Rastignac, therefore, could not stand the fire from Vautrin’s batteries
for long without discovering whether this was a friend or a foe. He felt
as if this strange being was reading his inmost soul, and dissecting
his feelings, while Vautrin himself was so close and secretive that
he seemed to have something of the profound and unmoved serenity of
a sphinx, seeing and hearing all things and saying nothing. Eugene,
conscious of that money in his pocket, grew rebellious.
“Be so good as to wait a moment,” he said to Vautrin, as the latter
rose, after slowly emptying his coffee-cup, sip by sip.
“What for?” inquired the older man, as he put on his large-brimmed hat
and took up the sword-cane that he was wont to twirl like a man who will
face three or four footpads without flinching.
“I will repay you in a minute,” returned Eugene. He unsealed one of the
bags as he spoke, counted out a hundred and forty francs, and pushed
them towards Mme. Vauquer. “Short reckonings make good friends” he
added, turning to the widow; “that clears our accounts till the end of
the year. Can you give me change for a five-franc piece?”
“Good friends make short reckonings,” echoed Poiret, with a glance at
Vautrin.
“Here is your franc,” said Rastignac, holding out the coin to the sphinx
in the black wig.
“Any one might think that you were afraid to owe me a trifle,” exclaimed
this latter, with a searching glance that seemed to read the young man’s
inmost thoughts; there was a satirical and cynical smile on Vautrin’s
face such as Eugene had seen scores of times already; every time he saw
it, it exasperated him almost beyond endurance.
“Well... so I am,” he answered. He held both the bags in his hand, and
had risen to go up to his room.
Vautrin made as if he were going out through the sitting-room, and the
student turned to go through the second door that opened into the square
lobby at the foot of the staircase.
“Do you know, Monsieur le Marquis de Rastignacorama, that what you were
saying just now was not exactly polite?” Vautrin remarked, as he rattled
his sword-cane across the panels of the sitting-room door, and came up
to the student.
Rastignac looked coolly at Vautrin, drew him to the foot of the
staircase, and shut the dining-room door. They were standing in the
little square lobby between the kitchen and the dining-room; the place
was lighted by an iron-barred fanlight above a door that gave access
into the garden. Sylvie came out of her kitchen, and Eugene chose that
moment to say:
“_Monsieur_ Vautrin, I am not a marquis, and my name is not
Rastignacorama.”
“They will fight,” said Mlle. Michonneau, in an indifferent tone.
“Fight!” echoed Poiret.
“Not they,” replied Mme. Vauquer, lovingly fingering her pile of coins.
“But there they are under the lime-trees,” cried Mlle. Victorine, who
had risen so that she might see out into the garden. “Poor young man! he
was in the right, after all.”
“We must go upstairs, my pet,” said Mme. Couture; “it is no business of
ours.”
At the door, however, Mme. Couture and Victorine found their progress
barred by the portly form of Sylvie the cook.
“What ever can have happened?” she said. “M. Vautrin said to M. Eugene,
‘Let us have an explanation!’ then he took him by the arm, and there
they are, out among the artichokes.”
Vautrin came in while she was speaking. “Mamma Vauquer,” he said
smiling, “don’t frighten yourself at all. I am only going to try my
pistols under the lime-trees.”
“Oh! monsieur,” cried Victorine, clasping her hands as she spoke, “why
do you want to kill M. Eugene?”
Vautrin stepped back a pace or two, and gazed at Victorine.
“Oh! this is something fresh!” he exclaimed in a bantering tone, that
brought the color into the poor girl’s face. “That young fellow yonder
is very nice, isn’t he?” he went on. “You have given me a notion, my
pretty child; I will make you both happy.”
Mme. Couture laid her hand on the arm of her ward, and drew the girl
away, as she said in her ear:
“Why, Victorine, I cannot imagine what has come over you this morning.”
“I don’t want any shots fired in my garden,” said Mme. Vauquer. “You
will frighten the neighborhood and bring the police up here all in a
moment.”
“Come, keep cool, Mamma Vauquer,” answered Vautrin. “There, there; it’s
all right; we will go to the shooting-gallery.”
He went back to Rastignac, laying his hand familiarly on the young man’s
arm.
“When I have given you ocular demonstration of the fact that I can put
a bullet through the ace on a card five times running at thirty-five
paces,” he said, “that won’t take away your appetite, I suppose? You
look to me to be inclined to be a trifle quarrelsome this morning, and
as if you would rush on your death like a blockhead.”
“Do you draw back?” asked Eugene.
