“That currant cordial of hers is as bad as a black draught,” muttered the medical student.
“Shut up, Bianchon,” exclaimed Rastignac; “the very mention of black draught makes me feel—. Yes, champagne, by all means; I will pay for it,” he added.
“Sylvie,” called Mme. Vauquer, “bring in some biscuits, and the little cakes.”
“Those little cakes are mouldy graybeards,” said Vautrin. “But trot out the biscuits.”
The Bordeaux wine circulated; the dinner table became a livelier scene than ever, and the fun grew fast and furious. Imitations of the cries of various animals mingled with the loud laughter; the Museum official having taken it into his head to mimic a catcall rather like the caterwauling of the animal in question, eight voices simultaneously struck up with the following variations:
“Scissors to grind!”
“Chick-weeds for singing bir-ds!”
“Brandy-snaps, ladies!”
“China to mend!”
“Boat ahoy!”
“Sticks to beat your wives or your clothes!”
“Old clo’!”
“Cherries all ripe!”
But the palm was awarded to Bianchon for the nasal accent with which he rendered the cry of “Umbrellas to me-end!”
A few seconds later, and there was a head-splitting racket in the room, a storm of tomfoolery, a sort of cats’ concert, with Vautrin as conductor of the orchestra, the latter keeping an eye the while on Eugène and Father Goriot. The wine seemed to have gone to their heads already. They leaned back in their chairs, looking at the general confusion with an air of gravity, and drank but little; both of them were absorbed in the thought of what lay before them to do that evening, and yet neither of them felt able to rise and go. Vautrin gave a side glance at them from time to time, and watched the change that came over their faces, choosing the moment when their eyes drooped and seemed about to close, to bend over Rastignac and to say in his ear:—
“My little lad, you are not quite shrewd enough to outwit Papa Vautrin yet, and he is too fond of you to let you make a mess of your affairs. When I have made up my mind to do a thing, no one short of Providence can put me off. Aha! we were for going round to warn old Taillefer, telling tales out of school! The oven is hot, the dough is kneaded, the bread is ready for the oven; tomorrow we will eat it up and whisk away the crumbs; and we are not going to spoil the baking? … No, no, it is all as good as done! We may suffer from a few conscientious scruples, but they will be digested along with the bread. While we are having our forty winks, Colonel Count Franchessini will clear the way to Michel Taillefer’s inheritance with the point of his sword. Victorine will come in for her brother’s money, a snug fifteen thousand francs a year. I have made inquiries already, and I know that her late mother’s property amounts to more than three hundred thousand—”
Eugène heard all this, and could not answer a word; his tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth, an irresistible drowsiness was creeping over him. He still saw the table and the faces round it, but it was through a bright mist. Soon the noise began to subside, one by one the boarders went. At last, when their numbers had so dwindled that the party consisted of Mme. Vauquer, Mme. Couture, Mlle. Victorine, Vautrin, and Father Goriot, Rastignac watched as though in a dream how Mme. Vauquer busied herself by collecting the bottles, and drained the remainder of the wine out of each to fill others.
“Oh! how uproarious they are! what a thing it is to be young!” said the widow.
These were the last words that Eugène heard and understood.
“There is no one like M. Vautrin for a bit of fun like this,” said Sylvie. “There, just hark at Christophe, he is snoring like a top.”
“Goodbye, mamma,” said Vautrin; “I am going to a theatre on the boulevard to see M. Marty in Le Mont Sauvage, a fine play taken from Le Solitaire. … If you like, I will take you and these two ladies—”
“Thank you; I must decline,” said Mme. Couture.
“What! my good lady!” cried Mme. Vauquer, “decline to see a play founded on the Le Solitaire, a work by Atala de Chateaubriand? We were so fond of that book that we cried over it like Magdalens under the line-trees last summer, and then it is an improving work that might edify your young lady.”
“We are forbidden to go to the play,” answered Victorine.
“Just look, those two yonder have dropped off where they sit,” said Vautrin, shaking the heads of the two sleepers in a comical way.
He altered the sleeping student’s position, settled his head more comfortably on the back of his chair, kissed him warmly on the forehead, and began to sing:
“Sleep, little darlings;
I watch while you slumber.”
“I am afraid he may be ill,” said Victorine.
“Then stop and take care of him,” returned Vautrin. “ ’Tis your duty as a meek and obedient wife,” he whispered in her ear. “The young fellow worships you, and you will be his little wife—there’s your fortune for you. In short,” he added aloud, “they lived happily ever afterwards, were much looked up to in all the countryside, and had a numerous family. That is how all the romances end.—Now, mamma,” he went on, as he turned to Madame Vauquer and put his arm round her waist, “put on your bonnet, your best flowered silk, and the countess’ scarf, while I go out and call a cab—all my own self.”
And he started out, singing as he went:
“Oh! sun! divine sun!
Ripening the pumpkins every one.”
“My goodness! Well, I’m sure! Mme. Couture, I could live happily in a garret with a man like that.—There, now!” she added, looking round for the old vermicelli maker, “there is that Father Goriot half seas over. He never thought of taking me
