Old Man Goriot

by Balzac, Honore de

  ‘You’ve killed our father, Nasie!’ said Delphine, showing the old man, unconscious, to her sister, who ran out of the room.

  ‘I’ll willingly forgive her,’ said the old fellow, opening his eyes; ‘she’s in a dreadful mess and it would muddle a stronger head than hers. Console Nasie, be gentle with her, promise your poor dying father that?’ he asked Delphine, squeezing her hand.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter with you?’ she asked, frightened.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ replied her father, ‘it will pass. There’s something pressing against my forehead, a migraine. Poor Nasie, what a future!’

  At this point, the comtesse came back and threw herself at her father’s knees: ‘Forgive me!’ she cried.

  ‘Stop it’, said old man Goriot, ‘or you’ll hurt me even more.’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the comtesse to Rastignac, her eyes misted with tears, ‘my suffering made me unjust. Will you be a brother to me?’ she went on, holding out her hand to him.

  ‘Nasie,’ Delphine said, hugging her, ‘little Nasie, let’s forget all this.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I will always remember!’

  ‘Angels,’ cried old Goriot, ‘you are lifting the fog that covered my eyes, your voices are bringing me back to life. Kiss each other again. Well, Nasie, will this bill of exchange save you?’

  ‘I hope so. Now, Papa, would you be so good as to sign it?’

  ‘Dear, dear, how stupid of me to forget that! But I didn’t feel so good, Nasie; don’t hold it against me. Send someone to let me know that you’re out of trouble. No, I’ll go myself. No, no, I won’t go; I’ll never be able to look your husband in the eye without killing him on the spot. As for carving up your assets, I’ll be there. Go quickly, child, and make that Maxime of yours behave himself.’

  Eugène was dumbfounded.

  ‘Poor Anastasie has always had a violent streak,’ said Madame de Nucingen, ‘but her heart’s in the right place.’

  ‘She only came back for the signature,’ Eugène muttered in Delphine’s ear.

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I wish I didn’t. Don’t trust her,’ he replied, looking heavenwards as if confiding in God the thoughts he dared not speak aloud.

  ‘Yes, she has always been a bit of an actress, and my poor father allows himself to be taken in by her grimacing.’

  ‘How are you, dear old Goriot?’ Rastignac asked the old man.

  ‘I feel sleepy,’ he replied.

  Eugène helped Goriot to lie down. Then, once the old man had fallen asleep holding her hand, his daughter withdrew.

  ‘We’ll meet at the Italiens this evening,’ she said to Eugène, ‘and you’ll tell me how he is. Tomorrow, Monsieur, you’ll be moving. Let me see your lodgings. Oh! how dreadful!’ she said, going in. ‘Why, your room is even worse than my father’s. Eugène, you behaved well. I’d love you even more if it was possible; but, child, if you want to make your fortune, you can’t just throw twelve thousand francs out of the window like that. The Comte de Trailles is a gambler. My sister refuses to see it. He’d have gone in search of his twelve thousand francs wherever it is he always goes to win or lose mountains of gold.’

  A groan brought them back to Goriot’s room; he looked as if he was sleeping, but when the two lovers came nearer, they heard him say: ‘They aren’t happy!’ Whether he was asleep or awake, the intonation of this phrase touched his daughter’s heart so deeply that she approached the pallet on which her father was sleeping and kissed his forehead. He opened his eyes, saying: ‘It’s Delphine!’

  ‘So, how are you feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for you to worry, I’ll get over it. Off you go, children; off you go, enjoy yourselves.’

  Eugène escorted Delphine home, but, concerned by the state in which he had left Goriot, he chose not to dine with her and instead returned to the Maison Vauquer. He found old Goriot up and about, well enough to sit down to dinner. Bianchon had positioned himself so that he could study the old vermicelli dealer’s face carefully. As he watched him pick up his bread and sniff it to work out what flour it was made from, the student, noting the total absence of what you might call conscious design in this gesture, shook his head ominously.

  ‘Come and sit next to me, dear doctor,’ said Eugène.

  Bianchon came over all the more willingly as it brought him closer to the elderly lodger.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Rastignac.

