Old Man Goriot

by Balzac, Honore de

  ‘That cassis of hers clears you out like manna,’172 said the medical student under his breath.

  ‘Do be quiet, Bianchon,’ exclaimed Rastignac. ‘Whenever you mention manna it makes my stomach … Yes, bring out the champagne, I’ll pay for it,’ added the student.

  ‘Sylvie,’ said Madame Vauquer, ‘hand around the biscuits and little cakes.’

  ‘Your little cakes have grown too big,’ said Vautrin; ‘they have beards. But let’s have your biscuits.’

  Before long, the Bordeaux was being passed around; the boarders came to life, their spirits rose twice as high. Raucous laughter was heard, suddenly cut across by a series of mimicked animal calls. When the museum clerk took it into his head to reproduce a Paris street-cry resembling nothing so much as the screeching of a lovesick cat, eight voices simultaneously bawled out the following phrases: ‘Knives to grind!’ – ‘Chi-icky chickweed for your songbirds!’ – ‘Cream horns, ladies, cream horns!’ – ‘China to mend?’ – ‘Oysters, oysters!’ – ‘Beat your wives, beat your clothes!’ – ‘Old braid, hats or coats!’ – ‘Ripe cherry ripe!’ Bianchon brought the house down with his nasal cry of ‘Umbrella seller!’ In no time at all, there was a head-splitting row, with everyone talking at once, a live opera conducted by Vautrin, with one eye on Eugène and old Goriot, who already seemed the worse for wear. Leaning back in their chairs, they watched the unusually raucous proceedings with a serious air, drinking little; both were thinking about what they had to do that evening and yet neither felt able to stand up. Vautrin, following each change in their appearance with sidelong glances, chose the moment when their eyelids were fluttering and starting to close, to lean over and murmur in Rastignac’s ear: ‘A clever boy we might be, but we ain’t cunning enough to outwit our uncle Vautrin, and he’s too fond of you to let you go and do something foolish. Once I’ve set my mind on a thing, only the Almighty is strong enough to stop me. Hah! So we wanted to go and warn old Taillefer, did we, snitch like a schoolboy? The oven’s hot, the flour’s kneaded, the bread’s on the shovel; tomorrow we’ll bite into it and make the crumbs fly over our heads; and we want to stop it going into the oven … ? No, no, we’ll bake it, every bit! If we happen to have a few little pangs of remorse, digestion will soon take care of them. While we’re having forty winks, Colonel Comte Franchessini, with the tip of his sword, will drop Michel Taillefer’s estate into your lap. As her brother’s inheritor, Victorine will receive the tidy sum of fifteen thousand francs per year. I’ve already made my enquiries and I know that her mother’s estate is worth more than three hundred thousand …’

  Eugène heard but could not reply to these words: his tongue was stuck to his palate and he felt overwhelmed by drowsiness; he could only just make out the table and the other boarders’ faces through a bright fog. The rumpus gradually abated and, one by one, the boarders left the room. Then, when only Madame Vauquer, Madame Couture, Mademoiselle Victorine, Vautrin and old Goriot were left, Rastignac, as if in a dream, became aware of Madame Vauquer busily emptying out the dregs of the old bottles to make full new ones.

  ‘Dear me! So wild, so young!’ said the widow.

  This was the last phrase that Eugène managed to take in.

  ‘Only Monsieur Vautrin could have pulled off a stunt like that,’ said Sylvie. ‘Just look at Christophe snoring like a pig.’

  ‘Farewell, Ma,’ said Vautrin. ‘I’m off to the boulevard to admire Monsieur Marty in Wild Mountain, a fine play based on The Loner. I’ll take you, if you like, along with these ladies.’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ said Madame Couture.

  ‘What, neighbour!’ cried Madame Vauquer; ‘you’re turning down the chance to see a play based on The Loner, by Atala de Chateaubriand,173 which we enjoyed reading more than anything, which was so pretty that we cried our eyes out over Elodie under the ly-ums last summer, indeed, a moral work which might be instructive for your young lady?’

  ‘We aren’t allowed to go to the theatre,’ replied Victorine.

  ‘Well, those two are certainly out for the count,’ said Vautrin, comically waggling old Goriot’s and Eugène’s heads. Then, moving the student’s head and setting it down on the chair so he could sleep comfortably, he kissed him warmly on the forehead, singing:

  ‘Sleep, sleep, sweet loves!

  I’ll watch over you for ever.’174

  ‘I hope he’s not ill,’ said Victorine.

