“Round a pretty woman’s neck, you mean,” said Mlle Michonneau, hastily.
“Just go away, M. Poiret.
It is a woman’s duty to nurse you men when you are ill.
Besides, for all the good you are doing, you may as well take yourself off,” she added.
“Mme. Vauquer and I will take great care of dear M. Vautrin.
Poiret went out on tiptoe without a murmur, like a dog kicked out of the room by his master.
Rastignac had gone out for the sake of physical exertion; he wanted to breathe the air, he felt stifled.
Yesterday evening he had meant to prevent the murder arranged for half-past eight that morning.
What had happened?
What ought he to do now?
He trembled to think that he himself might be implicated.
Vautrin’s coolness still further dismayed him.
“Yet, how if Vautrin should die without saying a word?” Rastignac asked himself.
He hurried along the alleys of the Luxembourg Gardens as if the hounds of justice were after him, and he already heard the baying of the pack.
“Well?” shouted Bianchon, “you have seen the Pilote?”
The Pilote was a Radical sheet, edited by M. Tissot. It came out several hours later than the morning papers, and was meant for the benefit of country subscribers; for it brought the morning news into provincial districts twenty-four hours sooner than the ordinary local journals.
“There is a wonderful history in it,” said the house student of the Hopital Cochin.
“Young Taillefer called out Count Franchessini, of the Old Guard, and the Count put a couple of inches of steel into his forehead.
And here is little Victorine one of the richest heiresses in Paris!
If we had known that, eh?
What a game of chance death is!
They say Victorine was sweet on you; was there any truth in it?”
“Shut up, Bianchon; I shall never marry her.
I am in love with a charming woman, and she is in love with me, so —”
“You said that as if you were screwing yourself up to be faithful to her.
I should like to see the woman worth the sacrifice of Master Taillefer’s money!”
“Are all the devils of hell at my heels?” cried Rastignac.
“What is the matter with you?
Are you mad?
Give us your hand,” said Bianchon, “and let me feel your pulse.
You are feverish.”
“Just go to Mother Vauquer’s,” said Rastignac; “that scoundrel Vautrin has dropped down like one dead.”
“Aha!” said Bianchon, leaving Rastignac to his reflections, “you confirm my suspicions, and now I mean to make sure for myself.”
The law student’s long walk was a memorable one for him.
He made in some sort a survey of his conscience.
After a close scrutiny, after hesitation and self-examination, his honor at any rate came out scatheless from this sharp and terrible ordeal, like a bar of iron tested in the English fashion.
He remembered Father Goriot’s confidences of the evening before; he recollected the rooms taken for him in the Rue d’Artois, so that he might be near Delphine; and then he thought of his letter, and read it again and kissed it.
“Such a love is my anchor of safety,” he said to himself.
“How the old man’s heart must have been wrung!
He says nothing about all that he has been through; but who could not guess?
Well, then, I will be like a son to him; his life shall be made happy.
If she cares for me, she will often come to spend the day with him.
That grand Comtesse de Restaud is a heartless thing; she would make her father into her hall porter.
Dear Delphine! she is kinder to the old man; she is worthy to be loved.
Ah! this evening I shall be very happy!”
He took out his watch and admired it.
“I have had nothing but success!
If two people mean to love each other for ever, they may help each other, and I can take this.
Besides, I shall succeed, and I will pay her a hundredfold.
There is nothing criminal in this liaison; nothing that could cause the most austere moralist to frown.