Old Man Goriot

by Balzac, Honore de

  ‘What do we have here?’ said Vautrin, snatching a letter out of Christophe’s hands and reading aloud:

  ‘To Madame la Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud.’

  Handing the letter back to Christophe, he continued, ‘And you’re going to … ?’

  ‘Rue du Helder. I’m under orders to give this to no one but Madame la Comtesse.’

  ‘What’s inside?’ said Vautrin, holding the letter up to the light. ‘A banknote? No.’ He opened the envelope slightly. ‘A quietus,’64 he exclaimed. ‘Well, I’ll be hanged! How very gallant of the old beau. Go on, be off, you rascal,’ he said, knocking Christophe’s hair flat with his huge hand and spinning him round; ‘you’ll get a good tip.’

  The table was laid. Sylvie had put the milk on to boil. Madame Vauquer was lighting the stove, helped by Vautrin, who was still humming:

  ‘I’ve been a-roving all over the world

  And I’ve been seen in every land …’

  Everything was ready by the time Madame Couture and Mademoiselle Taillefer came back.

  ‘Where have you been so early, fair lady?’ said Madame Vauquer to Madame Couture.

  ‘We’ve been at our devotions at Saint-Etienne-du-Mont, as we shall be calling on Monsieur Taillefer today. Poor little mite, she’s shaking like a leaf,’ continued Madame Couture, sitting herself down by the stove and warming her steaming shoes at its opening.

  ‘Come and warm yourself, Victorine,’ said Madame Vauquer.

  ‘It’s all very well, Mademoiselle, to pray to the Almighty to melt your father’s heart,’ said Vautrin, pulling up a chair for the orphan. ‘But that’s not enough. You need a friend who’ll make it his business to give that villain a piece of his mind; he’s worth three million, so it’s said, and the brute won’t give you a dowry. A beautiful young woman needs a dowry these days.’

  ‘Poor child,’ said Madame Vauquer. ‘You’ll see, poppet, your monster of a father will get his come-uppance before too long.’

  Victorine’s eyes welled up with tears at these words and the widow was brought up short at a sign from Madame Couture.

  ‘If only we could see him, if I could just talk to him and give him his wife’s last letter,’ the widow of the Commissary General went on. ‘I’ve never dared try sending it by post; he’d recognize my handwriting …’

  ‘O innocent, unfortunate and persecuted women,’65 declaimed Vautrin, interrupting. ‘You have come to a pretty pass! I’ll apply myself to your affairs in the next day or so and put things to rights.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur!’ said Victorine, casting a fervent, moist-eyed glance at Vautrin, whom it left unmoved; ‘should you manage to gain an audience with my father, be sure to tell him that his affection and my mother’s honour are more precious to me than all the wealth in the world. If you convinced him to relax his rigour even a little, I would remember you in my prayers. Let me assure you of my gratitude …’

  ‘I’ve been a-roving all over the world,’ sang Vautrin, ironically.

  At that point, Goriot, Poiret and Mademoiselle Michonneau came downstairs, perhaps drawn by the smell of the roux66 that Sylvie was making to thicken the mutton leftovers. Just as the seven guests sat down to their déjeuner,67 greeting each other, the clock struck ten and the student’s footsteps were heard in the road.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Eugène,’ said Sylvie; ‘so you’ll be joining the others for déjeuner today.’

  The student greeted the lodgers and sat down next to old man Goriot.

  ‘I’ve just had the strangest adventure,’ he said, helping himself to a generous serving of mutton and cutting himself a piece of bread, whose size Madame Vauquer, as usual, measured with a beady eye.

  ‘An adventure!’ said Poiret.

  ‘Well, I don’t see why you should be so surprised, old boy,’ said Vautrin to Poiret. ‘The young gentleman is certainly cut out for one.’

  Mademoiselle Taillefer glanced shyly at the young student.

  ‘Tell us your adventure,’ demanded Madame Vauquer.

  ‘Yesterday, I went to a ball held by Madame la Vicomtesse de Beauséant, a cousin of mine, who has a magnificent house, apartments hung with silk draperies; to cut a long story short, she gave a wonderful party, where I was as happy as a king …’

  ‘… fisher,’ said Vautrin, cutting him off.

  ‘Monsieur,’ replied Eugène sharply, ‘what are you trying to say?’

  ‘I said fisher, because kingfishers are much happier than kings.’

