Vautrin began to smile.
Though the drug he had taken was doing its work, the convict was so vigorous that he rose to his feet, gave Rastignac a look, and said in hollow tones,
“Luck comes to us while we sleep, young man,” and fell stiff and stark, as if he were struck dead.
“So there is a Divine Justice!” said Eugene.
“Well, if ever! What has come to that poor dear M. Vautrin?”
“A stroke!” cried Mlle. Michonneau.
“Here, Sylvie! girl, run for the doctor,” called the widow.
“Oh, M. Rastignac, just go for M. Bianchon, and be as quick as you can; Sylvie might not be in time to catch our doctor, M. Grimprel.”
Rastignac was glad of an excuse to leave that den of horrors, his hurry for the doctor was nothing but a flight.
“Here, Christophe, go round to the chemist’s and ask for something that’s good for the apoplexy.”
Christophe likewise went.
“Father Goriot, just help us to get him upstairs.”
Vautrin was taken up among them, carried carefully up the narrow staircase, and laid upon his bed.
“I can do no good here, so I shall go to see my daughter,” said M. Goriot.
“Selfish old thing!” cried Mme. Vauquer.
“Yes, go; I wish you may die like a dog.”
“Just go and see if you can find some ether,” said Mlle. Michonneau to Mme. Vauquer; the former, with some help from Poiret, had unfastened the sick man’s clothes.
Mme. Vauquer went down to her room, and left Mlle. Michonneau mistress of the situation.
“Now! just pull down his shirt and turn him over, quick!
You might be of some use in sparing my modesty,” she said to Poiret, “instead of standing there like a stock.”
Vautrin was turned over; Mlle. Michonneau gave his shoulder a sharp slap, and the two portentous letters appeared, white against the red.
“There, you have earned your three thousand francs very easily,” exclaimed Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mlle. Michonneau slipped on the shirt again. —“Ouf!
How heavy he is,” he added, as he laid the convict down.
“Hush!
Suppose there is a strong-box here!” said the old maid briskly; her glances seemed to pierce the walls, she scrutinized every article of the furniture with greedy eyes.
“Could we find some excuse for opening that desk?”
“It mightn’t be quite right,” responded Poiret to this.
“Where is the harm?
It is money stolen from all sorts of people, so it doesn’t belong to any one now.
But we haven’t time, there is the Vauquer.”
“Here is the ether,” said that lady.
“I must say that this is an eventful day.
Lord! that man can’t have had a stroke; he is as white as curds.”
“White as curds?” echoed Poiret.
“And his pulse is steady,” said the widow, laying her hand on his breast.
“Steady?” said the astonished Poiret.
“He is all right.”
“Do you think so?” asked Poiret.
“Lord! Yes, he looks as if he were sleeping.
Sylvie has gone for a doctor.
I say, Mlle. Michonneau, he is sniffing the ether.
Pooh! it is only a spasm.
His pulse is good.
He is as strong as a Turk.
Just look, mademoiselle, what a fur tippet he has on his chest; that is the sort of man to live till he is a hundred.
His wig holds on tightly, however.
Dear me! it is glued on, and his own hair is red; that is why he wears a wig.
They say that red-haired people are either the worst or the best.
Is he one of the good ones, I wonder?”
“Good to hang,” said Poiret.