Eugénie Grandet

without a black silk apron. She left the house so rarely that her walking shoes were seldom worn out; indeed, her requirements were very few, she never wanted anything for herself. Sometimes it would occur to Grandet that it was a long while since he had given the last six francs to his wife, and his conscience would prick him a little; and after the vintage, when he sold his wine, he always demanded pin-money for his wife over and above the bargain. These four or five louis out of the pockets of the Dutch or Belgian merchants were Mme. Grandet’s only certain source of yearly income. But although she received her five louis, her husband would often say to her, as if they had had one common purse, “Have you a few sous that you can lend me?” and she, poor woman, glad that it was in her power to do anything for the man whom her confessor always taught her to regard as her lord and master, used to return to him more than one crown out of her little store in the course of the winter. Every month, when Grandet disbursed the five-franc piece which he allowed his daughter for needles, thread, and small expenses of dress, he remarked to his wife (after he had buttoned up his pocket), “And how about you, mother; do you want anything?” And with a mother’s dignity Mme. Grandet would answer, “We will talk about that by-and-by, dear.”

Her magnanimity was entirely lost upon Grandet; he considered that he did very handsomely by his wife. The philosophic mind contemplating the Nanons, the Mme. Grandets, the Eugénies of this life, holds that the Author of the universe is a profound satirist, and who will quarrel with the conclusion of the philosophic mind? After the dinner, when the question of Eugénie’s marriage had been raised for the first time, Nanon went up to M. Grandet’s room to fetch a bottle of black currant cordial, and very nearly lost her footing on the staircase as she came down.

“Great stupid! Are you going to take to tumbling about?” inquired her master.

“It is all along of the step, sir; it gave way. The staircase isn’t safe.”

“She is quite right,” said Mme. Grandet. “You ought to have had it mended long ago. Eugénie all but sprained her foot on it yesterday.”

“Here,” said Grandet, who saw that Nanon looked very pale, “as today is Eugénie’s birthday, and you have nearly fallen downstairs, take a drop of black currant cordial; that will put you right again.”

“I deserve it, too, upon my word,” said Nanon. “Many a one would have broken the bottle in my place; I should have broken my elbow first, holding it up to save it.”

“Poor Nanon!” muttered Grandet, pouring out the black currant cordial for her.

“Did you hurt yourself?” asked Eugénie, looking at her in concern.

“No, I managed to break the fall; I came down on my side.”

“Well,” said Grandet, “as today is Eugénie’s birthday, I will mend your step for you. Somehow you women folk cannot manage to put your foot down in the corner, where it is still solid and safe.”

Grandet took up the candle, left the three women without any other illumination in the room than the bright dancing firelight, and went to the bakehouse, where tools, nails, and odd pieces of wood were kept.

“Do you want any help?” Nanon called to him, when the first blow sounded on the staircase.

“No! no! I am an old hand at it,” answered the cooper.

At this very moment, while Grandet was doing the repairs himself to his worm-eaten staircase, and whistling with all his might as memories of his young days came up in his mind, the three Cruchots knocked at the house door.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, M. Cruchot?” asked Nanon, as she took a look through the small square grating.

“Yes,” answered the magistrate.

Nanon opened the door, and the glow of the firelight shone on the three Cruchots, who were groping in the archway.

“Oh! you have come to help us keep her birthday,” Nanon said, as the scent of flowers reached her.

“Excuse me a moment, gentlemen,” cried Grandet, who recognized the voices of his acquaintances; “I am your very humble servant! There is no pride about me; I am patching up a broken stair here myself.”

“Go on, go on, M. Grandet! The charcoal burner is mayor in his own house,” said the magistrate sententiously. Nobody saw the allusion, and he had his laugh all to himself.

Mme. and Mlle. Grandet rose to greet them. The magistrate took advantage of the darkness to speak to Eugénie.

“Will you permit me, mademoiselle, on the anniversary of your birthday, to wish you a long succession of prosperous years, and may you for long preserve the health with which you are blessed at present.”

He then offered her such a bouquet of flowers as was seldom seen in Saumur; and taking the heiress by both arms, gave her a kiss on either side of the throat, a fervent salute which brought the color into Eugénie’s face. The magistrate was tall and thin, somewhat resembling a rusty nail; this was his notion of paying court.

“Do not disturb yourselves,” said Grandet, coming back into the room. “Fine doings these of yours, M. le Président, on high days and holidays!”

“With mademoiselle beside him, every day would be a holiday for my nephew,” answered the Abbé Cruchot, also armed with a bouquet; and with that the Abbé kissed Eugénie’s hand. As for M. Cruchot, he kissed her unceremoniously on both cheeks, saying, “This sort of thing makes us feel older, eh? A whole year older every twelve months.”

Grandet set down the candle in front of the brass clock on the chimneypiece; whenever a joke amused him he kept on repeating it till it was worn threadbare; he did so now.

“As today is Eugénie’s birthday,” he said, “let us have an illumination.”

He carefully removed the branches from the two sconces, fitted the sockets into either pedestal, took from