“Don’t try to raise my temperature,” answered Vautrin, “it is not cold
this morning. Let us go and sit over there,” he added, pointing to the
green-painted garden seats; “no one can overhear us. I want a little
talk with you. You are not a bad sort of youngster, and I have no
quarrel with you. I like you, take Trump--(confound it!)--take Vautrin’s
word for it. What makes me like you? I will tell you by-and-by.
Meantime, I can tell you that I know you as well as if I had made you
myself, as I will prove to you in a minute. Put down your bags,” he
continued, pointing to the round table.
Rastignac deposited his money on the table, and sat down. He was
consumed with curiosity, which the sudden change in the manner of the
man before him had excited to the highest pitch. Here was a strange
being who, a moment ago, had talked of killing him, and now posed as his
protector.
“You would like to know who I really am, what I was, and what I do now,”
Vautrin went on. “You want to know too much, youngster. Come! come! keep
cool! You will hear more astonishing things than that. I have had
my misfortunes. Just hear me out first, and you shall have your turn
afterwards. Here is my past in three words. Who am I? Vautrin. What do
I do? Just what I please. Let us change the subject. You want to know my
character. I am good-natured to those who do me a good turn, or to those
whose hearts speak to mine. These last may do anything they like with
me; they may bruise my shins, and I shall not tell them to ‘mind what
they are about’; but, _nom d’une pipe_, the devil himself is not an
uglier customer than I can be if people annoy me, or if I don’t happen
to take to them; and you may just as well know at once that I think no
more of killing a man than of that,” and he spat before him as he spoke.
“Only when it is absolutely necessary to do so, I do my best to kill him
properly. I am what you call an artist. I have read Benvenuto Cellini’s
_Memoirs_, such as you see me; and, what is more, in Italian: A
fine-spirited fellow he was! From him I learned to follow the example
set us by Providence, who strikes us down at random, and to admire
the beautiful whenever and wherever it is found. And, setting other
questions aside, is it not a glorious part to play, when you pit
yourself against mankind, and the luck is on your side? I have thought
a good deal about the constitution of your present social Dis-order. A
duel is downright childish, my boy! utter nonsense and folly! When one
of two living men must be got out of the way, none but an idiot
would leave chance to decide which it is to be; and in a duel it is a
toss-up--heads or tails--and there you are! Now I, for instance, can
hit the ace in the middle of a card five times running, send one bullet
after another through the same hole, and at thirty-five paces, moreover!
With that little accomplishment you might think yourself certain of
killing your man, mightn’t you. Well, I have fired, at twenty paces, and
missed, and the rogue who had never handled a pistol in his life--look
here!”--(he unbuttoned his waistcoat and exposed his chest, covered,
like a bear’s back, with a shaggy fell; the student gave a startled
shudder)--“he was a raw lad, but he made his mark on me,” the
extraordinary man went on, drawing Rastignac’s fingers over a deep scar
on his breast. “But that happened when I myself was a mere boy; I was
one-and-twenty then (your age), and I had some beliefs left--in a
woman’s love, and in a pack of rubbish that you will be over head and
ears in directly. You and I were to have fought just now, weren’t we?
You might have killed me. Suppose that I were put under the earth, where
would you be? You would have to clear out of this, go to Switzerland,
draw on papa’s purse--and he has none too much in it as it is. I mean to
open your eyes to your real position, that is what I am going to do: but
I shall do it from the point of view of a man who, after studying the
world very closely, sees that there are but two alternatives--stupid
obedience or revolt. I obey nobody; is that clear? Now, do you know how
much you will want at the pace you are going? A million; and promptly,
too, or that little head of ours will be swaying to and fro in the
drag-nets at Saint-Cloud, while we are gone to find out whether or no
there is a Supreme Being. I will put you in the way of that million.”
He stopped for a moment and looked at Eugene.
“Aha! you do not look so sourly at papa Vautrin now! At the mention of
the million you look like a young girl when somebody has said, ‘I will
come for you this evening!’ and she betakes herself to her toilette as a
cat licks its whiskers over a saucer of milk. All right. Come, now, let
us go into the question, young man; all between ourselves, you know.
We have a papa and mamma down yonder, a great-aunt, two sisters (aged
eighteen and seventeen), two young brothers (one fifteen, and the other
ten), that is about the roll-call of the crew. The aunt brings up the
two sisters; the cure comes and teaches the boys Latin. Boiled chestnuts
are oftener on the table than white bread. Papa makes a suit of clothes
last a long while; if mamma has a different dress winter and summer, it
is about as much as she has; the sisters manage as best they can. I know
all about it; I have lived in the south.
