This is to be my reward--I am forsaken at the last. They are wicked, heartless women; curses on them, I loathe them. I shall rise at night from my grave to curse them again; for, after all, my friends, have I done wrong? They are behaving very badly to me, eh? . . . What am I saying? Did you not tell me just now that Delphine is in the room? She is more tender-hearted than her sister. . . . Eugene, you are my son, you know. You will love her; be a father to her! Her sister is very unhappy. And there are their fortunes! Ah, God! I am dying, this anguish is almost more than I can bear! Cut off my head; leave me nothing but my heart."
"Christophe!" shouted Eugene, alarmed by the way in which the old man moaned, and by his cries, "go for M. Bianchon, and send a cab here for me.--I am going to fetch them, dear father; I will bring them back to you."
"Make them come! Compel them to come! Call out the Guard, the military, anything and everything, but make them come!" He looked at Eugene, and a last gleam of intelligence shone in his eyes.
"Go to the authorities, to the Public Prosecutor, let them bring them here; come they shall!"
"But you have cursed them."
"Who said that!" said the old man in dull amazement. "You know quite well that I love them, I adore them! I shall be quite well again if I can see them. . . . Go for them, my good neighbor, my dear boy, you are kind-hearted; I wish I could repay you for your kindness, but I have nothing to give you now, save the blessing of a dying man. Ah! if I could only see Delphine, to tell her to pay my debt to you. If the other cannot come, bring Delphine to me at any rate. Tell her that unless she comes, you will not love her any more. She is so fond of you that she will come to me then. Give me something to drink! There is a fire in my bowels.
Press something against my forehead! If my daughters would lay their hands there, I think I should get better. . . . MON DIEU! who will recover their money for them when I am gone? . . . I will manufacture vermicelli out in Odessa; I will go to Odessa for their sakes."
"Here is something to drink," said Eugene, supporting the dying man on his left arm, while he held a cup of tisane to Goriot's lips.
"How you must love your own father and mother!" said the old man, and grasped the student's hand in both of his. It was a feeble, trembling grasp. "I am going to die; I shall die without seeing my daughters; do you understand? To be always thirsting, and never to drink; that has been my life for the last ten years. . . .
I have no daughters, my sons-in-law killed them. No, since their marriages they have been dead to me. Fathers should petition the Chambers to pass a law against marriage. If you love your daughters, do not let them marry. A son-in-law is a rascal who poisons a girl's mind and contaminates her whole nature. Let us have no more marriages! It robs us of our daughters; we are left alone upon our deathbeds, and they are not with us then.
They ought to pass a law for dying fathers. This is awful! It cries for vengeance! They cannot come, because my sons-in-law forbid them! . . . Kill them! . . . Restaud and the Alsatian, kill them both! They have murdered me between them! . . . Death or my daughters! . . . Ah! it is too late, I am dying, and they are not here! . . . Dying without them! . . . Nasie! Fifine! Why do you not come to me? Your papa is going----"
"Dear Father Goriot, calm yourself. There, there, lie quietly and rest; don't worry yourself, don't think."
"I shall not see them. Oh! the agony of it!"
"You SHALL see them."
"Really?" cried the old man, still wandering. "Oh! shall I see them; I shall see them and hear their voices. I shall die happy.
Ah! well, after all, I do not wish to live; I cannot stand this much longer; this pain that grows worse and worse. But, oh! to see them, to touch their dresses--ah! nothing but their dresses, that is very little; still, to feel something that belongs to them. Let me touch their hair with my fingers . . . their hair . . ."
His head fell back on the pillow, as if a sudden heavy blow had struck him down, but his hands groped feebly over the quilt, as if to find his daughters' hair.
"My blessing on them . . ." he said, making an effort, "my blessing . . ."
His voice died away. Just at that moment Bianchon came into the room.
"I met Christophe," he said; "he is gone for your cab."
Then he looked at the patient, and raised the closed eyelids with his fingers. The two students saw how dead and lustreless the eyes beneath had grown.
"He will not get over this, I am sure," said Bianchon. He felt the old man's pulse, and laid a hand over his heart.
"The machinery works still; more is the pity, in his state it would be better for him to die."
"Ah! my word, it would!"
"What is the matter with you? You are as pale as death."
"Dear fellow, the moans and cries that I have just heard. . . .
There is a God! Ah! yes, yes, there is a God, and He has made a better world for us, or this world of ours would be a nightmare.
I could have cried like a child; but this is too tragical, and I am sick at heart.
"We want a lot of things, you know; and where is the money to come from?"
Rastignac took out his watch.
"There, be quick and pawn it. I do not want to stop on the way to the Rue du Helder; there is not a moment to lose, I am afraid, and I must wait here till Christophe comes back. I have not a farthing; I shall have to pay the cabman when I get home again."
Rastignac rushed down the stairs, and drove off to the Rue du Helder. The awful scene through which he had just passed quickened his imagination, and he grew fiercely indignant. He reached Mme. de Restaud's house only to be told by the servant that his mistress could see no one.
"But I have brought a message from her father, who is dying,"
Rastignac told the man.
"The Count has given us the strictest orders, sir----"
"If it is M. de Restaud who has given the orders, tell him that his father-in-law is dying, and that I am here, and must speak with him at once."
The man went out.
Eugene waited for a long while. "Perhaps her father is dying at this moment," he thought.
