“They will come before long,” the old man went on. “I know them so well.
My tender-hearted Delphine! If I am going to die, she will feel it so
much! And so will Nasie. I do not want to die; they will cry if I die;
and if I die, dear Eugene, I shall not see them any more. It will
be very dreary there where I am going. For a father it is hell to be
without your children; I have served my apprenticeship already since
they married. My heaven was in the Rue de la Jussienne. Eugene, do you
think that if I go to heaven I can come back to earth, and be near them
in spirit? I have heard some such things said. It is true? It is as if
I could see them at this moment as they used to be when we all lived
in the Rue de la Jussienne. They used to come downstairs of a morning.
‘Good-morning, papa!’ they used to say, and I would take them on my
knees; we had all sorts of little games of play together, and they had
such pretty coaxing ways. We always had breakfast together, too, every
morning, and they had dinner with me--in fact, I was a father then. I
enjoyed my children. They did not think for themselves so long as they
lived in the Rue de la Jussienne; they knew nothing of the world; they
loved me with all their hearts. _Mon Dieu!_ why could they not always
be little girls? (Oh! my head! this racking pain in my head!) Ah! ah!
forgive me, children, this pain is fearful; it must be agony indeed, for
you have used me to endure pain. _Mon Dieu!_ if only I held their hands
in mine, I should not feel it at all.--Do you think that they are on the
way? Christophe is so stupid; I ought to have gone myself. _He_ will see
them. But you went to the ball yesterday; just tell me how they looked.
They did not know that I was ill, did they, or they would not have been
dancing, poor little things? Oh! I must not be ill any longer. They
stand too much in need of me; their fortunes are in danger. And such
husbands as they are bound to! I must get well! (Oh! what pain this
is! what pain this is! ... ah! ah!)--I must get well, you see; for they
_must_ have money, and I know how to set about making some. I will go
to Odessa and manufacture starch there. I am an old hand, I will make
millions. (Oh! this is agony!)”
Goriot was silent for a moment; it seemed to require his whole strength
to endure the pain.
“If they were here, I should not complain,” he said. “So why should I
complain now?”
He seemed to grow drowsy with exhaustion, and lay quietly for a long
time. Christophe came back; and Rastignac, thinking that Goriot was
asleep, allowed the man to give his story aloud.
“First of all, sir, I went to Madame la Comtesse,” he said; “but she
and her husband were so busy that I couldn’t get to speak to her. When I
insisted that I must see her, M. de Restaud came out to me himself, and
went on like this: ‘M. Goriot is dying, is he? Very well, it is the
best thing he can do. I want Mme. de Restaud to transact some important
business, when it is all finished she can go.’ The gentleman looked
angry, I thought. I was just going away when Mme. de Restaud came out
into an ante-chamber through a door that I did not notice, and said,
‘Christophe, tell my father that my husband wants me to discuss some
matters with him, and I cannot leave the house, the life or death of my
children is at stake; but as soon as it is over, I will come.’ As for
Madame la Baronne, that is another story! I could not speak to her
either, and I did not even see her. Her waiting-woman said, ‘Ah yes, but
madame only came back from a ball at a quarter to five this morning; she
is asleep now, and if I wake her before mid-day she will be cross. As
soon as she rings, I will go and tell her that her father is worse. It
will be time enough then to tell her bad news!’ I begged and I prayed,
but, there! it was no good. Then I asked for M. le Baron, but he was
out.”
“To think that neither of his daughters should come!” exclaimed
Rastignac. “I will write to them both.”
“Neither of them!” cried the old man, sitting upright in bed. “They are
busy, they are asleep, they will not come! I knew that they would not.
Not until you are dying do you know your children.... Oh! my friend, do
not marry; do not have children! You give them life; they give you your
deathblow. You bring them into the world, and they send you out of it.
No, they will not come. I have known that these ten years. Sometimes I
have told myself so, but I did not dare to believe it.”
The tears gathered and stood without overflowing the red sockets.
“Ah! if I were rich still, if I had kept my money, if I had not given
all to them, they would be with me now; they would fawn on me and cover
my cheeks with their kisses! I should be living in a great mansion; I
should have grand apartments and servants and a fire in my room; and
_they_ would be about me all in tears, and their husbands and their
children. I should have had all that; now--I have nothing. Money brings
everything to you; even your daughters. My money. Oh! where is my money?
