The rather unusual name ‘Cat-o’-Nine-Lives’ caught Bianchon’s ear on his way back from Cuvier’s lecture, and he overheard the ‘Done!’ uttered by the famous Chief of the Sûreté.167
‘Why don’t you get it over and done with; you’d have three hundred francs a year for the rest of your life,’ said Poiret to Mademoiselle Michonneau.
‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘Why, the matter needs some thought. If Monsieur Vautrin is this Cat-o’-Nine-Lives, there might be more advantage in coming to an agreement with him. However, asking him for money would tip him off and he’d be liable to scarper without paying his dues. And that would be a fine mess.’
‘Even if he was tipped off,’ continued Poiret, ‘didn’t the gentleman say that he was being watched? But you yourself would lose everything.’
‘What’s more,’ thought Mademoiselle Michonneau, ‘I don’t like that man one bit! He never has a civil word to say to me.’
‘But’, continued Poiret, ‘you’d be acting for the best. As he said, the gentleman – and he seems extremely respectable to me, as well as having friends in high places – if you rid society of a criminal, whatever his virtues, all you’re doing is obeying the law. Once a thief, always a thief. What if he took it into his head to murder us all? Why, dash it! We’d be guilty of those murders, not to mention being the first victims.’
But Mademoiselle Michonneau was so deep in thought she didn’t hear the sentences falling from Poiret’s mouth one by one, like drops of water oozing from a fountain with a faulty tap. Once the old man started stringing sentences together, and as Mademoiselle Michonneau didn’t interrupt him, he couldn’t stop, like some wound-up piece of clockwork. He launched into one subject, but then, straying into his parentheses, found himself having to deal with other, utterly opposed subjects, without ever finishing his clauses. By the time they arrived at the Maison Vauquer, he had twisted and turned through a series of transitory passages and quotations which had brought him to the story of his testimonial in the affair of Monsieur Ragoulleau and Madame Morin,168 when he had appeared in court as witness for the defence. As they went in, his companion was quick to spot Eugène de Rastignac deep in an intimate conversation with Mademoiselle Taillefer, which the two of them found so enthralling that they paid absolutely no attention to the two elderly lodgers as they crossed the dining room.
‘That was bound to happen,’ said Mademoiselle Michonneau to Poiret. ‘After them making eyes at each other fit to burst all week.’
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘So she was found guilty.’
‘Who?’
‘Madame Morin.’
‘I’m talking about Mademoiselle Victorine,’ said Michonneau, walking into Poiret’s room without realizing; ‘and you answer me with Madame Morin. What has she got to do with anything?’
‘So what does Mademoiselle Victorine seem to be guilty of?’ asked Poiret.
‘She is guilty of loving Monsieur Eugène de Rastignac and is falling head over heels, without knowing where it will all end, the poor innocent!’
That morning, Eugène had been driven to despair by Madame de Nucingen. Deep down, he had completely surrendered to Vautrin, while remaining reluctant to probe either the motives behind the friendship this extraordinary man showed him, or the future of such a partnership. It would take a miracle now to pull him out of the abyss into which he had been sinking for an hour, as he exchanged the sweetest promises with Mademoiselle Taillefer. For Victorine, it was as if she was hearing the voice of an angel, the heavens were opening for her, the Maison Vauquer was decked out in the fantastic colours set-designers use for theatrical palaces: she loved, she was loved, or at least she believed she was! And what woman wouldn’t have believed what she did, had she seen Rastignac, had she listened to him for one hour, out of sight of all the Argus eyes169 in the boarding house? As he tussled with his conscience, knowing that he was doing wrong and wanting to do wrong, telling himself that he would redeem this venial sin by making a woman happy, his despair made him more attractive and he glowed with all the fires of hell that burned in his breast. Fortunately for him, the miracle happened: Vautrin came in full of merriment and saw into the souls of the two young people he had wed through the machinations of his diabolical genius, but whose happiness he suddenly clouded by singing in his mocking, booming voice:
‘My Fanchette she is so charming
For she is a simple lass …’
Victorine fled, taking as much joy with her as she had previously born grief in her life. Poor girl! A squeeze of her hand, Rastignac’s hair brushing her cheek, a word spoken so close to her ear that she had felt the heat of the student’s lips, her waist clasped by a trembling arm, a stolen kiss on her neck – these were the pledges of her passion, that the threat of nearby big Sylvie, likely to enter that glorious dining room at any time, made all the more ardent, intense, seductive than the most elaborate expressions of love found in the most famous love stories. These first favours, in the quaint words of our forebears, seem like crimes to a devout young lady who goes to Confession every fortnight! In one hour, she had poured out more of her soul’s treasures than she would in later years, when she surrendered herself completely, rich and happy.
