Vautrin went out. He would not wait to hear the student’s repudiation,
he wished to put Eugene at his ease. He seemed to understand the secret
springs of the faint resistance still made by the younger man; the
struggles in which men seek to preserve their self-respect by justifying
their blameworthy actions to themselves.
“He may do as he likes; I shall not marry Mlle. Taillefer, that is
certain,” said Eugene to himself.
He regarded this man with abhorrence, and yet the very cynicism of
Vautrin’s ideas, and the audacious way in which he used other men for
his own ends, raised him in the student’s eyes; but the thought of a
compact threw Eugene into a fever of apprehension, and not until he
had recovered somewhat did he dress, call for a cab, and go to Mme. de
Restaud’s.
For some days the Countess had paid more and more attention to a young
man whose every step seemed a triumphal progress in the great world; it
seemed to her that he might be a formidable power before long. He paid
Messieurs de Trailles and d’Ajuda, played at whist for part of the
evening, and made good his losses. Most men who have their way to make
are more or less of fatalists, and Eugene was superstitious; he chose to
consider that his luck was heaven’s reward for his perseverance in the
right way. As soon as possible on the following morning he asked Vautrin
whether the bill he had given was still in the other’s possession; and
on receiving a reply in the affirmative, he repaid the three thousand
francs with a not unnatural relief.
“Everything is going on well,” said Vautrin.
“But I am not your accomplice,” said Eugene.
“I know, I know,” Vautrin broke in. “You are still acting like a child.
You are making mountains out of molehills at the outset.”
Two days later, Poiret and Mlle. Michonneau were sitting together on
a bench in the sun. They had chosen a little frequented alley in the
Jardin des Plantes, and a gentleman was chatting with them, the same
person, as a matter of fact, about whom the medical student had, not
without good reason, his own suspicions.
“Mademoiselle,” this M. Gondureau was saying, “I do not see any
cause for your scruples. His Excellency, Monseigneur the Minister of
Police----”
“Yes, his Excellency is taking a personal interest in the matter,” said
Gondureau.
Who would think it probable that Poiret, a retired clerk, doubtless
possessed of some notions of civic virtue, though there might be nothing
else in his head--who would think it likely that such a man would
continue to lend an ear to this supposed independent gentleman of the
Rue de Buffon, when the latter dropped the mask of a decent citizen by
that word “police,” and gave a glimpse of the features of a detective
from the Rue de Jerusalem? And yet nothing was more natural. Perhaps the
following remarks from the hitherto unpublished records made by certain
observers will throw a light on the particular species to which Poiret
belonged in the great family of fools. There is a race of quill-drivers,
confined in the columns of the budget between the first degree of
latitude (a kind of administrative Greenland where the salaries begin at
twelve hundred francs) to the third degree, a more temperate zone, where
incomes grow from three to six thousand francs, a climate where
the _bonus_ flourishes like a half-hardy annual in spite of some
difficulties of culture. A characteristic trait that best reveals the
feeble narrow-mindedness of these inhabitants of petty officialdom is a
kind of involuntary, mechanical, and instinctive reverence for the Grand
Lama of every Ministry, known to the rank and file only by his signature
(an illegible scrawl) and by his title--“His Excellency Monseigneur
le Ministre,” five words which produce as much effect as the _il Bondo
Cani_ of the _Calife de Bagdad_, five words which in the eyes of this
low order of intelligence represent a sacred power from which there is
no appeal. The Minister is administratively infallible for the clerks
in the employ of the Government, as the Pope is infallible for good
Catholics. Something of this peculiar radiance invests everything he
does or says, or that is said or done in his name; the robe of office
covers everything and legalizes everything done by his orders; does not
his very title--His Excellency--vouch for the purity of his intentions
and the righteousness of his will, and serve as a sort of passport and
introduction to ideas that otherwise would not be entertained for a
moment? Pronounce the words “His Excellency,” and these poor folk will
forthwith proceed to do what they would not do for their own interests.
Passive obedience is as well known in a Government department as in
the army itself; and the administrative system silences consciences,
annihilates the individual, and ends (give it time enough) by fashioning
a man into a vise or a thumbscrew, and he becomes part of the machinery
of Government. Wherefore, M. Gondureau, who seemed to know something
of human nature, recognized Poiret at once as one of those dupes of
officialdom, and brought out for his benefit, at the proper moment, the
_deus ex machina_, the magical words “His Excellency,” so as to dazzle
Poiret just as he himself unmasked his batteries, for he took Poiret and
the Michonneau for the male and female of the same species.
“If his Excellency himself, his Excellency the Minister... Ah! that is
quite another thing,” said Poiret.
