Old Man Goriot

by Balzac, Honore de

  which turn on this kind of deal. The Law Society has forced Monsieur …’

  ‘What do I have to do?’ said Rastignac eagerly, interrupting Vautrin.

  ‘Hardly anything,’ he replied, with a flicker of joy, the controlled delight of a fisherman who has just felt a fish bite on the end of his line. ‘Listen! The heart of a poor, unhappy and needy young woman is a sponge, the most thirsty for love you will find, a dry sponge which swells as soon as it receives a single drop of sympathy. Courting a young lady who is lonely, impoverished and despairing, who has no idea that she’ll be rich one day – why! – it’s like having a quint and a quatorze127 in your hand, or knowing what numbers will win the lottery; it’s like playing the stock-market on a tip-off! You are laying the foundations for an indestructible marriage. When she comes into her millions, the young lady will throw them at your feet, as if they were so many bits of gravel. “Take them, my Beloved! Take them, Adolphe! Alfred! Take them Eugène!” she’ll say, if Adolphe, Alfred or Eugène have had the good sense to make the odd sacrifice for her. By sacrifice I mean selling an old suit so you can treat her to mushrooms on toast at the Cadran-Bleu; then, in the evening, the Ambigu-Comique;128 I mean pawning your watch to buy her a shawl. I hardly need mention the scribblings about love or the poppycock that so many women fall for, such as sprinkling drops of water onto your notepaper to look like tears when you’re away from her: I can see you’re a man with a firm grasp of the lingo of the heart. Paris, you see, is like a forest in the New World, crawling with twenty or so savage tribes – the Illinois, the Hurons – who live off the different kinds of game they hunt in society; you’re a hunter of millions. To net them, you use shills, limed twigs, decoys. There are various ways of going about it. Some sniff out dowries; others lie in wait for liquidations; this man fishes for votes; that man sells his subscribers down the river, bound hand and foot.129 He who comes home with his game-bag bulging is welcomed, celebrated, received in the highest society. To be fair to this hospitable land of ours: no other city in the world is better at turning a blind eye. If the proud aristocracies of every capital in Europe refuse to admit an infamous millionaire into their ranks, Paris welcomes him with open arms, rushes to his parties, eats his dinners and toasts his infamy.’

  ‘But where can I find such a girl?’ asked Eugène.

  ‘She’s yours, staring you in the face!’

  ‘Mademoiselle Victorine?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘She loves you already, your sweet Baronne de Rastignac!’

  ‘She hasn’t a sou to her name,’ replied Eugène, stunned.

  ‘A-ha! I’m just coming to that. A word or two more’, said Vautrin, ‘and all will become clear. Our man Taillefer is an old scoundrel rumoured to have murdered one of his friends during the Revolution.130 I’d say he’s one of your lone hunters. The man is a banker, senior partner in Frédéric Taillefer and Co. He has one son, to whom he intends to leave his entire fortune, leaving Victorine with nothing. Personally, I’m no fan of that sort of injustice. I’m a bit of a Don Quixote, I like to defend the weak against the strong. If it were God’s will that he should lose his son, Taillefer would take his daughter back; he would want an heir of some kind, that weakness is ingrained in human nature, and I know he can’t have any more children. Victorine is tender and warm-hearted, she’ll soon win him over and be spinning him round like a top with a string of sweet-talk! She’ll be too mindful of your love to forget you, and so you’ll be married. As for me, I’ll play the role of Providence, I’ll guide God’s will. I’ve a friend who owes me a favour, a colonel in the army of the Loire, who has just been posted to the Royal Guard. He has taken my advice and become an ultra-royalist; he’s not one of those fools who stick to their guns. A final word of advice, my angel: never stick to an opinion any more than you would to your word. When you’re asked for one, sell it to the highest bidder. A man who boasts that his opinions are unshakeable is a man who commits himself to following a straight line, a fool who believes in infallibility. There are no principles, only events; there are no laws, only circumstances: a superior man espouses events and circumstances the better to influence them. If fixed principles and laws really existed, countries wouldn’t change them as often as we change shirts. One man can’t be expected to show more sense than an entire nation. The man who has been of least service to France is idolized, revered, because he has always seen everything as red, when all he’s fit for is to be exhibited in the Conservatoire,131 labelled La Fayette,132 along with the other machines; while the prince133 who prevented the partition of France at the Congress of Vienna, whose scorn for mankind is such that he spits back in its face every oath it might demand of him, is universally abhorred; he deserves laurels, but they sling mud at him instead. Oh! I know exactly how things work! I know the secrets of many a man! Let’s just say that I’ll have steadfast opinions on the day when I meet three brains who agree on the application of the same principle, and I’ll be waiting a good while yet! You won’t find three judges in the courts who share the same opinion on an article of law. Now, this man of mine I mentioned: he’d put Jesus Christ back on the cross if I asked him to. At a single word from Uncle Vautrin, he’ll pick a quarrel with that cad who doesn’t even have the heart to send his poor sister a hundred sous, and …’ Here Vautrin stood up, took his guard and mimed the lunge of a fencing master. ‘And – lights out!’ he added.

