Father Goriot - Honoré de Balzac (fantasy novels to read .txt) 📗

fire in the stove with some assistance from Vautrin, who kept humming to himself:

“The same old story everywhere,
A roving heart and a roving glance.”

When everything was ready, Mme. Couture and Mlle. Taillefer came in.

“Where have you been this morning, fair lady?” said Mme. Vauquer, turning to Mme. Couture.

“We have just been to say our prayers at Saint-Étienne du Mont. Today is the day when we must go to see M. Taillefer. Poor little thing! She is trembling like a leaf,” Mme. Couture went on, as she seated herself before the fire and held the steaming soles of her boots to the blaze.

“Warm yourself, Victorine,” said Mme. Vauquer.

“It is quite right and proper, mademoiselle, to pray to Heaven to soften your father’s heart,” said Vautrin, as he drew a chair nearer to the orphan girl; “but that is not enough. What you want is a friend who will give the monster a piece of his mind; a barbarian that has three millions (so they say), and will not give you a dowry; and a pretty girl needs a dowry nowadays.”

“Poor child!” said Mme. Vauquer. “Never mind, my pet, your wretch of a father is going just the way to bring trouble upon himself.”

Victorine’s eyes filled with tears at the words, and the widow checked herself at a sign from Mme. Couture.

“If we could only see him!” said the Commissary-General’s widow; “if I could speak to him myself and give him his wife’s last letter! I have never dared to run the risk of sending it by post; he knew my handwriting⁠—”

“ ‘Oh woman, persecuted and injured innocent!’ ” exclaimed Vautrin, breaking in upon her. “So that is how you are, is it? In a few days’ time I will look into your affairs, and it will be all right, you shall see.”

“Oh! sir,” said Victorine, with a tearful but eager glance at Vautrin, who showed no sign of being touched by it, “if you know of any way of communicating with my father, please be sure and tell him that his affection and my mother’s honor are more to me than all the money in the world. If you can induce him to relent a little towards me, I will pray to God for you. You may be sure of my gratitude⁠—”

“The same old story everywhere,” sang Vautrin, with a satirical intonation. At this juncture, Goriot, Mlle. Michonneau, and Poiret came downstairs together; possibly the scent of the gravy which Sylvie was making to serve with the mutton had announced breakfast. The seven people thus assembled bade each other good morning, and took their places at the table; the clock struck ten, and the student’s footstep was heard outside.

“Ah! here you are, M. Eugène,” said Sylvie; “everyone is breakfasting at home today.”

The student exchanged greetings with the lodgers, and sat down beside Goriot.

“I have just met with a queer adventure,” he said, as he helped himself abundantly to the mutton, and cut a slice of bread, which Mme. Vauquer’s eyes gauged as usual.

“An adventure?” queried Poiret.

“Well, and what is there to astonish you in that, old boy?” Vautrin asked of Poiret. “M. Eugène is cut out for that kind of thing.”

Mlle. Taillefer stole a timid glance at the young student.

“Tell us about your adventure!” demanded M. Vautrin.

“Yesterday evening I went to a ball given by a cousin of mine, the Vicomtesse de Beauséant. She has a magnificent house; the rooms are hung with silk⁠—in short, it was a splendid affair, and I was as happy as a king⁠—”

“Fisher,” put in Vautrin, interrupting.

“What do you mean, sir?” said Eugène sharply.

“I said ‘fisher,’ because kingfishers see a good deal more fun than kings.”

“Quite true; I would much rather be the little careless bird than a king,” said Poiret the ditto-ist, “because⁠—”

“In fact”⁠—the law-student cut him short⁠—“I danced with one of the handsomest women in the room, a charming countess, the most exquisite creature I have ever seen. There was peach blossom in her hair, and she had the loveliest bouquet of flowers⁠—real flowers, that scented the air⁠—but there! it is no use trying to describe a woman glowing with the dance. You ought to have seen her! Well, and this morning I met this divine countess about nine o’clock, on foot in the Rue de Grès. Oh! how my heart beat! I began to think⁠—”

“That she was coming here,” said Vautrin, with a keen look at the student. “I expect that she was going to call on old Gobseck, a moneylender. If ever you explore a Parisian woman’s heart, you will find the moneylender first, and the lover afterwards. Your countess is called Anastasie de Restaud, and she lives in the Rue du Helder.”

The student stared hard at Vautrin. Father Goriot raised his head at the words, and gave the two speakers a glance so full of intelligence and uneasiness that the lodgers beheld him with astonishment.

“Then Christophe was too late, and she must have gone to him!” cried Goriot, with anguish in his voice.

“It is just as I guessed,” said Vautrin, leaning over to whisper in Mme. Vauquer’s ear.

Goriot went on with his breakfast, but seemed unconscious of what he was doing. He had never looked more stupid nor more taken up with his own thoughts than he did at that moment.

“Who the devil could have told you her name, M. Vautrin?” asked Eugène.

“Aha! there you are!” answered Vautrin. “Old Father Goriot there knew it quite well! and why should I not know it too?”

“M. Goriot?” the student cried.

“What is it?” asked the old man. “So she was very beautiful, was she, yesterday night?”

“Who?”

“Mme. de Restaud.”

“Look at the old wretch,” said Mme. Vauquer, speaking to Vautrin; “how his eyes light up!”

“Then does he really keep her?” said Mlle. Michonneau, in a whisper to the student.

“Oh! yes, she was tremendously pretty,” Eugène answered. Father Goriot watched him with eager eyes. “If Mme. de Beauséant had not been there, my divine countess would have been the queen of the ball; none of the younger men had eyes for anyone else. I was the twelfth on her list, and she danced every