“A delusion,” he said.
“Collin’s sorbonne is the most dangerous that has yet been found among the dangerous classes.
That is all, and the rascals are quite aware of it. They rally round him; he is the backbone of the federation, its Bonaparte, in short; he is very popular with them all.
The rogue will never leave his chump in the Place de Greve.”
As Mlle. Michonneau seemed mystified, Gondureau explained the two slang words for her benefit.
Sorbonne and chump are two forcible expressions borrowed from thieves’ Latin, thieves, of all people, being compelled to consider the human head in its two aspects.
A sorbonne is the head of a living man, his faculty of thinking — his council; a chump is a contemptuous epithet that implies how little a human head is worth after the axe has done its work.
“Collin is playing us off,” he continued.
“When we come across a man like a bar of steel tempered in the English fashion, there is always one resource left — we can kill him if he takes it into his head to make the least resistance.
We are reckoning on several methods of killing Collin to-morrow morning.
It saves a trial, and society is rid of him without all the expense of guarding and feeding him.
What with getting up the case, summoning witnesses, paying their expenses, and carrying out the sentence, it costs a lot to go through all the proper formalities before you can get quit of one of these good-for-nothings, over and above the three thousand francs that you are going to have. There is a saving in time as well.
One good thrust of the bayonet into Trompe-la-Mort’s paunch will prevent scores of crimes, and save fifty scoundrels from following his example; they will be very careful to keep themselves out of the police courts.
That is doing the work of the police thoroughly, and true philanthropists will tell you that it is better to prevent crime than to punish it.”
“And you do a service to our country,” said Poiret.
“Really, you are talking in a very sensible manner tonight, that you are,” said the head of the department.
“Yes, of course, we are serving our country, and we are very hardly used too.
We do society very great services that are not recognized.
In fact, a superior man must rise above vulgar prejudices, and a Christian must resign himself to the mishaps that doing right entails, when right is done in an out-of-the-way style.
Paris is Paris, you see!
That is the explanation of my life.
— I have the honor to wish you a good-evening, mademoiselle. I shall bring my men to the Jardin du Roi in the morning.
Send Christophe to the Rue du Buffon, tell him to ask for M. Gondureau in the house where you saw me before.
— Your servant, sir.
If you should ever have anything stolen from you, come to me, and I will do my best to get it back for you.”
“Well, now,” Poiret remarked to Mlle. Michonneau, “there are idiots who are scared out of their wits by the word police.
That was a very pleasant-spoken gentleman, and what he wants you to do is as easy as saying ‘Good-day.’ ”
The next day was destined to be one of the most extraordinary in the annals of the Maison Vauquer.
Hitherto the most startling occurrence in its tranquil existence had been the portentous, meteor-like apparition of the sham Comtesse de l’Ambermesnil.
But the catastrophes of this great day were to cast all previous events into the shade, and supply an inexhaustible topic of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and her boarders so long as she lived.
In the first place, Goriot and Eugene de Rastignac both slept till close upon eleven o’clock.
Mme. Vauquer, who came home about midnight from the Gaite, lay a-bed till half-past ten.
Christophe, after a prolonged slumber (he had finished Vautrin’s first bottle of wine), was behindhand with his work, but Poiret and Mlle. Michonneau uttered no complaint, though breakfast was delayed.
As for Victorine and Mme. Couture, they also lay late.
Vautrin went out before eight o’clock, and only came back just as breakfast was ready.
Nobody protested, therefore, when Sylvie and Christophe went up at a quarter past eleven, knocked at all the doors, and announced that breakfast was waiting.
While Sylvie and the man were upstairs, Mlle. Michonneau, who came down first, poured the contents of the phial into the silver cup belonging to Vautrin — it was standing with the others in the bain-marie that kept the cream hot for the morning coffee.
The spinster had reckoned on this custom of the house to do her stroke of business.
The seven lodgers were at last collected together, not without some difficulty.
Just as Eugene came downstairs, stretching himself and yawning, a commissionaire handed him a letter from Mme. de Nucingen.
It ran thus:—
“I feel neither false vanity nor anger where you are concerned, my friend.
Till two o’clock this morning I waited for you.
Oh, that waiting for one whom you love!
No one that had passed through that torture could inflict it on another.
I know now that you have never loved before.
What can have happened?
Anxiety has taken hold of me.
I would have come myself to find out what had happened, if I had not feared to betray the secrets of my heart.
How can I walk out or drive out at this time of day? Would it not be ruin?