  ‘But that’s horrific!’ said Eugène. ‘You are joking, Monsieur Vautrin?’

  ‘Now, now, calm down,’ the other man continued. ‘Don’t be such a child: although you can work yourself into a rage and foam at the mouth if it amuses you! You can call me a blackguard, a scoundrel, a rogue, a bandit, but I draw the line at crook or spy! Go on, let rip, fire your broadside! I won’t hold it against you, it’s only natural at your age! I was like that once too! But consider this. You’ll do worse one day. You’ll toy with the affections of some pretty woman and take her money. That’s what you have in mind!’ said Vautrin, ‘because how will you get rich if your love isn’t bankable? Virtue, my dear student, can’t be split into parts: you either have it or you don’t. We’re told to atone for our sins. There’s another cunning system, which lets you get away with a crime through an act of contrition! Seducing a woman so she’ll give you a leg-up onto a particular rung of the social ladder, stirring up all kinds of ill-feeling among the children of a family, not to mention all the foul deeds committed out of self-interest or gratification either openly or behind closed doors, do you think these may be considered acts of faith, hope and charity? Why two months in prison for a dandy who relieves a child of half his fortune in one night, and why hard labour for some poor devil who steals a thousand-franc note with aggravating circumstances? That’s the law for you. Not an article of it that doesn’t verge on absurdity. A man in yellow gloves who lies through his teeth, committing murders where no blood is shed, but he has his pound of flesh all the same; an assassin jemmying open a door: both are shady customers! What I am suggesting, and what you will do one day, are exactly the same, minus the blood. You think you’ll find a firm foothold in that kind of world! I say, be wary of men and keep your eyes peeled for the loopholes through which you can slide out of reach of the law. The secret of a vast fortune with no apparent cause is a crime which has been forgotten, because it was committed cleanly.’

  ‘Enough, Monsieur, I’ll hear no more; you would have me doubt myself. At the moment, all I know is what I feel.’

  ‘As you wish, pretty child. I thought you were made of stronger stuff,’ said Vautrin. ‘I’ll say no more. But one last word.’ He gave the student a piercing stare: ‘You have my secret,’ he said to him.

  ‘A young man who has refused your offer will soon forget it.’

  ‘That was well said and gives me great pleasure. Another man, you see, might be less scrupulous. Remember what I want to do for you. I’ll give you a fortnight. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘T
he man has an iron will!’ Rastignac said to himself, watching Vautrin stroll away with his stick under his arm. ‘He has told me crudely what Madame de Beauséant expressed so delicately. He slashed at my heart with his steel claws. Why do I want to call on Madame de Nucingen? He guessed my motives as soon as they surfaced in my mind. In two words, this brigand has told me more about virtue than men and books ever have. If virtue is non-negotiable, does that mean I have stolen from my sisters?’ he asked himself, throwing the bag onto the table. He sat down, and stayed there, deep in dazed thought. ‘To be faithful to virtue is a sublime martyrdom! Hah! Everyone believes in virtue; but who is virtuous? Nations make freedom their idol; but where on earth is there a free nation? My youth is still as blue as a cloudless sky: if I want to be wealthy or great, must I stoop to lying, scraping, crawling, pouncing, flattering, deceiving? Must I consent to be the lackey of those who have lied, scraped and crawled? I’d have to be their servant before I could become their accomplice. Why, no. I want to work with dignity, with purity; I want to work night and day, to owe my success to my labours alone. It will be the slowest kind of success, but every night my head will rest on my pillow free of all blemished thoughts. What could be finer than to look upon one’s life and find it as pure as a lily? Life and I, we’re like a young man and his fiancée. Vautrin has shown me what happens after ten years of marriage. The devil take it! My mind is floundering. I must clear my head of thoughts, the heart is the truest guide.’

