that Sylvie, standing in readiness, might draw the sheet

from beneath and replace it with the one that she had brought. Those

tears, no doubt, had misled Goriot; for he gathered up all his remaining

strength in a last effort, stretched out his hands, groped for the

students’ heads, and as his fingers caught convulsively at their hair,

they heard a faint whisper:

“Ah! my angels!”

Two words, two inarticulate murmurs, shaped into words by the soul which

fled forth with them as they left his lips.

“Poor dear!” cried Sylvie, melted by that exclamation; the expression of

the great love raised for the last time to a sublime height by that most

ghastly and involuntary of lies.

The father’s last breath must have been a sigh of joy, and in that sigh

his whole life was summed up; he was cheated even at the last. They laid

Father Goriot upon his wretched bed with reverent hands. Thenceforward

there was no expression on his face, only the painful traces of the

struggle between life and death that was going on in the machine; for

that kind of cerebral consciousness that distinguishes between pleasure

and pain in a human being was extinguished; it was only a question of

time--and the mechanism itself would be destroyed.

“He will lie like this for several hours, and die so quietly at last,

that we shall not know when he goes; there will be no rattle in the

throat. The brain must be completely suffused.”

As he spoke there was a footstep on the staircase, and a young woman

hastened up, panting for breath.

“She has come too late,” said Rastignac.

But it was not Delphine; it was Therese, her waiting-woman, who stood in

the doorway.

“Monsieur Eugene,” she said, “monsieur and madame have had a terrible

scene about some money that Madame (poor thing!) wanted for her father.

She fainted, and the doctor came, and she had to be bled, calling

out all the while, ‘My father is dying; I want to see papa!’ It was

heartbreaking to hear her----”

“That will do, Therese. If she came now, it would be trouble thrown

away. M. Goriot cannot recognize any one now.”

“Poor, dear gentleman, is he as bad at that?” said Therese.

“You don’t want me now, I must go and look after my dinner; it is

half-past four,” remarked Sylvie. The next instant she all but collided

with Mme. de Restaud on the landing outside.

There was something awful and appalling in the sudden apparition of

the Countess. She saw the bed of death by the dim light of the single

candle, and her tears flowed at the sight of her father’s passive

features, from which the life had almost ebbed. Bianchon with thoughtful

tact left the room.

“I could not escape soon enough,” she said to Rastignac.

The student bowed sadly in reply. Mme. de Restaud took her father’s hand

and kissed it.

“Forgive me, father! You used to say that my voice would call you back

from the grave; ah! come back for one moment to bless your penitent

daughter. Do you hear me? Oh! this is fearful! No one on earth will ever

bless me henceforth; every one hates me; no one loves me but you in all

the world. My own children will hate me. Take me with you, father; I

will love you, I will take care of you. He does not hear me ... I am

mad...”

She fell on her knees, and gazed wildly at the human wreck before her.

“My cup of misery is full,” she said, turning her eyes upon Eugene.

“M. de Trailles has fled, leaving enormous debts behind him, and I have

found out that he was deceiving me. My husband will never forgive me,

and I have left my fortune in his hands. I have lost all my illusions.

Alas! I have forsaken the one heart that loved me (she pointed to her

father as she spoke), and for whom? I have held his kindness cheap,

and slighted his affection; many and many a time I have given him pain,

ungrateful wretch that I am!”

“He knew it,” said Rastignac.

Just then Goriot’s eyelids unclosed; it was only a muscular contraction,

but the Countess’ sudden start of reviving hope was no less dreadful

than the dying eyes.

“Is it possible that he can hear me?” cried the Countess. “No,” she

answered herself, and sat down beside the bed. As Mme. de Restaud seemed

to wish to sit by her father, Eugene went down to take a little food.

The boarders were already assembled.

“Well,” remarked the painter, as he joined them, “it seems that there is

to be a death-orama upstairs.”

“Charles, I think you might find something less painful to joke about,”

said Eugene.

“So we may not laugh here?” returned the painter. “What harm does it do?

Bianchon said that the old man was quite insensible.”

“Well, then,” said the _employe_ from the Museum, “he will die as he has

lived.”

“My father is dead!” shrieked the Countess.

The terrible cry brought Sylvie, Rastignac, and Bianchon; Mme.

de Restaud had fainted away. When she recovered they carried her

downstairs, and put her into the cab that stood waiting at the door.

