“Sixty thousand francs, or thereabouts,” said the notary.
“That is what I make it! Sixty thousand f—f—francs. Well,” the vinegrower went on without stammering, “two thousand poplars will not bring in fifty thousand francs in forty years. So you lose on them. That I found out,” said Grandet, who was vastly pleased with himself. “Jean,” he continued, turning to the laborer, “fill up all the holes except those along the riverside, where you can plant those poplar saplings that I bought. If you set them along by the Loire, they will grow there finely at the expense of the Government,” he added, and as he looked round at Cruchot the wen on his nose twitched slightly; the most sardonic smile could not have said more.
“Yes, it is clear enough, poplars should only be planted in poor soil,” said Cruchot, quite overcome with amazement at Grandet’s astuteness.
“Y—e—s, sir,” said the cooper ironically.
Eugénie was looking out over the glorious landscape and along the Loire, without heeding her father’s arithmetic; but Cruchot’s talk with his client took another turn, and her attention was suddenly aroused.
“So you have a son-in-law come from Paris; they are talking about nothing but your nephew in all Saumur. I shall soon have settlements to draw up; eh, père Grandet?”
“Did you come out early to t—t—tell me that?” inquired Grandet, and again the wen twitched. “Very well, you are an old crony of mine; I will be p—plain with you, and t—t—tell you what you w—want to know. I would rather fling my d—d—daughter into the Loire, look you, than g—give her to her cousin. You can give that out. But, no; l—l—let people gossip.”
Everything swam before Eugénie’s eyes. Her vague hopes of distant happiness had suddenly taken definite shape, had sprung up and blossomed, and then her harvest of flowers had been as suddenly cut down and lay on the earth. Since yesterday she had woven the bonds of happiness that unite two souls, and henceforward sorrow, it seemed, was to strengthen them. Is it not written in the noble destiny of woman that the grandeur of sorrow should touch her more closely than all the pomp and splendor of fortune?
How came it that a father’s feelings had been extinguished (as it seemed) in her father’s heart? What crime could be laid at Charles’ door? Mysterious questions! Mysterious and sad forebodings already surrounded her growing love, that mystery within her soul. When they turned to go home again, she trembled in every limb; and as they went up the shady street, along which she had lately gone so joyously, the shadows looked gloomy, the air she breathed seemed full of the melancholy of autumn, everything about her was sad. Love, that had brought these keener perceptions, was quick to interpret every boding sign. As they neared home, she walked on ahead of her father, knocked at the house door, and stood waiting beside it. But Grandet, seeing that the notary carried a newspaper still in its wrapper, asked, “How are consols?”
“I know you will not take my advice, Grandet,” Cruchot replied. “You should buy at once; the chance of making twenty percent on them in two years is still open to you, and they pay a very fair rate of interest besides, five thousand livres is not a bad return on eighty thousand francs. You can buy now at eighty francs fifty centimes.”
“We shall see,” remarked Grandet pensively, rubbing his chin.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the notary, who by this time had unfolded his newspaper.
“Well, what is it?” cried Grandet as Cruchot put the paper in his hands and said—
“Read that paragraph.”
“M. Grandet, one of the most highly respected merchants in Paris, shot himself through the head yesterday afternoon, after putting in an appearance on ’Change as usual. He had previously sent in his resignation to the President of the Chamber of Deputies, resigning his position as Judge of the Tribunal of Commerce at the same time. His affairs had become involved through the failures of his stockbroker and notary, MM. Roguin and Souchet. M. Grandet, whose character was very greatly esteemed, and whose credit stood high, would no doubt have found temporary assistance on the market which would have enabled him to tide over his difficulties. It is to be regretted that a man of such high character should have given way to the first impulse of despair”—and so forth, and so forth.
“I knew it,” the old vinegrower said.
Phlegmatic though Cruchot was, he felt a horrible shudder run through him at the words; perhaps Grandet of Paris had stretched imploring hands in vain to the millions of Grandet of Saumur; the blood ran cold in his veins.
“And his son?” he asked presently; “he was in such spirits yesterday evening.”
“His son knows nothing as yet,” Grandet answered, imperturbable as ever.
“Good morning, M. Grandet,” said Cruchot. He understood the position now, and went to reassure the President de Bonfons.
Grandet found breakfast ready. Mme. Grandet was already seated in her chair, mounted on the wooden blocks, and was knitting woolen cuffs for the winter. Eugénie ran to her mother and put her arms about her, with the eager hunger for affection that comes of a hidden trouble.
“You can get your breakfast,” said Nanon, bustling downstairs in a hurry; “he is sleeping like a cherub. He looks so nice with his eyes shut! I went in and called him, but it was all one, he never heard me.”
“Let him sleep,” said Grandet; “he will wake soon enough to hear bad news, in any case.”
“What is the matter?” asked Eugénie. She was putting into her cup the two smallest lumps of sugar, weighing goodness knows how many grains; her worthy parent was wont to amuse himself by cutting up sugar whenever he had nothing better to do.
Mme. Grandet, who had not dared to put the question herself, looked at her husband.
“His father