  Eugène was brought back from his musings by the voice of big Sylvie announcing his tailor, whom he went to meet with his two moneybags in his hand, a turn of events that he did not find displeasing. After trying on his evening suit, he put his new morning wear on and found himself completely transformed. ‘I’m certainly a match for Monsieur de Trailles,’ he said to himself. ‘At last I look like a gentleman!’

  ‘Monsieur,’ said old man Goriot, coming into Eugène’s room, ‘you asked me if I knew which houses Madame de Nucingen visits.’

  ‘Indeed I did!’

  ‘Well, next Monday, she is going to the Maréchale de Carigliano’s ball. If you go, you’ll be able to tell me all about it, whether my daughters enjoyed themselves, what they wore, everything.’

  ‘How did you find out, dear old Goriot?’ said Eugène, inviting him to sit by the fire.

  ‘Her chambermaid told me. Thanks to Thérèse and Constance, I know everything they do,’ he replied brightly. The old man’s expression was that of a lover still young enough to delight in a stratagem that keeps him in touch with his mistress without her suspecting a thing. ‘You’ll actually see them!’ he said, innocently expressing a pang of jealousy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Eugène. ‘I’ll go and call on Madame de Beauséant and ask her if she can introduce me to Madame la Maréchale.’

  Eugène glowed inside at the thought of calling on the vicomtesse dressed as smartly as he would be from now on. What moralists call the murkiest depths of the human heart are merely the deceptive thoughts, the involuntary urges, of self-interest. These peripeteia, the subject of so many tirades, these sudden reversals, are calculated moves in the pursuit of pleasure. On seeing himself well dressed, well gloved and well heeled, Rastignac forgot his virtuous resolve. When Youth lapses into error, it dares not look into the mirror of its conscience, whereas Ripe Old Age has already seen itself reflected there: therein lies the difference between these two ages of man. Over the past few days, the two neighbours, Eugène and old man Goriot, had become good friends. Their secret friendship sprang from the same psychological phenomena that had stirred up such conflicting feelings between Vautrin and the student. The bold philosopher who sets out to establish how our feelings influence the physical world will surely find ample proof of their effect on matter in the connections they create between us and the animal kingdom. What physiognomist is a swifter judge of character than a dog deciding whether a stranger is sympathetic or not? Elective affinity, an adage familiar to all, is one of those facts fixed in the language that belie the philosophical rubbish filling the minds of those who like to sift through the peelings of primitive words.134 You feel loved. That feeling leaves its mark on all things and crosses every space. A letter is a living soul, such a faithful echo of the spoken voice that discerning minds count it among the richest treasures of love. Old man Goriot, whose impulsive sensibility raised him to the sublime level of canine intuition, had sniffed out the compassion, the admiring generosity, the youthful sympathy which he had aroused in the student’s heart. However, this nascent bond had not yet led them to confide in each other. Although Eugène had revealed his desire to see Madame de Nucingen, he wasn’t counting on the old man for his first introduction to her; but he did hope some indiscretion might serve him well. To date, old man Goriot’s only pronouncement on the subject of his daughters concerned what Rastignac had blurted out on the day he had paid his two calls. ‘My dear sir,’ he had said to him the next day, ‘how could you possibly have thought that Madame de Restaud took umbrage at the mention of my name? My two daughters love me dearly. No father could be happier. The only flies in the ointment are my two sons-in-law who have behaved shabbily towards me. As I didn’t want those dear creatures to bear the brunt of my quarrel with their husbands, I chose to see them in secret. The mystery of it makes me happy in a thousand ways, which other fathers, who can see their daughters whenever they like, are incapable of understanding. I don’t have the choice, you see. So when it’s fine, I find out from their maids whether my daughters are going out and I head over to the Champs-Elysées. I wait for them to go by, I see their carriages coming and my heart beats faster, I admire the way they’re dressed, and as they pass, they toss me a little smile that turns everything to gold, as if struck by a dazzling ray of sun. And I stay where I am, to catch them on their way back. Here they come again! The fresh air has done them good, brought colour to their cheeks. I hear the man next to me say: “There goes a beautiful woman!” and my heart rejoices. After all, aren’t they my own flesh and blood? I love the very horses that draw them and I wish I was the little dog sitting in their lap. I live off their pleasure. Every man has his own way of loving; mine harms no one, so why would the world take any notice of me? I am happy, after my fashion. Is it against the law for me to go and see my daughters in the evening, just as they’re leaving for a ball? How bereft I feel if I arrive too late and am told: “Madame has already left.” One evening I waited until three in the morning to see Nasie, after two days without a single glimpse. I nearly died of delight! So please, if you must mention my name, be sure to say how good my girls are to me. They’re always trying to shower me with all kinds of presents; I stop them, I say, “Keep your money! What good is it to me? I have everything I need.” Indeed, dear Monsieur, what am I but a poor skeleton whose soul is wherever my daughters are? When you have seen Madame de Nucingen, tell me which of the two you find most beautiful,’ said the old man after a moment’s silence, seeing that Eugène was preparing to go out for a stroll round the Tuileries until it was time to call on Madame de Beauséant.