  ‘Unless I’m mistaken, it’s all over for him! Some extraordinary event must have taken place inside him; I’d say he seems to be at risk of suffering an imminent serous apoplexy.206 Although the lower part of his face is relatively peaceful, look how his upper facial features are being pulled up towards his forehead, involuntarily! And then, his eyes have that particular condition which indicates an effusion of serum in the brain. They look as if they’re full of fine dust, wouldn’t you say? I’ll know more tomorrow.’

  ‘Is there no cure?’

  ‘None whatsoever. We might be able to delay his death, if we find a way to provoke a reaction in the extremities, in the legs; but if he still has these symptoms tomorrow evening, the poor old fellow is lost. Do you know what has caused his illness? He must have suffered some violent shock which has sapped his mind.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rastignac, remembering how the two daughters had fought tooth and nail over their father’s heart.

  ‘At least Delphine loves her father,’ Eugène said to himself.

  That evening, at the Italiens, Rastignac chose his words carefully, so as not to cause Madame de Nucingen undue alarm.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she replied, as soon as Eugène began to speak; ‘my father is as strong as a horse. We just shook him a little this morning. Our fortunes are in jeopardy, can you not see the scale of the catastrophe? If my life is still worth living, it’s because your affection has made me impervious to what I once would have considered to be mortal fear. Today, the only fear, the only catastrophe that could strike me, would be to lose the love which has made me feel the joy of being alive. I’m indifferent to everything except that feeling, I care for nothing else in the world. You’re everything to me. My wealth only brings me happiness inasmuch as it allows me to bring you greater pleasure. To my shame, I’m more of a lover than a daughter. Why? I don’t know. My entire life is in you. My father gave me a heart, but you made it beat. Let the whole world judge me, what do I care! As long as you, who aren’t permitted to hate me for the crimes which the strength of my feeling compels me to commit, find me not guilty. Do you think I’m an unnatural daughter? Oh, no, it’s impossible not to love a father as good as ours. Could I have prevented him from seeing the inevitable consequences of our lamentable marriages? Why didn’t he stop them? Shouldn’t he have done our thinking for us? Today, I know, he’s suffering as much as we are; but what can we do about it? Comfort him! We have no comfort to offer him. Our resignation has cost him more pain than the harm our reproaches and complaints would cause him. Some situations in life are bitter through and through.’

  Eugène was struck dumb, stirred to tenderness by this candid outpouring of true feeling. Parisian women may often be artificial, drunk on vanity, self-centred, coquettish, cold, but you can be sure that when they truly love, they sacrifice more feelings in the flames of their passions than other women; they rise above their pettinesses and become sublime. Eugène was struck, too, by the depth and soundness of judgement a woman shows towards her most natural feelings, when a propitious state of mind separates her from them and gives her some distance. Madame de Nucingen was unsettled by Eugène’s prolonged silence.

  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ she asked him.

  ‘I’m still listening to what you’ve just said. Up until now, I thought I loved you more than you loved me.’

  She smiled and steeled herself against the pleasure she felt, so as to keep their conversation within the bounds of propriety. She’d never heard an impassione
d declaration of youthful, sincere love like this before. A few more words and she’d have been unable to contain herself.

  ‘Eugène,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘have you heard what’s happening? The whole of Paris will be at Madame de Beauséant’s tomorrow. The Rochefides and the Marquis d’Ajuda have agreed to keep it to themselves, but the King is going to sign the marriage contract tomorrow and your poor cousin still knows nothing about it. She’ll have no choice but to play the hostess and the marquis won’t be at the ball. No one can talk about anything but this affair.’

  ‘And society finds such infamy amusing and wallows in it! Don’t you see that this will be the death of Madame de Beauséant?’

  ‘No,’ said Delphine, smiling, ‘you don’t know the kind of woman she is. But all Paris will be at her house, and so will I! I owe that pleasure to you.’

  ‘But’, said Rastignac, ‘couldn’t it just be one of those absurd rumours that are always doing the rounds in Paris?’

  ‘We’ll find out the truth of the matter tomorrow.’

