EUGENIE GRANDET

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Title: Eugenie Grandet

Author: Honore de Balzac

Translator: Katharine Prescott Wormeley

Release Date: March 1, 2010 [EBook #1715]

Last Updated: November 22, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EUGENIE GRANDET ***

Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny, and David Widger

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 By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Kathar!ne Prescott Wormeley

DEDICATION

To Maria.

May your name, that of one whose portrait is the noblest ornament
of this work, lie on its opening pages like a branch of sacred
box, taken from an unknown tree, but sanctified by religion, and
kept ever fresh and green by pious hands to bless the house.

De Balzac.

Contents
EUGENIE GRANDET

I VIII

II IX

III X

IV XI

V XII

VI XIII

VII XIV

ADDENDUM
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 EUGENIE GRANDET
I
There are houses !n certa!n prov!nc!al towns whose aspect !nsp!res
melancholy, ak!n to that called forth by sombre clo!sters, dreary
moorlands, or the desolat!on of ru!ns. W!th!n these houses there !s,
perhaps, the s!lence of the clo!ster, the barrenness of moors, the
skeleton of ru!ns; l!fe and movement are so stagnant there that a
stranger m!ght th!nk them un!nhab!ted, were !t not that he
encounters suddenly the pale, cold glance of a mot!onless person,
whose half-monast!c face peers beyond the w!ndow-cas!ng at the
sound of an unaccustomed step.

Such elements of sadness formed the phys!ognomy, as !t were, of a

dwell!ng-house !n Saumur wh!ch stands at the end of the steep
street lead!ng to the chateau !n the upper part of the town. Th!s
street—now l!ttle frequented, hot !n summer, cold !n w!nter, dark !n
certa!n sect!ons—!s remarkable for the resonance of !ts l!ttle pebbly
pavement, always clean and dry, for the narrowness of !ts tortuous
road-way, for the peaceful st!llness of !ts houses, wh!ch belong to
the Old town and are over-topped by the ramparts. Houses three
centur!es old are st!ll sol!d, though bu!lt of wood, and the!r d!vers
aspects add to the or!g!nal!ty wh!ch commends th!s port!on of
Saumur to the attent!on of art!sts and ant!quar!es.

It !s d!ff!cult to pass these houses w!thout adm!r!ng the enormous

oaken beams, the!r ends carved !nto fantast!c f!gures, wh!ch crown
w!th a black bas-rel!ef the lower floor of most of them. In one place
these transverse t!mbers are covered w!th slate and mark a blu!sh
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 l!ne along the fra!l wall of a dwell!ng covered by a roof en colombage
wh!ch bends beneath the we!ght of years, and whose rott!ng
sh!ngles are tw!sted by the alternate act!on of sun and ra!n. In
another place blackened, worn-out w!ndow-s!lls, w!th del!cate
sculptures now scarcely d!scern!ble, seem too weak to bear the
brown clay pots from wh!ch spr!ngs the heart’s-ease or the rose-
bush of some poor work!ng-woman. Farther on are doors studded
w!th enormous na!ls, where the gen!us of our forefathers has traced
domest!c h!eroglyph!cs, of wh!ch the mean!ng !s now lost forever.
Here a Protestant attested h!s bel!ef; there a Leaguer cursed Henry
IV.; elsewhere some bourgeo!s has carved the !ns!gn!a of h!s
noblesse de cloches, symbols of h!s long-forgotten mag!ster!al glory.
The whole h!story of France !s there.

Next to a totter!ng house w!th roughly plastered walls, where an

art!san enshr!nes h!s tools, r!ses the mans!on of a country
gentleman, on the stone arch of wh!ch above the door vest!ges of
armor!al bear!ngs may st!ll be seen, battered by the many revolut!ons
that have shaken France s!nce 1789. In th!s h!lly street the ground-
floors of the merchants are ne!ther shops nor warehouses; lovers of
the M!ddle Ages w!ll here f!nd the ouvrouere of our forefathers !n all
!ts na!ve s!mpl!c!ty. These low rooms, wh!ch have no shop-frontage,
no show-w!ndows, !n fact no glass at all, are deep and dark and
w!thout !nter!or or exter!or decorat!on. The!r doors open !n two parts,
each roughly !ron-bound; the upper half !s fastened back w!th!n the
room, the lower half, f!tted w!th a spr!ng-bell, sw!ngs cont!nually to
and fro. A!r and l!ght reach the damp den w!th!n, e!ther through the
upper half of the door, or through an open space between the ce!l!ng
and a low front wall, breast-h!gh, wh!ch !s closed by sol!d shutters
that are taken down every morn!ng, put up every even!ng, and held !n
place by heavy !ron bars.

Th!s wall serves as a counter for the merchand!se. No delus!ve

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 d!splay !s there; only samples of the bus!ness, whatever !t may
chance to be,—such, for !nstance, as three or four tubs full of codf!sh
and salt, a few bundles of sa!l-cloth, cordage, copper w!re hang!ng
from the jo!sts above, !ron hoops for casks ranged along the wall, or
a few p!eces of cloth upon the shelves. Enter. A neat g!rl, glow!ng
w!th youth, wear!ng a wh!te kerch!ef, her arms red and bare, drops
her kn!tt!ng and calls her father or her mother, one of whom comes
forward and sells you what you want, phlegmat!cally, c!v!lly, or
arrogantly, accord!ng to h!s or her !nd!v!dual character, whether !t be
a matter of two sous’ or twenty thousand francs’ worth of
merchand!se. You may see a cooper, for !nstance, s!tt!ng !n h!s
doorway and tw!rl!ng h!s thumbs as he talks w!th a ne!ghbor. To all
appearance he owns noth!ng more than a few m!serable boat-r!bs
and two or three bundles of laths; but below !n the port h!s teem!ng
wood-yard suppl!es all the cooperage trade of Anjou. He knows to a
plank how many casks are needed !f the v!ntage !s good. A hot
season makes h!m r!ch, a ra!ny season ru!ns h!m; !n a s!ngle morn!ng
puncheons worth eleven francs have been known to drop to s!x. In
th!s country, as !n Toura!ne, atmospher!c v!c!ss!tudes control
commerc!al l!fe. W!ne-growers, propr!etors, wood-merchants,
coopers, !nn-keepers, mar!ners, all keep watch of the sun. They
tremble when they go to bed lest they should hear !n the morn!ng of
a frost !n the n!ght; they dread ra!n, w!nd, drought, and want water,
heat, and clouds to su!t the!r fancy. A perpetual duel goes on
between the heavens and the!r terrestr!al !nterests. The barometer
smooths, saddens, or makes merry the!r countenances, turn and
turn about. From end to end of th!s street, formerly the Grand’Rue de
Saumur, the words: “Here’s golden weather,” are passed from door to
door; or each man calls to h!s ne!ghbor: “It ra!ns lou!s,” know!ng well
what a sunbeam or the opportune ra!nfall !s br!ng!ng h!m.

On Saturdays after m!dday, !n the f!ne season, not one sou’s worth of
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 merchand!se can be bought from these worthy traders. Each has h!s
v!neyard, h!s enclosure of f!elds, and all spend two days !n the
country. Th!s be!ng foreseen, and purchases, sales, and prof!ts
prov!ded for, the merchants have ten or twelve hours to spend !n
part!es of pleasure, !n mak!ng observat!ons, !n cr!t!c!sms, and !n
cont!nual spy!ng. A housew!fe cannot buy a partr!dge w!thout the
ne!ghbors ask!ng the husband !f !t were cooked to a turn. A young
g!rl never puts her head near a w!ndow that she !s not seen by !dl!ng
groups !n the street. Consc!ences are held !n the l!ght; and the
houses, dark, s!lent, !mpenetrable as they seem, h!de no myster!es.
L!fe !s almost wholly !n the open a!r; every household s!ts at !ts own
threshold, breakfasts, d!nes, and quarrels there. No one can pass
along the street w!thout be!ng exam!ned; !n fact formerly, when a
stranger entered a prov!nc!al town he was bantered and made game
of from door to door. From th!s came many good stor!es, and the
n!ckname cop!eux, wh!ch was appl!ed to the !nhab!tants of Angers,
who excelled !n such urban sarcasms.

The anc!ent mans!ons of the old town of Saumur are at the top of th!s
h!lly street, and were formerly occup!ed by the nob!l!ty of the
ne!ghborhood. The melancholy dwell!ng where the events of the
follow!ng h!story took place !s one of these mans!ons,—venerable
rel!cs of a century !n wh!ch men and th!ngs bore the character!st!cs
of s!mpl!c!ty wh!ch French manners and customs are los!ng day by
day. Follow the w!nd!ngs of the p!cturesque thoroughfare, whose
!rregular!t!es awaken recollect!ons that plunge the m!nd mechan!cally
!nto rever!e, and you w!ll see a somewhat dark recess, !n the centre
of wh!ch !s h!dden the door of the house of Mons!eur Grandet. It !s
!mposs!ble to understand the force of th!s prov!nc!al express!on—the
house of Mons!eur Grandet—w!thout g!v!ng the b!ography of
Mons!eur Grandet h!mself.

Mons!eur Grandet enjoyed a reputat!on !n Saumur whose causes and

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 effects can never be fully understood by those who have not, at one
t!me or another, l!ved !n the prov!nces. In 1789 Mons!eur Grandet—
st!ll called by certa!n persons le Pere Grandet, though the number of
such old persons has percept!bly d!m!n!shed—was a master-cooper,
able to read, wr!te, and c!pher. At the per!od when the French
Republ!c offered for sale the church property !n the arrond!ssement
of Saumur, the cooper, then forty years of age, had just marr!ed the
daughter of a r!ch wood-merchant. Suppl!ed w!th the ready money of
h!s own fortune and h!s w!fe’s dot, !n all about two thousand lou!s-
d’or, Grandet went to the newly establ!shed “d!str!ct,” where, w!th the
help of two hundred double lou!s g!ven by h!s father-!n-law to the
surly republ!can who pres!ded over the sales of the nat!onal doma!n,
he obta!ned for a song, legally !f not leg!t!mately, one of the f!nest
v!neyards !n the arrond!ssement, an old abbey, and several farms.
The !nhab!tants of Saumur were so l!ttle revolut!onary that they
thought Pere Grandet a bold man, a republ!can, and a patr!ot w!th a
m!nd open to all the new !deas; though !n po!nt of fact !t was open
only to v!neyards. He was appo!nted a member of the adm!n!strat!on
of Saumur, and h!s pac!f!c !nfluence made !tself felt pol!t!cally and
commerc!ally. Pol!t!cally, he protected the c!-devant nobles, and
prevented, to the extent of h!s power, the sale of the lands and
property of the em!gres; commerc!ally, he furn!shed the Republ!can
arm!es w!th two or three thousand puncheons of wh!te w!ne, and
took h!s pay !n splend!d f!elds belong!ng to a commun!ty of women
whose lands had been reserved for the last lot.

Under the Consulate Grandet became mayor, governed w!sely, and

harvested st!ll better p!ck!ngs. Under the Emp!re he was called
Mons!eur Grandet. Napoleon, however, d!d not l!ke republ!cans, and
superseded Mons!eur Grandet (who was supposed to have worn the
Phryg!an cap) by a man of h!s own surround!ngs, a future baron of
the Emp!re. Mons!eur Grandet qu!tted off!ce w!thout regret. He had
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 constructed !n the !nterests of the town certa!n f!ne roads wh!ch led
to h!s own property; h!s house and lands, very advantageously
assessed, pa!d moderate taxes; and s!nce the reg!strat!on of h!s
var!ous estates, the v!neyards, thanks to h!s constant care, had
become the “head of the country,”—a local term used to denote
those that produced the f!nest qual!ty of w!ne. He m!ght have asked
for the cross of the Leg!on of honor.

Th!s event occurred !n 1806. Mons!eur Grandet was then f!fty-seven

years of age, h!s w!fe th!rty-s!x, and an only daughter, the fru!t of
the!r leg!t!mate love, was ten years old. Mons!eur Grandet, whom
Prov!dence no doubt des!red to compensate for the loss of h!s
mun!c!pal honors, !nher!ted three fortunes !n the course of th!s year,
—that of Madame de la Gaud!n!ere, born de la Bertell!ere, the mother
of Madame Grandet; that of old Mons!eur de la Bertell!ere, her
grandfather; and, lastly, that of Madame Gent!llet, her grandmother
on the mother’s s!de: three !nher!tances, whose amount was not
known to any one. The avar!ce of the deceased persons was so keen
that for a long t!me they had hoarded the!r money for the pleasure of
secretly look!ng at !t. Old Mons!eur de la Bertell!ere called an
!nvestment an extravagance, and thought he got better !nterest from
the s!ght of h!s gold than from the prof!ts of usury. The !nhab!tants of
Saumur consequently est!mated h!s sav!ngs accord!ng to “the
revenues of the sun’s wealth,” as they sa!d.

Mons!eur Grandet thus obta!ned that modern t!tle of nob!l!ty wh!ch

our man!a for equal!ty can never rub out. He became the most
!mpos!ng personage !n the arrond!ssement. He worked a hundred
acres of v!neyard, wh!ch !n fru!tful years y!elded seven or e!ght
hundred hogsheads of w!ne. He owned th!rteen farms, an old abbey,
whose w!ndows and arches he had walled up for the sake of
economy,—a measure wh!ch preserved them,—also a hundred and
twenty-seven acres of meadow-land, where three thousand poplars,
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 planted !n 1793, grew and flour!shed; and f!nally, the house !n wh!ch
he l!ved. Such was h!s v!s!ble estate; as to h!s other property, only
two persons could g!ve even a vague guess at !ts value: one was
Mons!eur Cruchot, a notary employed !n the usur!ous !nvestments of
Mons!eur Grandet; the other was Mons!eur des Grass!ns, the r!chest
banker !n Saumur, !n whose prof!ts Grandet had a certa!n covenanted
and secret share.

Although old Cruchot and Mons!eur des Grass!ns were both g!fted
w!th the deep d!scret!on wh!ch wealth and trust beget !n the
prov!nces, they publ!cly test!f!ed so much respect to Mons!eur
Grandet that observers est!mated the amount of h!s property by the
obsequ!ous attent!on wh!ch they bestowed upon h!m. In all Saumur
there was no one not persuaded that Mons!eur Grandet had a pr!vate
treasure, some h!d!ng-place full of lou!s, where he n!ghtly took
!neffable del!ght !n gaz!ng upon great masses of gold. Avar!c!ous
people gathered proof of th!s when they looked at the eyes of the
good man, to wh!ch the yellow metal seemed to have conveyed !ts
t!nts. The glance of a man accustomed to draw enormous !nterest
from h!s cap!tal acqu!res, l!ke that of the l!bert!ne, the gambler, or the
sycophant, certa!n !ndef!nable hab!ts,—furt!ve, eager, myster!ous
movements, wh!ch never escape the not!ce of h!s co-rel!g!on!sts.
Th!s secret language !s !n a certa!n way the freemasonry of the
pass!ons. Mons!eur Grandet !nsp!red the respectful esteem due to
one who owed no man anyth!ng, who, sk!lful cooper and exper!enced
w!ne-grower that he was, guessed w!th the prec!s!on of an
astronomer whether he ought to manufacture a thousand puncheons
for h!s v!ntage, or only f!ve hundred, who never fa!led !n any
speculat!on, and always had casks for sale when casks were worth
more than the commod!ty that f!lled them, who could store h!s whole
v!ntage !n h!s cellars and b!de h!s t!me to put the puncheons on the
market at two hundred francs, when the l!ttle propr!etors had been
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 forced to sell the!rs for f!ve lou!s. H!s famous v!ntage of 1811,
jud!c!ously stored and slowly d!sposed of, brought h!m !n more than
two hundred and forty thousand francs.