  ‘In that case, you should stay and look after him,’ replied Vautrin. ‘That’, he breathed in her ear, ‘is your duty as a good little woman. The young man adores you and you’ll be his sweet wife, that’s my prediction. In the end,’ he continued aloud, ‘they were loved throughout the land, had lots of children and lived happily ever after. That’s the way all love stories end. Come along Ma,’ he said, turning to Madame Vauquer and putting an arm round her; ‘put on your hat, that pretty dress with the flowers and the comtesse’s scarf. Meanwhile Himself will go and find a carriage for you.’ And he left, singing:

  ‘Sun, sun, glorious sun,

  You who ripen all the pumpkins …’

  ‘Dear me! Madame Couture, I swear that man would make me happy if I had to live on the roof. As for him,’ she said, turning towards the vermicelli dealer, ‘that old niggard never thought to take me nowhere. Well, he’s going to come down to earth with a bump, he is! A man of his age losing his faculties, it’s indecent, that’s what it is! Next you’ll be telling me you never lose what you never had. Sylvie, take him up to his room.’

  Sylvie held the old man under his arms, made him walk and threw him fully dressed across his bed like a parcel.

  ‘Poor young man,’ said Madame Couture, parting Eugène’s hair to stop it falling into his eyes; ‘he’s like a young girl, he doesn’t know the meaning of excess.’

  ‘Ah! Let me tell you, in the thirty-one years I’ve run this boarding house,’ said Madame Vauquer, ‘plenty of young men have been through my hands, so to speak; but I’ve never seen one as kind, as genteel as Monsieur Eugène. How handsome he looks, asleep! Put his head on your shoulder, Madame Couture. A-ha! He’s fallen onto Mademoiselle Victorine’s: there’s a god for children. A bit further over and he’d have banged his head on the chair top. They make a fine couple, the two of them.’

  ‘Dear neighbour, do please be quiet,’ cried Madame Couture; ‘you musn’t say such things …’

  ‘Pah!’ retorted Madame Vauquer; ‘he can’t hear. Now Sylvie, come and help me dress. I’m going to wear my long-waisted corset.’

  ‘Very good! Your long-waisted corset, on a full stomach, Madame,’ said Sylvie. ‘No, you’ll have to find someone else to lace you in, I won’t be your murderer. A piece of foolishness like that could cost you your life.’

  ‘I don’t care. I must do Monsieur Vautrin credit.’

  ‘Do you love your heirs that dearly?’

  ‘Come along, Sylvie, stop arguing,’ said the widow as she went out.

  ‘At her age too,’ the cook said to Victorine, gesturing after her mistress.

  Madame Couture and her ward, upon whose shoulder Eugène was fast asleep, were left alone in the dining room. Christophe’s snoring echoed through the silent building, making Eugène’s breathing seem all the more peaceful: he slept with the grace of a child. Glad to be able to permit herself one of those acts of kindness through which a woman gives vent to her feelings, one which allowed her to sense, without guilt, the young man’s heart beating next to her own, Victorine took on a protective, maternal air, which made her look proud. A surge of sensual delight suddenly broke across the thousand emotions swelling her heart, stirred by the pure, youthful heat passing between them.

  ‘Poor, dear girl!’ said Madame Couture, pressing her hand.

  The old lady looked with wonder and affection at that candid and long-suffering face, upon which a halo of happiness had now descended. Victorine resembled one of those naive medieval paintings, whose artist ignores all that is incidental and saves the magic of his brush – th
ose calm, proud strokes – for the face, painted a shade of yellow, but in which the golden rays of heaven seem to be reflected.

  ‘But he can’t have drunk more than two glasses, Mama,’ said Victorine, running her fingers through Eugène’s thick hair.

  ‘Well, if he was truly debauched, Daughter, he’d have held his wine like all the others. His drunkenness does him credit.’

  The sound of a carriage was heard in the street.

  ‘Mama,’ said the young lady, ‘Monsieur Vautrin is coming. Please move Monsieur Eugène over to your side. I don’t want that man to see me like this: he says things that taint the soul and his looks make a woman feel as uncomfortable as if he were undressing her.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Madame Couture, ‘you’re mistaken! Monsieur Vautrin is a decent man, not unlike the late Monsieur Couture: brusque but good, gruff but kind.’

