I watch while you slumber.”
“I am afraid he may be ill,” said Victorine.
“Then stop and take care of him,” returned Vautrin. “ ’Tis your duty as a meek and obedient wife,” he whispered in her ear. “the young fellow worships you, and you will be his little wife — there’s your fortune for you.
In short,” he added aloud, “they lived happily ever afterwards, were much looked up to in all the countryside, and had a numerous family.
That is how all the romances end.
— Now, mamma,” he went on, as he turned to Madame Vauquer and put his arm round her waist, “put on your bonnet, your best flowered silk, and the countess’ scarf, while I go out and call a cab — all my own self.”
And he started out, singing as he went:
“Oh! sun! divine sun!
Ripening the pumpkins every one.”
“My goodness! Well, I’m sure! Mme. Couture, I could live happily in a garret with a man like that.
— There, now!” she added, looking round for the old vermicelli maker, “there is that Father Goriot half seas over.
He never thought of taking me anywhere, the old skinflint.
But he will measure his length somewhere.
My word! it is disgraceful to lose his senses like that, at his age!
You will be telling me that he couldn’t lose what he hadn’t got — Sylvie, just take him up to his room!”
Sylvie took him by the arm, supported him upstairs, and flung him just as he was, like a package, across the bed.
“Poor young fellow!” said Mme. Couture, putting back Eugene’s hair that had fallen over his eyes; “he is like a young girl, he does not know what dissipation is.”
“Well, I can tell you this, I know,” said Mme. Vauquer, “I have taken lodgers these thirty years, and a good many have passed through my hands, as the saying is, but I have never seen a nicer nor a more aristocratic looking young man than M. Eugene.
How handsome he looks sleeping!
Just let his head rest on your shoulder, Mme. Couture.
Pshaw! he falls over towards Mlle. Victorine.
There’s a special providence for young things. A little more, and he would have broken his head against the knob of the chair.
They’d make a pretty pair those two would!”
“Hush, my good neighbor,” cried Mme. Couture, “you are saying such things —”
“Pooh!” put in Mme. Vauquer, “he does not hear.
— Here, Sylvie! come and help me to dress.
I shall put on my best stays.”
“What! your best stays just after dinner, madame?” said Sylvie.
“No, you can get some one else to lace you. I am not going to be your murderer.
It’s a rash thing to do, and might cost you your life.”
“I don’t care, I must do honor to M. Vautrin.”
“Are you so fond of your heirs as all that?”
“Come, Sylvie, don’t argue,” said the widow, as she left the room.
“At her age, too!” said the cook to Victorine, pointing to her mistress as she spoke.
Mme. Couture and her ward were left in the dining-room, and Eugene slept on Victorine’s shoulder.
The sound of Christophe’s snoring echoed through the silent house; Eugene’s quiet breathing seemed all the quieter by force of contrast, he was sleeping as peacefully as a child.
Victorine was very happy; she was free to perform one of those acts of charity which form an innocent outlet for all the overflowing sentiments of a woman’s nature; he was so close to her that she could feel the throbbing of his heart; there was a look of almost maternal protection and conscious pride in Victorine’s face.
Among the countless thoughts that crowded up in her young innocent heart, there was a wild flutter of joy at this close contact.
“Poor, dear child!” said Mme. Couture, squeezing her hand.
The old lady looked at the girl. Victorine’s innocent, pathetic face, so radiant with the new happiness that had befallen her, called to mind some naive work of mediaeval art, when the painter neglected the accessories, reserving all the magic of his brush for the quiet, austere outlines and ivory tints of the face, which seems to have caught something of the golden glory of heaven.
“After all, he only took two glasses, mamma,” said Victorine, passing her fingers through Eugene’s hair.
“Indeed, if he had been a dissipated young man, child, he would have carried his wine like the rest of them.
His drowsiness does him credit.”
There was a sound of wheels outside in the street.
“There is M. Vautrin, mamma,” said the girl.
“Just take M. Eugene.
I would rather not have that man see me like this; there are some ways of looking at you that seem to sully your soul and make you feel as though you had nothing on.”
“Oh, no, you are wrong!” said Mme. Couture.
“M. Vautrin is a worthy man; he reminds me a little of my late husband, poor dear M. Couture, rough but kind-hearted; his bark is worse than his bite.”
Vautrin came in while she was speaking; he did not make a sound, but looked for a while at the picture of the two young faces — the lamplight falling full upon them seemed to caress them.