‘It’s in the bag,’ said Vautrin to Eugène. ‘Our two dandies have locked horns. Everything has gone according to plan. A difference of opinion. That pigeon of ours has called out my hawk. Tomorrow, city walls, Clignancourt. At half past eight, while she sits here quietly dipping bread and butter fingers in her coffee, Mademoiselle Taillefer will inherit her father’s love and fortune. Isn’t that the funniest thing? Young Taillefer is an excellent swordsman, he’s as sure of himself as a man with a four-ace hand; but we’ll bleed him with a stroke I invented myself, a trick of tilting up the sword and pinking your man’s forehead. I’ll show you that thrust of mine; it’s damned useful.’
Rastignac listened like a man in a trance, incapable of replying. At this point old man Goriot, Bianchon and some of the other boarders came in.
‘That’s the man I thought you were,’ Vautrin said to him. ‘You know what you’re doing. Good work, little eaglet! You’ll be a ruler of men yet; you’re strong, unswerving, stout of heart: you have my respect.’
Vautrin reached out to take his hand. Rastignac abruptly withdrew his own, turned white and sank onto a chair, with the vision of a pool of blood before him.
‘I see! So we’re still clinging to the virtue-stained rags of our swaddling clothes,’ said Vautrin in a low voice. ‘Papa d’Oliban has three million; I know what he’s worth. The dowry will wash you as white as a bridal gown, even in your own eyes.’
Rastignac made up his mind. He resolved to go and warn Taillefer father and son some time that evening. As Vautrin left, old man Goriot whispered in Eugène’s ear: ‘You look sad, dear child! I have something to cheer you up. Come with me!’ And the old vermicelli dealer lit his wax taper at one of the lamps. Eugène followed him, burning with curiosity.
‘Go into your room,’ said the old fellow, who had asked Sylvie for the student’s key. ‘This morning you thought she didn’t love you, eh!’ he continued. ‘She sent you on your way and you left her feeling angry and desperate. You ninny! She was waiting for me. Do you understand now? We had to go and put the final touches to a gem of an apartment which will be ready for you to live in in three days from now. Don’t let on I told. She wants to surprise you; but I can’t keep it from you any longer. You’ll be in the Rue d’Artois, a stone’s throw from the Rue Saint-Lazare. You’ll live like a prince there. We’ve had it fitted out with furniture worthy of a bride. We’ve done plenty this past month, without saying a word to you. My solicitor has set to work: my daughter will have her thirty-six thousand francs per year, the interest on her dowry, and I’m going to see that her eight hundred thousand francs are invested in good, solid property.’
Eugène remained silent and paced up and down, arms folded, in his shabby, untidy room. Choosing a moment when the student had his back to him, Old
Goriot placed on the mantelpiece a red morocco-leather box on which the Rastignac coat-of-arms was embossed in gold.
‘My dear child,’ said the poor old fellow; ‘I’m in this affair up to my neck. But, you see, I also have a selfish reason to be interested in your change of quarters. You won’t refuse me, now, if I ask you for something?’
‘What is it you want?’