“You seem to be guided by this gentleman’s opinion, and you hear what he
says,” said the man of independent means, addressing Mlle. Michonneau.
“Very well, his Excellency is at this moment absolutely certain that the
so-called Vautrin, who lodges at the Maison Vauquer, is a convict
who escaped from penal servitude at Toulon, where he is known by the
nickname _Trompe-la-Mort_.”
“Trompe-la-Mort?” said Pioret. “Dear me, he is very lucky if he deserves
that nickname.”
“Well, yes,” said the detective. “They call him so because he has been
so lucky as not to lose his life in the very risky businesses that he
has carried through. He is a dangerous man, you see! He has qualities
that are out of the common; the thing he is wanted for, in fact, was a
matter which gained him no end of credit with his own set----”
“Then is he a man of honor?” asked Poiret.
“Yes, according to his notions. He agreed to take another man’s crime
upon himself--a forgery committed by a very handsome young fellow that
he had taken a great fancy to, a young Italian, a bit of a gambler,
who has since gone into the army, where his conduct has been
unexceptionable.”
“But if his Excellency the Minister of Police is certain that M.
Vautrin is this _Trompe-la-Mort_, why should he want me?” asked Mlle.
Michonneau.
“Oh yes,” said Poiret, “if the Minister, as you have been so obliging as
to tell us, really knows for a certainty----”
“Certainty is not the word; he only suspects. You will soon understand
how things are. Jacques Collin, nicknamed _Trompe-la-Mort_, is in the
confidence of every convict in the three prisons; he is their man of
business and their banker. He makes a very good thing out of managing
their affairs, which want a _man of mark_ to see about them.”
“Ha! ha! do you see the pun, mademoiselle?” asked Poiret. “This
gentleman calls himself a _man of mark_ because he is a _marked
man_--branded, you know.”
“This so-called Vautrin,” said the detective, “receives the money
belonging to my lords the convicts, invests it for them, and holds it at
the disposal of those who escape, or hands it over to their families if
they leave a will, or to their mistresses when they draw upon him for
their benefit.”
“Their mistresses! You mean their wives,” remarked Poiret.
“No, sir. A convict’s wife is usually an illegitimate connection. We
call them concubines.”
“Then they all live in a state of concubinage?”
“Naturally.”
“Why, these are abominations that his Excellency ought not to allow.
Since you have the honor of seeing his Excellency, you, who seem to have
philanthropic ideas, ought really to enlighten him as to their immoral
conduct--they are setting a shocking example to the rest of society.”
“But the Government does not hold them up as models of all the virtues,
my dear sir----”
“Of course not, sir; but still----”
“Just let the gentleman say what he has to say, dearie,” said Mlle.
Michonneau.
“You see how it is, mademoiselle,” Gondureau continued. “The Government
may have the strongest reasons for getting this illicit hoard into its
hands; it mounts up to something considerable, by all that we can
make out. Trompe-la-Mort not only holds large sums for his friends the
convicts, but he has other amounts which are paid over to him by the
Society of the Ten Thousand----”
“Ten Thousand Thieves!” cried Pioret in alarm.
“No. The Society of the Ten Thousand is not an association of petty
offenders, but of people who set about their work on a large scale--they
won’t touch a matter unless there are ten thousand francs in it. It is
composed of the most distinguished of the men who are sent straight to
the Assize Courts when they come up for trial. They know the Code
too well to risk their necks when they are nabbed. Collin is their
confidential agent and legal adviser. By means of the large sums of
money at his disposal he has established a sort of detective system of
his own; it is widespread and mysterious in its workings. We have had
spies all about him for a twelvemonth, and yet we could not manage to
fathom his games. His capital and his cleverness are at the service of
vice and crime; this money furnishes the necessary funds for a regular
army of blackguards in his pay who wage incessant war against society.
If we can catch Trompe-la-Mort, and take possession of his funds,
we should strike at the root of this evil. So this job is a kind of
Government affair--a State secret--and likely to redound to the honor
of those who bring the thing to a successful conclusion. You, sir, for
instance, might very well be taken into a Government department again;
they might make you secretary to a Commissary of Police; you could
accept that post without prejudice to your retiring pension.”
Mlle. Michonneau interposed at this point with, “What is there to hinder
Trompe-la-Mort from making off with the money?”
“Oh!” said the detective, “a man is told off to follow him everywhere he
goes, with orders to kill him if he were to rob the convicts. Then it is
not quite as easy to make off with a lot of money as it is to run away
with a young lady of family. Besides, Collin is not the sort of fellow
to play such a trick; he would be disgraced, according to his notions.”
“You are quite right, sir,” said Poiret, “utterly disgraced he would
be.”
