“You must go and see her; she is expecting you this evening. That great lout of an Alsatian is going to have supper with his opera-dancer. Aha! he looked very foolish when my attorney let him know where he was. He says he idolizes my daughter, does he? He had better let her alone, or I will kill him. To think that my Delphine is his”—he heaved a sigh—“it is enough to make me murder him, but it would not be manslaughter to kill that animal; he is a pig with a calf’s brains.—You will take me with you, will you not?”
“Yes, dear Father Goriot; you know very well how fond I am of you—”
“Yes, I do know very well. You are not ashamed of me, are you? Not you! Let me embrace you,” and he flung his arms around the student’s neck.
“You will make her very happy; promise me that you will! You will go to her this evening, will you not?”
“Oh! yes. I must go out; I have some urgent business on hand.”
“Can I be of any use?”
“My word, yes! Will you go to old Taillefer’s while I go to Mme. de Nucingen? Ask him to make an appointment with me some time this evening; it is a matter of life and death.”
“Really, young man!” cried Father Goriot, with a change of countenance; “are you really paying court to his daughter, as those simpletons were saying down below? … Tonnerre de dieu! you have no notion what a tap à la Goriot is like, and if you are playing a double game, I shall put a stop to it by one blow of the fist … Oh! the thing is impossible!”
“I swear to you that I love but one woman in the world,” said the student. “I only knew it a moment ago.”
“Oh! what happiness!” cried Goriot.
“But young Taillefer has been called out; the duel comes off tomorrow morning, and I have heard it said that he may lose his life in it.”
“But what business is it of yours?” said Goriot.
“Why, I ought to tell him so, that he may prevent his son from putting in an appearance—”
Just at that moment Vautrin’s voice broke in upon them; he was standing at the threshold of his door and singing:
“Oh! Richard, oh my king!
All the world abandons thee!
Broum! broum! broum! broum! broum!The same old story everywhere,
A roving heart and a … tra la la.”
“Gentlemen!” shouted Christophe, “the soup is ready, and everyone is waiting for you.”
“Here,” Vautrin called down to him, “come and take a bottle of my Bordeaux.”
“Do you think your watch is pretty?” asked Goriot. “She has good taste, hasn’t she? Eh?”
Vautrin, Father Goriot, and Rastignac came downstairs in company, and, all three of them being late, were obliged to sit together.
Eugène was as distant as possible in his manner to Vautrin during dinner; but the other, so charming in Mme. Vauquer’s opinion, had never been so witty. His lively sallies and sparkling talk put the whole table in good humor. His assurance and coolness filled Eugène with consternation.
“Why, what has come to you today?” inquired Mme. Vauquer. “You are as merry as a skylark.”
“I am always in spirits after I have made a good bargain.”
“Bargain?” said Eugène.
“Well, yes, bargain. I have just delivered a lot of goods, and I shall be paid a handsome commission on them—Mlle. Michonneau,” he went on, seeing that the elderly spinster was scrutinizing him intently, “have you any objection to some feature in my face, that you are making those lynx eyes at me? Just let me know, and I will have it changed to oblige you … We shall not fall out about it, Poiret, I dare say?” he added, winking at the superannuated clerk.
“Bless my soul, you ought to stand as model for a burlesque Hercules,” said the young painter.
“I will, upon my word! if Mlle. Michonneau will consent to sit as the Venus of Père-Lachaise,” replied Vautrin.
“There’s Poiret,” suggested Bianchon.
“Oh! Poiret shall pose as Poiret. He can be a garden god!” cried Vautrin; “his name means a pear—”
“A sleepy pear!” Bianchon put in. “You will come in between the pear and the cheese.”
“What stuff are you all talking!” said Mme. Vauquer; “you would do better to treat us to your Bordeaux; I see a glimpse of a bottle there. It would keep us all in a good humor, and it is good for the stomach besides.”
“Gentlemen,” said Vautrin, “the Lady President calls us to order. Mme. Couture and Mlle. Victorine will take your jokes in good part, but respect the innocence of the aged Goriot. I propose a glass or two of Bordeauxrama, rendered twice illustrious by the name of Laffite, no political allusions intended.—Come, you Turk!” he added, looking at Christophe, who did not offer to stir. “Christophe! Here! What, you don’t answer to your own name? Bring us some liquor, Turk!”
“Here it is, sir,” said Christophe, holding out the bottle.
Vautrin filled Eugène’s glass and Goriot’s likewise, then he deliberately poured out a few drops into his own glass, and sipped it while his two neighbors drank their wine. All at once he made a grimace.
“Corked!” he cried. “The devil! You can drink the rest of this, Christophe, and go and find another bottle; take from the right-hand side, you know. There are sixteen of us; take down eight bottles.”
“If you are going to stand treat,” said the painter, “I will pay for a hundred chestnuts.”
“Oh! oh!”
“Booououh!”
“Prrr!”
These exclamations came from all parts of the table like squibs from a set firework.
“Come, now, Mama Vauquer, a couple of bottles of champagne,” called Vautrin.
“Quien! just like you! Why not ask for the whole house at once. A couple of bottles of champagne; that means twelve francs! I shall never see the money