‘Above your apartment, on the fifth floor, is a connecting bedroom. That’s where I’ll stay, if I may? I’m getting old; I live too far from my daughters. I wouldn’t trouble you. I’d just be there. You’d tell me about them every night. You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you? When you come back, I’ll be in bed, I’ll hear you, I’ll say to myself: “He has just seen my little Delphine. He took her to the ball, he has made her happy.” If I were ill, it would gladden my heart to hear you coming in, bustling around, going out. There will be so much of my daughter in you! I’d only be a short step away from the Champs-Elysées; I’d be able to see them drive past every day, where now I sometimes turn up too late. And then perhaps she’ll come and see you! I’ll hear her, I’ll see her wrapped up warm in her morning gown, treading softly as a little cat. This last month, she has become the girl she was before, carefree and blithe. Her soul is on the mend, she owes her happiness to you. Oh! I would give you the earth. When we were on our way back, she said: “Papa, I’m so very happy!” When they stand on ceremony and call me Father, it makes my blood run cold; but when they say Papa, it’s as if I’m seeing my little girls again, all my memories come flooding back. I feel more like their father. I convince myself they still don’t belong to anyone!’ (The poor old fellow wiped his eyes, weeping.) ‘I hadn’t heard her call me that for a long time; it seems an age since she last gave me her arm. Dear me, yes, it’s ten years since I walked beside one of my daughters. How I love to feel her dress brush against me, to walk at her pace, to share her warmth! This morning, I escorted Delphine everywhere. I went into shops with her. And I brought her back home. Oh! Let me stay close to you both. You’ll need someone to help you out from time to time: I’ll be there. Oh, if only that great lump of an Alsatian would die; if his gout had the sense to rise into his stomach, my poor daughter would be happy. You would be my son-in-law, you would become her husband in the eyes of all. Bah! Her ignorance of the pleasures of this world is making her so unhappy that I forgive her everything. The good Lord must be on the side of loving fathers.’
After a pause he said, ‘She’s in love with you all right!’ nodding his head. ‘On the way there, she kept saying: “He’s a good man, Father, isn’t he! He has a kind heart! Does he talk about me?” Why, she hardly stopped for breath once between the Rue d’Artois and the Passage des Panoramas! She poured out her heart into mine. For one whole wonderful morning, I wasn’t old any more, I was as light as a feather. I told her you had given me the thousand-franc note. Oh! The sweet girl, she was moved to tears. Now then, what have you got there on your mantelpiece?’ said old man Goriot finally, dying of impatience, seeing Rastignac standing stock still.
Eugène, stunned, looked at his neighbour with a dazed expression. The duel, announced by Vautrin for the next day, presented such a brutal contrast to the fulfilment of his dearest hopes that he felt as if he was in a nightmare. He turned to face the mantelpiece, noticed the little square box, opened it and inside found a piece of paper tucked around a Bréguet watch. On the piece of paper was written:
‘I want you to think of me every hour of the day, because …
DELPHINE.’
This last word no doubt referred to some scene which had taken place between them. Eugène was moved to tears. His coat-of-arms was enamelled onto the gold inside the watch case. This piece of jewellery, coveted for so long, the chain, the key, the craftsmanship, the design, was everything he could have wished for. Old Goriot was radiant. He had no doubt promised to report back to his daughter every last detail of the surprise her gift would give Eugène, for he was a party to their first flush of feeling and felt no less happy than they did. He already loved Rastignac, for his daughter’s sake, and for his own.
‘You must go and see her this evening; she’ll be waiting for you. That great lump of an Alsatian is dining late with his dancer. Ha ha! What a fool he looked when my solicitor gave him the hard facts. So he claims to worship my daughter? If he lays a finger on her, I’ll kill him. The very idea that my Delphine belongs to …’ (he sighed) ‘… is enough to drive me to crime; but you couldn’t call it homicide – the man is a calf’s head on a pig’s body. You will take me with you, won’t you?’
‘Yes, dear old Goriot, you know how fond I am of you …’
‘I can see that; you’re not ashamed of me, at least! Let me embrace you.’ And he hugged the student tightly. ‘Promise me that you really will make her happy! You’ll go to her this evening, won’t you?’
‘Oh, yes! Although I have to go out and attend to some pressing business.’
‘Might I be able to help?’
‘Why, yes! While I go and see Madame de Nucingen, perhaps you could call on the elder Monsieur Taillefer and ask him to spare me a moment this evening to discuss a matter of the utmost importance.’
‘So it’s true then, young man,’ said old man Goriot, his expression changing, ‘that you’re courting his daughter, as those fools downstairs have been saying? Hell-fire! Have you any idea how hard a Goriot fist can hit? And if you were to deceive us both, it would come to blows. Oh! It’s unthinkable.’
‘I swear to you, there’s only one woman in the world that I love,’ said the student; ‘I only realized it quite recently.’