“But none of all this explains why you do not come and take him without
more ado,” remarked Mlle. Michonneau.
“Very well, mademoiselle, I will explain--but,” he added in her ear,
“keep your companion quiet, or I shall never have done. The old boy
ought to pay people handsomely for listening to him.--Trompe-la-Mort,
when he came back here,” he went on aloud “slipped into the skin of an
honest man; he turned up disguised as a decent Parisian citizen, and
took up his quarters in an unpretending lodging-house. He is cunning,
that he is! You don’t catch him napping. Then M. Vautrin is a man of
consequence, who transacts a good deal of business.”
“Naturally,” said Poiret to himself.
“And suppose that the Minister were to make a mistake and get hold of
the real Vautrin, he would put every one’s back up among the business
men in Paris, and public opinion would be against him. M. le Prefet de
Police is on slippery ground; he has enemies. They would take advantage
of any mistake. There would be a fine outcry and fuss made by the
Opposition, and he would be sent packing. We must set about this just as
we did about the Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-Helene; if
he had been the real Comte de Sainte-Helene, we should have been in the
wrong box. We want to be quite sure what we are about.”
“Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman,” said Mlle. Michonneau
briskly.
“Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him,” said the
detective. “I will tell you a secret--he does not like them.”
“Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did agree to
identify him for two thousand francs.”
“Nothing simpler,” said the stranger. “I will send you a little bottle
containing a dose that will send a rush of blood to the head; it will do
him no harm whatever, but he will fall down as if he were in a fit. The
drug can be put into wine or coffee; either will do equally well. You
carry your man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not
dying. As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the shoulder,
and _presto!_ the letters will appear.”
“Why, that is just nothing at all,” said Poiret.
“Well, do you agree?” said Gondureau, addressing the old maid.
“But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all,” said Mlle.
Michonneau; “am I to have the two thousand francs all the same?”
“No.”
“What will you give me then?”
“Five hundred francs.”
“It is such a thing to do for so little! It lies on your conscience just
the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir.”
“I assure you,” said Poiret, “that mademoiselle has a great deal of
conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable person, and very
intelligent.”
“Well, now,” Mlle. Michonneau went on, “make it three thousand francs if
he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at all if he is an ordinary man.”
“Done!” said Gondureau, “but on the condition that the thing is settled
to-morrow.”
“Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor first.”
“You are a sly one,” said the detective as he rose to his feet.
“Good-bye till to-morrow, then. And if you should want to see me in a
hurry, go to the Petite Rue Saint-Anne at the bottom of the Cour de la
Sainte-Chapelle. There is one door under the archway. Ask there for M.
Gondureau.”
Bianchon, on his way back from Cuvier’s lecture, overheard the
sufficiently striking nickname of _Trompe-la-Mort_, and caught the
celebrated chief detective’s “_Done!_”
“Why didn’t you close with him? It would be three hundred francs a
year,” said Poiret to Mlle. Michonneau.
“Why didn’t I?” she asked. “Why, it wants thinking over. Suppose that M.
Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, perhaps we might do better for ourselves
with him. Still, on the other hand, if you ask him for money, it would
put him on his guard, and he is just the man to clear out without
paying, and that would be an abominable sell.”
“And suppose you did warn him,” Poiret went on, “didn’t that gentleman
say that he was closely watched? You would spoil everything.”
“Anyhow,” thought Mlle. Michonneau, “I can’t abide him. He says nothing
but disagreeable things to me.”
“But you can do better than that,” Poiret resumed. “As that gentleman
said (and he seemed to me to be a very good sort of man, besides being
very well got up), it is an act of obedience to the laws to rid society
of a criminal, however virtuous he may be. Once a thief, always a thief.
Suppose he were to take it into his head to murder us all? The deuce! We
should be guilty of manslaughter, and be the first to fall victims into
the bargain!”
Mlle. Michonneau’s musings did not permit her to listen very closely to
the remarks that fell one by one from Poiret’s lips like water dripping
from a leaky tap. When once this elderly babbler began to talk, he would
go on like clockwork unless Mlle. Michonneau stopped him. He started
on some subject or other, and wandered on through parenthesis after
parenthesis, till he came to regions as remote as possible from his
premises without coming to any conclusions by the way.
By the time they reached the Maison Vauquer he had tacked together a
whole string of examples and quotations more or less irrelevant to
the subject in hand, which led him to give a full account of his own
deposition in the case of the Sieur Ragoulleau _versus_ Dame Morin, when
he had been summoned as a witness for the defence.
As they entered the dining-room, Eugene de Rastignac was talking apart
with Mlle. Taillefer; the conversation appeared to be of such thrilling
interest that the pair never noticed the two older lodgers as they
passed through the room. None of this was thrown away on Mlle.