  ‘That’s very true: I’d much rather be a little bird without a care than a king, because …’ said Poiret, the human echo.

  ‘So anyway,’ continued the student, cutting him off mid-flow, ‘I danced with one of the most beautiful women at the ball, a ravishing comtesse, the loveliest creature I’ve ever seen. She wore peach blossom in her hair, with the finest spray of flowers on the side, real flowers that filled the air with their delicate scent; but it’s no use, you would need to have seen her, it’s impossible to describe how dancing lights up a woman’s face. Well, this morning at around nine, I came across the divine comtesse on foot, in the Rue des Grès. Oh! My heart was racing, I imagined …’

  ‘That she was on her way here,’ said Vautrin, giving the student a piercing stare. ‘She was probably on her way to see uncle Gobseck,68 the usurer. Search the heart of a Parisian woman and you’ll find the usurer before the lover. Your comtesse is called Anastasie de Restaud and she lives in the Rue du Helder.’

  When he heard this name, the student returned Vautrin’s stare. Old man Goriot suddenly raised his head and gave the two speakers a lucid, concerned look that surprised the other lodgers.

  ‘Christophe will arrive too late, she’ll have already left,’ Goriot groaned to himself, stricken.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ murmured Vautrin in Madame Vauquer’s ear.

  Goriot ate without thinking, oblivious to what he was eating. He had never seemed more confused or vacant than he did now.

  ‘Who the devil told you her name, Monsieur Vautrin?’ Eugène asked.

  ‘Hah! There I have you,’ replied Vautrin. ‘Old man Goriot knew it, didn’t he? So why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Monsieur Goriot!’ exclaimed the student.

  ‘Hmm?’ said the poor old man. ‘Was she very beautiful last night?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Madame de Restaud.’

  ‘Just look at the old skinflint,’ said Madame Vauquer to Vautrin; ‘see how his eyes light up.’

  ‘So he’d be keeping her then?’ said Mademoiselle Michonneau to the student, in a low voice.

  ‘Oh yes! She was dazzlingly beautiful,’ Eugène continued, watched eagerly by old Goriot. ‘If Madame de Beauséant hadn’t been there, my divine comtesse would have been the queen of the ball; the young men had eyes only for her. I was the twelfth on her list; she danced every quadrille. The other women were furious. If anyone was happy yesterday, she was. Now I understand why they say that there’s nothing more beautiful than a frigate in full sail, a horse at full gallop and a woman full of the dance.’

  ‘Yesterday, at the top of the wheel, received by a duchesse,’ said Vautrin; ‘this morning, at the bottom of the ladder, calling on a pawnbroker: that’s Parisian women for you. If their husbands can’t fund their unbridled pursuit of luxury, they sell themselves. Those who can’t sell themselves would disembowel their mothers if they thought they’d find anything in there that

  glittered. In a word, they’re up to a billion tricks. Everyone knows that …’

  Old Goriot’s countenance, which had beamed like the sun on a fine day as he listened to the student, now clouded over at Vautrin’s harsh remarks.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Madame Vauquer. ‘Where’s the adventure in that? Did you speak to her? Did you ask her if she was coming to study law?’

  ‘She didn’t see me,’ said Eugène. ‘But don’t you think it’s strange to meet one of the prettiest women in Paris at nine in the morning in the Rue des Grès, a woman who must have
left the ball at two in the morning? That’s the kind of adventure you can only have in Paris.’

  ‘Hah! That’s just the tip of the iceberg!’ retorted Vautrin.

  Mademoiselle Taillefer had barely listened to a word, preoccupied by the attempt she was about to make. Madame Couture gestured to her to leave the table to go and dress. When the two women went out, old Goriot followed suit.

  ‘Well, did you see that?’ Madame Vauquer said to Vautrin and the other lodgers. ‘It’s obvious that he’s bled himself white for those women.’

  ‘You will never convince me’, cried the student, ‘that the beautiful Comtesse de Restaud belongs to old man Goriot.’