F!nanc!ally speak!ng, Mons!eur Grandet was someth!ng between a

t!ger and a boa-constr!ctor. He could crouch and l!e low, watch h!s
prey a long wh!le, spr!ng upon !t, open h!s jaws, swallow a mass of
lou!s, and then rest tranqu!lly l!ke a snake !n process of d!gest!on,
!mpass!ble, method!cal, and cold. No one saw h!m pass w!thout a
feel!ng of adm!rat!on m!ngled w!th respect and fear; had not every
man !n Saumur felt the rend!ng of those pol!shed steel claws? For
th!s one, Ma!tre Cruchot had procured the money requ!red for the
purchase of a doma!n, but at eleven per cent. For that one, Mons!eur
des Grass!ns d!scounted b!lls of exchange, but at a fr!ghtful
deduct!on of !nterest. Few days ever passed that Mons!eur Grandet’s
name was not ment!oned e!ther !n the markets or !n soc!al
conversat!ons at the even!ng gather!ngs. To some the fortune of the
old w!ne-grower was an object of patr!ot!c pr!de. More than one
merchant, more than one !nnkeeper, sa!d to strangers w!th a certa!n
complacency: “Mons!eur, we have two or three m!ll!ona!re
establ!shments; but as for Mons!eur Grandet, he does not h!mself
know how much he !s worth.”

In 1816 the best reckoners !n Saumur est!mated the landed property

of the worthy man at nearly four m!ll!ons; but as, on an average, he
had made yearly, from 1793 to 1817, a hundred thousand francs out
of that property, !t was fa!r to presume that he possessed !n actual
money a sum nearly equal to the value of h!s estate. So that when,
after a game of boston or an even!ng d!scuss!on on the matter of
v!nes, the talk fell upon Mons!eur Grandet, know!ng people sa!d: “Le
Pere Grandet? le Pere Grandet must have at least f!ve or s!x m!ll!ons.”

“You are cleverer than I am; I have never been able to f!nd out the
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 amount,” answered Mons!eur Cruchot or Mons!eur des Grass!ns,
when e!ther chanced to overhear the remark.

If some Par!s!an ment!oned Rothsch!ld or Mons!eur Laf!tte, the

people of Saumur asked !f he were as r!ch as Mons!eur Grandet.
When the Par!s!an, w!th a sm!le, tossed them a d!sda!nful aff!rmat!ve,
they looked at each other and shook the!r heads w!th an !ncredulous
a!r. So large a fortune covered w!th a golden mantle all the act!ons of
th!s man. If !n early days some pecul!ar!t!es of h!s l!fe gave occas!on
for laughter or r!d!cule, laughter and r!d!cule had long s!nce d!ed
away. H!s least !mportant act!ons had the author!ty of results
repeatedly shown. H!s speech, h!s cloth!ng, h!s gestures, the bl!nk!ng
of h!s eyes, were law to the country-s!de, where every one, after
study!ng h!m as a natural!st stud!es the result of !nst!nct !n the lower
an!mals, had come to understand the deep mute w!sdom of h!s
sl!ghtest act!ons.

“It w!ll be a hard w!nter,” sa!d one; “Pere Grandet has put on h!s fur
gloves.”

“Pere Grandet !s buy!ng quant!t!es of staves; there w!ll be plenty of

w!ne th!s year.”

Mons!eur Grandet never bought e!ther bread or meat. H!s farmers

suppl!ed h!m weekly w!th a suff!c!ency of capons, ch!ckens, eggs,
butter, and h!s t!the of wheat. He owned a m!ll; and the tenant was
bound, over and above h!s rent, to take a certa!n quant!ty of gra!n
and return h!m the flour and bran. La Grande Nanon, h!s only servant,
though she was no longer young, baked the bread of the household
herself every Saturday. Mons!eur Grandet arranged w!th k!tchen-
gardeners who were h!s tenants to supply h!m w!th vegetables. As to
fru!ts, he gathered such quant!t!es that he sold the greater part !n the
market. H!s f!re-wood was cut from h!s own hedgerows or taken from
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 the half-rotten old sheds wh!ch he bu!lt at the corners of h!s f!elds,
and whose planks the farmers carted !nto town for h!m, all cut up,
and obl!g!ngly stacked !n h!s wood-house, rece!v!ng !n return h!s
thanks. H!s only known expend!tures were for the consecrated
bread, the cloth!ng of h!s w!fe and daughter, the h!re of the!r cha!rs !n
church, the wages of la Grand Nanon, the t!nn!ng of the saucepans,
l!ghts, taxes, repa!rs on h!s bu!ld!ngs, and the costs of h!s var!ous
!ndustr!es. He had s!x hundred acres of woodland, lately purchased,
wh!ch he !nduced a ne!ghbor’s keeper to watch, under the prom!se
of an !ndemn!ty. After the acqu!s!t!on of th!s property he ate game for
the f!rst t!me.

Mons!eur Grandet’s manners were very s!mple. He spoke l!ttle. He

usually expressed h!s mean!ng by short sentent!ous phrases uttered
!n a soft vo!ce. After the Revolut!on, the epoch at wh!ch he f!rst came
!nto not!ce, the good man stuttered !n a wear!some way as soon as
he was requ!red to speak at length or to ma!nta!n an argument. Th!s
stammer!ng, the !ncoherence of h!s language, the flux of words !n
wh!ch he drowned h!s thought, h!s apparent lack of log!c, attr!buted
to defects of educat!on, were !n real!ty assumed, and w!ll be
suff!c!ently expla!ned by certa!n events !n the follow!ng h!story. Four
sentences, prec!se as algebra!c formulas, suff!ced h!m usually to
grasp and solve all d!ff!cult!es of l!fe and commerce: “I don’t know; I
cannot; I w!ll not; I w!ll see about !t.” He never sa!d yes, or no, and
never comm!tted h!mself to wr!t!ng. If people talked to h!m he
l!stened coldly, hold!ng h!s ch!n !n h!s r!ght hand and rest!ng h!s r!ght
elbow !n the back of h!s left hand, form!ng !n h!s own m!nd op!n!ons
on all matters, from wh!ch he never receded. He reflected long
before mak!ng any bus!ness agreement. When h!s opponent, after
careful conversat!on, avowed the secret of h!s own purposes,
conf!dent that he had secured h!s l!stener’s assent, Grandet
answered: “I can dec!de noth!ng w!thout consult!ng my w!fe.” H!s
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 w!fe, whom he had reduced to a state of helpless slavery, was a
useful screen to h!m !n bus!ness. He went nowhere among fr!ends;
he ne!ther gave nor accepted d!nners; he made no st!r or no!se,
seem!ng to econom!ze !n everyth!ng, even movement. He never
d!sturbed or d!sarranged the th!ngs of other people, out of respect
for the r!ghts of property. Nevertheless, !n sp!te of h!s soft vo!ce, !n
sp!te of h!s c!rcumspect bear!ng, the language and hab!ts of a coarse
nature came to the surface, espec!ally !n h!s own home, where he
controlled h!mself less than elsewhere.

Phys!cally, Grandet was a man f!ve feet h!gh, th!ck-set, square-bu!lt,

w!th calves twelve !nches !n c!rcumference, knotted knee-jo!nts, and
broad shoulders; h!s face was round, tanned, and p!tted by the
small-pox; h!s ch!n was stra!ght, h!s l!ps had no curves, h!s teeth
were wh!te; h!s eyes had that calm, devour!ng express!on wh!ch
people attr!bute to the bas!l!sk; h!s forehead, full of transverse
wr!nkles, was not w!thout certa!n s!gn!f!cant protuberances; h!s
yellow-gray!sh ha!r was sa!d to be s!lver and gold by certa!n young
people who d!d not real!ze the !mpropr!ety of mak!ng a jest about
Mons!eur Grandet. H!s nose, th!ck at the end, bore a ve!ned wen,
wh!ch the common people sa!d, not w!thout reason, was full of
mal!ce. The whole countenance showed a dangerous cunn!ng, an
!ntegr!ty w!thout warmth, the egot!sm of a man long used to
concentrate every feel!ng upon the enjoyments of avar!ce and upon
the only human be!ng who was anyth!ng whatever to h!m,—h!s
daughter and sole he!ress, Eugen!e. Att!tude, manners, bear!ng,
everyth!ng about h!m, !n short, test!f!ed to that bel!ef !n h!mself wh!ch
the hab!t of succeed!ng !n all enterpr!ses never fa!ls to g!ve to a man.

Thus, though h!s manners were unctuous and soft outwardly,

Mons!eur Grandet’s nature was of !ron. H!s dress never var!ed; and
those who saw h!m to-day saw h!m such as he had been s!nce 1791.
H!s stout shoes were t!ed w!th leathern thongs; he wore, !n all
:
 weathers, th!ck woollen stock!ngs, short breeches of coarse maroon
cloth w!th s!lver buckles, a velvet wa!stcoat, !n alternate str!pes of
yellow and puce, buttoned squarely, a large maroon coat w!th w!de
flaps, a black cravat, and a quaker’s hat. H!s gloves, th!ck as those of
a gendarme, lasted h!m twenty months; to preserve them, he always
la!d them method!cally on the br!m of h!s hat !n one part!cular spot.
Saumur knew noth!ng further about th!s personage.

Only s!x !nd!v!duals had a r!ght of entrance to Mons!eur Grandet’s

house. The most !mportant of the f!rst three was a nephew of
Mons!eur Cruchot. S!nce h!s appo!ntment as pres!dent of the C!v!l
courts of Saumur th!s young man had added the name of Bonfons to
that of Cruchot. He now s!gned h!mself C. de Bonfons. Any l!t!gant so
!ll-adv!sed as to call h!m Mons!eur Cruchot would soon be made to
feel h!s folly !n court. The mag!strate protected those who called h!m
Mons!eur le pres!dent, but he favored w!th grac!ous sm!les those
who addressed h!m as Mons!eur de Bonfons. Mons!eur le pres!dent
was th!rty-three years old, and possessed the estate of Bonfons
(Bon! Font!s), worth seven thousand francs a year; he expected to
!nher!t the property of h!s uncle the notary and that of another uncle,
the Abbe Cruchot, a d!gn!tary of the chapter of Sa!nt-Mart!n de
Tours, both of whom were thought to be very r!ch. These three
Cruchots, backed by a goodly number of cous!ns, and all!ed to
twenty fam!l!es !n the town, formed a party, l!ke the Med!c! !n
Florence; l!ke the Med!c!, the Cruchots had the!r Pazz!.

Madame des Grass!ns, mother of a son twenty-three years of age,

came ass!duously to play cards w!th Madame Grandet, hop!ng to
marry her dear Adolphe to Mademo!selle Eugen!e. Mons!eur des
Grass!ns, the banker, v!gorously promoted the schemes of h!s w!fe
by means of secret serv!ces constantly rendered to the old m!ser,
and always arr!ved !n t!me upon the f!eld of battle. The three des
Grass!ns l!kew!se had the!r adherents, the!r cous!ns, the!r fa!thful
:
 all!es. On the Cruchot s!de the abbe, the Talleyrand of the fam!ly, well
backed-up by h!s brother the notary, sharply contested every !nch of
ground w!th h!s female adversary, and tr!ed to obta!n the r!ch he!ress
for h!s nephew the pres!dent.

Th!s secret warfare between the Cruchots and des Grass!ns, the
pr!ze thereof be!ng the hand !n marr!age of Eugen!e Grandet, kept
the var!ous soc!al c!rcles of Saumur !n v!olent ag!tat!on. Would
Mademo!selle Grandet marry Mons!eur le pres!dent or Mons!eur
Adolphe des Grass!ns? To th!s problem some repl!ed that Mons!eur
Grandet would never g!ve h!s daughter to the one or to the other.
The old cooper, eaten up w!th amb!t!on, was look!ng, they sa!d, for a
peer of France, to whom an !ncome of three hundred thousand
francs would make all the past, present, and future casks of the
Grandets acceptable. Others repl!ed that Mons!eur and Madame des
Grass!ns were nobles, and exceed!ngly r!ch; that Adolphe was a
personable young fellow; and that unless the old man had a nephew
of the pope at h!s beck and call, such a su!table all!ance ought to
sat!sfy a man who came from noth!ng,—a man whom Saumur
remembered w!th an adze !n h!s hand, and who had, moreover, worn
the bonnet rouge. Certa!n w!se heads called attent!on to the fact that
Mons!eur Cruchot de Bonfons had the r!ght of entry to the house at
all t!mes, whereas h!s r!val was rece!ved only on Sundays. Others,
however, ma!nta!ned that Madame des Grass!ns was more !nt!mate
w!th the women of the house of Grandet than the Cruchots were,
and could put !nto the!r m!nds certa!n !deas wh!ch would lead,
sooner or later, to success. To th!s the former retorted that the Abbe
Cruchot was the most !ns!nuat!ng man !n the world: p!t a woman
aga!nst a monk, and the struggle was even. “It !s d!amond cut
d!amond,” sa!d a Saumur w!t.

The oldest !nhab!tants, w!ser than the!r fellows, declared that the
Grandets knew better than to let the property go out of the fam!ly,
:
 and that Mademo!selle Eugen!e Grandet of Saumur would be marr!ed
to the son of Mons!eur Grandet of Par!s, a wealthy wholesale w!ne-
merchant. To th!s the Cruchot!nes and the Grass!n!sts repl!ed: “In the
f!rst place, the two brothers have seen each other only tw!ce !n th!rty
years; and next, Mons!eur Grandet of Par!s has amb!t!ous des!gns for
h!s son. He !s mayor of an arrond!ssement, a deputy, colonel of the
Nat!onal Guard, judge !n the commerc!al courts; he d!sowns the
Grandets of Saumur, and means to ally h!mself w!th some ducal
fam!ly,—ducal under favor of Napoleon.” In short, was there anyth!ng
not sa!d of an he!ress who was talked of through a c!rcumference of
f!fty m!les, and even !n the publ!c conveyances from Angers to Blo!s,
!nclus!vely!

At the beg!nn!ng of 1811, the Cruchot!nes won a s!gnal advantage

over the Grass!n!sts. The estate of Fro!dfond, remarkable for !ts park,
!ts mans!on, !ts farms, streams, ponds, forests, and worth about
three m!ll!ons, was put up for sale by the young Marqu!s de
Fro!dfond, who was obl!ged to l!qu!date h!s possess!ons. Ma!tre
Cruchot, the pres!dent, and the abbe, a!ded by the!r adherents, were
able to prevent the sale of the estate !n l!ttle lots. The notary
concluded a barga!n w!th the young man for the whole property,
payable !n gold, persuad!ng h!m that su!ts w!thout number would
have to be brought aga!nst the purchasers of small lots before he
could get the money for them; !t was better, therefore, to sell the
whole to Mons!eur Grandet, who was solvent and able to pay for the
estate !n ready money. The f!ne marqu!sate of Fro!dfond was
accord!ngly conveyed down the gullet of Mons!eur Grandet, who, to
the great aston!shment of Saumur, pa!d for !t, under proper d!scount,
w!th the usual formal!t!es.

Th!s affa!r echoed from Nantes to Orleans. Mons!eur Grandet took

advantage of a cart return!ng by way of Fro!dfond to go and see h!s
chateau. Hav!ng cast a master’s eye over the whole property, he
:
 returned to Saumur, sat!sf!ed that he had !nvested h!s money at f!ve
per cent, and se!zed by the stupendous thought of extend!ng and
!ncreas!ng the marqu!sate of Fro!dfond by concentrat!ng all h!s
property there. Then, to f!ll up h!s coffers, now nearly empty, he
resolved to th!n out h!s woods and h!s forests, and to sell off the
poplars !n the meadows.

II
It !s now easy to understand the full mean!ng of the term, “the house
of Mons!eur Grandet,”—that cold, s!lent, pall!d dwell!ng, stand!ng
above the town and sheltered by the ru!ns of the ramparts. The two
p!llars and the arch, wh!ch made the porte-cochere on wh!ch the
door opened, were bu!lt, l!ke the house !tself, of tufa,—a wh!te stone
pecul!ar to the shores of the Lo!re, and so soft that !t lasts hardly
more than two centur!es. Numberless !rregular holes, capr!c!ously
bored or eaten out by the !nclemency of the weather, gave an
appearance of the verm!culated stonework of French arch!tecture to
the arch and the s!de walls of th!s entrance, wh!ch bore some
resemblance to the gateway of a ja!l. Above the arch was a long bas-
rel!ef, !n hard stone, represent!ng the four seasons, the faces already
crumbl!ng away and blackened. Th!s bas-rel!ef was surmounted by a
project!ng pl!nth, upon wh!ch a var!ety of chance growths had
sprung up,—yellow pell!tory, b!ndweed, convolvul!, nettles, planta!n,
and even a l!ttle cherry-tree, already grown to some he!ght.