  This walk proved fatal to the student. He was noticed by a number of women. He was so handsome, so young, so elegantly and tastefully dressed! Seeing himself the object of such attention, even admiration, he thought no more of the sisters and aunt he had fleeced, nor of his virtuous repugnance. He had seen flying overhead that demon so easily mistaken for an angel, the iridescent-winged Satan, who scatters rubies, fires his golden arrows at palace façades, turns women crimson, adorns thrones – at bottom so simple – with fool’s gold; he had listened to this pyrotechnic god of vanity whose tawdry brilliance seems to us a symbol of power. Vautrin’s words, cynical though they were, had embedded themselves in his heart just as the unprepossessing face of an old pedlar-woman remains printed on a virgin’s memory, once she has been foretold: ‘Reams of love and gold!’ After strolling around indolently for a while, Eugène went to call on Madame de Beauséant at around five o’clock and there he received one
of those terrible blows against which young hearts are defenceless. Up until then he had found the vicomtesse full of the polished courtesy, the honeyed grace imparted by an aristocratic education, which are only truly accomplished when they come from the heart.

  When he entered, Madame de Beauséant made a curt gesture and said brusquely: ‘Monsieur de Rastignac, it is impossible for me to see you, at least not now! I have pressing business to attend to …’

  To a keen observer, and Rastignac had swiftly become one, this sentence, her gesture, her look, the intonation of her voice, clearly told of the character and customs of her caste. He perceived the iron hand beneath the velvet glove; the temperament, the egotism, beneath the manners; the wood beneath the varnish. In all, he heard the ‘I, THE KING’ which rolls out from the plumes of the throne to the tip of the crest of the lowest-ranking nobleman. Eugène had too readily taken the woman’s words at face value, wanting to believe in her nobility. Like all needy souls, he had signed in good faith the delightful pact binding benefactor to beneficiary, whose first article stipulates absolute equality between the generous-hearted. Charity, which makes two beings one, is a divine passion, as misunderstood and as rare as true love. Both express the profusions of a noble soul. Rastignac was determined to make it to the Duchesse de Carigliano’s ball, so he took this blow on the chin.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, his voice choked with emotion, ‘if it were not a matter of some importance, I would not have come to disturb you; grant me the favour of seeing you later, I’ll wait.’

  ‘Very well! Come and dine with me,’ she said, a little embarrassed at the harshness of her words; for this woman really was as good as she was noble.