  ‘Why,’ said Vautrin, interrupting him, ‘we’re not trying to convince you. You’re still too young to really know Paris; later, you’ll discover that it is full of what, for now, we shall call men who have their passions …’ (At these words, Mademoiselle Michonneau gave Vautrin a knowing look, like that of a soldier’s horse when it hears the bugle call.) ‘A-ha!’ said Vautrin, breaking off to give her a hard stare; ‘so we’ve had our little passions too, have we?’ (The old spinster lowered her eyes hastily like a nun catching sight of a statue.) ‘So,’ he continued, ‘our man finds one idea that fits and wears it out. He is only thirsty for a certain kind of water drawn from a certain well, often stagnant; he’s prepared to sell his wife, his children, to sell his soul to the devil, so that he can drink from it. For one man the well is gambling, the stock-markets, a collection of

  paintings or insects, music; for another, it’s a woman who knows how to titillate his fancy. If you were to offer such a man every woman on earth, he wouldn’t care, he only wants the one who can satisfy his passion. Often, the woman in question cares little for our man, treats him harshly, makes him pay a high price for the tiny scraps of satisfaction she sells him; well! he can’t get enough and would pledge his last blanket at the Mont-de-Piété69 if it meant he could give that woman his last écu. Old Goriot is one of those fellows. The comtesse exploits him because he keeps his head down, and that’s the smart set all over! The poor old fool thinks only of her. His passion aside, he’s a dull stick, as you’ve seen for yourself. Get him started on his pet subject and his face sparkles like a diamond. It’s not hard to guess the nature of his secret. This morning he sold some silver-gilt for melting down and I saw him go and call on uncle Gobseck in the Rue des Grès. Now, listen to this. As soon as he got back, he sent Christophe to the Comtesse de Restaud’s house; that blockhead showed us the address on the envelope, which contained a quietus. If the comtesse also intended to pay the old bill-discounter a visit, it’s obvious that the situation was urgent. Old Goriot has gallantly settled up for her. You don’t need to put this and that together to see what’s going on there. Which proves, my young friend, that while your comtesse was laughing, dancing, frolicking, flaunting her peach blossom and swinging her skirts, she was on tenterhooks, as they say, at the thought of the bills of exchange70 that she or her lover had failed to honour.’

  ‘You’ve given me a burning desire to find out the truth. I’ll go and call on Madame de Restaud tomorrow,’ cried Eugène.

  ‘Yes,’ said Poiret, ‘you should call on Madame de Restaud tomorrow.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll find our dear friend Goriot there, come to cash in on his gallantry.’

  ‘Why,’ said Eugène, with an air of disgust, ‘this Paris of yours is a dunghill.’

  ‘And a funny old dunghill it is too,’ Vautrin continued. ‘A man in a carriage who gets his hands dirty is honest, a man who walks and gets his feet dirty is a rogue. If you’re unfortunate enough to lift some trifle or other, you’re paraded on the square71 in front of the law courts like a freak. If you steal a million, you’re pointed out in the salons as one of the Virtues. You pay thirty million to the Police and to the Law to maintain those moral standards there. A fine mess!’

  ‘Well I never!’ exclaimed Madame Vauquer; ‘so old man Goriot has melted down his silver-gilt breakfast service?’

  ‘The one with two turtle-doves on the cover?’ said Eugène.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘It must have been very dear to him; he wept when he’d finished twisting the dish and platter. I happened to see him do it,’ said Eugène.

  ‘It was as dear to him as his life,’ replied the widow.

  ‘So you see how the old man’s passion rules him,’ cried Vautrin. ‘That woman knows how to titillate his soul.’

  The student went up to his room. Vautrin went out. Shortly afterwards, Madame Couture and Victorine set off in a fiacre72 that Sylvie had found for them. Poiret offered Mademoiselle Michonneau his arm and they left to make the most of the best two hours of the day with a stroll in the Jardin des Plantes.

  ‘Well I never! They’ll be getting married next,’ said big Sylvie. ‘Today’s the first time they’ve gone out together. They’re both so dry that if they bump into each other, they’ll go up like touchwood.’

  ‘Mademoiselle Michonneau should watch out for her shawl,’ said Madame Vauquer, laughing; ‘it’ll catch like tinder.’

  When Goriot came back that afternoon at four, the first thing he saw, by the light of two smoky lamps, was Victorine, red-eyed. Madame Vauquer was listening to the account of that morning’s unfruitful visit to Monsieur Taillefer. Irritated by the presence of his daughter and the old woman, Taillefer had had them brought before him so that he could make matters plain.