  Vautrin came in softly on cue and looked at the pretty scene made by the young man and woman, caught in the caressing glow of the lamp.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, crossing his arms, ‘here’s a scene that would have inspired some fine pages from the good Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, who wrote Paul et Virginie.175 Youth is a beautiful thing, Madame Couture. Sleep, poor child,’ he said, looking at Eugène; ‘good things sometimes happen while we sleep. Madame,’ he continued, addressing the widow, ‘what draws me to this young man, what moves me, is knowing that his soul is matched in beauty only by his face. Look, isn’t he the picture of a cherub leaning on an angel’s shoulder? Now there’s a man who deserves to be loved! If I were a woman, I’d want to die … (no, that would be foolish) … live for him. Looking at them like this, Madame,’ he murmured in the widow’s ear, leaning in close, ‘I can’t help thinking that God has made them for each other. Providence moves in mysterious ways, plumbs the depths of hearts and minds,’ he said aloud. ‘Seeing you together, children, united by the same purity, by every human feeling, it seems impossible that you should ever be parted in future. God is just. Now,’ he said to the girl, ‘I think I’ve seen your lines of prosperity before. Will you let me look at your hand, Mademoiselle Victorine? I know a bit about palm reading, I’ve often told people’s fortunes. Come along, don’t be afraid. Oh! what do I see here? I swear, as I’m an honest man, that you’ll soon be one of the richest heiresses in Paris. You’ll shower the man you love with happiness. Your father will call for you to be near him. You’ll marry a titled and handsome young man who adores you.’

  At this point, Vautrin’s prophecies were interrupted by the heavy tread of the coquettish widow coming down the stairs.

  ‘Here comes Ma Vauquer, glittering like a star, rolled as tight as a cigar. Aren’t we suffocating, just a little?’ he said, placing his hand at the top of her stays; ‘that’s a well-trussed breast, Ma. If we start crying, there’ll be an explosion, but I’ll pick up the pieces as carefully as any archaeologist.’

  ‘Now there’s a man knows the language of French gallantry!’ hissed the widow in Madame Couture’s ear.

  ‘Farewell, children,’ continued Vautrin, turning towards Eugène and Victorine. ‘You have my blessing,’ he said, laying his hands on their heads. ‘Believe me, Mademoiselle, an honest man’s vows do count; they’re bound to bring good luck, as God hears them.’

  ‘Farewell, dear friend,’ said Madame Vauquer to her lodger. ‘Do you think’, she added in a low voice, ‘that Monsieur Vautrin has intentions towards my person?’

  ‘Ahem, er … !’

  ‘Ah! dearest Mother,’ said Victorine, sighing and looking at her hands, when the two women were alone; ‘if only good Monsieur Vautrin was speaking the truth!’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t take much’, replied the old lady, ‘just for that monster of a brother of yours to fall off his horse.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Goodness, perhaps it’s a sin to wish your enemy ill,’ continued the widow. ‘Well, I’ll do penance for it. In all honesty, I’ll happily put flowers on his grave. The miserable coward! He’s not brave enough to stand up for his mother and he’s cheating you out of your share of her inheritance so he can keep it all for himself. My cousin had a huge fortune. It’s just bad luck for you that her share wasn’t noted in the marriage contract.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear my own happiness if it cost someone else their life,’ said Victorine. ‘And if, to be happy, my brother had to disappear, I’d still rather be here.’

  ‘Lord above, as good Monsieur Vautrin says, and he’s a religious man, as you’ve seen,’ continued Madame Couture. ‘I was pleased to learn he’s not an unbeliever like the others. The way they talk, they seem to have more respect for the devil than for God. Well, who knows which paths Providence will lead us down?’

  With Sylvie’s help, the two women ended up carrying Eugène to his room, where they laid him down on his bed and the cook loosened his clothes to make him comfortable. As they left, when her guardian had her back turned, Victorine placed a kiss on Eugène’s forehead with as much pleasure as this petty theft could bring her. She looked around his room, scooped up the thousand joys of the day in a single thought, so to speak, and made it into a picture that she studied at length before falling asleep the happiest creature in Paris.

  The festivities, which Vautrin had used as a cover to lace Eugène and old man Goriot’s wine, were his downfall. Bianchon, somewhat tipsy, forgot to ask Mademoiselle Michonneau about Cat-o’-Nine-Lives. Had he spoken that name aloud, he would certainly have alerted Vautrin, or, to give him his real name, Jacques Collin, the celebrated convict. Then, being nicknamed the Père-Lachaise Venus made Mademoiselle Michonneau decide to shop the convict, just at the point when, in anticipation of his generosity, she was weighing up whether she might be better off warning him and letting him escape during the night. She had just gone out, Poiret at her side, to meet the famous Chief of the Sûreté, in the Petite Rue Sainte-Anne, still believing herself to be dealing with a senior official by the name of Gondureau. The head of the detective division gave her a charming reception. Once they had settled the final details, Mademoiselle Michonneau asked for the potion she would use to carry out her mission and check for the brand. Judging by the satisfaction with which the great man of the Petite Rue Sainte-Anne reached into the drawer of his desk and took out the phial, Mademoiselle Michonneau guessed that there was more at stake in this raid than the straightforward arrest of a convict. After racking her brains, she began to suspect that the police had been tipped off by certain disclosures made by traitors in the penal colony and hoped to arrive in time to seize substantial sums of money. When she put her hypothesis to the old fox, he started to smile and tried to deflect the spinster’s suspicions.

