“You have sent some snuff into my eye,” he said to his neighbor, turning a little aside to rub his hand over his face.
“Any one who molests Father Goriot will have henceforward to reckon with me,” said Eugene, looking at the old man’s neighbor; “he is worth all the rest of us put together.—I am not speaking of the ladies,” he added, turning in the direction of Mlle. Taillefer.
Eugene’s remarks produced a sensation, and his tone silenced the dinner-table. Vautrin alone spoke. “If you are going to champion Father Goriot, and set up for his responsible editor into the bargain, you had need be a crack shot and know how to handle the foils,” he said, banteringly.
“So I intend,” said Eugene.
“Then you are taking the field to-day?”
“Perhaps,” Rastignac answered. “But I owe no account of myself to any one, especially as I do not try to find out what other people do of a night.”
Vautrin looked askance at Rastignac.
“If you do not mean to be deceived by the puppets, my boy, you must go behind and see the whole show, and not peep through holes in the curtain. That is enough,” he added, seeing that Eugene was about to fly into a passion. “We can have a little talk whenever you like.”
There was a general feeling of gloom and constraint. Father Goriot was so deeply dejected by the student’s remark that he did not notice the change in the disposition of his fellow-lodgers, nor know that he had met with a champion capable of putting an end to the persecution.
“Then, M. Goriot sitting there is the father of a countess,” said Mme. Vauquer in a low voice.
“And of a baroness,” answered Rastignac.
“That is about all he is capable of,” said Bianchon to Rastignac; “I have taken a look at his head; there is only one bump—the bump of Paternity; he must be an eternal father.”
Eugene was too intent on his thoughts to laugh at Bianchon’s joke. He determined to profit by Mme. de Beauseant’s counsels, and was asking himself how he could obtain the necessary money. He grew grave. The wide savannas of the world stretched before his eyes; all things lay before him, nothing was his. Dinner came to an end, the others went, and he was left in the dining-room.
“So you have seen my daughter?” Goriot spoke tremulously, and the sound of his voice broke in upon Eugene’s dreams. The young man took the elder’s hand, and looked at him with something like kindness in his eyes.
“You are a good and noble man,” he said. “We will have some talk about your daughters by and by.”
He rose without waiting for Goriot’s answer, and went to his room. There he wrote the following letter to his mother:—
“My Dear Mother,—Can you nourish your child from your breast
again? I am in a position to make a rapid fortune, but I want
twelve hundred francs—I must have them at all costs. Say nothing
about this to my father; perhaps he might make objections, and
unless I have the money, I may be led to put an end to myself, and
so escape the clutches of despair. I will tell you everything when
I see you. I will not begin to try to describe my present
situation; it would take volumes to put the whole story clearly
and fully. I have not been gambling, my kind mother, I owe no one
a penny; but if you would preserve the life that you gave me, you
must send me the sum I mention. As a matter of fact, I go to see
the Vicomtesse de Beauseant; she is using her influence for me; I
am obliged to go into society, and I have not a penny to lay out
on clean gloves. I can manage to exist on bread and water, or go
without food, if need be, but I cannot do without the tools with
which they cultivate the vineyards in this country. I must
resolutely make up my mind at once to make my way, or stick in the
mire for the rest of my days. I know that all your hopes are set
on me, and I want to realize them quickly. Sell some of your old
jewelry, my kind mother; I will give you other jewels very soon. I
know enough of our affairs at home to know all that such a
sacrifice means, and you must not think that I would lightly ask
you to make it; I should be a monster if I could. You must think
of my entreaty as a cry forced from me by imperative necessity.