  Eugène did not go back to the Maison Vauquer. He was unable to resist the lure of his new rooms. Whereas the night before he had had to leave Delphine at one in the morning, this time it was Delphine who, at around two, left him to go home. The next day he slept late and waited in for Madame de Nucingen, who came to take déjeuner with him at around midday. As eager to enjoy these sweet pleasures as a young man will be, he had almost forgotten old Goriot. The day was one long celebration for him, as he acquainted himself with each and every one of his elegant new belongings. Madame de Nucingen’s presence made everything all the more precious. However, at around four, the two lovers spared a thought for old man Goriot, remembering the happiness he was hoping for on coming to live in this house. Eugène remarked that they’d need to bring the old fellow there as soon as possible, should he be ill, and, leaving Delphine, he went straight to the Maison Vauquer. Neither old Goriot nor Bianchon had come down to dinner.

  ‘Well now,’ the painter said to him; ‘old man Goriot has been wounded in action. Bianchon is tending to him upstairs. The old fellow saw one of his daughters, the Comtesse de Restaurama. Then he decided to go out and took a turn for the worse. Society is about to be deprived of one of its finest ornaments.’

  Rastignac rushed towards the stairs.

  ‘Hey! Monsieur Eugène!’

  ‘Monsieur Eugène! Madame is calling you,’ shouted Sylvie.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said the widow; ‘you and Monsieur Goriot, you were meant to leave on the fifteenth of February. We’re three days past the fifteenth, it’s the eighteenth; you’ll need to pay me another month’s rent, for you and for him, but, if you can vouch for old man Goriot, your word will be enough.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you trust him?’

  ‘Trust! If the old chap lost his marbles and died, his daughters wouldn’t give me a single liard and his worldly possessions wouldn’t even fetch ten francs. This morning he sold the last of his silver, I don’t know why. He was all got up like a young man. God forgive me, I’ll swear he was wearing rouge, he looked younger to me.’

  ‘I’ll vouch for everything,’ said Eugène, with a shiver of dread, sensing a catastrophe.

  He went up to Goriot’s room. The old man was recumbent on his bed and Bianchon was sitting with him.

  ‘Hello, Father,’ said Eugène.

  The old man gave him a gentle smile, turned his glazed eyes towards him and responded, ‘How is she?’

  ‘Well. And you?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Don’t tire him out,’ said Bianchon, leading Eugène into a corner of the room.

  ‘So?’ Rastignac said to him.

  ‘Only a miracle could save him; he’s displaying all the symptoms of serous congestion. We’re applying mustard poultices;207 he can feel them, which is a good sign they’re having some effect.’

  ‘Can we move him?’

  ‘Impossible. He must stay here and avoid any physical exertion or emotional upheaval …’

  ‘Bianchon, dear friend,’ said Eugène, ‘we’ll look after him together.’

  ‘I’ve already called out the senior doctor from the hospital.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’ll be able to tell us more tomorrow evening. He’s promised to come as soon as he’s finished his rounds for the day. Unfortunately, the blessed old chap went and did something rash this morning and is refusing to tell me anything about it. He’s as stubborn as a mule. Whenever I open my mouth, he pretends not to hear and goes to sleep so he won’t have to reply; or if he has his eyes open, he starts groaning. He left first thing and went somewhere in Paris on foot, we don’t know where. He took everything he owned of any value and seems to have been on some fool’s errand that was quite beyond his strength! One of his daughters came to see him.’

  ‘The comtesse?’ asked Eugène. ‘A tall brunette, with bright, deep-set eyes, dainty feet and a slim waist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give me a moment alone with him,’ said Rastignac. ‘I’ll get him to talk; he’ll tell me everything.’

  ‘I’ll go and have my dinner in the meantime. But try not to over-excite him; there’s still a glimmer of hope.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

  ‘They’re going to have such a good time tomorrow,’ said old Goriot to Eugène, as soon as they were on their own. ‘They’re going to a grand ball.’

  ‘So what did you do this morning, Papa, that has made you so poorly this evening that you have to stay in bed?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Has Anastasie been to see you?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered old man Goriot.

  ‘Come, don’t hide anything from me. What did she ask you for this time?’