Eugene sent Therese with her, and bade the maid take the Countess to

Mme. de Nucingen.

Bianchon came down to them.

“Yes, he is dead,” he said.

“Come, sit down to dinner, gentlemen,” said Mme. Vauquer, “or the soup

will be cold.”

The two students sat down together.

“What is the next thing to be done?” Eugene asked of Bianchon.

“I have closed his eyes and composed his limbs,” said Bianchon. “When

the certificate has been officially registered at the Mayor’s office,

we will sew him in his winding sheet and bury him somewhere. What do you

think we ought to do?”

“He will not smell at his bread like this any more,” said the painter,

mimicking the old man’s little trick.

“Oh, hang it all!” cried the tutor, “let Father Goriot drop, and let us

have something else for a change. He is a standing dish, and we have had

him with every sauce this hour or more. It is one of the privileges of

the good city of Paris that anybody may be born, or live, or die there

without attracting any attention whatsoever. Let us profit by the

advantages of civilization. There are fifty or sixty deaths every day;

if you have a mind to do it, you can sit down at any time and wail over

whole hecatombs of dead in Paris. Father Goriot has gone off the hooks,

has he? So much the better for him. If you venerate his memory, keep it

to yourselves, and let the rest of us feed in peace.”

“Oh, to be sure,” said the widow, “it is all the better for him that he

is dead. It looks as though he had had trouble enough, poor soul, while

he was alive.”

And this was all the funeral oration delivered over him who had been for

Eugene the type and embodiment of Fatherhood.

The fifteen lodgers began to talk as usual. When Bianchon and Eugene had

satisfied their hunger, the rattle of spoons and forks, the boisterous

conversation, the expressions on the faces that bespoke various degrees

of want of feeling, gluttony, or indifference, everything about them

made them shiver with loathing. They went out to find a priest to watch

that night with the dead. It was necessary to measure their last pious

cares by the scanty sum of money that remained. Before nine o’clock that

evening the body was laid out on the bare sacking of the bedstead in

the desolate room; a lighted candle stood on either side, and the priest

watched at the foot. Rastignac made inquiries of this latter as to the

expenses of the funeral, and wrote to the Baron de Nucingen and the

Comte de Restaud, entreating both gentlemen to authorize their man of

business to defray the charges of laying their father-in-law in the

grave. He sent Christophe with the letters; then he went to bed, tired

out, and slept.

Next day Bianchon and Rastignac were obliged to take the certificate

to the registrar themselves, and by twelve o’clock the formalities were

completed. Two hours went by, no word came from the Count nor from the

Baron; nobody appeared to act for them, and Rastignac had already been

obliged to pay the priest. Sylvie asked ten francs for sewing the old

man in his winding-sheet and making him ready for the grave, and Eugene

and Bianchon calculated that they had scarcely sufficient to pay for the

funeral, if nothing was forthcoming from the dead man’s family. So it

was the medical student who laid him in a pauper’s coffin, despatched

from Bianchon’s hospital, whence he obtained it at a cheaper rate.

“Let us play those wretches a trick,” said he. “Go to the cemetery, buy

a grave for five years at Pere-Lachaise, and arrange with the Church and

the undertaker to have a third-class funeral. If the daughters and

their husbands decline to repay you, you can carve this on the

headstone--‘_Here lies M. Goriot, father of the Comtesse de Restaud and

the Baronne de Nucingen, interred at the expense of two students_.’”

Eugene took part of his friend’s advice, but only after he had gone

in person first to M. and Mme. de Nucingen, and then to M. and Mme. de

Restaud--a fruitless errand. He went no further than the doorstep in

either house. The servants had received strict orders to admit no one.

“Monsieur and Madame can see no visitors. They have just lost their

father, and are in deep grief over their loss.”

Eugene’s Parisian experience told him that it was idle to press the

point. Something clutched strangely at his heart when he saw that it was

impossible to reach Delphine.

“Sell some of your ornaments,” he wrote hastily in the porter’s room,

“so that your father may be decently laid in his last resting-place.”

He sealed the note, and begged the porter to give it to Therese for her

mistress; but the man took it to the Baron de Nucingen, who flung the

note into the fire. Eugene, having finished his errands, returned to the

lodging-house about three o’clock. In spite of himself, the tears came

into his eyes. The coffin, in its scanty covering of black cloth,

was standing there on the pavement before the gate, on two chairs.