The door of the archway was made of sol!d oak, brown, shrunken,
and spl!t !n many places; though fra!l !n appearance, !t was f!rmly
held !n place by a system of !ron bolts arranged !n symmetr!cal
patterns. A small square grat!ng, w!th close bars red w!th rust, f!lled
up the m!ddle panel and made, as !t were, a mot!ve for the knocker,
fastened to !t by a r!ng, wh!ch struck upon the gr!nn!ng head of a
huge na!l. Th!s knocker, of the oblong shape and k!nd wh!ch our
:
 ancestors called jaquemart, looked l!ke a huge note of exclamat!on;
an ant!quary who exam!ned !t attent!vely m!ght have found
!nd!cat!ons of the f!gure, essent!ally burlesque, wh!ch !t once
represented, and wh!ch long usage had now effaced. Through th!s
l!ttle grat!ng—!ntended !n olden t!mes for the recogn!t!on of fr!ends !n
t!mes of c!v!l war—!nqu!s!t!ve persons could perce!ve, at the farther
end of the dark and sl!my vault, a few broken steps wh!ch led to a
garden, p!cturesquely shut !n by walls that were th!ck and damp, and
through wh!ch oozed a mo!sture that nour!shed tufts of s!ckly
herbage. These walls were the ru!ns of the ramparts, under wh!ch
ranged the gardens of several ne!ghbor!ng houses.

The most !mportant room on the ground-floor of the house was a

large hall, entered d!rectly from beneath the vault of the porte-
cochere. Few people know the !mportance of a hall !n the l!ttle towns
of Anjou, Toura!ne, and Berry. The hall !s at one and the same t!me
antechamber, salon, off!ce, boudo!r, and d!n!ng-room; !t !s the
theatre of domest!c l!fe, the common l!v!ng-room. There the barber
of the ne!ghborhood came, tw!ce a year, to cut Mons!eur Grandet’s
ha!r; there the farmers, the cure, the under-prefect, and the m!ller’s
boy came on bus!ness. Th!s room, w!th two w!ndows look!ng on the
street, was ent!rely of wood. Gray panels w!th anc!ent mould!ngs
covered the walls from top to bottom; the ce!l!ng showed all !ts
beams, wh!ch were l!kew!se pa!nted gray, wh!le the space between
them had been washed over !n wh!te, now yellow w!th age. An old
brass clock, !nla!d w!th arabesques, adorned the mantel of the !ll-cut
wh!te stone ch!mney-p!ece, above wh!ch was a green!sh m!rror,
whose edges, bevelled to show the th!ckness of the glass, reflected
a thread of l!ght the whole length of a goth!c frame !n damascened
steel-work. The two copper-g!lt candelabra wh!ch decorated the
corners of the ch!mney-p!ece served a double purpose: by tak!ng off
the s!de-branches, each of wh!ch held a socket, the ma!n stem—
:
 wh!ch was fastened to a pedestal of blu!sh marble t!pped w!th
copper—made a candlest!ck for one candle, wh!ch was suff!c!ent for
ord!nary occas!ons. The cha!rs, ant!que !n shape, were covered w!th
tapestry represent!ng the fables of La Fonta!ne; !t was necessary,
however, to know that wr!ter well to guess at the subjects, for the
faded colors and the f!gures, blurred by much darn!ng, were d!ff!cult
to d!st!ngu!sh.

At the four corners of the hall were closets, or rather buffets,

surmounted by d!rty shelves. An old card-table !n marquetry, of
wh!ch the upper part was a chess-board, stood !n the space
between the two w!ndows. Above th!s table was an oval barometer
w!th a black border enl!vened w!th g!lt bands, on wh!ch the fl!es had
so l!cent!ously d!sported themselves that the g!ld!ng had become
problemat!cal. On the panel oppos!te to the ch!mney-p!ece were two
portra!ts !n pastel, supposed to represent the grandfather of
Madame Grandet, old Mons!eur de la Bertell!ere, as a l!eutenant !n
the French guard, and the deceased Madame Gent!llet !n the gu!se
of a shepherdess. The w!ndows were draped w!th curta!ns of red
gros de Tours held back by s!lken cords w!th eccles!ast!cal tassels.
Th!s luxur!ous decorat!on, l!ttle !n keep!ng w!th the hab!ts of
Mons!eur Grandet, had been, together w!th the steel p!er-glass, the
tapestr!es, and the buffets, wh!ch were of rose-wood, !ncluded !n the
purchase of the house.

By the w!ndow nearest to the door stood a straw cha!r, whose legs
were ra!sed on castors to l!ft !ts occupant, Madame Grandet, to a
he!ght from wh!ch she could see the passers-by. A work-table of
sta!ned cherry-wood f!lled up the embrasure, and the l!ttle armcha!r
of Eugen!e Grandet stood bes!de !t. In th!s spot the l!ves had flowed
peacefully onward for f!fteen years, !n a round of constant work from
the month of Apr!l to the month of November. On the f!rst day of the
latter month they took the!r w!nter stat!on by the ch!mney. Not unt!l
:
 that day d!d Grandet perm!t a f!re to be l!ghted; and on the th!rty-f!rst
of March !t was ext!ngu!shed, w!thout regard e!ther to the ch!lls of the
early spr!ng or to those of a w!ntry autumn. A foot-warmer, f!lled w!th
embers from the k!tchen f!re, wh!ch la Grande Nanon contr!ved to
save for them, enabled Madame and Mademo!selle Grandet to bear
the ch!lly morn!ngs and even!ngs of Apr!l and October. Mother and
daughter took charge of the fam!ly l!nen, and spent the!r days so
consc!ent!ously upon a labor properly that of work!ng-women, that !f
Eugen!e w!shed to embro!der a collar for her mother she was forced
to take the t!me from sleep, and dece!ve her father to obta!n the
necessary l!ght. For a long t!me the m!ser had g!ven out the tallow
candle to h!s daughter and la Grande Nanon just as he gave out
every morn!ng the bread and other necessar!es for the da!ly
consumpt!on.

La Grande Nanon was perhaps the only human be!ng capable of

accept!ng w!ll!ngly the despot!sm of her master. The whole town
env!ed Mons!eur and Madame Grandet the possess!on of her. La
Grande Nanon, so called on account of her he!ght, wh!ch was f!ve
feet e!ght !nches, had l!ved w!th Mons!eur Grandet for th!rty-f!ve
years. Though she rece!ved only s!xty francs a year !n wages, she
was supposed to be one of the r!chest serv!ng-women !n Saumur.
Those s!xty francs, accumulat!ng through th!rty-f!ve years, had
recently enabled her to !nvest four thousand francs !n an annu!ty w!th
Ma!tre Cruchot. Th!s result of her long and pers!stent economy
seemed g!gant!c. Every servant !n the town, see!ng that the poor
sexagenar!an was sure of bread for her old age, was jealous of her,
and never thought of the hard slavery through wh!ch !t had been
won.

At twenty-two years of age the poor g!rl had been unable to f!nd a
s!tuat!on, so repuls!ve was her face to almost every one. Yet the
feel!ng was certa!nly unjust: the face would have been much adm!red
:
 on the shoulders of a grenad!er of the guard; but all th!ngs, so they
say, should be !n keep!ng. Forced to leave a farm where she kept the
cows, because the dwell!ng-house was burned down, she came to
Saumur to f!nd a place, full of the robust courage that shr!nks from
no labor. Le Pere Grandet was at that t!me th!nk!ng of marr!age and
about to set up h!s household. He esp!ed the g!rl, rejected as she
was from door to door. A good judge of corporeal strength !n h!s
trade as a cooper, he guessed the work that m!ght be got out of a
female creature shaped l!ke a Hercules, as f!rm on her feet as an oak
s!xty years old on !ts roots, strong !n the h!ps, square !n the back,
w!th the hands of a cartman and an honesty as sound as her
unblem!shed v!rtue. Ne!ther the warts wh!ch adorned her mart!al
v!sage, nor the red-br!ck t!nts of her sk!n, nor the s!newy arms, nor
the ragged garments of la Grande Nanon, d!smayed the cooper, who
was at that t!me st!ll of an age when the heart shudders. He fed,
shod, and clothed the poor g!rl, gave her wages, and put her to work
w!thout treat!ng her too roughly. See!ng herself thus welcomed, la
Grande Nanon wept secretly tears of joy, and attached herself !n all
s!ncer!ty to her master, who from that day ruled her and worked her
w!th feudal author!ty. Nanon d!d everyth!ng. She cooked, she made
the lye, she washed the l!nen !n the Lo!re and brought !t home on her
shoulders; she got up early, she went to bed late; she prepared the
food of the v!ne-dressers dur!ng the harvest, kept watch upon the
market-people, protected the property of her master l!ke a fa!thful
dog, and even, full of bl!nd conf!dence, obeyed w!thout a murmur h!s
most absurd exact!ons.

In the famous year of 1811, when the grapes were gathered w!th
unheard-of d!ff!culty, Grandet resolved to g!ve Nanon h!s old watch,
—the f!rst present he had made her dur!ng twenty years of serv!ce.
Though he turned over to her h!s old shoes (wh!ch f!tted her), !t !s
!mposs!ble to cons!der that quarterly benef!t as a g!ft, for the shoes
:
 were always thoroughly worn-out. Necess!ty had made the poor g!rl
so n!ggardly that Grandet had grown to love her as we love a dog,
and Nanon had let h!m fasten a sp!ked collar round her throat, whose
sp!kes no longer pr!cked her. If Grandet cut the bread w!th rather too
much pars!mony, she made no compla!nt; she ga!ly shared the
hyg!en!c benef!ts der!ved from the severe reg!me of the household,
!n wh!ch no one was ever !ll. Nanon was, !n fact, one of the fam!ly;
she laughed when Grandet laughed, felt gloomy or ch!lly, warmed
herself, and to!led as he d!d. What pleasant compensat!ons there
were !n such equal!ty! Never d!d the master have occas!on to f!nd
fault w!th the servant for p!lfer!ng the grapes, nor for the plums and
nectar!nes eaten under the trees. “Come, fall-to, Nanon!” he would
say !n years when the branches bent under the fru!t and the farmers
were obl!ged to g!ve !t to the p!gs.

To the poor peasant who !n her youth had earned noth!ng but harsh
treatment, to the pauper g!rl p!cked up by char!ty, Grandet’s
amb!guous laugh was l!ke a sunbeam. Moreover, Nanon’s s!mple
heart and narrow head could hold only one feel!ng and one !dea. For
th!rty-f!ve years she had never ceased to see herself stand!ng before
the wood-yard of Mons!eur Grandet, ragged and barefooted, and to
hear h!m say: “What do you want, young one?” Her grat!tude was
ever new. Somet!mes Grandet, reflect!ng that the poor creature had
never heard a flatter!ng word, that she was !gnorant of all the tender
sent!ments !nsp!red by women, that she m!ght some day appear
before the throne of God even more chaste than the V!rg!n Mary
herself,—Grandet, struck w!th p!ty, would say as he looked at her,
“Poor Nanon!” The exclamat!on was always followed by an
undef!nable look cast upon h!m !n return by the old servant. The
words, uttered from t!me to t!me, formed a cha!n of fr!endsh!p that
noth!ng ever parted, and to wh!ch each exclamat!on added a l!nk.
Such compass!on ar!s!ng !n the heart of the m!ser, and accepted
:
 gratefully by the old sp!nster, had someth!ng !nconce!vably horr!ble
about !t. Th!s cruel p!ty, recall!ng, as !t d!d, a thousand pleasures to
the heart of the old cooper, was for Nanon the sum total of
happ!ness. Who does not l!kew!se say, “Poor Nanon!” God w!ll
recogn!ze h!s angels by the !nflex!ons of the!r vo!ces and by the!r
secret s!ghs.

There were very many households !n Saumur where the servants

were better treated, but where the masters rece!ved far less
sat!sfact!on !n return. Thus !t was often sa!d: “What have the
Grandets ever done to make the!r Grande Nanon so attached to
them? She would go through f!re and water for the!r sake!” Her
k!tchen, whose barred w!ndows looked !nto the court, was always
clean, neat, cold,—a true m!ser’s k!tchen, where noth!ng went to
waste. When Nanon had washed her d!shes, locked up the rema!ns
of the d!nner, and put out her f!re, she left the k!tchen, wh!ch was
separated by a passage from the l!v!ng-room, and went to sp!n hemp
bes!de her masters. One tallow candle suff!ced the fam!ly for the
even!ng. The servant slept at the end of the passage !n a spec!es of
closet l!ghted only by a fan-l!ght. Her robust health enabled her to
l!ve !n th!s hole w!th !mpun!ty; there she could hear the sl!ghtest
no!se through the deep s!lence wh!ch re!gned n!ght and day !n that
dreary house. L!ke a watch-dog, she slept w!th one ear open, and
took her rest w!th a m!nd alert.

A descr!pt!on of the other parts of the dwell!ng w!ll be found

connected w!th the events of th!s h!story, though the forego!ng
sketch of the hall, where the whole luxury of the household appears,
may enable the reader to surm!se the nakedness of the upper floors.

In 1819, at the beg!nn!ng of an even!ng !n the m!ddle of November, la

Grande Nanon l!ghted the f!re for the f!rst t!me. The autumn had
been very f!ne. Th!s part!cular day was a fete-day well known to the
:
 Cruchot!nes and the Grass!n!sts. The s!x antagon!sts, armed at all
po!nts, were mak!ng ready to meet at the Grandets and surpass each
other !n test!mon!als of fr!endsh!p. That morn!ng all Saumur had seen
Madame and Mademo!selle Grandet, accompan!ed by Nanon, on
the!r way to hear Mass at the par!sh church, and every one
remembered that the day was the ann!versary of Mademo!selle
Eugen!e’s b!rth. Calculat!ng the hour at wh!ch the fam!ly d!nner would
be over, Ma!tre Cruchot, the Abbe Cruchot, and Mons!eur C. de
Bonfons hastened to arr!ve before the des Grass!ns, and be the f!rst
to pay the!r compl!ments to Mademo!selle Eugen!e. All three brought
enormous bouquets, gathered !n the!r l!ttle green-houses. The stalks
of the flowers wh!ch the pres!dent !ntended to present were
!ngen!ously wound round w!th a wh!te sat!n r!bbon adorned w!th gold
fr!nge. In the morn!ng Mons!eur Grandet, follow!ng h!s usual custom
on the days that commemorated the b!rth and the fete of Eugen!e,
went to her beds!de and solemnly presented her w!th h!s paternal
g!ft,—wh!ch for the last th!rteen years had cons!sted regularly of a
cur!ous gold-p!ece. Madame Grandet gave her daughter a w!nter
dress or a summer dress, as the case m!ght be. These two dresses
and the gold-p!eces, of wh!ch she rece!ved two others on New
Year’s day and on her father’s fete-day, gave Eugen!e a l!ttle revenue
of a hundred crowns or thereabouts, wh!ch Grandet loved to see her
amass. Was !t not putt!ng h!s money from one strong-box to another,
and, as !t were, tra!n!ng the pars!mony of h!s he!ress? from whom he
somet!mes demanded an account of her treasure (formerly
!ncreased by the g!fts of the Bertell!eres), say!ng: “It !s to be your
marr!age dozen.”

The “marr!age dozen” !s an old custom sacredly preserved and st!ll !n

force !n many parts of central France. In Berry and !n Anjou, when a
young g!rl marr!es, her fam!ly, or that of the husband, must g!ve her a
purse, !n wh!ch they place, accord!ng to the!r means, twelve p!eces,
:
 or twelve dozen p!eces, or twelve hundred p!eces of gold. The
poorest shepherd-g!rl never marr!es w!thout her dozen, be !t only a
dozen coppers. They st!ll tell !n Issoudun of a certa!n “dozen”
presented to a r!ch he!ress, wh!ch conta!ned a hundred and forty-
four portuga!ses d’or. Pope Clement VII., uncle of Cather!ne de’
Med!c!, gave her when he marr!ed her to Henr! II. a dozen ant!que
gold medals of pr!celess value.

Dur!ng d!nner the father, del!ghted to see h!s Eugen!e look!ng well !n
a new gown, excla!med: “As !t !s Eugen!e’s b!rthday let us have a f!re;
!t w!ll be a good omen.”

“Mademo!selle w!ll be marr!ed th!s year, that’s certa!n,” sa!d la

Grande Nanon, carry!ng away the rema!ns of the goose,—the
pheasant of tradesmen.

“I don’t see any one su!table for her !n Saumur,” sa!d Madame
Grandet, glanc!ng at her husband w!th a t!m!d look wh!ch,
cons!der!ng her years, revealed the conjugal slavery under wh!ch the
poor woman langu!shed.

Grandet looked at h!s daughter and excla!med ga!ly,—

“She !s twenty-three years old to-day, the ch!ld; we must soon beg!n
to th!nk of !t.”

Eugen!e and her mother s!lently exchanged a glance of !ntell!gence.

Madame Grandet was a dry, th!n woman, as yellow as a qu!nce,

awkward, slow, one of those women who are born to be down-
trodden. She had b!g bones, a b!g nose, a b!g forehead, b!g eyes,
and presented at f!rst s!ght a vague resemblance to those mealy
fru!ts that have ne!ther savor nor succulence. Her teeth were black
and few !n number, her mouth was wr!nkled, her ch!n long and
:
 po!nted. She was an excellent woman, a true la Bertell!ere. L’abbe
Cruchot found occas!onal opportun!ty to tell her that she had not
done !ll; and she bel!eved h!m. Angel!c sweetness, the res!gnat!on of
an !nsect tortured by ch!ldren, a rare p!ety, a good heart, an
unalterable equan!m!ty of soul, made her un!versally p!t!ed and
respected. Her husband never gave her more than s!x francs at a
t!me for her personal expenses. R!d!culous as !t may seem, th!s
woman, who by her own fortune and her var!ous !nher!tances
brought Pere Grandet more than three hundred thousand francs, had
always felt so profoundly hum!l!ated by her dependence and the
slavery !n wh!ch she l!ved, aga!nst wh!ch the gentleness of her sp!r!t
prevented her from revolt!ng, that she had never asked for one
penny or made a s!ngle remark on the deeds wh!ch Ma!tre Cruchot
brought for her s!gnature. Th!s fool!sh secret pr!de, th!s nob!l!ty of
soul perpetually m!sunderstood and wounded by Grandet, ruled the
whole conduct of the w!fe.

Madame Grandet was att!red hab!tually !n a gown of green!sh

levant!ne s!lk, endeavor!ng to make !t last nearly a year; w!th !t she
wore a large kerch!ef of wh!te cotton cloth, a bonnet made of pla!ted
straws sewn together, and almost always a black-s!lk apron. As she
seldom left the house she wore out very few shoes. She never asked
anyth!ng for herself. Grandet, se!zed w!th occas!onal remorse when
he remembered how long a t!me had elapsed s!nce he gave her the
last s!x francs, always st!pulated for the “w!fe’s p!n-money” when he
sold h!s yearly v!ntage. The four or f!ve lou!s presented by the
Belg!an or the Dutchman who purchased the w!ne were the ch!ef
v!s!ble s!gns of Madame Grandet’s annual revenues. But after she
had rece!ved the f!ve lou!s, her husband would often say to her, as
though the!r purse were held !n common: “Can you lend me a few
sous?” and the poor woman, glad to be able to do someth!ng for a
man whom her confessor held up to her as her lord and master,
:
 returned h!m !n the course of the w!nter several crowns out of the
“p!n-money.” When Grandet drew from h!s pocket the f!ve-franc
p!ece wh!ch he allowed monthly for the m!nor expenses,—thread,
needles, and to!let,—of h!s daughter, he never fa!led to say as he
buttoned h!s breeches’ pocket: “And you, mother, do you want
anyth!ng?”

“My fr!end,” Madame Grandet would answer, moved by a sense of

maternal d!gn!ty, “we w!ll see about that later.”

Wasted d!gn!ty! Grandet thought h!mself very generous to h!s w!fe.

Ph!losophers who meet the l!ke of Nanon, of Madame Grandet, of
Eugen!e, have surely a r!ght to say that !rony !s at the bottom of the
ways of Prov!dence.

After the d!nner at wh!ch for the f!rst t!me allus!on had been made to
Eugen!e’s marr!age, Nanon went to fetch a bottle of black-currant
rataf!a from Mons!eur Grandet’s bed-chamber, and nearly fell as she
came down the sta!rs.

“You great stup!d!” sa!d her master; “are you go!ng to tumble about
l!ke other people, hey?”

“Mons!eur, !t was that step on your sta!rcase wh!ch has g!ven way.”

“She !s r!ght,” sa!d Madame Grandet; “!t ought to have been mended
long ago. Yesterday Eugen!e nearly tw!sted her ankle.”

“Here,” sa!d Grandet to Nanon, see!ng that she looked qu!te pale, “as
!t !s Eugen!e’s b!rthday, and you came near fall!ng, take a l!ttle glass
of rataf!a to set you r!ght.”

“Fa!th! I’ve earned !t,” sa!d Nanon; “most people would have broken
the bottle; but I’d sooner have broken my elbow hold!ng !t up h!gh.”
:
 “Poor Nanon!” sa!d Grandet, f!ll!ng a glass.

“D!d you hurt yourself?” asked Eugen!e, look!ng k!ndly at her.

“No, I d!dn’t fall; I threw myself back on my haunches.”

“Well! as !t !s Eugen!e’s b!rthday,” sa!d Grandet, “I’ll have the step

mended. You people don’t know how to set your foot !n the corner
where the wood !s st!ll f!rm.”

Grandet took the candle, leav!ng h!s w!fe, daughter, and servant
w!thout any other l!ght than that from the hearth, where the flames
were l!vely, and went !nto the bakehouse to fetch planks, na!ls, and
tools.

“Can I help you?” cr!ed Nanon, hear!ng h!m hammer on the sta!rs.

“No, no! I’m an old hand at !t,” answered the former cooper.

At the moment when Grandet was mend!ng h!s worm-eaten

sta!rcase and wh!stl!ng w!th all h!s m!ght, !n remembrance of the
days of h!s youth, the three Cruchots knocked at the door.

“Is !t you, Mons!eur Cruchot?” asked Nanon, peep!ng through the

l!ttle grat!ng.

“Yes,” answered the pres!dent.

Nanon opened the door, and the l!ght from the hearth, reflected on
the ce!l!ng, enabled the three Cruchots to f!nd the!r way !nto the
room.

“Ha! you’ve come a-greet!ng,” sa!d Nanon, smell!ng the flowers.

“Excuse me, mess!eurs,” cr!ed Grandet, recogn!z!ng the!r vo!ces; “I’ll

be w!th you !n a moment. I’m not proud; I am patch!ng up a step on
:
 my sta!rcase.”

“Go on, go on, Mons!eur Grandet; a man’s house !s h!s castle,” sa!d
the pres!dent sentent!ously.

Madame and Mademo!selle Grandet rose. The pres!dent, prof!t!ng by

the darkness, sa!d to Eugen!e:

“W!ll you perm!t me, mademo!selle, to w!sh you, on th!s the day of
your b!rth, a ser!es of happy years and the cont!nuance of the health
wh!ch you now enjoy?”

He offered her a huge bouquet of cho!ce flowers wh!ch were rare !n

Saumur; then, tak!ng the he!ress by the elbows, he k!ssed her on
each s!de of her neck w!th a complacency that made her blush. The
pres!dent, who looked l!ke a rusty !ron na!l, felt that h!s courtsh!p was
progress!ng.

“Don’t stand on ceremony,” sa!d Grandet, enter!ng. “How well you do

th!ngs on fete-days, Mons!eur le pres!dent!”

“When !t concerns mademo!selle,” sa!d the abbe, armed w!th h!s own
bouquet, “every day !s a fete-day for my nephew.”

The abbe k!ssed Eugen!e’s hand. As for Ma!tre Cruchot, he boldly

k!ssed her on both cheeks, remark!ng: “How we sprout up, to be
sure! Every year !s twelve months.”

As he replaced the candlest!ck bes!de the clock, Grandet, who never

forgot h!s own jokes, and repeated them to sat!ety when he thought
them funny, sa!d,—

“As th!s !s Eugen!e’s b!rthday let us !llum!nate.”

He carefully took off the branches of the candelabra, put a socket on

:
 each pedestal, took from Nanon a new tallow candle w!th paper
tw!sted round the end of !t, put !t !nto the hollow, made !t f!rm, l!t !t,
and then sat down bes!de h!s w!fe, look!ng alternately at h!s fr!ends,
h!s daughter, and the two candles. The Abbe Cruchot, a plump, puffy
l!ttle man, w!th a red w!g plastered down and a face l!ke an old female
gambler, sa!d as he stretched out h!s feet, well shod !n stout shoes
w!th s!lver buckles: “The des Grass!ns have not come?”

“Not yet,” sa!d Grandet.

“But are they com!ng?” asked the old notary, tw!st!ng h!s face, wh!ch
had as many holes as a collander, !nto a queer gr!mace.

“I th!nk so,” answered Madame Grandet.

“Are your v!ntages all f!n!shed?” sa!d Mons!eur de Bonfons to

Grandet.

“Yes, all of them,” sa!d the old man, r!s!ng to walk up and down the
room, h!s chest swell!ng w!th pr!de as he sa!d the words, “all of
them.” Through the door of the passage wh!ch led to the k!tchen he
saw la Grande Nanon s!tt!ng bes!de her f!re w!th a candle and
prepar!ng to sp!n there, so as not to !ntrude among the guests.

“Nanon,” he sa!d, go!ng !nto the passage, “put out that f!re and that
candle, and come and s!t w!th us. Pard!eu! the hall !s b!g enough for
all.”

“But mons!eur, you are to have the great people.”

“Are not you as good as they? They are descended from Adam, and
so are you.”

Grandet came back to the pres!dent and sa!d,—

:
 “Have you sold your v!ntage?”

“No, not I; I shall keep !t. If the w!ne !s good th!s year, !t w!ll be better
two years hence. The propr!etors, you know, have made an
agreement to keep up the pr!ce; and th!s year the Belg!ans won’t get
the better of us. Suppose they are sent off empty-handed for once,
fa!th! they’ll come back.”

“Yes, but let us m!nd what we are about,” sa!d Grandet !n a tone
wh!ch made the pres!dent tremble.

“Is he dr!v!ng some barga!n?” thought Cruchot.

At th!s moment the knocker announced the des Grass!ns fam!ly, and
the!r arr!val !nterrupted a conversat!on wh!ch had begun between
Madame Grandet and the abbe.

Madame des Grass!ns was one of those l!vely, plump l!ttle women,
w!th p!nk-and-wh!te sk!ns, who, thanks to the claustral calm of the
prov!nces and the hab!ts of a v!rtuous l!fe, keep the!r youth unt!l they
are past forty. She was l!ke the last rose of autumn,—pleasant to the
eye, though the petals have a certa!n frost!ness, and the!r perfume !s
sl!ght. She dressed well, got her fash!ons from Par!s, set the tone to
Saumur, and gave part!es. Her husband, formerly a quartermaster !n
the Imper!al guard, who had been desperately wounded at Austerl!tz,
and had s!nce ret!red, st!ll reta!ned, !n sp!te of h!s respect for
Grandet, the seem!ng frankness of an old sold!er.

“Good even!ng, Grandet,” he sa!d, hold!ng out h!s hand and affect!ng
a sort of super!or!ty, w!th wh!ch he always crushed the Cruchots.
“Mademo!selle,” he added, turn!ng to Eugen!e, after bow!ng to
Madame Grandet, “you are always beaut!ful and good, and truly I do
not know what to w!sh you.” So say!ng, he offered her a l!ttle box
wh!ch h!s servant had brought and wh!ch conta!ned a Cape heather,
:
 —a flower lately !mported !nto Europe and very rare.

Madame des Grass!ns k!ssed Eugen!e very affect!onately, pressed

her hand, and sa!d: “Adolphe w!shes to make you my l!ttle offer!ng.”

A tall, blond young man, pale and sl!ght, w!th tolerable manners and
seem!ngly rather shy, although he had just spent e!ght or ten
thousand francs over h!s allowance !n Par!s, where he had been sent
to study law, now came forward and k!ssed Eugen!e on both cheeks,
offer!ng her a workbox w!th utens!ls !n s!lver-g!lt,—mere show-case
trumpery, !n sp!te of the monogram E.G. !n goth!c letters rather well
engraved, wh!ch belonged properly to someth!ng !n better taste. As
she opened !t, Eugen!e exper!enced one of those unexpected and
perfect del!ghts wh!ch make a young g!rl blush and qu!ver and
tremble w!th pleasure. She turned her eyes to her father as !f to ask
perm!ss!on to accept !t, and Mons!eur Grandet repl!ed: “Take !t, my
daughter,” !n a tone wh!ch would have made an actor !llustr!ous.

The three Cruchots felt crushed as they saw the joyous, an!mated
look cast upon Adolphe des Grass!ns by the he!ress, to whom such
r!ches were unheard-of. Mons!eur des Grass!ns offered Grandet a
p!nch of snuff, took one h!mself, shook off the gra!ns as they fell on
the r!bbon of the Leg!on of honor wh!ch was attached to the button-
hole of h!s blue surtout; then he looked at the Cruchots w!th an a!r
that seemed to say, “Parry that thrust !f you can!” Madame des
Grass!ns cast her eyes on the blue vases wh!ch held the Cruchot
bouquets, look!ng at the enemy’s g!fts w!th the pretended !nterest of
a sat!r!cal woman. At th!s del!cate juncture the Abbe Cruchot left the
company seated !n a c!rcle round the f!re and jo!ned Grandet at the
lower end of the hall. As the two men reached the embrasure of the
farthest w!ndow the pr!est sa!d !n the m!ser’s ear: “Those people
throw money out of the w!ndows.”
:
 “What does that matter !f !t gets !nto my cellar?” retorted the old
w!ne-grower.

“If you want to g!ve g!lt sc!ssors to your daughter, you have the
means,” sa!d the abbe.

“I g!ve her someth!ng better than sc!ssors,” answered Grandet.

“My nephew !s a blockhead,” thought the abbe as he looked at the

pres!dent, whose rumpled ha!r added to the !ll grace of h!s brown
countenance. “Couldn’t he have found some l!ttle tr!fle wh!ch cost
money?”

“We w!ll jo!n you at cards, Madame Grandet,” sa!d Madame des
Grass!ns.

“We m!ght have two tables, as we are all here.”

“As !t !s Eugen!e’s b!rthday you had better play loto all together,” sa!d
Pere Grandet: “the two young ones can jo!n”; and the old cooper,
who never played any game, mot!oned to h!s daughter and Adolphe.
“Come, Nanon, set the tables.”

“We w!ll help you, Mademo!selle Nanon,” sa!d Madame des Grass!ns
ga!ly, qu!te joyous at the joy she had g!ven Eugen!e.

“I have never !n my l!fe been so pleased,” the he!ress sa!d to her; “I

have never seen anyth!ng so pretty.”

“Adolphe brought !t from Par!s, and he chose !t,” Madame des

Grass!ns wh!spered !n her ear.

“Go on! go on! damned !ntr!gu!ng th!ng!” thought the pres!dent. “If
you ever have a su!t !n court, you or your husband, !t shall go hard
w!th you.”
:
 The notary, s!tt!ng !n h!s corner, looked calmly at the abbe, say!ng to
h!mself: “The des Grass!ns may do what they l!ke; my property and
my brother’s and that of my nephew amount !n all to eleven hundred
thousand francs. The des Grass!ns, at the most, have not half that;
bes!des, they have a daughter. They may g!ve what presents they
l!ke; he!ress and presents too w!ll be ours one of these days.”

At half-past e!ght !n the even!ng the two card-tables were set out.
Madame des Grass!ns succeeded !n putt!ng her son bes!de Eugen!e.
The actors !n th!s scene, so full of !nterest, commonplace as !t
seems, were prov!ded w!th b!ts of pasteboard str!ped !n many colors
and numbered, and w!th counters of blue glass, and they appeared
to be l!sten!ng to the jokes of the notary, who never drew a number
w!thout mak!ng a remark, wh!le !n fact they were all th!nk!ng of
Mons!eur Grandet’s m!ll!ons. The old cooper, w!th !nward self-
conce!t, was contemplat!ng the p!nk feathers and the fresh to!let of
Madame des Grass!ns, the mart!al head of the banker, the faces of
Adolphe, the pres!dent, the abbe, and the notary, say!ng to h!mself:—

“They are all after my money. Hey! ne!ther the one nor the other shall
have my daughter; but they are useful—useful as harpoons to f!sh
w!th.”

Th!s fam!ly ga!ety !n the old gray room d!mly l!ghted by two tallow
candles; th!s laughter, accompan!ed by the wh!rr of Nanon’s
sp!nn!ng-wheel, s!ncere only upon the l!ps of Eugen!e or her mother;
th!s tr!v!al!ty m!ngled w!th !mportant !nterests; th!s young g!rl, who,
l!ke certa!n b!rds made v!ct!ms of the pr!ce put upon them, was now
lured and trapped by proofs of fr!endsh!p of wh!ch she was the dupe,
—all these th!ngs contr!buted to make the scene a melancholy
comedy. Is !t not, moreover, a drama of all t!mes and all places,
though here brought down to !ts s!mplest express!on? The f!gure of
Grandet, play!ng h!s own game w!th the false fr!endsh!p of the two
:
 fam!l!es and gett!ng enormous prof!ts from !t, dom!nates the scene
and throws l!ght upon !t. The modern god,—the only god !n whom
fa!th !s preserved,—money, !s here, !n all !ts power, man!fested !n a
s!ngle countenance. The tender sent!ments of l!fe hold here but a
secondary place; only the three pure, s!mple hearts of Nanon, of
Eugen!e, and of her mother were !nsp!red by them. And how much of
!gnorance there was !n the s!mpl!c!ty of these poor women! Eugen!e
and her mother knew noth!ng of Grandet’s wealth; they could only
est!mate the th!ngs of l!fe by the gl!mmer of the!r pale !deas, and they
ne!ther valued nor desp!sed money, because they were accustomed
to do w!thout !t. The!r feel!ngs, bru!sed, though they d!d not know !t,
but ever-l!v!ng, were the secret spr!ng of the!r ex!stence, and made
them cur!ous except!ons !n the m!dst of these other people whose
l!ves were purely mater!al. Fr!ghtful cond!t!on of the human race!
there !s no one of !ts joys that does not come from some spec!es of
!gnorance.

At the moment when Madame Grandet had won a loto of s!xteen

sous,—the largest ever pooled !n that house,—and wh!le la Grande
Nanon was laugh!ng w!th del!ght as she watched madame pocket!ng
her r!ches, the knocker resounded on the house-door w!th such a
no!se that the women all jumped !n the!r cha!rs.

“There !s no man !n Saumur who would knock l!ke that,” sa!d the
notary.

“How can they bang !n that way!” excla!med Nanon; “do they want to
break !n the door?”

“Who the dev!l !s !t?” cr!ed Grandet.

III
Nanon took one of the candles and went to open the door, followed
:
 by her master.

“Grandet! Grandet!” cr!ed h!s w!fe, moved by a sudden !mpulse of

fear, and runn!ng to the door of the room.

All the players looked at each other.

“Suppose we all go?” sa!d Mons!eur des Grass!ns; “that knock

str!kes me as ev!l-!ntent!oned.”

Hardly was Mons!eur des Grass!ns allowed to see the f!gure of a

young man, accompan!ed by a porter from the coach-off!ce carry!ng
two large trunks and dragg!ng a carpet-bag after h!m, than Mons!eur
Grandet turned roughly on h!s w!fe and sa!d,—

“Madame Grandet, go back to your loto; leave me to speak w!th

mons!eur.”

Then he pulled the door qu!ckly to, and the exc!ted players returned
to the!r seats, but d!d not cont!nue the game.

“Is !t any one belong!ng to Saumur, Mons!eur des Grass!ns?” asked

h!s w!fe.

“No, !t !s a traveller.”

“He must have come from Par!s.”

“Just so,” sa!d the notary, pull!ng out h!s watch, wh!ch was two
!nches th!ck and looked l!ke a Dutch man-of-war; “!t’s n!ne o’clock;
the d!l!gence of the Grand Bureau !s never late.”

“Is the gentleman young?” !nqu!red the Abbe Cruchot.

“Yes,” answered Mons!eur des Grass!ns, “and he has brought

luggage wh!ch must we!gh nearly three tons.”
:
 “Nanon does not come back,” sa!d Eugen!e.

“It must be one of your relat!ons,” remarked the pres!dent.

“Let us go on w!th our game,” sa!d Madame Grandet gently. “I know

from Mons!eur Grandet’s tone of vo!ce that he !s annoyed; perhaps
he would not l!ke to f!nd us talk!ng of h!s affa!rs.”

“Mademo!selle,” sa!d Adolphe to h!s ne!ghbor, “!t !s no doubt your

cous!n Grandet,—a very good-look!ng young man; I met h!m at the
ball of Mons!eur de Nuc!ngen.” Adolphe d!d not go on, for h!s mother
trod on h!s toes; and then, ask!ng h!m aloud for two sous to put on
her stake, she wh!spered: “W!ll you hold your tongue, you great
goose!”

At th!s moment Grandet returned, w!thout la Grande Nanon, whose

steps, together w!th those of the porter, echoed up the sta!rcase;
and he was followed by the traveller who had exc!ted such cur!os!ty
and so f!lled the l!vely !mag!nat!ons of those present that h!s arr!val at
th!s dwell!ng, and h!s sudden fall !nto the m!dst of th!s assembly, can
only be l!kened to that of a sna!l !nto a beeh!ve, or the !ntroduct!on of
a peacock !nto some v!llage poultry-yard.

“S!t down near the f!re,” sa!d Grandet.

Before seat!ng h!mself, the young stranger saluted the assembled

company very gracefully. The men rose to answer by a courteous
!ncl!nat!on, and the women made a ceremon!ous bow.

“You are cold, no doubt, mons!eur,” sa!d Madame Grandet; “you

have, perhaps, travelled from—”

“Just l!ke all women!” sa!d the old w!ne-grower, look!ng up from a
letter he was read!ng. “Do let mons!eur rest h!mself!”
:
 “But, father, perhaps mons!eur would l!ke to take someth!ng,” sa!d
Eugen!e.

“He has got a tongue,” sa!d the old man sternly.

The stranger was the only person surpr!sed by th!s scene; all the
others were well-used to the despot!c ways of the master. However,
after the two quest!ons and the two repl!es had been exchanged, the
newcomer rose, turned h!s back towards the f!re, l!fted one foot so
as to warm the sole of !ts boot, and sa!d to Eugen!e,—

“Thank you, my cous!n, but I d!ned at Tours. And,” he added, look!ng

at Grandet, “I need noth!ng; I am not even t!red.”

“Mons!eur has come from the cap!tal?” asked Madame des Grass!ns.

Mons!eur Charles,—such was the name of the son of Mons!eur

Grandet of Par!s,—hear!ng h!mself addressed, took a l!ttle eye-glass,
suspended by a cha!n from h!s neck, appl!ed !t to h!s r!ght eye to
exam!ne what was on the table, and also the persons s!tt!ng round !t.
He ogled Madame des Grass!ns w!th much !mpert!nence, and sa!d to
her, after he had observed all he w!shed,—

“Yes, madame. You are play!ng at loto, aunt,” he added. “Do not let
me !nterrupt you, I beg; go on w!th your game: !t !s too amus!ng to
leave.”

“I was certa!n !t was the cous!n,” thought Madame des Grass!ns,

cast!ng repeated glances at h!m.

“Forty-seven!” cr!ed the old abbe. “Mark !t down, Madame des

Grass!ns. Isn’t that your number?”

Mons!eur des Grass!ns put a counter on h!s w!fe’s card, who sat
watch!ng f!rst the cous!n from Par!s and then Eugen!e, w!thout
:
 th!nk!ng of her loto, a prey to mournful present!ments. From t!me to
t!me the young he!ress glanced furt!vely at her cous!n, and the
banker’s w!fe eas!ly detected a crescendo of surpr!se and cur!os!ty !n
her m!nd.

Mons!eur Charles Grandet, a handsome young man of twenty-two,

presented at th!s moment a s!ngular contrast to the worthy
prov!nc!als, who, cons!derably d!sgusted by h!s ar!stocrat!c manners,
were all study!ng h!m w!th sarcast!c !ntent. Th!s needs an
explanat!on. At twenty-two, young people are st!ll so near ch!ldhood
that they often conduct themselves ch!ld!shly. In all probab!l!ty, out of
every hundred of them fully n!nety-n!ne would have behaved
prec!sely as Mons!eur Charles Grandet was now behav!ng.

Some days earl!er than th!s h!s father had told h!m to go and spend
several months w!th h!s uncle at Saumur. Perhaps Mons!eur Grandet
was th!nk!ng of Eugen!e. Charles, sent for the f!rst t!me !n h!s l!fe !nto
the prov!nces, took a fancy to make h!s appearance w!th the
super!or!ty of a man of fash!on, to reduce the whole arrond!ssement
to despa!r by h!s luxury, and to make h!s v!s!t an epoch, !mport!ng
!nto those country reg!ons all the ref!nements of Par!s!an l!fe. In short,
to expla!n !t !n one word, he mean to pass more t!me at Saumur !n
brush!ng h!s na!ls than he ever thought of do!ng !n Par!s, and to
assume the extra n!cety and elegance of dress wh!ch a young man of
fash!on often lays as!de for a certa!n negl!gence wh!ch !n !tself !s not
devo!d of grace. Charles therefore brought w!th h!m a complete
hunt!ng-costume, the f!nest gun, the best hunt!ng-kn!fe !n the
prett!est sheath to be found !n all Par!s. He brought h!s whole
collect!on of wa!stcoats. They were of all k!nds,—gray, black, wh!te,
scarabaeus-colored: some were shot w!th gold, some spangled,
some ch!ned; some were double-breasted and crossed l!ke a shawl,
others were stra!ght !n the collar; some had turned-over collars,
some buttoned up to the top w!th g!lt buttons. He brought every
:
 var!ety of collar and cravat !n fash!on at that epoch. He brought two
of Bu!sson’s coats and all h!s f!nest l!nen He brought h!s pretty gold
to!let-set,—a present from h!s mother. He brought all h!s dandy
kn!ck-knacks, not forgett!ng a rav!sh!ng l!ttle desk presented to h!m
by the most am!able of women,—am!able for h!m, at least,—a f!ne
lady whom he called Annette and who at th!s moment was travell!ng,
matr!mon!ally and wear!ly, !n Scotland, a v!ct!m to certa!n susp!c!ons
wh!ch requ!red a pass!ng sacr!f!ce of happ!ness; !n the desk was
much pretty note-paper on wh!ch to wr!te to her once a fortn!ght.

In short, !t was as complete a cargo of Par!s!an fr!vol!t!es as !t was

poss!ble for h!m to get together,—a collect!on of all the !mplements
of husbandry w!th wh!ch the youth of le!sure t!lls h!s l!fe, from the
l!ttle wh!p wh!ch helps to beg!n a duel, to the handsomely chased
p!stols wh!ch end !t. H!s father hav!ng told h!m to travel alone and
modestly, he had taken the coupe of the d!l!gence all to h!mself,
rather pleased at not hav!ng to damage a del!ghtful travell!ng-
carr!age ordered for a journey on wh!ch he was to meet h!s Annette,
the great lady who, etc.,—whom he !ntended to rejo!n at Baden !n the
follow!ng June. Charles expected to meet scores of people at h!s
uncle’s house, to hunt !n h!s uncle’s forests,—to l!ve, !n short, the
usual chateau l!fe; he d!d not know that h!s uncle was !n Saumur, and
had only !nqu!red about h!m !nc!dentally when ask!ng the way to
Fro!dfond. Hear!ng that he was !n town, he supposed that he should
f!nd h!m !n a su!table mans!on.

In order that he m!ght make a becom!ng f!rst appearance before h!s

uncle e!ther at Saumur or at Fro!dfond, he had put on h!s most
elegant travell!ng att!re, s!mple yet exqu!s!te,—“adorable,” to use the
word wh!ch !n those days summed up the spec!al perfect!ons of a
man or a th!ng. At Tours a ha!rdresser had re-curled h!s beaut!ful
chestnut locks; there he changed h!s l!nen and put on a black sat!n
cravat, wh!ch, comb!ned w!th a round sh!rt-collar, framed h!s fa!r and
:
 sm!l!ng countenance agreeably. A travell!ng great-coat, only half
buttoned up, n!pped !n h!s wa!st and d!sclosed a cashmere wa!stcoat
crossed !n front, beneath wh!ch was another wa!stcoat of wh!te
mater!al. H!s watch, negl!gently sl!pped !nto a pocket, was fastened
by a short gold cha!n to a buttonhole. H!s gray trousers, buttoned up
at the s!des, were set off at the seams w!th patterns of black s!lk
embro!dery. He gracefully tw!rled a cane, whose chased gold knob
d!d not mar the freshness of h!s gray gloves. And to complete all, h!s
cap was !n excellent taste. None but a Par!s!an, and a Par!s!an of the
upper spheres, could thus array h!mself w!thout appear!ng
r!d!culous; none other could g!ve the harmony of self-conce!t to all
these fopper!es, wh!ch were carr!ed off, however, w!th a dash!ng a!r,
—the a!r of a young man who has f!ne p!stols, a sure a!m, and
Annette.

Now !f you w!sh to understand the mutual amazement of the

prov!nc!al party and the young Par!s!an; !f you would clearly see the
br!ll!ance wh!ch the traveller’s elegance cast among the gray
shadows of the room and upon the faces of th!s fam!ly group,—
endeavor to p!cture to your m!nds the Cruchots. All three took snuff,
and had long ceased to repress the hab!t of sn!vell!ng or to remove
the brown blotches wh!ch strewed the fr!lls of the!r d!ngy sh!rts and
the yellow!ng creases of the!r crumpled collars. The!r flabby cravats
were tw!sted !nto ropes as soon as they wound them about the!r
throats. The enormous quant!ty of l!nen wh!ch allowed these people
to have the!r cloth!ng washed only once !n s!x months, and to keep !t
dur!ng that t!me !n the depths of the!r closets, also enabled t!me to
lay !ts gr!my and decay!ng sta!ns upon !t. There was perfect un!son of
!ll-grace and sen!l!ty about them; the!r faces, as faded as the!r
threadbare coats, as creased as the!r trousers, were worn-out,
shr!velled-up, and puckered. As for the others, the general
negl!gence of the!r dress, wh!ch was !ncomplete and want!ng !n
:
 freshness,—l!ke the to!let of all country places, where !nsens!bly
people cease to dress for others and come to th!nk ser!ously of the
pr!ce of a pa!r of gloves,—was !n keep!ng w!th the negl!gence of the
Cruchots. A horror of fash!on was the only po!nt on wh!ch the
Grass!n!sts and the Cruchot!nes agreed.

When the Par!s!an took up h!s eye-glass to exam!ne the strange

accessor!es of th!s dwell!ng,—the jo!sts of the ce!l!ng, the color of the
woodwork, and the specks wh!ch the fl!es had left there !n suff!c!ent
number to punctuate the “Mon!teur” and the “Encyclopaed!a of
Sc!ences,”—the loto-players l!fted the!r noses and looked at h!m w!th
as much cur!os!ty as they m!ght have felt about a g!raffe. Mons!eur
des Grass!ns and h!s son, to whom the appearance of a man of
fash!on was not wholly unknown, were nevertheless as much
aston!shed as the!r ne!ghbors, whether !t was that they fell under the
!ndef!nable !nfluence of the general feel!ng, or that they really shared
!t as w!th sat!r!cal glances they seemed to say to the!r compatr!ots,—

“That !s what you see !n Par!s!”

They were able to exam!ne Charles at the!r le!sure w!thout fear!ng to

d!splease the master of the house. Grandet was absorbed !n the long
letter wh!ch he held !n h!s hand; and to read !t he had taken the only
candle upon the card-table, pay!ng no heed to h!s guests or the!r
pleasure. Eugen!e, to whom such a type of perfect!on, whether of
dress or of person, was absolutely unknown, thought she beheld !n
her cous!n a be!ng descended from seraph!c spheres. She !nhaled
w!th del!ght the fragrance wafted from the graceful curls of that
br!ll!ant head. She would have l!ked to touch the soft k!d of the
del!cate gloves. She env!ed Charles h!s small hands, h!s complex!on,
the freshness and ref!nement of h!s features. In short,—!f !t !s
poss!ble to sum up the effect th!s elegant be!ng produced upon an
!gnorant young g!rl perpetually employed !n darn!ng stock!ngs or !n
:
 mend!ng her father’s clothes, and whose l!fe flowed on beneath
these unclean rafters, see!ng none but occas!onal passers along the
s!lent street,—th!s v!s!on of her cous!n roused !n her soul an emot!on
of del!cate des!re l!ke that !nsp!red !n a young man by the fanc!ful
p!ctures of women drawn by Westall for the Engl!sh “Keepsakes,”
and that engraved by the F!ndens w!th so clever a tool that we fear,
as we breathe upon the paper, that the celest!al appar!t!ons may be
wafted away. Charles drew from h!s pocket a handkerch!ef
embro!dered by the great lady now travell!ng !n Scotland. As Eugen!e
saw th!s pretty p!ece of work, done !n the vacant hours wh!ch were
lost to love, she looked at her cous!n to see !f !t were poss!ble that he
meant to make use of !t. The manners of the young man, h!s
gestures, the way !n wh!ch he took up h!s eye-glass, h!s affected
superc!l!ousness, h!s contemptuous glance at the coffer wh!ch had
just g!ven so much pleasure to the r!ch he!ress, and wh!ch he
ev!dently regarded as w!thout value, or even as r!d!culous,—all these
th!ngs, wh!ch shocked the Cruchots and the des Grass!ns, pleased
Eugen!e so deeply that before she slept she dreamed long dreams of
her phoen!x cous!n.

The loto-numbers were drawn very slowly, and presently the game
came suddenly to an end. La Grand Nanon entered and sa!d aloud:
“Madame, I want the sheets for mons!eur’s bed.”

Madame Grandet followed her out. Madame des Grass!ns sa!d !n a

low vo!ce: “Let us keep our sous and stop play!ng.” Each took h!s or
her two sous from the ch!pped saucer !n wh!ch they had been put;
then the party moved !n a body toward the f!re.

“Have you f!n!shed your game?” sa!d Grandet, w!thout look!ng up

from h!s letter.

“Yes, yes!” repl!ed Madame des Grass!ns, tak!ng a seat near Charles.
:
 Eugen!e, prompted by a thought often born !n the heart of a young
g!rl when sent!ment enters !t for the f!rst t!me, left the room to go and
help her mother and Nanon. Had an able confessor then quest!oned
her she would, no doubt, have avowed to h!m that she thought
ne!ther of her mother nor of Nanon, but was pr!cked by a po!gnant
des!re to look after her cous!n’s room and concern herself w!th her
cous!n; to supply what m!ght be needed, to remedy any
forgetfulness, to see that all was done to make !t, as far as poss!ble,
su!table and elegant; and, !n fact, she arr!ved !n t!me to prove to her
mother and Nanon that everyth!ng st!ll rema!ned to be done. She put
!nto Nanon’s head the not!on of pass!ng a warm!ng-pan between the
sheets. She herself covered the old table w!th a cloth and requested
Nanon to change !t every morn!ng; she conv!nced her mother that !t
was necessary to l!ght a good f!re, and persuaded Nanon to br!ng up
a great p!le of wood !nto the corr!dor w!thout say!ng anyth!ng to her
father. She ran to get, from one of the corner-shelves of the hall, a
tray of old lacquer wh!ch was part of the !nher!tance of the late
Mons!eur de la Bertell!ere, catch!ng up at the same t!me a s!x-s!ded
crystal goblet, a l!ttle tarn!shed g!lt spoon, an ant!que flask engraved
w!th cup!ds, all of wh!ch she put tr!umphantly on the corner of her
cous!n’s ch!mney-p!ece. More !deas surged through her head !n one
quarter of an hour than she had ever had s!nce she came !nto the
world.

“Mamma,” she sa!d, “my cous!n w!ll never bear the smell of a tallow
candle; suppose we buy a wax one?” And she darted, sw!ft as a b!rd,
to get the f!ve-franc p!ece wh!ch she had just rece!ved for her
monthly expenses. “Here, Nanon,” she cr!ed, “qu!ck!”

“What w!ll your father say?” Th!s terr!ble remonstrance was uttered
by Madame Grandet as she beheld her daughter armed w!th an old
Sevres sugar-bas!n wh!ch Grandet had brought home from the
chateau of Fro!dfond. “And where w!ll you get the sugar? Are you
:
 crazy?”

“Mamma, Nanon can buy some sugar as well as the candle.”

“But your father?”

“Surely h!s nephew ought not to go w!thout a glass of eau sucree?

Bes!des, he w!ll not not!ce !t.”

“Your father sees everyth!ng,” sa!d Madame Grandet, shak!ng her

head.

Nanon hes!tated; she knew her master.

“Come, Nanon, go,—because !t !s my b!rthday.”

Nanon gave a loud laugh as she heard the f!rst l!ttle jest her young
m!stress had ever made, and then obeyed her.

Wh!le Eugen!e and her mother were try!ng to embell!sh the bedroom
ass!gned by Mons!eur Grandet for h!s nephew, Charles h!mself was
the object of Madame des Grass!ns’ attent!ons; to all appearances
she was sett!ng her cap at h!m.

“You are very courageous, mons!eur,” she sa!d to the young dandy,
“to leave the pleasures of the cap!tal at th!s season and take up your
abode !n Saumur. But !f we do not fr!ghten you away, you w!ll f!nd
there are some amusements even here.”

She threw h!m the ogl!ng glance of the prov!nces, where women put
so much prudence and reserve !nto the!r eyes that they !mpart to
them the prud!sh concup!scence pecul!ar to certa!n eccles!ast!cs to
whom all pleasure !s e!ther a theft or an error. Charles was so
completely out of h!s element !n th!s abode, and so far from the vast
chateau and the sumptuous l!fe w!th wh!ch h!s fancy had endowed
:
 h!s uncle, that as he looked at Madame des Grass!ns he perce!ved a
d!m l!keness to Par!s!an faces. He gracefully responded to the
spec!es of !nv!tat!on addressed to h!m, and began very naturally a
conversat!on, !n wh!ch Madame des Grass!ns gradually lowered her
vo!ce so as to br!ng !t !nto harmony w!th the nature of the
conf!dences she was mak!ng. W!th her, as w!th Charles, there was
the need of conference; so after a few moments spent !n coquett!sh
phrases and a l!ttle ser!ous jest!ng, the clever prov!nc!al sa!d, th!nk!ng
herself unheard by the others, who were d!scuss!ng the sale of w!nes
wh!ch at that season f!lled the heads of every one !n Saumur,—

“Mons!eur !f you w!ll do us the honor to come and see us, you w!ll
g!ve as much pleasure to my husband as to myself. Our salon !s the
only one !n Saumur where you w!ll f!nd the h!gher bus!ness c!rcles
m!ngl!ng w!th the nob!l!ty. We belong to both soc!et!es, who meet at
our house s!mply because they f!nd !t amus!ng. My husband—I say !t
w!th pr!de—!s as much valued by the one class as by the other. We
w!ll try to rel!eve the monotony of your v!s!t here. If you stay all the
t!me w!th Mons!eur Grandet, good heavens! what w!ll become of
you? Your uncle !s a sord!d m!ser who th!nks of noth!ng but h!s v!nes;
your aunt !s a p!ous soul who can’t put two !deas together; and your
cous!n !s a l!ttle fool, w!thout educat!on, perfectly common, no
fortune, who w!ll spend her l!fe !n darn!ng towels.”

“She !s really very n!ce, th!s woman,” thought Charles Grandet as he

duly responded to Madame des Grass!ns’ coquetr!es.

“It seems to me, w!fe, that you are tak!ng possess!on of mons!eur,”
sa!d the stout banker, laugh!ng.

On th!s remark the notary and the pres!dent sa!d a few words that
were more or less s!gn!f!cant; but the abbe, look!ng at them slyly,
brought the!r thoughts to a focus by tak!ng a p!nch of snuff and
:
 say!ng as he handed round h!s snuff-box: “Who can do the honors of
Saumur for mons!eur so well as madame?”

“Ah! what do you mean by that, mons!eur l’abbe?” demanded

Mons!eur des Grass!ns.

“I mean !t !n the best poss!ble sense for you, for madame, for the
town of Saumur, and for mons!eur,” sa!d the w!ly old man, turn!ng to
Charles.

The Abbe Cruchot had guessed the conversat!on between Charles

and Madame des Grass!ns w!thout seem!ng to pay attent!on to !t.

“Mons!eur,” sa!d Adolphe to Charles w!th an a!r wh!ch he tr!ed to

make free and easy, “I don’t know whether you remember me, but I
had the honor of danc!ng as your v!s-a-v!s at a ball g!ven by the
Baron de Nuc!ngen, and—”

“Perfectly; I remember perfectly, mons!eur,” answered Charles,

pleased to f!nd h!mself the object of general attent!on.

“Mons!eur !s your son?” he sa!d to Madame des Grass!ns.

The abbe looked at her mal!c!ously.

“Yes, mons!eur,” she answered.

“Then you were very young when you were !n Par!s?” sa!d Charles,
address!ng Adolphe.

“You must know, mons!eur,” sa!d the abbe, “that we send them to
Babylon as soon as they are weaned.”

Madame des Grass!ns exam!ned the abbe w!th a glance of extreme

penetrat!on.
:
 “It !s only !n the prov!nces,” he cont!nued, “that you w!ll f!nd women
of th!rty and more years as fresh as madame, here, w!th a son about
to take h!s degree. I almost fancy myself back !n the days when the
young men stood on cha!rs !n the ball-room to see you dance,
madame,” sa!d the abbe, turn!ng to h!s female adversary. “To me,
your tr!umphs are but of yesterday—”

“The old rogue!” thought Madame Grass!ns; “can he have guessed

my !ntent!ons?”

“It seems that I shall have a good deal of success !n Saumur,”

thought Charles as he unbuttoned h!s great-coat, put a hand !nto h!s
wa!stcoat, and cast a glance !nto the far d!stance, to !m!tate the
att!tude wh!ch Chantrey has g!ven to Lord Byron.

The !nattent!on of Pere Grandet, or, to speak more truly, the

preoccupat!on of m!nd !nto wh!ch the read!ng of the letter had
plunged h!m, d!d not escape the v!g!lance of the notary and the
pres!dent, who tr!ed to guess the contents of the letter by the almost
!mpercept!ble mot!ons of the m!ser’s face, wh!ch was then under the
full l!ght of the candle. He ma!nta!ned the hab!tual calm of h!s
features w!th ev!dent d!ff!culty; we may, !n fact, p!cture to ourselves
the countenance such a man endeavored to preserve as he read the
fatal letter wh!ch here follows:—

My Brother,—It is almost twenty-three years since we have seen

each other. My marriage was the occasion of our last interview,
after which we parted, and both of us were happy. Assuredly I
could not then foresee that you would one day be the prop of the
family whose prosperity you then predicted.

When you hold this letter within your hands I shall be no longer
living. In the position I now hold I cannot survive the disgrace
of bankruptcy. I have waited on the edge of the gulf until the
:
 last moment, hoping to save myself. The end has come, I must sink
into it. The double bankruptcies of my broker and of Roguin, my
notary, have carried off my last resources and left me nothing. I
have the bitterness of owing nearly four millions, with assets no
more than twenty-five per cent in value to pay them. The wines in
my warehouses suffer from the fall in prices caused by the
abundance and quality of your vintage. In three days Paris will
cry out: “Monsieur Grandet was a knave!” and I, an honest man,
shall be lying in my winding-sheet of infamy. I deprive my son of
a good name, which I have stained, and the fortune of his mother,
which I have lost. He knows nothing of all this,—my unfortunate
child whom I idolize! We parted tenderly. He was ignorant,
happily, that the last beatings of my heart were spent in that
farewell. Will he not some day curse me? My brother, my brother!
the curses of our children are horrible; they can appeal against
ours, but theirs are irrevocable. Grandet, you are my elder
brother, you owe me your protection; act for me so that Charles
may cast no bitter words upon my grave! My brother, if I were
writing with my blood, with my tears, no greater anguish could I
put into this letter,—nor as great, for then I should weep, I
should bleed, I should die, I should suffer no more, but now I
suffer and look at death with dry eyes.

From henceforth you are my son’s father; he has no relations, as

you well know, on his mother’s side. Why did I not consider socia
prejudices? Why did I yield to love? Why did I marry the natural
daughter of a great lord? Charles has no family. Oh, my unhappy
son! my son! Listen, Grandet! I implore nothing for myself,
—besides, your property may not be large enough to carry a mortga
of three millions,—but for my son! Brother, my suppliant hands
are clasped as I think of you; behold them! Grandet, I confide my
son to you in dying, and I look at the means of death with less
pain as I think that you will be to him a father. He loved me
well, my Charles; I was good to him, I never thwarted him; he wil
not curse me. Ah, you see! he is gentle, he is like his mother, h
will cause you no grief. Poor boy! accustomed to all the
enjoyments of luxury, he knows nothing of the privations to which
:
 you and I were condemned by the poverty of our youth. And I leave
him ruined! alone! Yes, all my friends will avoid him, and it is
who have brought this humiliation upon him! Would that I had the
force to send him with one thrust into the heavens to his mother’
side! Madness! I come back to my disaster—to his. I send him to
you that you may tell him in some fitting way of my death, of his
future fate. Be a father to him, but a good father. Do not tear
him all at once from his idle life, it would kill him. I beg him
on my knees to renounce all rights that, as his mother’s heir, he
may have on my estate. But the prayer is superfluous; he is
honorable, and he will feel that he must not appear among my
creditors. Bring him to see this at the right time; reveal to him
the hard conditions of the life I have made for him: and if he
still has tender thoughts of me, tell him in my name that all is
not lost for him. Yes, work, labor, which saved us both, may give
him back the fortune of which I have deprived him; and if he
listens to his father’s voice as it reaches him from the grave, h
will go the Indies. My brother, Charles is an upright and
courageous young man; give him the wherewithal to make his
venture; he will die sooner than not repay you the funds which yo
may lend him. Grandet! if you will not do this, you will lay up
for yourself remorse. Ah, should my child find neither tenderness
nor succor in you, I would call down the vengeance of God upon
your cruelty!

If I had been able to save something from the wreck, I might have
had the right to leave him at least a portion of his mother’s
property; but my last monthly payments have absorbed everything.
did not wish to die uncertain of my child’s fate; I hoped to feel
a sacred promise in a clasp of your hand which might have warmed
my heart: but time fails me. While Charles is journeying to you I
shall be preparing my assignment. I shall endeavor to show by the
order and good faith of my accounts that my disaster comes neithe
from a faulty life nor from dishonesty. It is for my son’s sake
that I strive to do this.

Farewell, my brother! May the blessing of God be yours for the

:
 generous guardianship I lay upon you, and which, I doubt not, you
will accept. A voice will henceforth and forever pray for you in
that world where we must all go, and where I am now as you read
these lines.

V!ctor-Ange-Gu!llaume Grandet.

“So you are talk!ng?” sa!d Pere Grandet as he carefully folded the
letter !n !ts or!g!nal creases and put !t !nto h!s wa!stcoat-pocket. He
looked at h!s nephew w!th a humble, t!m!d a!r, beneath wh!ch he h!d
h!s feel!ngs and h!s calculat!ons. “Have you warmed yourself?” he
sa!d to h!m.

“Thoroughly, my dear uncle.”

“Well, where are the women?” sa!d h!s uncle, already forgett!ng that
h!s nephew was to sleep at the house. At th!s moment Eugen!e and
Madame Grandet returned.

“Is the room all ready?” sa!d Grandet, recover!ng h!s composure.

“Yes, father.”

“Well then, my nephew, !f you are t!red, Nanon shall show you your
room. It !sn’t a dandy’s room; but you w!ll excuse a poor w!ne-grower
who never has a penny to spare. Taxes swallow up everyth!ng.”

“We do not w!sh to !ntrude, Grandet,” sa!d the banker; “you may want
to talk to your nephew, and therefore we w!ll b!d you good-n!ght.”

At these words the assembly rose, and each made a part!ng bow !n
keep!ng w!th h!s or her own character. The old notary went to the
door to fetch h!s lantern and came back to l!ght !t, offer!ng to
accompany the des Grass!ns on the!r way. Madame des Grass!ns
had not foreseen the !nc!dent wh!ch brought the even!ng
:
 prematurely to an end, her servant therefore had not arr!ved.

“W!ll you do me the honor to take my arm, madame?” sa!d the abbe.

“Thank you, mons!eur l’abbe, but I have my son,” she answered dryly.

“Lad!es cannot comprom!se themselves w!th me,” sa!d the abbe.

“Take Mons!eur Cruchot’s arm,” sa!d her husband.

The abbe walked off w!th the pretty lady so qu!ckly that they were
soon some d!stance !n advance of the caravan.

“That !s a good-look!ng young man, madame,” he sa!d, press!ng her

arm. “Good-by to the grapes, the v!ntage !s done. It !s all over w!th
us. We may as well say ad!eu to Mademo!selle Grandet. Eugen!e w!ll
belong to the dandy. Unless th!s cous!n !s enamoured of some
Par!s!an woman, your son Adolphe w!ll f!nd another r!val !n—”

“Not at all, mons!eur l’abbe. Th!s young man cannot fa!l to see that
Eugen!e !s a l!ttle fool,—a g!rl w!thout the least freshness. D!d you
not!ce her to-n!ght? She was as yellow as a qu!nce.”

“Perhaps you made the cous!n not!ce !t?”

“I d!d not take the trouble—”

“Place yourself always bes!de Eugen!e, madame, and you need never
take the trouble to say anyth!ng to the young man aga!nst h!s cous!n;
he w!ll make h!s own compar!sons, wh!ch—”

“Well, he has prom!sed to d!ne w!th me the day after to-morrow.”

“Ah! !f you only would, madame—” sa!d the abbe.

“What !s !t that you w!sh me to do, mons!eur l’abbe? Do you mean to

:
 offer me bad adv!ce? I have not reached the age of th!rty-n!ne,
w!thout a sta!n upon my reputat!on, thank God! to comprom!se
myself now, even for the emp!re of the Great Mogul. You and I are of
an age when we both know the mean!ng of words. For an
eccles!ast!c, you certa!nly have !deas that are very !ncongruous. F!e!
!t !s worthy of Faublas!”

“You have read Faublas?”

“No, mons!eur l’abbe; I meant to say the L!a!sons dangereuses.”

“Ah! that book !s !nf!n!tely more moral,” sa!d the abbe, laugh!ng. “But
you make me out as w!cked as a young man of the present day; I
only meant—”

“Do you dare to tell me you were not th!nk!ng of putt!ng w!cked
th!ngs !nto my head? Isn’t !t perfectly clear? If th!s young man—who I
adm!t !s very good-look!ng—were to make love to me, he would not
th!nk of h!s cous!n. In Par!s, I know, good mothers do devote
themselves !n th!s way to the happ!ness and welfare of the!r ch!ldren;
but we l!ve !n the prov!nces, mons!eur l’abbe.”

“Yes, madame.”

“And,” she cont!nued, “I do not want, and Adolphe h!mself would not
want, a hundred m!ll!ons brought at such a pr!ce.”

“Madame, I sa!d noth!ng about a hundred m!ll!ons; that temptat!on

m!ght be too great for e!ther of us to w!thstand. Only, I do th!nk that
an honest woman may perm!t herself, !n all honor, certa!n harmless
l!ttle coquetr!es, wh!ch are, !n fact, part of her soc!al duty and wh!ch
—”

“Do you th!nk so?”

:
 “Are we not bound, madame, to make ourselves agreeable to each
other?—Perm!t me to blow my nose.—I assure you, madame,” he
resumed, “that the young gentleman ogled you through h!s glass !n a
more flatter!ng manner than he put on when he looked at me; but I
forg!ve h!m for do!ng homage to beauty !n preference to old age—”

“It !s qu!te apparent,” sa!d the pres!dent !n h!s loud vo!ce, “that
Mons!eur Grandet of Par!s has sent h!s son to Saumur w!th extremely
matr!mon!al !ntent!ons.”

“But !n that case the cous!n wouldn’t have fallen among us l!ke a
cannon-ball,” answered the notary.

“That doesn’t prove anyth!ng,” sa!d Mons!eur des Grass!ns; “the old
m!ser !s always mak!ng myster!es.”

“Des Grass!ns, my fr!end, I have !nv!ted the young man to d!nner. You
must go and ask Mons!eur and Madame de Larsonn!ere and the du
Hautoys, w!th the beaut!ful demo!selle du Hautoy, of course. I hope
she w!ll be properly dressed; that jealous mother of hers does make
such a fr!ght of her! Gentlemen, I trust that you w!ll all do us the
honor to come,” she added, stopp!ng the process!on to address the
two Cruchots.

“Here you are at home, madame,” sa!d the notary.

After bow!ng to the three des Grass!ns, the three Cruchots returned
home, apply!ng the!r prov!nc!al gen!us for analys!s to study!ng, under
all !ts aspects, the great event of the even!ng, wh!ch undoubtedly
changed the respect!ve pos!t!ons of Grass!n!sts and Cruchot!nes.
The adm!rable common-sense wh!ch gu!ded all the act!ons of these
great mach!nators made each s!de feel the necess!ty of a momentary
all!ance aga!nst a common enemy. Must they not mutually h!nder
Eugen!e from lov!ng her cous!n, and the cous!n from th!nk!ng of
:
 Eugen!e? Could the Par!s!an res!st the !nfluence of treacherous
!ns!nuat!ons, soft-spoken calumn!es, slanders full of fa!nt pra!se and
artless den!als, wh!ch should be made to c!rcle !ncessantly about h!m
and dece!ve h!m?

IV
When the four relat!ons were left alone, Mons!eur Grandet sa!d to h!s
nephew,—

“We must go to bed. It !s too late to talk about the matters wh!ch
have brought you here; to-morrow we w!ll take a su!table moment.
We breakfast at e!ght o’clock; at m!dday we eat a l!ttle fru!t or a b!t of
bread, and dr!nk a glass of wh!te w!ne; and we d!ne, l!ke the
Par!s!ans, at f!ve o’clock. That’s the order of the day. If you l!ke to go
and see the town and the env!rons you are free to do so. You w!ll
excuse me !f my occupat!ons do not perm!t me to accompany you.
You may perhaps hear people say that I am r!ch,—Mons!eur Grandet
th!s, Mons!eur Grandet that. I let them talk; the!r goss!p does not hurt
my cred!t. But I have not a penny; I work !n my old age l!ke an
apprent!ce whose worldly goods are a bad plane and two good arms.
Perhaps you’ll soon know yourself what a franc costs when you have
got to sweat for !t. Nanon, where are the candles?”

“I trust, my nephew, that you w!ll f!nd all you want,” sa!d Madame
Grandet; “but !f you should need anyth!ng else, you can call Nanon.”

“My dear aunt, I shall need noth!ng; I have, I bel!eve, brought

everyth!ng w!th me. Perm!t me to b!d you good-n!ght, and my young
cous!n also.”

Charles took a l!ghted wax candle from Nanon’s hand,—an Anjou

candle, very yellow !n color, and so shopworn that !t looked l!ke tallow
and dece!ved Mons!eur Grandet, who, !ncapable of suspect!ng !ts
:
 presence under h!s roof, d!d not perce!ve th!s magn!f!cence.

“I w!ll show you the way,” he sa!d.

Instead of leav!ng the hall by the door wh!ch opened under the
archway, Grandet ceremon!ously went through the passage wh!ch
d!v!ded the hall from the k!tchen. A sw!ng-door, furn!shed w!th a
large oval pane of glass, shut th!s passage from the sta!rcase, so as
to fend off the cold a!r wh!ch rushed through !t. But the north w!nd
wh!stled none the less keenly !n w!nter, and, !n sp!te of the sand-
bags at the bottom of the doors of the l!v!ng-room, the temperature
w!th!n could scarcely be kept at a proper he!ght. Nanon went to bolt
the outer door; then she closed the hall and let loose a wolf-dog,
whose bark was so strangled that he seemed to have laryng!t!s. Th!s
an!mal, noted for h!s feroc!ty, recogn!zed no one but Nanon; the two
untutored ch!ldren of the f!elds understood each other.

When Charles saw the yellow, smoke-sta!ned walls of the well of the
sta!rcase, where each worm-eaten step shook under the heavy foot-
fall of h!s uncle, h!s expectat!ons began to sober more and more. He
fanc!ed h!mself !n a hen-roost. H!s aunt and cous!n, to whom he
turned an !nqu!r!ng look, were so used to the sta!rcase that they d!d
not guess the cause of h!s amazement, and took the glance for an
express!on of fr!endl!ness, wh!ch they answered by a sm!le that made
h!m desperate.

“Why the dev!l d!d my father send me to such a place?” he sa!d to

h!mself.

When they reached the f!rst land!ng he saw three doors pa!nted !n
Etruscan red and w!thout cas!ngs,—doors sunk !n the dusty walls and
prov!ded w!th !ron bars, wh!ch !n fact were bolts, each end!ng w!th
the pattern of a flame, as d!d both ends of the long sheath of the
lock. The f!rst door at the top of the sta!rcase, wh!ch opened !nto a
:
 room d!rectly above the k!tchen, was ev!dently walled up. In fact, the
only entrance to that room was through Grandet’s bedchamber; the
room !tself was h!s off!ce. The s!ngle w!ndow wh!ch l!ghted !t, on the
s!de of the court, was protected by a latt!ce of strong !ron bars. No
one, not even Madame Grandet, had perm!ss!on to enter !t. The old
man chose to be alone, l!ke an alchem!st !n h!s laboratory. There, no
doubt, some h!d!ng-place had been !ngen!ously constructed; there
the t!tle-deeds of property were stored; there hung the scales on
wh!ch to we!gh the lou!s; there were dev!sed, by n!ght and secretly,
the est!mates, the prof!ts, the rece!pts, so that bus!ness men, f!nd!ng
Grandet prepared at all po!nts, !mag!ned that he got h!s cue from
fa!r!es or demons; there, no doubt, wh!le Nanon’s loud snor!ng shook
the rafters, wh!le the wolf-dog watched and yawned !n the courtyard,
wh!le Madame and Mademo!selle Grandet were qu!etly sleep!ng,
came the old cooper to cuddle, to con over, to caress and clutch and
clasp h!s gold. The walls were th!ck, the screens sure. He alone had
the key of th!s laboratory, where—so people declared—he stud!ed
the maps on wh!ch h!s fru!t-trees were marked, and calculated h!s
prof!ts to a v!ne, and almost to a tw!g.

The door of Eugen!e’s chamber was oppos!te to the walled-up

entrance to th!s room. At the other end of the land!ng were the
appartements of the marr!ed pa!r, wh!ch occup!ed the whole front of
the house. Madame Grandet had a room next to that of Eugen!e,
wh!ch was entered through a glass door. The master’s chamber was
separated from that of h!s w!fe by a part!t!on, and from the
myster!ous strong-room by a th!ck wall. Pere Grandet lodged h!s
nephew on the second floor, !n the h!gh mansarde att!c wh!ch was
above h!s own bedroom, so that he m!ght hear h!m !f the young man
took !t !nto h!s head to go and come. When Eugen!e and her mother
reached the m!ddle of the land!ng they k!ssed each other for good-
n!ght; then w!th a few words of ad!eu to Charles, cold upon the l!ps,
:
 but certa!nly very warm !n the heart of the young g!rl, they w!thdrew
!nto the!r own chambers.

“Here you are !n your room, my nephew,” sa!d Pere Grandet as he

opened the door. “If you need to go out, call Nanon; w!thout her,
beware! the dog would eat you up w!thout a word. Sleep well. Good-
n!ght. Ha! why, they have made you a f!re!” he cr!ed.

At th!s moment Nanon appeared w!th the warm!ng pan.

“Here’s someth!ng more!” sa!d Mons!eur Grandet. “Do you take my

nephew for a ly!ng-!n woman? Carry off your braz!er, Nanon!”

“But, mons!eur, the sheets are damp, and th!s gentleman !s as

del!cate as a woman.”

“Well, go on, as you’ve taken !t !nto your head,” sa!d Grandet,

push!ng her by the shoulders; “but don’t set th!ngs on f!re.” So
say!ng, the m!ser went down-sta!rs, grumbl!ng !nd!st!nct sentences.

Charles stood aghast !n the m!dst of h!s trunks. After cast!ng h!s eyes
on the att!c-walls covered w!th that yellow paper spr!nkled w!th
bouquets so well known !n dance-houses, on the f!replace of r!bbed
stone whose very look was ch!ll!ng, on the cha!rs of yellow wood w!th
varn!shed cane seats that seemed to have more than the usual four
angles, on the open n!ght-table capac!ous enough to hold a small
sergeant-at-arms, on the meagre b!t of rag-carpet bes!de the bed,
on the tester whose cloth valance shook as !f, devoured by moths, !t
was about to fall, he turned gravely to la Grande Nanon and sa!d,—

“Look here! my dear woman, just tell me, am I !n the house of

Mons!eur Grandet, formerly mayor of Saumur, and brother to
Mons!eur Grandet of Par!s?”
:
 “Yes, mons!eur; and a very good, a very k!nd, a very perfect
gentleman. Shall I help you to unpack your trunks?”

“Fa!th! yes, !f you w!ll, my old trooper. D!dn’t you serve !n the mar!nes
of the Imper!al Guard?”

“Ho, ho, ho!” laughed Nanon. “What’s that,—the mar!nes of the

guard? Is !t salt? Does !t go !n the water?”

“Here, get me my dress!ng-gown out of that val!se; there’s the key.”

Nanon was wonder-struck by the s!ght of a dress!ng-gown made of

green s!lk, brocaded w!th gold flowers of an ant!que des!gn.

“Are you go!ng to put that on to go to bed w!th?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Holy V!rg!n! what a beaut!ful altar-cloth !t would make for the par!sh
church! My dear darl!ng mons!eur, g!ve !t to the church, and you’ll
save your soul; !f you don’t, you’ll lose !t. Oh, how n!ce you look !n !t! I
must call mademo!selle to see you.”

“Come, Nanon, !f Nanon you are, hold your tongue; let me go to bed.
I’ll arrange my th!ngs to-morrow. If my dress!ng-gown pleases you so
much, you shall save your soul. I’m too good a Chr!st!an not to g!ve !t
to you when I go away, and you can do what you l!ke w!th !t.”

Nanon stood rooted to the ground, gaz!ng at Charles and unable to

put fa!th !nto h!s words.

“Good n!ght, Nanon.”

