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

a faithless lover; she felt the question in her very heart, and her face flushed as she answered:

“He was at the Élysée yesterday.”

“In attendance?”

“Claire,” returned the Duchess, and hatred overflowed in the glances she threw at Mme. de Beauséant; “of course you know that M. d’Ajuda-Pinto is going to marry Mlle. de Rochefide; the banns will be published tomorrow.”

This thrust was too cruel; the Vicomtesse’s face grew white, but she answered, laughing, “One of those rumors that fools amuse themselves with. What should induce M. d’Ajuda to take one of the noblest names in Portugal to the Rochefides? The Rochefides were only ennobled yesterday.”

“But Bertha will have two hundred thousand livres a year, they say.”

“M. d’Ajuda is too wealthy to marry for money.”

“But, my dear, Mlle. de Rochefide is a charming girl.”

“Indeed?”

“And, as a matter of fact, he is dining with them today; the thing is settled. It is very surprising to me that you should know so little about it.”

Mme. de Beauséant turned to Rastignac. “What was the blunder that you made, monsieur?” she asked. “The poor boy is only just launched into the world, Antoinette, so that he understands nothing of all this that we are speaking of. Be merciful to him, and let us finish our talk tomorrow. Everything will be announced tomorrow, you know, and your kind informal communication can be accompanied by official confirmation.”

The Duchess gave Eugène one of those insolent glances that measure a man from head to foot, and leave him crushed and annihilated.

“Madame, I have unwittingly plunged a dagger into Mme. de Restaud’s heart; unwittingly⁠—therein lies my offence,” said the student of law, whose keen brain had served him sufficiently well, for he had detected the biting epigrams that lurked beneath this friendly talk. “You continue to receive, possibly you fear, those who know the amount of pain that they deliberately inflict; but a clumsy blunderer who has no idea how deeply he wounds is looked upon as a fool who does not know how to make use of his opportunities, and everyone despises him.”

Mme. de Beauséant gave the student a glance, one of those glances in which a great soul can mingle dignity and gratitude. It was like balm to the law student, who was still smarting under the Duchess’ insolent scrutiny; she had looked at him as an auctioneer might look at some article to appraise its value.

“Imagine, too, that I had just made some progress with the Comte de Restaud; for I should tell you, madame,” he went on, turning to the Duchess with a mixture of humility and malice in his manner, “that as yet I am only a poor devil of a student, very much alone in the world, and very poor⁠—”

“You should not tell us that, M. de Rastignac. We women never care about anything that no one else will take.”

“Bah!” said Eugène. “I am only two-and-twenty, and I must make up my mind to the drawbacks of my time of life. Besides, I am confessing my sins, and it would be impossible to kneel in a more charming confessional; you commit your sins in one drawing-room, and receive absolution for them in another.”

The Duchess’ expression grew colder, she did not like the flippant tone of these remarks, and showed that she considered them to be in bad taste by turning to the Vicomtesse with⁠—“This gentleman has only just come⁠—”

Mme. de Beauséant began to laugh outright at her cousin and at the Duchess both.

“He has only just come to Paris, dear, and is in search of someone who will give him lessons in good taste.”

“Mme. la Duchesse,” said Eugène, “is it not natural to wish to be initiated into the mysteries which charm us?” (“Come, now,” he said to himself, “my language is superfinely elegant, I’m sure.”)

“But Mme. de Restaud is herself, I believe, M. de Trailles’ pupil,” said the Duchess.

“Of that I had no idea, madame,” answered the law student, “so I rashly came between them. In fact, I got on very well with the lady’s husband, and his wife tolerated me for a time until I took it into my head to tell them that I knew someone of whom I had just caught a glimpse as he went out by a back staircase, a man who had given the Countess a kiss at the end of a passage.”

“Who was it?” both women asked together.

“An old man who lives at the rate of two louis a month in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau, where I, a poor student, lodge likewise. He is a truly unfortunate creature, everybody laughs at him⁠—we all call him ‘Father Goriot.’ ”

“Why, child that you are,” cried the Vicomtesse, “Mme. de Restaud was a Mlle. Goriot!”

“The daughter of a vermicelli manufacturer,” the Duchess added; “and when the little creature went to Court, the daughter of a pastry-cook was presented on the same day. Do you remember, Claire? The King began to laugh, and made some joke in Latin about flour. People⁠—what was it?⁠—people⁠—”

“Ejusdem farinoe,” said Eugène.

“Yes, that was it,” said the Duchess.

“Oh! is that her father?” the law student continued, aghast.

“Yes, certainly; the old man had two daughters; he dotes on them, so to speak, though they will scarcely acknowledge him.”

“Didn’t the second daughter marry a banker with a German name?” the Vicomtesse asked, turning to Mme. de Langeais, “a Baron de Nucingen? And her name is Delphine, is it not? Isn’t she a fair-haired woman who has a side-box at the Opéra? She comes sometimes to the Bouffons, and laughs loudly to attract attention.”

The Duchess smiled and said:

“I wonder at you, dear. Why do you take so much interest in people of that kind? One must have been as madly in love as Restaud was, to be infatuated with Mlle. Anastasie and her flour sacks. Oh! he will not find her a good bargain! She is in M. de Trailles’ hands, and he will ruin her.”

“And they do not acknowledge their father!” Eugène repeated.

“Oh! well, yes, their father, the father, a father,” replied the Vicomtesse, “a kind father who gave them each five