It would not take much to make me send him to the workhouse.
In short, just put yourself in my place.
I have to think of my establishment first, for I have my own living to make.”
Eugene hurried up to Goriot’s room.
“Bianchon,” he cried, “the money for the watch?”
“There it is on the table, or the three hundred and sixty odd francs that are left of it.
I paid up all the old scores out of it before they let me have the things.
The pawn ticket lies there under the money.”
Rastignac hurried downstairs. “Here, madame” he said in disgust, “let us square accounts.
M. Goriot will not stay much longer in your house, nor shall I—”
“Yes, he will go out feet foremost, poor old gentleman,” she said, counting the francs with a half-facetious, half-lugubrious expression.
“Let us get this over,” said Rastignac.
“Sylvie, look out some sheets, and go upstairs to help the gentlemen.”
“You won’t forget Sylvie,” said Mme. Vauquer in Eugene’s ear; “she has been sitting up these two nights.”
As soon as Eugene’s back was turned, the old woman hurried after her handmaid.
“Take the sheets that have had the sides turned into the middle, number 7.
Lord! they are plenty good enough for a corpse,” she said in Sylvie’s ear.
Eugene, by this time, was part of the way upstairs, and did not overhear the elderly economist.
“Quick,” said Bianchon, “let us change his shirt.
Hold him upright.”
Eugene went to the head of the bed and supported the dying man, while Bianchon drew off his shirt; and then Goriot made a movement as if he tried to clutch something to his breast, uttering a low inarticulate moaning the while, like some dumb animal in mortal pain.
“Ah! yes!” cried Bianchon.
“It is the little locket and the chain made of hair that he wants; we took it off a while ago when we put the blisters on him.
Poor fellow! he must have it again.
There it lies on the chimney-piece.”
Eugene went to the chimney-piece and found the little plait of faded golden hair — Mme. Goriot’s hair, no doubt.
He read the name on the little round locket, ANASTASIE on the one side, DELPHINE on the other.
It was the symbol of his own heart that the father always wore on his breast.
The curls of hair inside the locket were so fine and soft that is was plain they had been taken from two childish heads.
When the old man felt the locket once more, his chest heaved with a long deep sigh of satisfaction, like a groan.
It was something terrible to see, for it seemed as if the last quiver of the nerves were laid bare to their eyes, the last communication of sense to the mysterious point within whence our sympathies come and whither they go.
A delirious joy lighted up the distorted face.
The terrific and vivid force of the feeling that had survived the power of thought made such an impression on the students, that the dying man felt their hot tears falling on him, and gave a shrill cry of delight.
“Nasie!
Fifine!”
“There is life in him yet,” said Bianchon.
“What does he go on living for?” said Sylvie.
“To suffer,” answered Rastignac.
Bianchon made a sign to his friend to follow his example, knelt down and pressed his arms under the sick man, and Rastignac on the other side did the same, so that Sylvie, standing in readiness, might draw the sheet from beneath and replace it with the one that she had brought.
Those tears, no doubt, had misled Goriot; for he gathered up all his remaining strength in a last effort, stretched out his hands, groped for the students’ heads, and as his fingers caught convulsively at their hair, they heard a faint whisper:
“Ah! my angels!”
Two words, two inarticulate murmurs, shaped into words by the soul which fled forth with them as they left his lips.
“Poor dear!” cried Sylvie, melted by that exclamation; the expression of the great love raised for the last time to a sublime height by that most ghastly and involuntary of lies.
The father’s last breath must have been a sigh of joy, and in that sigh his whole life was summed up; he was cheated even at the last.
They laid Father Goriot upon his wretched bed with reverent hands.
Thenceforward there was no expression on his face, only the painful traces of the struggle between life and death that was going on in the machine; for that kind of cerebral consciousness that distinguishes between pleasure and pain in a human being was extinguished; it was only a question of time — and the mechanism itself would be destroyed.
“He will lie like this for several hours, and die so quietly at last, that we shall not know when he goes; there will be no rattle in the throat.
The brain must be completely suffused.”
As he spoke there was a footstep on the staircase, and a young woman hastened up, panting for breath.
“She has come too late,” said Rastignac.