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

“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 tenderhearted than her sister.⁠ ⁠… Eugène, 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 Eugène, 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 Eugène, 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 kindhearted; 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 Eugène, 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