Father Goriot HonorĂ© de Balzac (love books to read .TXT) đ
- Author: Honoré de Balzac
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âI will go with you, Victorine,â said Mme. Couture, and the two women hurried away at once without either hats or shawls. But before she went, Victorine, with her eyes full of tears, gave EugĂšne a glance that saidâ ââHow little I thought that our happiness should cost me tears!â
âDear me, you are a prophet, M. Vautrin,â said Mme. Vauquer.
âI am all sorts of things,â said Vautrin.
âQueer, isnât it?â said Mme. Vauquer, stringing together a succession of commonplaces suited to the occasion. âDeath takes us off without asking us about it. The young often go before the old. It is a lucky thing for us women that we are not liable to fight duels, but we have other complaints that men donât suffer from. We bear children, and it takes a long time to get over it. What a windfall for Victorine! Her father will have to acknowledge her now!â
âThere!â said Vautrin, looking at EugĂšne, âyesterday she had not a penny; this morning she has several millions to her fortune.â
âI say, M. EugĂšne!â cried Mme. Vauquer, âyou have landed on your feet!â
At this exclamation, Father Goriot looked at the student, and saw the crumpled letter still in his hand.
âYou have not read it through! What does this mean? Are you going to be like the rest of them?â he asked.
âMadame, I shall never marry Mlle. Victorine,â said EugĂšne, turning to Mme. Vauquer with an expression of terror and loathing that surprised the onlookers at this scene.
Father Goriot caught the studentâs hand and grasped it warmly. He could have kissed it.
âOh, ho!â said Vautrin, âthe Italians have a good proverbâ âCol tempo.â
âIs there any answer?â said Mme. de Nucingenâs messenger, addressing EugĂšne.
âSay that I will come directly.â
The man went. EugĂšne was in a state of such violent excitement that he could not be prudent.
âWhat is to be done?â he exclaimed aloud. âThere are no proofs!â
Vautrin began to smile. Though the drug he had taken was doing its work, the convict was so vigorous that he rose to his feet, gave Rastignac a look, and said in hollow tones, âLuck comes to us while we sleep, young man,â and fell stiff and stark, as if he were struck dead.
âSo there is a Divine Justice!â said EugĂšne.
âWell, if ever! What has come to that poor dear M. Vautrin?â
âA stroke!â cried Mlle. Michonneau.
âHere, Sylvie! girl, run for the doctor,â called the widow. âOh, M. Rastignac, just go for M. Bianchon, and be as quick as you can; Sylvie might not be in time to catch our doctor, M. Grimprel.â
Rastignac was glad of an excuse to leave that den of horrors, his hurry for the doctor was nothing but a flight.
âHere, Christophe, go round to the chemistâs and ask for something thatâs good for the apoplexy.â
Christophe likewise went.
âFather Goriot, just help us to get him upstairs.â
Vautrin was taken up among them, carried carefully up the narrow staircase, and laid upon his bed.
âI can do no good here, so I shall go to see my daughter,â said M. Goriot.
âSelfish old thing!â cried Mme. Vauquer. âYes, go; I wish you may die like a dog.â
âJust go and see if you can find some ether,â said Mlle. Michonneau to Mme. Vauquer; the former, with some help from Poiret, had unfastened the sick manâs clothes.
Mme. Vauquer went down to her room, and left Mlle. Michonneau mistress of the situation.
âNow! just pull down his shirt and turn him over, quick! You might be of some use in sparing my modesty,â she said to Poiret, âinstead of standing there like a stock.â
Vautrin was turned over; Mlle. Michonneau gave his shoulder a sharp slap, and the two portentous letters appeared, white against the red.
âThere, you have earned your three thousand francs very easily,â exclaimed Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mlle. Michonneau slipped on the shirt again.â ââOuf! How heavy he is,â he added, as he laid the convict down.
âHush! Suppose there is a strongbox here!â said the old maid briskly; her glances seemed to pierce the walls, she scrutinized every article of the furniture with greedy eyes. âCould we find some excuse for opening that desk?â
âIt mightnât be quite right,â responded Poiret to this.
âWhere is the harm? It is money stolen from all sorts of people, so it doesnât belong to anyone now. But we havenât time, there is the Vauquer.â
âHere is the ether,â said that lady. âI must say that this is an eventful day. Lord! that man canât have had a stroke; he is as white as curds.â
âWhite as curds?â echoed Poiret.
âAnd his pulse is steady,â said the widow, laying her hand on his breast.
âSteady?â said the astonished Poiret.
âHe is all right.â
âDo you think so?â asked Poiret.
âLord! Yes, he looks as if he were sleeping. Sylvie has gone for a doctor. I say, Mlle. Michonneau, he is sniffing the ether. Pooh! it is only a spasm. His pulse is good. He is as strong as a Turk. Just look, mademoiselle, what a fur tippet he has on his chest; that is the sort of man to live till he is a hundred. His wig holds on tightly, however. Dear me! it is glued on, and his own hair is red; that is why he wears a wig. They say that red-haired people are either the worst or the best. Is he one of the good ones, I wonder?â
âGood to hang,â said Poiret.
âRound a pretty womanâs neck, you mean,â said Mlle. Michonneau, hastily. âJust go away, M. Poiret. It is a womanâs duty to nurse you men when you are ill. Besides, for all the good you are doing, you may as well take yourself off,â she added. âMme. Vauquer and I will take great care of dear M. Vautrin.â
Poiret went out on tiptoe without a murmur, like a dog kicked out of the room by his master.
Rastignac had gone out for the sake of physical exertion; he wanted to breathe the air, he felt stifled. Yesterday evening he had meant to prevent
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