“That is how things are at home. They send you twelve hundred francs a
year, and the whole property only brings in three thousand francs all
told. We have a cook and a manservant; papa is a baron, and we must keep
up appearances. Then we have our ambitions; we are connected with the
Beauseants, and we go afoot through the streets; we want to be rich,
and we have not a penny; we eat Mme. Vauquer’s messes, and we like grand
dinners in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; we sleep on a truckle-bed, and
dream of a mansion! I do not blame you for wanting these things. What
sort of men do the women run after? Men of ambition. Men of ambition
have stronger frames, their blood is richer in iron, their hearts are
warmer than those of ordinary men. Women feel that when their power is
greatest, they look their best, and that those are their happiest hours;
they like power in men, and prefer the strongest even if it is a power
that may be their own destruction. I am going to make an inventory of
your desires in order to put the question at issue before you. Here it
is:--
“We are as hungry as a wolf, and those newly-cut teeth of ours are
sharp; what are we to do to keep the pot boiling? In the first place,
we have the Code to browse upon; it is not amusing, and we are none the
wiser for it, but that cannot be helped. So far so good. We mean to make
an advocate of ourselves with a prospect of one day being made President
of a Court of Assize, when we shall send poor devils, our betters, to
the galleys with a T.F.[*] on their shoulders, so that the rich may be
convinced that they can sleep in peace. There is no fun in that; and you
are a long while coming to it; for, to begin with, there are two years
of nauseous drudgery in Paris, we see all the lollipops that we long for
out of our reach. It is tiresome to want things and never to have them.
If you were a pallid creature of the mollusk order, you would have
nothing to fear, but it is different when you have the hot blood of
a lion and are ready to get into a score of scrapes every day of your
life. This is the ghastliest form of torture known in this inferno of
God’s making, and you will give in to it. Or suppose that you are a good
boy, drink nothing stronger than milk, and bemoan your hard lot; you,
with your generous nature, will endure hardships that would drive a dog
mad, and make a start, after long waiting, as deputy to some rascal
or other in a hole of a place where the Government will fling you a
thousand francs a year like the scraps that are thrown to the butcher’s
dog. Bark at thieves, plead the cause of the rich, send men of heart
to the guillotine, that is your work! Many thanks! If you have no
influence, you may rot in your provincial tribunal. At thirty you will
be a Justice with twelve hundred francs a year (if you have not flung
off the gown for good before then). By the time you are forty you may
look to marry a miller’s daughter, an heiress with some six thousand
livres a year. Much obliged! If you have influence, you may possibly
be a Public Prosecutor by the time you are thirty; with a salary of
a thousand crowns, you could look to marry the mayor’s daughter. Some
petty piece of political trickery, such as mistaking Villele for Manuel
in a bulletin (the names rhyme, and that quiets your conscience), and
you will probably be a Procureur General by the time you are forty, with
a chance of becoming a deputy. Please to observe, my dear boy, that our
conscience will have been a little damaged in the process, and that we
shall endure twenty years of drudgery and hidden poverty, and that
our sisters are wearing Dian’s livery. I have the honor to call your
attention to another fact: to wit, that there are but twenty Procureurs
Generaux at a time in all France, while there are some twenty thousand
of you young men who aspire to that elevated position; that there are
some mountebanks among you who would sell their family to screw their
fortunes a peg higher. If this sort of thing sickens you, try another
course. The Baron de Rastignac thinks of becoming an advocate, does he?
There’s a nice prospect for you! Ten years of drudgery straight away.
You are obliged to live at the rate of a thousand francs a month; you
must have a library of law books, live in chambers, go into society, go
down on your knees to ask a solicitor for briefs, lick the dust off
the floor of the Palais de Justice. If this kind of business led to
anything, I should not say no; but just give me the names of five
advocates here in Paris who by the time that they are fifty are making
fifty thousand francs a year! Bah! I would sooner turn pirate on the
high seas than have my soul shrivel up inside me like that. How will
you find the capital? There is but one way, marry a woman who has money.
There is no fun in it. Have you a mind to marry? You hang a stone around
your neck; for if you marry for money, what becomes of our exalted
notions of honor and so forth? You might as well fly in the face of
social conventions at once. Is it nothing to crawl like a serpent before
your wife, to lick her mother’s feet, to descend to dirty actions
that would sicken swine--faugh!--never mind if you at least make your
fortune. But you will be as doleful as a dripstone if you marry for
money. It is better to wrestle with men than to wrangle at home with
your wife. You are at the crossway of the roads of life, my boy; choose
your way.
[*] Travaux forces, forced labour.
“But you have chosen already. You have gone to see your cousin of
Beauseant, and you have had an inkling of luxury; you have been to Mme.
de Restaud’s house, and in Father Goriot’s daughter you have seen a
glimpse of the Parisienne for the first time. That day you came
back with a word written on your forehead. I knew it, I could read
it--‘_Success_!’ Yes, success at any price. ‘Bravo,’ said I to myself,
‘here is the sort of fellow for me.’ You wanted money. Where was it all
to come from? You have drained your sisters’ little hoard (all brothers
sponge more or less on their sisters). Those fifteen hundred francs of
yours (got together, God knows how! in a country where there are more
chestnuts than five-franc pieces) will slip away like soldiers after
pillage. And, then, what will you do? Shall you begin to work? Work, or
what you understand by work at this moment, means, for a man of Poiret’s
calibre, an old age in Mamma Vauquer’s lodging-house. There are fifty
thousand young men in your position at this moment, all bent as you are
on solving one and the same problem--how to acquire a fortune rapidly.
You are but a unit in that aggregate. You can guess, therefore, what
efforts you must make, how desperate the struggle is. There are not
fifty thousand good positions for you; you must fight and devour one
another like spiders in a pot. Do you know how a man makes his way here?
By brilliant genius or by skilful corruption. You must either cut your
way through these masses of men like a cannon ball, or steal among them
like a plague. Honesty is nothing to the purpose. Men bow before the
power of genius; they hate it, and try to slander it, because genius
does not divide the spoil; but if genius persists, they bow before it.
To sum it all up in a phrase, if they fail to smother genius in the mud,
they fall on their knees and worship it. Corruption is a great power
in the world, and talent is scarce. So corruption is the weapon of
superfluous mediocrity; you will be made to feel the point of it
everywhere. You will see women who spend more than ten thousand francs
a year on dress, while their husband’s salary (his whole income) is
six thousand francs. You will see officials buying estates on twelve
thousand francs a year. You will see women who sell themselves body and
soul to drive in a carriage belonging to the son of a peer of France,
who has a right to drive in the middle rank at Longchamp. You have
seen that poor simpleton of a Goriot obliged to meet a bill with his
daughter’s name at the back of it, though her husband has fifty thousand
francs a year. I defy you to walk a couple of yards anywhere in Paris
without stumbling on some infernal complication. I’ll bet my head to
a head of that salad that you will stir up a hornet’s nest by taking a
fancy to the first young, rich, and pretty woman you meet. They are all
dodging the law, all at loggerheads with their husbands. If I were to
begin to tell you all that vanity or necessity (virtue is not often
mixed up in it, you may be sure), all that vanity and necessity drive
them to do for lovers, finery, housekeeping, or children, I should never
come to an end. So an honest man is the common enemy.
“But do you know what an honest man is? Here, in Paris, an honest man is
the man who keeps his own counsel, and will not divide the plunder. I am
not speaking now of those poor bond-slaves who do the work of the world
without a reward for their toil--God Almighty’s outcasts, I call them.
Among them, I grant you, is virtue in all the flower of its stupidity,
but poverty is no less their portion. At this moment, I think I see the
long faces those good folk would pull if God played a practical joke on
them and stayed away at the Last Judgment.
“Well, then, if you mean to make a fortune quickly, you must either be
rich to begin with, or make people believe that you are rich. It is no
use playing here except for high stakes; once take to low play, it is
all up with you. If in the scores of professions that are open to you,
there are ten men who rise very rapidly, people are sure to call them
thieves. You can draw your own conclusions. Such is life. It is no
cleaner than a kitchen; it reeks like a kitchen; and if you mean to
cook your dinner, you must expect to soil your hands; the real art is
in getting them clean again, and therein lies the whole morality of our
epoch. If I take this tone in speaking of the world to you, I have the
right to do so; I know it well. Do you think that I am blaming it? Far
from it; the world has always been as it is now. Moralists’ strictures
will never change it. Mankind are not perfect, but one age is more
or less hypocritical than another, and then simpletons say that its
morality is high or low. I do not think that the rich are any worse than
the poor; man is much the same, high or low, or wherever he is. In a
million of these human cattle there may be half a score of bold spirits
who rise above the rest, above the laws; I am one of them. And you, if
you are cleverer than your fellows, make straight to your end, and hold
your head high. But you must lay your account with envy and slander and
mediocrity, and every man’s hand will be against you. Napoleon met with
a Minister of War, Aubry by name, who all but sent him to the colonies.