Michonneau.
“I knew how it would end,” remarked that lady, addressing Poiret. “They
have been making eyes at each other in a heartrending way for a week
past.”
“Yes,” he answered. “So she was found guilty.”
“Who?”
“Mme. Morin.”
“I am talking about Mlle. Victorine,” said Mlle, Michonneau, as she
entered Poiret’s room with an absent air, “and you answer, ‘Mme. Morin.’
Who may Mme. Morin be?”
“What can Mlle. Victorine be guilty of?” demanded Poiret.
“Guilty of falling in love with M. Eugene de Rastignac and going further
and further without knowing exactly where she is going, poor innocent!”
That morning Mme. de Nucingen had driven Eugene to despair. In his own
mind he had completely surrendered himself to Vautrin, and deliberately
shut his eyes to the motive for the friendship which that extraordinary
man professed for him, nor would he look to the consequences of such an
alliance. Nothing short of a miracle could extricate him now out of the
gulf into which he had walked an hour ago, when he exchanged vows in the
softest whispers with Mlle. Taillefer. To Victorine it seemed as if she
heard an angel’s voice, that heaven was opening above her; the Maison
Vauquer took strange and wonderful hues, like a stage fairy-palace. She
loved and she was loved; at any rate, she believed that she was loved;
and what woman would not likewise have believed after seeing Rastignac’s
face and listening to the tones of his voice during that hour snatched
under the Argus eyes of the Maison Vauquer? He had trampled on his
conscience; he knew that he was doing wrong, and did it deliberately;
he had said to himself that a woman’s happiness should atone for this
venial sin. The energy of desperation had lent new beauty to his face;
the lurid fire that burned in his heart shone from his eyes. Luckily
for him, the miracle took place. Vautrin came in in high spirits, and
at once read the hearts of these two young creatures whom he had brought
together by the combinations of his infernal genius, but his deep voice
broke in upon their bliss.
“A charming girl is my Fanchette
In her simplicity,”
he sang mockingly.
Victorine fled. Her heart was more full than it had ever been, but it
was full of joy, and not of sorrow. Poor child! A pressure of the hand,
the light touch of Rastignac’s hair against her cheek, a word whispered
in her ear so closely that she felt the student’s warm breath on
her, the pressure of a trembling arm about her waist, a kiss upon her
throat--such had been her betrothal. The near neighborhood of the stout
Sylvie, who might invade that glorified room at any moment, only made
these first tokens of love more ardent, more eloquent, more entrancing
than the noblest deeds done for love’s sake in the most famous
romances. This _plain-song_ of love, to use the pretty expression of our
forefathers, seemed almost criminal to the devout young girl who went to
confession every fortnight. In that one hour she had poured out more of
the treasures of her soul than she could give in later days of wealth
and happiness, when her whole self followed the gift.
“The thing is arranged,” Vautrin said to Eugene, who remained. “Our two
dandies have fallen out. Everything was done in proper form. It is
a matter of opinion. Our pigeon has insulted my hawk. They will meet
to-morrow in the redoubt at Clignancourt. By half-past eight in the
morning Mlle. Taillefer, calmly dipping her bread and butter in her
coffee cup, will be sole heiress of her father’s fortune and affections.
A funny way of putting it, isn’t it? Taillefer’s youngster is an expert
swordsman, and quite cocksure about it, but he will be bled; I have just
invented a thrust for his benefit, a way of raising your sword point
and driving it at the forehead. I must show you that thrust; it is an
uncommonly handy thing to know.”
Rastignac heard him in dazed bewilderment; he could not find a word in
reply. Just then Goriot came in, and Bianchon and a few of the boarders
likewise appeared.
“That is just as I intended.” Vautrin said. “You know quite well what
you are about. Good, my little eaglet! You are born to command, you are
strong, you stand firm on your feet, you are game! I respect you.”
He made as though he would take Eugene’s hand, but Rastignac hastily
withdrew it, sank into a chair, and turned ghastly pale; it seemed to
him that there was a sea of blood before his eyes.
“Oh! so we still have a few dubious tatters of the swaddling clothes
of virtue about us!” murmured Vautrin. “But Papa Doliban has three
millions; I know the amount of his fortune. Once have her dowry in your
hands, and your character will be as white as the bride’s white dress,
even in your own eyes.”
Rastignac hesitated no longer. He made up his mind that he would go that
evening to warn the Taillefers, father and son. But just as Vautrin left
him, Father Goriot came up and said in his ear, “You look melancholy, my
boy; I will cheer you up. Come with me.”
The old vermicelli dealer lighted his dip at one of the lamps as he
spoke. Eugene went with him, his curiosity had been aroused.