  ‘Ah!’ he went on, summoning up the strength to speak; ‘she was terribly upset, the poor child! Nasie hasn’t had a sou since that business with the diamonds. She has ordered – especially for the ball – a lamé gown which is bound to suit her down to the ground. Her dressmaker, a nasty piece of work, wouldn’t let her have it on credit and so her maid put down a thousand-franc deposit on the dress. Poor Nasie, to be reduced to that! It broke my heart. But when the maid saw that Nasie had lost Restaud’s trust, she was afraid she would lose her money and made a deal with the dressmaker not to hand over the gown unless the thousand francs were repaid. The ball is tomorrow, the dress is ready. Nasie is in despair. She wanted to borrow my silver to pawn. Her husband wishes her to go to the ball and show all Paris the diamonds she’s rumoured to have sold. Can she now say to that monster: “I owe a thousand francs, will you pay them for me?” No. I understood that perfectly. Her sister Delphine will be there, superbly dressed; Anastasie mustn’t be beneath her younger sister. And she can’t stop crying, my poor daughter! I was so ashamed not to have had the twelve thousand francs yesterday that I’d have given what’s left of my wretched life to make good that wrong. Do you see? I’d been strong enough to take anything, but not having the money was the last straw, it broke my heart. Oh! Why! I didn’t even stop to count to two, to one. I pulled myself together and smartened myself up. I sold my silver and buckles for six hundred francs, then I made over a year’s annuity payments to uncle Gobseck, for a one-off payment of four hundred francs. Pah! I’ll eat bread! That was good enough when I was young, that will do me now. At least my Nasie will have a wonderful evening. She’ll be there in all her finery. I’ve put the thousand-franc note under my pillow. It makes me feel warm to know that here beneath my head I have something that will make poor Nasie happy. She’ll be able to sack that no-good Victoire of hers. What’s the world coming to when servants no longer trust their masters! I’ll be better tomorrow, Nasie is coming at ten. I wouldn’t want them to think I was ill, or they wouldn’t go to the ball: they’d stay and look after me. Tomorrow Nasie will kiss me as she would her child, her caresses will cure me. After all, I’d have spent a thousand francs at the apothecary’s, wouldn’t I? I’d rather give them to my Heal-All,
my Nasie. At least I’ll bring her some solace, in the wretched state she’s in. That will make up for the wrong I did her when I got myself an annuity. She’s at the bottom of the pit and I’m not strong enough any more to pull her out. Oh! I’ll go back into business. I’ll go to Odessa to buy grain. Wheat costs three times as much here as it does there. They may have banned grain imports as natural produce, but the clever lot who made the laws didn’t think to ban by-products made of wheat. Heh heh! … I came up with that one this morning! There are some good moves to be made in the starch trade.’

  ‘He’s mad,’ Eugène said to himself as he looked at the old man. ‘Come, rest now, no more talking …’

  Eugène went down to dinner when Bianchon came back up. Then, throughout the night, they took it in turns to care for the sick man, keeping themselves busy, the one reading his medical books, the other writing to his mother and sisters. The next day, the patient’s symptoms, according to Bianchon, tended towards a favourable prognosis, but required constant treatments that could only be administered by the two students and which it is impossible to describe without offending against the euphemistic phraseology of the day. The leeches fixed on the old man’s wasted body were accompanied by poultices, foot baths and medical procedures that required all the strength and devotion of the two young men. Madame de Restaud didn’t come; she sent a messenger to pick up her money.

  ‘I thought she’d come in person. But perhaps it’s just as well; it would only have upset her,’ said the father, seeming to view this in a positive light.

  Thérèse came at seven in the evening, bringing a letter from Delphine.

  ‘Tell me, what are you doing, my love? Having recently become your beloved, am I to be so soon neglected? When we poured out the secrets of our hearts to one another, you revealed to me a soul of such beauty that you must surely be one of those who are faithful for ever, having seen how many nuances a feeling can have. As you said when you heard Moses’ prayer:208 “For some it’s all on one note, for others it’s the infinity of music!” Don’t forget that I’m expecting you to come and escort me to Madame de Beauséant’s ball this evening. Monsieur d’Ajuda’s contract was finally signed at court this morning and the poor vicomtesse only found out at two. The whole of Paris will flock to her house, like the crowds that swarm into the Place de Grève to watch an execution. How abominable, to go and see whether the woman will manage to hide her grief, whether she’ll manage to die gracefully! I would certainly not go, my love, if I’d already been admitted to her house; but this will probably be the last time she holds a reception and otherwise I’ll have made all this effort for nothing. My situation is quite different from that of other people. Besides, I’m going for you, too. I’ll be waiting for you. If you are not at my side in two hours’ time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you such a betrayal.’