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ he replied. ‘Collin is the most dangerous sorbonne the thieves have ever had on their side. There’s the long and short of it. Those rascals are well aware of that; he’s their banner, their backer, their Bonaparte, even; they love him, one and all. That fellow will never leave his tronche behind on the Place de Grève.’

  As Mademoiselle Michonneau hadn’t understood, Gondureau explained the two slang words he had used. Sorbonne and tronche are two colourful expressions in the cant of thieves, who, above and ahead of anyone else, have felt the necessity of considering the human head from two angles. The sorbonne is the head of the living man, his counsel, his thought processes. The tronche is a derogatory word intended to express how worthless the head becomes when it is cut off.

  ‘Collin is playing with us,’ he continued. ‘When we come across a man like this, as unbending as a bar of tempered English steel, we have the option of killing him if he takes it into his head to put up the slightest resistance during his arrest. We’re banking on there being a little assault and battery so we can kill Collin tomorrow morning. That way we’ll avoid the trial, the cost of feeding and keeping him in custody and society will be shot of him. Serving writs, subpoena-ing witnesses, remunerating them, the cost of the execution, every legal step taken to rid us of such a rascal costs far
more than the thousand écus that you’ll be given. It saves time. With one swift bayonet thrust in the belly of Cat-o’-Nine-Lives, we prevent a hundred crimes and avoid the spectacle of fifty bad eggs being bribed to hang around the magistrate’s court, as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. There’s good policing for you. As any true philanthropist will tell you, it’s the only way to prevent crime.’

  ‘Why, that’s how to serve your country,’ said Poiret.

  ‘Well, well,’ retorted the chief, ‘you’re talking sense tonight! Yes, of course, we’re serving our country. Which is why the world does us such injustice. We render many a great service to society that goes unrecognized. In the end, a superior man must rise above prejudice and a Christian must bear the misfortunes that follow in the wake of good deeds which fail to conform to received ideas. Paris is Paris, you see. In those three words you have the story of my life. Your humble servant, Mademoiselle, and farewell. Tomorrow I’ll be at the Jardin du Roi with my men. Send Christophe to Monsieur Gondureau’s house in the Rue de Buffon, where you saw me last. Your servant, Monsieur. Should anyone ever steal anything from you, you can rely on me to recover it, I’m at your service.’

  ‘Well,’ said Poiret to Mademoiselle Michonneau, ‘you meet some fools who get in a flap as soon as they hear the word police. That gentleman has a delightful manner and what he wants you to do is as easy as pie.’

  The next day was to rank as one of the most extraordinary days in the history of the Maison Vauquer. Up until then, the most striking event in its peaceful existence had been the meteoric appearance of the fake Comtesse de l’Ambermesnil. But everything else would pale into insignificance next to the peripeteia of that momentous day, which was to become Madame Vauquer’s pet topic of conversation ad infinitum. For a start, Goriot and Eugène de Rastignac slept in until eleven. Madame Vauquer, having returned from the Gaîté176 at midnight, stayed in bed until half past ten. Christophe, having drunk to the last drop the wine Vautrin had given him, overslept, which meant that the déjeuner service was late. Neither Poiret nor Mademoiselle Michonneau complained about the meal being pushed back. As for Victorine and Madame Couture, they slept in. Vautrin went out before eight and came back just as the table was laid up. So no one grumbled when, at around a quarter past eleven, Sylvie and Christophe knocked on everyone’s door to announce that déjeuner was served. While Sylvie and the servant were out of the room, Mademoiselle Michonneau, coming down ahead of the others, poured the liquor into Vautrin’s silver beaker, which held the cream for his coffee and was being warmed up in the bain-marie along with the others. The spinster had counted on this peculiarity of the house to strike her blow. It took a while before the seven lodgers were finally assembled. Eugène, stretching himself, came down last of all, at which point a messenger handed him a letter from Madame de Nucingen. The letter read as follows: