Father Goriot HonorĂ© de Balzac (love books to read .TXT) đ
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- Author: Honoré de Balzac
Book online «Father Goriot HonorĂ© de Balzac (love books to read .TXT) đ». Author HonorĂ© de Balzac
âHis daughters, as he calls them, eh? There are a dozen of them.â
âI have never been to more than twoâ âthe two who came here.â
âThere is madame moving overhead; I shall have to go, or she will raise a fine racket. Just keep an eye on the milk, Christophe; donât let the cat get at it.â
Sylvie went up to her mistressâ room.
âSylvie! How is this? Itâs nearly ten oâclock, and you let me sleep like a dormouse! Such a thing has never happened before.â
âItâs the fog; it is that thick, you could cut it with a knife.â
âBut how about breakfast?â
âBah! the boarders are possessed, Iâm sure. They all cleared out before there was a wink of daylight.â
âDo speak properly, Sylvie,â Mme. Vauquer retorted; âsay a blink of daylight.â
âAh, well, madame, whichever you please. Anyhow, you can have breakfast at ten oâclock. La Michonnette and Poiret have neither of them stirred. There are only those two upstairs, and they are sleeping like the logs they are.â
âBut, Sylvie, you put their names together as ifâ ââ
âAs if what?â said Sylvie, bursting into a guffaw. âThe two of them make a pair.â
âIt is a strange thing, isnât it, Sylvie, how M. Vautrin got in last night after Christophe had bolted the door?â
âNot at all, madame. Christophe heard M. Vautrin, and went down and undid the door. And here are you imagining thatâ â?â
âGive me my bodice, and be quick and get breakfast ready. Dish up the rest of the mutton with the potatoes, and you can put the stewed pears on the table, those at five a penny.â
A few moments later Mme. Vauquer came down, just in time to see the cat knock down a plate that covered a bowl of milk, and begin to lap in all haste.
âMistigris!â she cried.
The cat fled, but promptly returned to rub against her ankles.
âOh! yes, you can wheedle, you old hypocrite!â she said. âSylvie! Sylvie!â
âYes, madame; what is it?â
âJust see what the cat has done!â
âIt is all that stupid Christopheâs fault. I told him to stop and lay the table. What has become of him? Donât you worry, madame; Father Goriot shall have it. I will fill it up with water, and he wonât know the difference; he never notices anything, not even what he eats.â
âI wonder where the old heathen can have gone?â said Mme. Vauquer, setting the plates round the table.
âWho knows? He is up to all sorts of tricks.â
âI have overslept myself,â said Mme. Vauquer.
âBut madame looks as fresh as a rose, all the same.â
The door bell rang at that moment, and Vautrin came through the sitting-room, singing loudly:
âââTis the same old story everywhere,
A roving heart and a roving glanceâ ââ âŠ
âOh! Mamma Vauquer! good morning!â he cried at the sight of his hostess, and he put his arm gaily round her waist.
âThere! have doneâ ââ
âââImpertinence!â Say it!â he answered. âCome, say it! Now, isnât that what you really mean? Stop a bit, I will help you to set the table. Ah! I am a nice man, am I not?
âFor the locks of brown and the golden hair
A sighing loverâ ââ âŠ
âOh! I have just seen something so funnyâ â
⊠led by chance.â
âWhat?â asked the widow.
âFather Goriot in the goldsmithâs shop in the Rue Dauphine at half-past eight this morning. They buy old spoons and forks and gold lace there, and Goriot sold a piece of silver plate for a good round sum. It had been twisted out of shape very neatly for a man thatâs not used to the trade.â
âReally? You donât say so?â
âYes. One of my friends is expatriating himself; I had been to see him off on board the Royal Mail steamer, and was coming back here. I waited after that to see what Father Goriot would do; it is a comical affair. He came back to this quarter of the world, to the Rue des GrĂšs, and went into a moneylenderâs house; everybody knows him, Gobseck, a stuck-up rascal, that would make dominoes out of his fatherâs bones, a Turk, a heathen, an old Jew, a Greek; it would be a difficult matter to rob him, for he puts all his coin into the Bank.â
âThen what was Father Goriot doing there?â
âDoing?â said Vautrin. âNothing; he was bent on his own undoing. He is a simpleton, stupid enough to ruin himself by running afterâ ââ
âThere he is!â cried Sylvie.
âChristophe,â cried Father Goriotâs voice, âcome upstairs with me.â
Christophe went up, and shortly afterwards came down again.
âWhere are you going?â Mme. Vauquer asked of her servant.
âOut on an errand for M. Goriot.â
âWhat may that be?â said Vautrin, pouncing on a letter in Christopheâs hand. âMme. la Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud,â he read. âWhere are you going with it?â he added, as he gave the letter back to Christophe.
âTo the Rue du Helder. I have orders to give this into her hands myself.â
âWhat is there inside it?â said Vautrin, holding the letter up to the light. âA banknote? No.â He peered into the envelope. âA receipted account!â he cried. âMy word! âtis a gallant old dotard. Off with you, old chap,â he said, bringing down a hand on Christopheâs head, and spinning the man round like a thimble; âyou will have a famous tip.â
By this time the table was set. Sylvie was boiling the milk, Mme. Vauquer was lighting a
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