“He knew it,” said Rastignac.
Just then Goriot’s eyelids unclosed; it was only a muscular contraction, but the Countess’ sudden start of reviving hope was no less dreadful than the dying eyes.
“Is it possible that he can hear me?” cried the Countess. “No,” she answered herself, and sat down beside the bed. As Mme. de Restaud seemed to wish to sit by her father, Eugène went down to take a little food. The boarders were already assembled.
“Well,” remarked the painter, as he joined them, “it seems that there is to be a deathorama upstairs.”
“Charles, I think you might find something less painful to joke about,” said Eugène.
“So we may not laugh here?” returned the painter. “What harm does it do? Bianchon said that the old man was quite insensible.”
“Well, then,” said the employee from the Museum, “he will die as he has lived.”
“My father is dead!” shrieked the Countess.
The terrible cry brought Sylvie, Rastignac, and Bianchon; Mme. de Restaud had fainted away. When she recovered they carried her downstairs, and put her into the cab that stood waiting at the door. Eugène sent Thérèse with her, and bade the maid take the Countess to Mme. de Nucingen.
Bianchon came down to them.
“Yes, he is dead,” he said.
“Come, sit down to dinner, gentlemen,” said Mme. Vauquer, “or the soup will be cold.”
The two students sat down together.
“What is the next thing to be done?” Eugène asked of Bianchon.
“I have closed his eyes and composed his limbs,” said Bianchon. “When the certificate has been officially registered at the Mayor’s office, we will sew him in his winding sheet and bury him somewhere. What do you think we ought to do?”
“He will not smell at his bread like this any more,” said the painter, mimicking the old man’s little trick.
“Oh, hang it all!” cried the tutor, “let Father Goriot drop, and let us have something else for a change. He is a standing dish, and we have had him with every sauce this hour or more. It is one of the privileges of the good city of Paris that anybody may be born, or live, or die there without attracting any attention whatsoever. Let us profit by the advantages of civilization. There are fifty or sixty deaths every day; if you have a mind to do it, you can sit down at any time and wail over whole hecatombs of dead in Paris. Father Goriot has gone off the hooks, has he? So much the better for him. If you venerate his memory, keep it to yourselves, and let the rest of us feed in peace.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said the widow, “it is all the better for him that he is dead. It looks as though he had had trouble enough, poor soul, while he was alive.”
And this was all the funeral oration delivered over him who had been for Eugène the type and embodiment of Fatherhood.
The fifteen lodgers began to talk as usual. When Bianchon and Eugène had satisfied their hunger, the rattle of spoons and forks, the boisterous conversation, the expressions on the faces that bespoke various degrees of want of feeling, gluttony, or indifference, everything about them made them shiver with loathing. They went out to find a priest to watch that night with the dead. It was necessary to measure their last pious cares by the scanty sum of money that remained. Before nine o’clock that evening the body was laid out on the bare sacking of the bedstead in the desolate room; a lighted candle stood on either side, and the priest watched at the foot. Rastignac made inquiries of this latter as to the expenses of the funeral, and wrote to the Baron de Nucingen and the Comte de Restaud, entreating both gentlemen to authorize their man of business to defray the charges of laying their father-in-law in the grave. He sent Christophe with the letters; then he went to bed, tired out, and slept.
Next day Bianchon and Rastignac were obliged to take the certificate to the registrar themselves, and by twelve o’clock the formalities were completed. Two hours went by, no word came from the Count nor from the Baron; nobody appeared to act for them, and Rastignac had already been obliged to pay the priest. Sylvie asked ten francs for sewing the old man in his winding-sheet and making him ready for the grave, and Eugène and Bianchon calculated that they had scarcely sufficient to pay for the funeral, if nothing was forthcoming from the dead man’s family. So it was the medical student who laid him in a pauper’s coffin, despatched from Bianchon’s hospital, whence he obtained it at a cheaper rate.
“Let us play those wretches a trick,” said he. “Go to the cemetery, buy a grave for five years at Père-Lachaise, and arrange with the Church and the undertaker to have a third-class funeral. If the daughters and their husbands decline to repay you, you can carve this on the headstone—‘Here lies M. Goriot, father of the Comtesse de Restaud and the Baronne de Nucingen, interred at the expense of two students.’ ”
Eugène took part of his friend’s advice, but only after he had gone in person first to M. and Mme. de Nucingen, and then to M. and Mme. de Restaud—a fruitless errand. He went no further than the doorstep in either house. The servants had received strict orders to admit no one.
“Monsieur and Madame can see no visitors. They have just lost their father, and are in deep grief over their loss.”
Eugène’s Parisian experience told him that it was idle to press the point. Something clutched strangely at his heart when he saw that it was impossible to reach Delphine.
“Sell some of your ornaments,” he wrote hastily in
