She smiled, and would not give way to the happiness she felt, lest their talk should exceed the conventional limits of propriety.
She had never heard the vibrating tones of a sincere and youthful love; a few more words, and she feared for her self-control.
“Eugene,” she said, changing the conversation, “I wonder whether you know what has been happening?
All Paris will go to Mme. de Beauseant’s to-morrow.
The Rochefides and the Marquis d’Ajuda have agreed to keep the matter a profound secret, but to-morrow the king will sign the marriage-contract, and your poor cousin the Vicomtesse knows nothing of it as yet.
She cannot put off her ball, and the Marquis will not be there.
People are wondering what will happen?”
“The world laughs at baseness and connives at it.
But this will kill Mme. de Beauseant.”
“Oh, no,” said Delphine, smiling, “you do not know that kind of woman.
Why, all Paris will be there, and so shall I; I ought to go there for your sake.”
“Perhaps, after all, it is one of those absurd reports that people set in circulation here.”
“We shall know the truth to-morrow.”
Eugene did not return to the Maison Vauquer.
He could not forego the pleasure of occupying his new rooms in the Rue d’Artois.
Yesterday evening he had been obliged to leave Delphine soon after midnight, but that night it was Delphine who stayed with him until two o’clock in the morning.
He rose late, and waited for Mme. de Nucingen, who came about noon to breakfast with him.
Youth snatches eagerly at these rosy moments of happiness, and Eugene had almost forgotten Goriot’s existence.
The pretty things that surrounded him were growing familiar; this domestication in itself was one long festival for him, and Mme. de Nucingen was there to glorify it all by her presence.
It was four o’clock before they thought of Goriot, and of how he had looked forward to the new life in that house.
Eugene said that the old man ought to be moved at once, lest he should grow too ill to move. He left Delphine and hurried back to the lodging-house.
Neither Father Goriot nor young Bianchon was in the dining-room with the others.
“Aha!” said the painter as Eugene came in, “Father Goriot has broken down at last.
Bianchon is upstairs with him.
One of his daughters — the Comtesse de Restaurama — came to see the old gentleman, and he would get up and go out, and made himself worse.
Society is about to lose one of its brightest ornaments.”
Rastignac sprang to the staircase.
“Hey! Monsieur Eugene!”
“Monsieur Eugene, the mistress is calling you,” shouted Sylvie.
“It is this, sir,” said the widow. “You and M. Goriot should by rights have moved out on the 15th of February.
That was three days ago; to-day is the 18th, I ought really to be paid a month in advance; but if you will engage to pay for both, I shall be quite satisfied.”
“Why can’t you trust him?”
“Trust him, indeed!
If the old gentleman went off his head and died, those daughters of his would not pay me a farthing, and his things won’t fetch ten francs.
This morning he went out with all the spoons and forks he has left, I don’t know why.
He had got himself up to look quite young, and — Lord, forgive me — but I thought he had rouge on his cheeks; he looked quite young again.”
“I will be responsible,” said Eugene, shuddering with horror, for he foresaw the end.
He climbed the stairs and reached Father Goriot’s room.
The old man was tossing on his bed. Bianchon was with him.
“Good-evening, father,” said Eugene.
The old man turned his glassy eyes on him, smiled gently, and said:
“How is she?”
“She is quite well.
But how are you?”
“There is nothing much the matter.”
“Don’t tire him,” said Bianchon, drawing Eugene into a corner of the room.
“Well?” asked Rastignac.
“Nothing but a miracle can save him now.
Serous congestion has set in; I have put on mustard plasters, and luckily he can feel them, they are acting.”
“Is it possible to move him?”