Father Goriot HonorĂ© de Balzac (love books to read .TXT) đ
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- Author: Honoré de Balzac
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âPeste! what a man!â said Rastignac, as he watched Goriotâs muscular arms; there was not a sound in the room while the old man, with the aid of the rope, was kneading the silver like dough. âWas he then, indeed, a thief, or a receiver of stolen goods, who affected imbecility and decrepitude, and lived like a beggar that he might carry on his pursuits the more securely?â EugĂšne stood for a moment revolving these questions, then he looked again through the keyhole.
Father Goriot had unwound his coil of rope; he had covered the table with a blanket, and was now employed in rolling the flattened mass of silver into a bar, an operation which he performed with marvelous dexterity.
âWhy, he must be as strong as Augustus, King of Poland!â said EugĂšne to himself when the bar was nearly finished.
Father Goriot looked sadly at his handiwork, tears fell from his eyes, he blew out the dip which had served him for a light while he manipulated the silver, and EugĂšne heard him sigh as he lay down again.
âHe is mad,â thought the student.
âPoor child!â Father Goriot said aloud. Rastignac, hearing those words, concluded to keep silence; he would not hastily condemn his neighbor. He was just in the doorway of his room when a strange sound from the staircase below reached his ears; it might have been made by two men coming up in list slippers. EugĂšne listened; two men there certainly were, he could hear their breathing. Yet there had been no sound of opening the street door, no footsteps in the passage. Suddenly, too, he saw a faint gleam of light on the second story; it came from M. Vautrinâs room.
âThere are a good many mysteries here for a lodging-house!â he said to himself.
He went part of the way downstairs and listened again. The rattle of gold reached his ears. In another moment the light was put out, and again he distinctly heard the breathing of two men, but no sound of a door being opened or shut. The two men went downstairs, the faint sounds growing fainter as they went.
âWho is there?â cried Mme. Vauquer out of her bedroom window.
âI, Mme. Vauquer,â answered Vautrinâs deep bass voice. âI am coming in.â
âThat is odd! Christophe drew the bolts,â said EugĂšne, going back to his room. âYou have to sit up at night, it seems, if you really mean to know all that is going on about you in Paris.â
These incidents turned his thought from his ambitious dreams; he betook himself to his work, but his thought wandered back to Father Goriotâs suspicious occupation; Mme. de Restaudâs face swam again and again before his eyes like a vision of a brilliant future; and at last he lay down and slept with clenched fists. When a young man makes up his mind that he will work all night, the chances are that seven times out of ten he will sleep till morning. Such vigils do not begin before we are turned twenty.
The next morning Paris was wrapped in one of the dense fogs that throw the most punctual people out in their calculations as to the time; even the most businesslike folk fail to keep their appointments in such weather, and ordinary mortals wake up at noon and fancy it is eight oâclock. On this morning it was half-past nine, and Mme. Vauquer still lay abed. Christophe was late, Sylvie was late, but the two sat comfortably taking their coffee as usual. It was Sylvieâs custom to take the cream off the milk destined for the boardersâ breakfast for her own, and to boil the remainder for some time, so that madame should not discover this illegal exaction.
âSylvie,â said Christophe, as he dipped a piece of toast into the coffee, âM. Vautrin, who is not such a bad sort, all the same, had two people come to see him again last night. If madame says anything, mind you say nothing about it.â
âHas he given you something?â
âHe gave me a five-franc piece this month, which is as good as saying, âHold your tongue.âââ
âExcept him and Mme. Couture, who doesnât look twice at every penny, thereâs no one in the house that doesnât try to get back with the left hand all that they give with the right at New Year,â said Sylvie.
âAnd, after all,â said Christophe, âwhat do they give you? A miserable five-franc piece. There is Father Goriot, who has cleaned his shoes himself these two years past. There is that old beggar Poiret, who goes without blacking altogether; he would sooner drink it than put it on his boots. Then there is that whippersnapper of a student, who gives me a couple of francs. Two francs will not pay for my brushes, and he sells his old clothes, and gets more for them than they are worth. Oh! theyâre a shabby lot!â
âPooh!â said Sylvie, sipping her coffee, âour places are the best in the Quarter, that I know. But about that great big chap Vautrin, Christophe; has anyone told you anything about him?â
âYes. I met a gentleman in the street a few days ago; he said to me, âThereâs a gentleman in your place, isnât there? a tall man that dyes his whiskers?â I told him, âNo, sir; they arenât dyed. A gay fellow like him hasnât the time to do it.â And when I told M. Vautrin about it afterwards, he said, âQuite right, my boy. That is the way to answer them. There is nothing more unpleasant than to have your little weaknesses known; it might spoil many a match.âââ
âWell, and for my part,â said Sylvie, âa man tried to humbug me at the market wanting to know if I had seen him put on his shirt. Such bosh! There,â she cried, interrupting herself, âthatâs a quarter to ten striking at the Val-de-GrĂące, and not a soul stirring!â
âPooh! they are all gone out. Mme. Couture and
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