A withered sprig of hyssop was soaking in the holy water bowl of

silver-plated copper; there was not a soul in the street, not a

passer-by had stopped to sprinkle the coffin; there was not even an

attempt at a black drapery over the wicket. It was a pauper who lay

there; no one made a pretence of mourning for him; he had neither

friends nor kindred--there was no one to follow him to the grave.

Bianchon’s duties compelled him to be at the hospital, but he had left

a few lines for Eugene, telling his friend about the arrangements he

had made for the burial service. The house student’s note told Rastignac

that a mass was beyond their means, that the ordinary office for the

dead was cheaper, and must suffice, and that he had sent word to

the undertaker by Christophe. Eugene had scarcely finished reading

Bianchon’s scrawl, when he looked up and saw the little circular

gold locket that contained the hair of Goriot’s two daughters in Mme.

Vauquer’s hands.

“How dared you take it?” he asked.

“Good Lord! is that to be buried along with him?” retorted Sylvie. “It

is gold.”

“Of course it shall!” Eugene answered indignantly; “he shall at any

rate take one thing that may represent his daughters into the grave with

him.”

When the hearse came, Eugene had the coffin carried into the house

again, unscrewed the lid, and reverently laid on the old man’s breast

the token that recalled the days when Delphine and Anastasie were

innocent little maidens, before they began “to think for themselves,” as

he had moaned out in his agony.

Rastignac and Christophe and the two undertaker’s men were the only

followers of the funeral. The Church of Saint-Etienne du Mont was only a

little distance from the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve. When the coffin

had been deposited in a low, dark, little chapel, the law student looked

round in vain for Goriot’s two daughters or their husbands. Christophe

was his only fellow-mourner; Christophe, who appeared to think it was

his duty to attend the funeral of the man who had put him in the way

of such handsome tips. As they waited there in the chapel for the two

priests, the chorister, and the beadle, Rastignac grasped Christophe’s

hand. He could not utter a word just then.

“Yes, Monsieur Eugene,” said Christophe, “he was a good and worthy man,

who never said one word louder than another; he never did any one any

harm, and gave nobody any trouble.”

The two priests, the chorister, and the beadle came, and said and did

as much as could be expected for seventy francs in an age when religion

cannot afford to say prayers for nothing.

The ecclesiatics chanted a psalm, the _Libera nos_ and the _De

profundis_. The whole service lasted about twenty minutes. There was but

one mourning coach, which the priest and chorister agreed to share with

Eugene and Christophe.

“There is no one else to follow us,” remarked the priest, “so we may as

well go quickly, and so save time; it is half-past five.”

But just as the coffin was put in the hearse, two empty carriages, with

the armorial bearings of the Comte de Restaud and the Baron de Nucingen,

arrived and followed in the procession to Pere-Lachaise. At six o’clock

Goriot’s coffin was lowered into the grave, his daughters’ servants

standing round the while. The ecclesiastic recited the short prayer that

the students could afford to pay for, and then both priest and lackeys

disappeared at once. The two grave diggers flung in several spadefuls of

earth, and then stopped and asked Rastignac for their fee. Eugene

felt in vain in his pocket, and was obliged to borrow five francs of

Christophe. This thing, so trifling in itself, gave Rastignac a terrible

pang of distress. It was growing dusk, the damp twilight fretted his

nerves; he gazed down into the grave and the tears he shed were drawn

from him by the sacred emotion, a single-hearted sorrow. When such tears

fall on earth, their radiance reaches heaven. And with that tear that

fell on Father Goriot’s grave, Eugene Rastignac’s youth ended. He folded

his arms and gazed at the clouded sky; and Christophe, after a glance at

him, turned and went--Rastignac was left alone.

He went a few paces further, to the highest point of the cemetery, and

looked out over Paris and the windings of the Seine; the lamps were

beginning to shine on either side of the river. His eyes turned almost

eagerly to the space between the column of the Place Vendome and the

cupola of the Invalides; there lay the shining world that he had wished

to reach. He glanced over that humming hive, seeming to draw a foretaste

of its honey, and said magniloquently:

“Henceforth there is war between us.”

And by way of throwing down the glove to Society, Rastignac went to dine

with Mme. de Nucingen.