  ‘My dear lady,’ said Madame Couture to Madame Vauquer, ‘can you believe that he didn’t even offer Victorine a seat; she remained standing the whole time. Without raising his voice, quite coldly, he said that we should spare ourselves the trouble of calling on him; that to his mind, the young lady, without calling her his daughter, wasn’t doing herself any favours by importuning him (once a year, the monster); that, as Victorine’s mother married without a fortune, she had nothing to hope for; indeed, he said the hardest things, which made the poor girl burst into tears. So she threw herself at her father’s feet and bravely told him that she only kept trying for her mother’s sake, that she would obey him without a murmur; but she begged him to read the poor dead woman’s last testament. She took out the letter and gave it to him, saying the most heartfelt and beautiful things in the world; I don’t know where she got them from, God must have been dictating to her; the poor child was so inspired that I wept like a baby to hear her. And do you know what that abominable man did? He trimmed his nails, then took the letter that poor Madame Taillefer had drenched in her tears and threw it on the fire, saying, “Enough!” He tried to pull his daughter to her feet and when she took hold of his hands to kiss them, he snatched them away. What a scoundrel! His great lump of a son came in without even greeting his sister.’

  ‘Why, the monsters!’ said old Goriot.

  ‘And then’, said Madame Couture, ignoring the old man’s exclamation, ‘father and son left, bidding me farewell and begging me to excuse them, as they had urgent business to attend to. That was our visit. At least he saw his daughter. I really don’t know how he can deny her; they’re as like as peas in a pod.’

  The boarders arrived in dribs and drabs, residents and non-residents wishing each other good day and exchanging the kind of banter which, among a particular class of Parisian, passes for wit, involving a strong element of chaff and heavily dependent on pronunciation and delivery for its success. This kind of argot is in constant mutation. The shibboleth on which it turns never lasts longer than a month. A political event, a trial at the assizes, a street ballad, an actor’s spiel, everything feeds into this game of wit, which mainly consists of throwing words and ideas into the air like shuttlecocks and batting them to and fro around the room. The recent invention of the Diorama, taking optical illusion to even giddier heights than the Panoramas,73 had, in some studios, inspired the conceit of ending words in rama, a contagious skit that the Maison Vauquer had caught from a young painter, one of the regulars.

  ‘So, meesteurr Poiret,’ said the
museum clerk; ‘still aliverama?’ Then, before he could reply: ‘Ladies, you look down at heart,’ he said to Madame Couture and Victorine.

  ‘How about some deeneurr?’ cried Horace Bianchon, Rastignac’s medical student friend. ‘My poor tum has sunk usque ad talones.’74

  ‘The weather’s mighty coltorama!’ said Vautrin. ‘Move along there, old man Goriot. Damn it! Your great foot is filling the whole grate.’

  ‘Revered Monsieur Vautrin,’ said Bianchon, ‘surely you can’t mean coltorama? There must be some mistake, it should be coldorama.’

  ‘No,’ said the museum clerk, ‘it’s coltorama, my feet are colt, as in coltsfoot.’

  ‘Har har!’

  ‘Here comes H.E. the Marquis de Rastignac, Bachelor of Lawlessness,’ cried Bianchon, grabbing Eugène round the neck and pretending to strangle him. ‘Hey, everyone, look out!’

  Mademoiselle Michonneau came in quietly, nodded to the boarders without saying a word and went and sat down with the other three women.

  ‘She always gives me the creeps, that old bat,’ said Bianchon to Vautrin in a low voice, nodding towards Mademoiselle Michonneau. ‘As a student of Doctor Gall’s system, I can see that her head has the bumps of Judas.’75

  ‘Monsieur has met him?’ said Vautrin.

  ‘Who hasn’t bumped into him!’ replied Bianchon. ‘I swear to you, that pasty-faced old maid reminds me of a long worm steadily eating its way through a beam.’

  ‘That’s how it is, young man,’ said the forty year old, stroking his side-whiskers.

  ‘A rose, she lived as roses do,

  Through a single dawn.’76

  ‘A-ha! Here comes a glorious soupeaurama,’ said Poiret, as Christophe appeared, reverentially bearing a tureen.

  ‘Pardon me, Monsieur,’ said Madame Vauquer; ‘it’s not a soupe au rama, but a soupe au cabbage.’

  All the young men burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re thrashed, Poiret!’

  ‘Poirrrrreette is thrashed.’

  ‘Two points to Ma Vauquer,’ said Vautrin.