‘Ah, now you’ve made me happy!’ exclaimed old man Goriot.
‘But’, the student went on, ‘Taillefer’s son is to fight a duel tomorrow, and I’ve heard it said that he’ll be killed.’
‘What is it to you?’ said Goriot.
‘Why, he has to be told to stop his son from going …’ cried Eugène.
At this point, he was interrupted by Vautrin, whose voice was heard at the door of his room, singing:
‘Oh Richard, oh my King!
The whole world has deserted you.170
Broom! broom! broom! broom! broom!
I’ve been a-roving all over the world
And I’ve been seen …
Tra la, la, la, la …’
‘Gentlemen!’ shouted Christophe, ‘the soup is ready and we’re waiting for you; everyone else is sitting down.’
‘Ah, there you are!’ said Vautrin; ‘come up here and bring down a bottle of my Bordeaux.’
‘It’s a handsome watch, isn’t it?’ said old man Goriot. ‘She’s got good taste, eh?’
Vautrin, old Goriot and Rastignac went downstairs at the same time and, as they were all late, found themselves sitting next to each other at the dinner table. Eugène pointedly gave Vautrin the cold shoulder throughout dinner, even though that man, whom Madame Vauquer found so very agreeable, had never been so entertaining. He sparkled with wit and put all his fellow guests in good spirits. His confidence and composure filled Eugène with dismay.
‘Well, you certainly got out of bed on the right side today,’ Madame Vauquer said to him. ‘You’re as happy as a lark.’
‘I’m always happy when I’ve done a good deal.’
‘Deal?’ asked Eugène.
‘Why, yes. I’ve delivered an instalment of goods, which ought to earn me a fine commission. Mademoiselle Michonneau,’ he said, becoming aware of the spinster’s scrutiny; ‘is there something about my face you don’t like for you to turn your beady eye on me like that? Say the word! I’ll change it to please you.
‘Poiret, we won’t fall out over this one, eh?’ he said, out-staring the elderly clerk.
‘Strewth! You could model as a clown and strongman,’ said the young painter to Vautrin.
‘Why not! As long as Mademoiselle Michonneau will pose as the Père-Lachaise Venus,’ replied Vautrin.
‘And Poiret?’ said Bianchon.
&
nbsp; ‘Oh! Poiret will pose as Poiret. He’ll be the god of gardens!’ quipped Vautrin. ‘Deriving from pear …’
‘Rot!’ retorted Bianchon. ‘Leaving you to come between the pear and the cheese.’
‘Now, that’s enough nonsense,’ said Madame Vauquer; ‘you’d be better off opening that bottle of Bordeaux wine of yours which I can see poking its nose out! That would perk us all up, besides being good for the flabbergastation.’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Vautrin, ‘Her Honour is calling us to order. Madame Couture and Mademoiselle Victorine won’t mind our banter; but have some respect for the innocence of old man Goriot. How about a nice bottle-orama of Bordeaux, going by the name of Laffitte and therefore twice as famous, although of course politics doesn’t come into it.171 Come along, cork-brain!’ he said looking at Christophe, who didn’t move. ‘Over here, Christophe! What, can’t you even hear your own name? Bring the fluids, cork-brain!’
‘Here you are, sir,’ said Christophe, presenting the bottle.
After filling Eugène’s glass and that of old man Goriot, he slowly poured himself a few drops which he tasted as his two neighbours were drinking, and then suddenly made a face.
‘Damn! damn! It’s corked. Take it for yourself, Christophe, and go and fetch us some more; on the right, you know where I mean? There are sixteen of us; bring down eight bottles.’
‘Seeing as you’re shelling out,’ said the painter, ‘I’ll pay for a hundred chestnuts.’
‘Ho ho!’
‘Boo!’
‘Prrrr!’
Exclamations shot from all sides like rockets from a Catherine wheel.
‘Go on, Ma Vauquer, two of your champagne,’ Vautrin shouted across to her.
‘Hah, that’s right! Why not ask for the house? Two of your champagne! At twelve francs apiece! I don’t earn enough, indeed I don’t! But if Monsieur Eugène wants to pay for them, I’ll throw in some cassis.’
Old Man Goriot Page 21