If I had plenty of money to leave behind me, they would nurse me and
tend me; I should hear their voices, I should see their faces. Ah, God!
who knows? They both of them have hearts of stone. I loved them too
much; it was not likely that they should love me. A father ought always
to be rich; he ought to keep his children well in hand, like unruly
horses. I have gone down on my knees to them. Wretches! this is the
crowning act that brings the last ten years to a proper close. If you
but knew how much they made of me just after they were married. (Oh!
this is cruel torture!) I had just given them each eight hundred
thousand francs; they were bound to be civil to me after that, and their
husbands too were civil. I used to go to their houses: it was ‘My kind
father’ here, ‘My dear father’ there. There was always a place for me at
their tables. I used to dine with their husbands now and then, and they
were very respectful to me. I was still worth something, they thought.
How should they know? I had not said anything about my affairs. It
is worth while to be civil to a man who has given his daughters eight
hundred thousand francs apiece; and they showed me every attention
then--but it was all for my money. Grand people are not great. I
found that out by experience! I went to the theatre with them in their
carriage; I might stay as long as I cared to stay at their evening
parties. In fact, they acknowledged me their father; publicly they owned
that they were my daughters. But I was always a shrewd one, you see,
and nothing was lost upon me. Everything went straight to the mark and
pierced my heart. I saw quite well that it was all sham and pretence,
but there is no help for such things as these. I felt less at my ease at
their dinner-table than I did downstairs here. I had nothing to say for
myself. So these grand folks would ask in my son-in-law’s ear, ‘Who may
that gentleman be?’--‘The father-in-law with the money bags; he is very
rich.’--‘The devil, he is!’ they would say, and look again at me with
the respect due to my money. Well, if I was in the way sometimes, I paid
dearly for my mistakes. And besides, who is perfect? (My head is one
sore!) Dear Monsieur Eugene, I am suffering so now, that a man might die
of the pain; but it is nothing to be compared with the pain I endured
when Anastasie made me feel, for the first time, that I had said
something stupid. She looked at me, and that glance of hers opened all
my veins. I used to want to know everything, to be learned; and one
thing I did learn thoroughly--I knew that I was not wanted here on
earth.
“The next day I went to Delphine for comfort, and what should I do there
but make some stupid blunder that made her angry with me. I was like one
driven out of his senses. For a week I did not know what to do; I did
not dare to go to see them for fear they should reproach me. And that
was how they both turned me out of the house.
“Oh God! Thou knowest all the misery and anguish that I have endured;
Thou hast counted all the wounds that have been dealt to me in these
years that have aged and changed me and whitened my hair and drained my
life; why dost Thou make me to suffer so to-day? Have I not more than
expiated the sin of loving them too much? They themselves have been the
instruments of vengeance; they have tortured me for my sin of affection.
“Ah, well! fathers know no better; I loved them so; I went back to them
as a gambler goes to the gaming table. This love was my vice, you see,
my mistress--they were everything in the world to me. They were always
wanting something or other, dresses and ornaments, and what not; their
maids used to tell me what they wanted, and I used to give them the
things for the sake of the welcome that they bought for me. But, at
the same time, they used to give me little lectures on my behavior in
society; they began about it at once. Then they began to feel ashamed of
me. That is what comes of having your children well brought up. I could
not go to school again at my time of life. (This pain is fearful! _Mon
Dieu!_ These doctors! these doctors! If they would open my head, it
would give me some relief!) Oh, my daughters, my daughters! Anastasie!
Delphine! If I could only see them! Send for the police, and make them
come to me! Justice is on my side, the whole world is on my side, I have
natural rights, and the law with me. I protest! The country will go to
ruin if a father’s rights are trampled under foot. That is easy to see.
