“Sir!” cried Eugene.
“Well, what then, you big baby!” said Vautrin, swallowing down his coffee imperturbably, an operation which Mlle. Michonneau watched with such close attention that she had no emotion to spare for the amazing news that had struck the others dumb with amazement. “Are there not duels every morning in Paris?” added Vautrin.
“I will go with you, Victorine,” said Mme. Couture, and the two women hurried away at once without either hats or shawls. But before she went, Victorine, with her eyes full of tears, gave Eugene a glance that said—“How little I thought that our happiness should cost me tears!”
“Dear me, you are a prophet, M. Vautrin,” said Mme. Vauquer.
“I am all sorts of things,” said Vautrin.
“Queer, isn’t it?” said Mme. Vauquer, stringing together a succession of commonplaces suited to the occasion. “Death takes us off without asking us about it. The young often go before the old. It is a lucky thing for us women that we are not liable to fight duels, but we have other complaints that men don’t suffer from. We bear children, and it takes a long time to get over it. What a windfall for Victorine! Her father will have to acknowledge her now!”
“There!” said Vautrin, looking at Eugene, “yesterday she had not a penny; this morning she has several millions to her fortune.”
“I say, M. Eugene!” cried Mme. Vauquer, “you have landed on your feet!”
At this exclamation, Father Goriot looked at the student, and saw the crumpled letter still in his hand.
“You have not read it through! What does this mean? Are you going to be like the rest of them?” he asked.
“Madame, I shall never marry Mlle. Victorine,” said Eugene, turning to Mme. Vauquer with an expression of terror and loathing that surprised the onlookers at this scene.
Father Goriot caught the student’s hand and grasped it warmly. He could have kissed it.
“Oh, ho!” said Vautrin, “the Italians have a good proverb—Col tempo.”
“Is there any answer?” said Mme. de Nucingen’s messenger, addressing Eugene.
“Say that I will come directly.”
The man went. Eugene was in a state of such violent excitement that he could not be prudent.
“What is to be done?” he exclaimed aloud. “There are no proofs!”
Vautrin began to smile. Though the drug he had taken was doing its work, the convict was so vigorous that he rose to his feet, gave Rastignac a look, and said in hollow tones, “Luck comes to us while we sleep, young man,” and fell stiff and stark, as if he were struck dead.
“So there is a Divine Justice!” said Eugene.
“Well, if ever! What has come to that poor dear M. Vautrin?”
“A stroke!” cried Mlle. Michonneau.
“Here, Sylvie! girl, run for the doctor,” called the widow. “Oh, M. Rastignac, just go for M. Bianchon, and be as quick as you can; Sylvie might not be in time to catch our doctor, M. Grimprel.”
Rastignac was glad of an excuse to leave that den of horrors, his hurry for the doctor was nothing but a flight.
“Here, Christophe, go round to the chemist’s and ask for something that’s good for the apoplexy.”
Christophe likewise went.
“Father Goriot, just help us to get him upstairs.”
Vautrin was taken up among them, carried carefully up the narrow staircase, and laid upon his bed.
“I can do no good here, so I shall go to see my daughter,” said M. Goriot.
“Selfish old thing!” cried Mme. Vauquer. “Yes, go; I wish you may die like a dog.”
“Just go and see if you can find some ether,” said Mlle. Michonneau to Mme. Vauquer; the former, with some help from Poiret, had unfastened the sick man’s clothes.
Mme. Vauquer went down to her room, and left Mlle. Michonneau mistress of the situation.
“Now! just pull down his shirt and turn him over, quick! You might be of some use in sparing my modesty,” she said to Poiret, “instead of standing there like a stock.”
Vautrin was turned over; Mlle. Michonneau gave his shoulder a sharp slap, and the two portentous letters appeared, white against the red.
“There, you have earned your three thousand francs very easily,” exclaimed Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mlle. Michonneau slipped on the shirt again.—“Ouf! How heavy he is,” he added, as he laid the convict down.
“Hush! Suppose there is a strong-box here!” said the old maid briskly; her glances seemed to pierce the walls, she scrutinized every article of the furniture with greedy eyes. “Could we find some excuse for opening that desk?”
“It mightn’t be quite right,” responded Poiret to this.
“Where is the harm? It is money stolen from all sorts of people, so it doesn’t belong to any one now. But we haven’t time, there is the Vauquer.”
“Here is the ether,” said that lady. “I must say that this is an eventful day. Lord! that man can’t have had a stroke; he is as white as curds.”
“White as curds?” echoed Poiret.
“And his pulse is steady,” said the widow, laying her hand on his breast.
