The Abbé Cruchot was a fat, dumpy little man with a well-worn, sandy peruke. His peculiar type of face might have belonged to some old lady whose life is spent at the card table. At this moment he was stretching out his feet and displaying a very neat and strong pair of shoes with silver buckles on them,
“The des Grassins have not come round?” he asked.
“Not yet,” answered Grandet.
“Are they sure to come?” put in the old notary, with various contortions of a countenance as full of holes as a colander.
“Oh! yes, I think they will come,” said Mme. Grandet.
“Is the vintage over?” asked President de Bonfons, addressing Grandet, “are all your grapes gathered?”
“Yes, everywhere!” answered the old vinegrower, rising and walking up and down the length of the room; he straightened himself up as he spoke with a conscious pride that appeared in that word “everywhere.”
As he passed by the door that opened into the passage, Grandet caught a glimpse of the kitchen; the fire was still alight, a candle was burning there, and big Nanon was about to begin her spinning by the hearth; she did not wish to intrude upon the birthday party.
“Nanon!” he called, stepping out into the passage, “Nanon! why ever don’t you rake out the fire; put out the candle and come in here! Pardieu! the room is large enough to hold us all.”
“But you are expecting grand visitors, sir.”
“Have you any objection to them? They are all descended from Adam just as much as you are.”
Grandet went back to the president.
“Have you sold your wine?” he inquired.
“Not I; I am holding it. If the wine is good now, it will be better still in two years’ time. The growers, as you know, of course, are in a ring, and mean to keep prices up. The Belgians shall not have it all their own way this year. And if they go away, well and good, let them go; they will come back again.”
“Yes; but we must hold firm,” said Grandet in a tone that made the magistrate shudder.
“Suppose he should sell his wine behind our backs?” he thought.
At that moment another knock at the door announced the des Grassins, and interrupted a quiet talk between Mme. Grandet and the Abbé Cruchot.
Mme. des Grassins was a dumpy, lively, little person with a pink-and-white complexion, one of those women for whom the course of life in a country town has flowed on with almost claustral tranquillity, and who, thanks to this regular and virtuous existence, are still youthful at the age of forty. They are something like the late roses in autumn, which are fair and pleasant to the sight, but the almost scentless petals have a pinched look, there is a vague suggestion of coming winter about them. She dressed tolerably well, her gowns came from Paris, she was a leader of society in Saumur, and received on certain evenings. Her husband had been a quartermaster in the Imperial Guard, but he had retired from the army with a pension, after being badly wounded at Austerlitz. In spite of his consideration for Grandet, he still retained, or affected to retain, the bluff manners of a soldier.
“Good day, Grandet,” he said, holding out his hand to the cooper with that wonted air of superiority with which he eclipsed the Cruchot faction. “Mademoiselle,” he added, addressing Eugénie, after a bow to Mme. Grandet, “you are always charming, ever good and fair, and what more can one wish you?”
With that he presented her with a small box, which a servant was carrying, and which contained a Cape heath, a plant only recently introduced into Europe, and very rare.
Mme. des Grassins embraced Eugénie very affectionately, squeezed her hand, and said, “I have commissioned Adolphe to give you my little birthday gift.”
A tall, fair-haired young man, somewhat pallid and weakly in appearance, came forward at this; his manners were passably good, although he seemed to be shy. He had just completed his law studies in Paris, where he had managed to spend eight or ten thousand francs over and above his allowance. He now kissed Eugénie on both cheeks, and laid a workbox with gilded silver fittings before her; it was a showy, trumpery thing enough, in spite of the little shield on the lid, on which an E. G. had been engraved in Gothic characters, a detail which gave an imposing air to the whole. Eugénie raised the lid with a little thrill of pleasure, the happiness was as complete as it was unlooked for—the happiness that brings bright color into a young girl’s face and makes her tremble with delight. Her eyes turned to her father as if to ask whether she might accept the gift; M. Grandet answered the mute inquiry with a “Take it, my daughter!” in tones which would have made the reputation of an actor. The three Cruchots stood dumbfounded when they saw the bright, delighted glance that Adolphe des Grassins received from the heiress, who seemed to be dazzled by such undreamed-of splendors.
M. des Grassins offered his snuffbox to Grandet, took a pinch himself, brushed off a few stray specks from his blue coat and from the ribbon of the Legion of Honor at his buttonhole, and looked at the Cruchots, as who should say, “Parry that thrust if you can!” Mme. des Grassins’ eyes fell on the blue glass jars in which the Cruchots’ bouquets had been set. She looked at their gifts with the innocent air of pretended interest which a satirical woman knows how to assume upon occasion. It was a delicate crisis. The Abbé got up and left the others, who were forming a circle round the fire, and