The whole world turns on fatherly love; fatherly love is the foundation
of society; it will crumble into ruin when children do not love their
fathers. Oh! if I could only see them, and hear them, no matter what
they said; if I could simply hear their voices, it would soothe the
pain. Delphine! Delphine most of all. But tell them when they come not
to look so coldly at me as they do. Oh! my friend, my good Monsieur
Eugene, you do not know that it is when all the golden light in a glance
suddenly turns to a leaden gray. It has been one long winter here since
the light in their eyes shone no more for me. I have had nothing but
disappointments to devour. Disappointment has been my daily bread; I
have lived on humiliation and insults. I have swallowed down all the
affronts for which they sold me my poor stealthy little moments of
joy; for I love them so! Think of it! a father hiding himself to get a
glimpse of his children! I have given all my life to them, and to-day
they will not give me one hour! I am hungering and thirsting for them,
my heart is burning in me, but they will not come to bring relief in the
agony, for I am dying now, I feel that this is death. Do they not know
what it means to trample on a father’s corpse? There is a God in heaven
who avenges us fathers whether we will or no.
“Oh! they will come! Come to me, darlings, and give me one more kiss;
one last kiss, the Viaticum for your father, who will pray God for you
in heaven. I will tell Him that you have been good children to your
father, and plead your cause with God! After all, it is not their fault.
I tell you they are innocent, my friend. Tell every one that it is not
their fault, and no one need be distressed on my account. It is all my
own fault, I taught them to trample upon me. I loved to have it so.
It is no one’s affair but mine; man’s justice and God’s justice have
nothing to do in it. God would be unjust if He condemned them for
anything they may have done to me. I did not behave to them properly;
I was stupid enough to resign my rights. I would have humbled myself in
the dust for them. What could you expect? The most beautiful nature, the
noblest soul, would have been spoiled by such indulgence. I am a wretch,
I am justly punished. I, and I only, am to blame for all their sins; I
spoiled them. To-day they are as eager for pleasure as they used to be
for sugar-plums. When they were little girls I indulged them in every
whim. They had a carriage of their own when they were fifteen. They
have never been crossed. I am guilty, and not they--but I sinned through
love.
“My heart would open at the sound of their voices. I can hear them; they
are coming. Yes! yes! they are coming. The law demands that they should
be present at their father’s deathbed; the law is on my side. It would
only cost them the hire of a cab. I would pay that. Write to them, tell
them that I have millions to leave to them! On my word of honor, yes. I
am going to manufacture Italian paste foods at Odessa. I understand the
trade. There are millions to be made in it. Nobody has thought of the
scheme as yet. You see, there will be no waste, no damage in transit,
as there always is with wheat and flour. Hey! hey! and starch too; there
are millions to be made in the starch trade! You will not be telling
a lie. Millions, tell them; and even if they really come because they
covet the money, I would rather let them deceive me; and I shall see
them in any case. I want my children! I gave them life; they are mine,
mine!” and he sat upright. The head thus raised, with its scanty white
hair, seemed to Eugene like a threat; every line that could still speak
spoke of menace.
“There, there, dear father,” said Eugene, “lie down again; I will write
to them at once. As soon as Bianchon comes back I will go for them
myself, if they do not come before.”
“If they do not come?” repeated the old man, sobbing. “Why, I shall
be dead before then; I shall die in a fit of rage, of rage! Anger is
getting the better of me. I can see my whole life at this minute. I have
been cheated! They do not love me--they have never loved me all their
lives! It is all clear to me. They have not come, and they will not
come. The longer they put off their coming, the less they are likely
to give me this joy. I know them. They have never cared to guess my
disappointments, my sorrows, my wants; they never cared to know my life;
they will have no presentiment of my death; they do not even know the
secret of my tenderness for them. Yes, I see it all now. I have laid my
heart open so often, that they take everything I do for them as a matter
of course. They might have asked me for the very eyes out of my head and
I would have bidden them to pluck them out. They think that all fathers
are like theirs. You should always make your value felt. Their own
children will avenge me. Why, for their own sakes they should come to
me! Make them understand that they are laying up retribution for their
own deathbeds. All crimes are summed up in this one.... Go to them; just
tell them that if they stay away it will be parricide! There is enough
laid to their charge already without adding that to the list. Cry aloud
as I do now, ‘Nasie! Delphine! here! Come to your father; the father who
has been so kind to you is lying ill!’--Not a sound; no one comes! Then
am I to die like a dog? 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.”