“What !n the world have I come here for?” thought Charles as he

went to sleep. “My father !s not a fool; my journey must have some
:
 object. Pshaw! put off ser!ous thought t!ll the morrow, as some Greek
!d!ot sa!d.”

“Blessed V!rg!n! how charm!ng he !s, my cous!n!” Eugen!e was

say!ng, !nterrupt!ng her prayers, wh!ch that n!ght at least were never
f!n!shed.

Madame Grandet had no thoughts at all as she went to bed. She

heard the m!ser walk!ng up and down h!s room through the door of
commun!cat!on wh!ch was !n the m!ddle of the part!t!on. L!ke all t!m!d
women, she had stud!ed the character of her lord. Just as the petrel
foresees the storm, she knew by !mpercept!ble s!gns when an !nward
tempest shook her husband; and at such t!mes, to use an express!on
of her own, she “fe!gned dead.”

Grandet gazed at the door l!ned w!th sheet-!ron wh!ch he lately put
to h!s sanctum, and sa!d to h!mself,—

“What a crazy !dea of my brother to bequeath h!s son to me! A f!ne

legacy! I have not f!fty francs to g!ve h!m. What are f!fty francs to a
dandy who looked at my barometer as !f he meant to make f!rewood
of !t!”

In th!nk!ng over the consequences of that legacy of angu!sh Grandet

was perhaps more ag!tated than h!s brother had been at the moment
of wr!t!ng !t.

“I shall have that golden robe,” thought Nanon, who went to sleep
tr!cked out !n her altar-cloth, dream!ng for the f!rst t!me !n her l!fe of
flowers, embro!dery, and damask, just as Eugen!e was dream!ng of
love.

In the pure and monotonous l!fe of young g!rls there comes a

:
 del!c!ous hour when the sun sheds !ts rays !nto the!r soul, when the
flowers express the!r thoughts, when the throbb!ngs of the heart
send upward to the bra!n the!r fert!l!z!ng warmth and melt all
thoughts !nto a vague des!re,—day of !nnocent melancholy and of
dulcet joys! When babes beg!n to see, they sm!le; when a young g!rl
f!rst perce!ves the sent!ment of nature, she sm!les as she sm!led
when an !nfant. If l!ght !s the f!rst love of l!fe, !s not love a l!ght to the
heart? The moment to see w!th!n the ve!l of earthly th!ngs had come
for Eugen!e.

An early r!ser, l!ke all prov!nc!al g!rls, she was up bet!mes and sa!d her
prayers, and then began the bus!ness of dress!ng,—a bus!ness wh!ch
henceforth was to have a mean!ng. F!rst she brushed and smoothed
her chestnut ha!r and tw!sted !ts heavy masses to the top of her head
w!th the utmost care, prevent!ng the loose tresses from stray!ng, and
g!v!ng to her head a symmetry wh!ch he!ghtened the t!m!d candor of
her face; for the s!mpl!c!ty of these accessor!es accorded well w!th
the !nnocent s!ncer!ty of !ts l!nes. As she washed her hands aga!n
and aga!n !n the cold water wh!ch hardened and reddened the sk!n,
she looked at her handsome round arms and asked herself what her
cous!n d!d to make h!s hands so softly wh!te, h!s na!ls so del!cately
curved. She put on new stock!ngs and her prett!est shoes. She laced
her corset stra!ght, w!thout sk!pp!ng a s!ngle eyelet. And then,
w!sh!ng for the f!rst t!me !n her l!fe to appear to advantage, she felt
the joy of hav!ng a new gown, well made, wh!ch rendered her
attract!ve.

As she f!n!shed her to!let the clock of the par!sh church struck the
hour; to her aston!shment, !t was only seven. The des!re of hav!ng
plenty of t!me for dress!ng carefully had led her to get up too early.
Ignorant of the art of retouch!ng every curl and study!ng every effect,
Eugen!e s!mply crossed her arms, sat down by the w!ndow, and
looked at the court-yard, the narrow garden, and the h!gh terraced
:
 walls that over-topped !t: a d!smal, hedged-!n prospect, yet not
wholly devo!d of those myster!ous beaut!es wh!ch belong to sol!tary
or uncult!vated nature. Near the k!tchen was a well surrounded by a
curb, w!th a pulley fastened to a bent !ron rod clasped by a v!ne
whose leaves were w!thered, reddened, and shr!velled by the
season. From thence the tortuous shoots straggled to the wall,
clutched !t, and ran the whole length of the house, end!ng near the
wood-p!le, where the logs were ranged w!th as much prec!s!on as
the books !n a l!brary. The pavement of the court-yard showed the
black sta!ns produced !n t!me by l!chens, herbage, and the absence
of all movement or fr!ct!on. The th!ck walls wore a coat!ng of green
moss streaked w!th wav!ng brown l!nes, and the e!ght stone steps at
the bottom of the court-yard wh!ch led up to the gate of the garden
were d!sjo!nted and h!dden beneath tall plants, l!ke the tomb of a
kn!ght bur!ed by h!s w!dow !n the days of the Crusades. Above a
foundat!on of moss-grown, crumbl!ng stones was a trell!s of rotten
wood, half fallen from decay; over them clambered and !ntertw!ned
at w!ll a mass of cluster!ng creepers. On each s!de of the latt!ced
gate stretched the crooked arms of two stunted apple-trees. Three
parallel walks, gravelled and separated from each other by square
beds, where the earth was held !n by box-borders, made the garden,
wh!ch term!nated, beneath a terrace of the old walls, !n a group of
l!ndens. At the farther end were raspberry-bushes; at the other, near
the house, an !mmense walnut-tree drooped !ts branches almost !nto
the w!ndow of the m!ser’s sanctum.

A clear day and the beaut!ful autumnal sun common to the banks of
the Lo!re was beg!nn!ng to melt the hoar-frost wh!ch the n!ght had
la!d on these p!cturesque objects, on the walls, and on the plants
wh!ch swathed the court-yard. Eugen!e found a novel charm !n the
aspect of th!ngs lately so !ns!gn!f!cant to her. A thousand confused
thoughts came to b!rth !n her m!nd and grew there, as the sunbeams
:
 grew w!thout along the wall. She felt that !mpulse of del!ght, vague,
!nexpl!cable, wh!ch wraps the moral be!ng as a cloud wraps the
phys!cal body. Her thoughts were all !n keep!ng w!th the deta!ls of
th!s strange landscape, and the harmon!es of her heart blended w!th
the harmon!es of nature. When the sun reached an angle of the wall
where the “Venus-ha!r” of southern cl!mes drooped !ts th!ck leaves,
l!t w!th the chang!ng colors of a p!geon’s breast, celest!al rays of
hope !llum!ned the future to her eyes, and thenceforth she loved to
gaze upon that p!ece of wall, on !ts pale flowers, !ts blue harebells, !ts
w!lt!ng herbage, w!th wh!ch she m!ngled memor!es as tender as
those of ch!ldhood. The no!se made by each leaf as !t fell from !ts
tw!g !n the vo!d of that echo!ng court gave answer to the secret
quest!on!ngs of the young g!rl, who could have stayed there the
l!velong day w!thout perce!v!ng the fl!ght of t!me. Then came
tumultuous heav!ngs of the soul. She rose often, went to her glass,
and looked at herself, as an author !n good fa!th looks at h!s work to
cr!t!c!se !t and blame !t !n h!s own m!nd.

“I am not beaut!ful enough for h!m!” Such was Eugen!e’s thought,—a

humble thought, fert!le !n suffer!ng. The poor g!rl d!d not do herself
just!ce; but modesty, or rather fear, !s among the f!rst of love’s
v!rtues. Eugen!e belonged to the type of ch!ldren w!th sturdy
const!tut!ons, such as we see among the lesser bourgeo!s!e, whose
beaut!es always seem a l!ttle vulgar; and yet, though she resembled
the Venus of M!lo, the l!nes of her f!gure were ennobled by the softer
Chr!st!an sent!ment wh!ch pur!f!es womanhood and g!ves !t a
d!st!nct!on unknown to the sculptors of ant!qu!ty. She had an
enormous head, w!th the mascul!ne yet del!cate forehead of the
Jup!ter of Ph!d!as, and gray eyes, to wh!ch her chaste l!fe,
penetrat!ng fully !nto them, carr!ed a flood of l!ght. The features of
her round face, formerly fresh and rosy, were at one t!me swollen by
the small-pox, wh!ch destroyed the velvet texture of the sk!n, though
:
 !t k!ndly left no other traces, and her cheek was st!ll so soft and
del!cate that her mother’s k!ss made a momentary red mark upon !t.
Her nose was somewhat too th!ck, but !t harmon!zed well w!th the
verm!l!on mouth, whose l!ps, creased !n many l!nes, were full of love
and k!ndness. The throat was exqu!s!tely round. The bust, well
curved and carefully covered, attracted the eye and !nsp!red rever!e.
It lacked, no doubt, the grace wh!ch a f!tt!ng dress can bestow; but to
a conno!sseur the non-flex!b!l!ty of her f!gure had !ts own charm.
Eugen!e, tall and strongly made, had none of the prett!ness wh!ch
pleases the masses; but she was beaut!ful w!th a beauty wh!ch the
sp!r!t recogn!zes, and none but art!sts truly love. A pa!nter seek!ng
here below for a type of Mary’s celest!al pur!ty, search!ng womank!nd
for those proud modest eyes wh!ch Raphael d!v!ned, for those v!rg!n
l!nes, often due to chances of concept!on, wh!ch the modesty of
Chr!st!an l!fe alone can bestow or keep unchanged,—such a pa!nter,
!n love w!th h!s !deal, would have found !n the face of Eugen!e the
!nnate nobleness that !s !gnorant of !tself; he would have seen
beneath the calmness of that brow a world of love; he would have
felt, !n the shape of the eyes, !n the fall of the eyel!ds, the presence
of the nameless someth!ng that we call d!v!ne. Her features, the
contour of her head, wh!ch no express!on of pleasure had ever
altered or wear!ed, were l!ke the l!nes of the hor!zon softly traced !n
the far d!stance across the tranqu!l lakes. That calm and rosy
countenance, marg!ned w!th l!ght l!ke a lovely full-blown flower,
rested the m!nd, held the eye, and !mparted the charm of the
consc!ence that was there reflected. Eugen!e was stand!ng on the
shore of l!fe where young !llus!ons flower, where da!s!es are gathered
w!th del!ghts ere long to be unknown; and thus she sa!d, look!ng at
her !mage !n the glass, unconsc!ous as yet of love: “I am too ugly; he
w!ll not not!ce me.”

Then she opened the door of her chamber wh!ch led to the sta!rcase,
:
 and stretched out her neck to l!sten for the household no!ses. “He !s
not up,” she thought, hear!ng Nanon’s morn!ng cough as the good
soul went and came, sweep!ng out the halls, l!ght!ng her f!re,
cha!n!ng the dog, and speak!ng to the beasts !n the stable. Eugen!e
at once went down and ran to Nanon, who was m!lk!ng the cow.

“Nanon, my good Nanon, make a l!ttle cream for my cous!n’s

breakfast.”

“Why, mademo!selle, you should have thought of that yesterday,”

sa!d Nanon, burst!ng !nto a loud peal of laughter. “I can’t make
cream. Your cous!n !s a darl!ng, a darl!ng! oh, that he !s! You should
have seen h!m !n h!s dress!ng-gown, all s!lk and gold! I saw h!m, I d!d!
He wears l!nen as f!ne as the surpl!ce of mons!eur le cure.”

“Nanon, please make us a galette.”

“And who’ll g!ve me wood for the oven, and flour and butter for the
cakes?” sa!d Nanon, who !n her funct!on of pr!me-m!n!ster to
Grandet assumed at t!mes enormous !mportance !n the eyes of
Eugen!e and her mother. “Mustn’t rob the master to feast the cous!n.
You ask h!m for butter and flour and wood: he’s your father, perhaps
he’ll g!ve you some. See! there he !s now, com!ng to g!ve out the
prov!s!ons.”

Eugen!e escaped !nto the garden, qu!te fr!ghtened as she heard the
sta!rcase shak!ng under her father’s step. Already she felt the effects
of that v!rg!n modesty and that spec!al consc!ousness of happ!ness
wh!ch lead us to fancy, not perhaps w!thout reason, that our
thoughts are graven on our foreheads and are open to the eyes of all.
Perce!v!ng for the f!rst t!me the cold nakedness of her father’s house,
the poor g!rl felt a sort of rage that she could not put !t !n harmony
w!th her cous!n’s elegance. She felt the need of do!ng someth!ng for
h!m,—what, she d!d not know. Ingenuous and truthful, she followed
:
 her angel!c nature w!thout m!strust!ng her !mpress!ons or her
feel!ngs. The mere s!ght of her cous!n had wakened w!th!n her the
natural yearn!ngs of a woman,—yearn!ngs that were the more l!kely
to develop ardently because, hav!ng reached her twenty-th!rd year,
she was !n the plen!tude of her !ntell!gence and her des!res. For the
f!rst t!me !n her l!fe her heart was full of terror at the s!ght of her
father; !n h!m she saw the master of the fate, and she fanc!ed herself
gu!lty of wrong-do!ng !n h!d!ng from h!s knowledge certa!n thoughts.
She walked w!th hasty steps, surpr!sed to breathe a purer a!r, to feel
the sun’s rays qu!cken!ng her pulses, to absorb from the!r heat a
moral warmth and a new l!fe. As she turned over !n her m!nd some
stratagem by wh!ch to get the cake, a quarrel—an event as rare as
the s!ght of swallows !n w!nter—broke out between la Grande Nanon
and Grandet. Armed w!th h!s keys, the master had come to dole out
prov!s!ons for the day’s consumpt!on.

“Is there any bread left from yesterday?” he sa!d to Nanon.

“Not a crumb, mons!eur.”

Grandet took a large round loaf, well floured and moulded !n one of
the flat baskets wh!ch they use for bak!ng !n Anjou, and was about to
cut !t, when Nanon sa!d to h!m,—

“We are f!ve, to-day, mons!eur.”

“That’s true,” sa!d Grandet, “but your loaves we!gh s!x pounds;
there’ll be some left. Bes!des, these young fellows from Par!s don’t
eat bread, you’ll see.”

“Then they must eat fr!ppe?” sa!d Nanon.

Fr!ppe !s a word of the local lex!con of Anjou, and means any

accompan!ment of bread, from butter wh!ch !s spread upon !t, the
:
 commonest k!nd of fr!ppe, to peach preserve, the most d!st!ngu!shed
of all the fr!ppes; those who !n the!r ch!ldhood have l!cked the fr!ppe
and left the bread, w!ll comprehend the mean!ng of Nanon’s speech.

“No,” answered Grandet, “they eat ne!ther bread nor fr!ppe; they are
someth!ng l!ke marr!ageable g!rls.”

After order!ng the meals for the day w!th h!s usual pars!mony, the
goodman, hav!ng locked the closets conta!n!ng the suppl!es, was
about to go towards the fru!t-garden, when Nanon stopped h!m to
say,—

“Mons!eur, g!ve me a l!ttle flour and some butter, and I’ll make a
galette for the young ones.”

“Are you go!ng to p!llage the house on account of my nephew?”

“I wasn’t th!nk!ng any more of your nephew than I was of your dog,—
not more than you th!nk yourself; for, look here, you’ve only forked
out s!x b!ts of sugar. I want e!ght.”

“What’s all th!s, Nanon? I have never seen you l!ke th!s before. What
have you got !n your head? Are you the m!stress here? You sha’n’t
have more than s!x p!eces of sugar.”

“Well, then, how !s your nephew to sweeten h!s coffee?”

“W!th two p!eces; I’ll go w!thout myself.”

“Go w!thout sugar at your age! I’d rather buy you some out of my
own pocket.”

“M!nd your own bus!ness.”

In sp!te of the recent fall !n pr!ces, sugar was st!ll !n Grandet’s eyes
:
 the most valuable of all the colon!al products; to h!m !t was always s!x
francs a pound. The necess!ty of econom!z!ng !t, acqu!red under the
Emp!re, had grown to be the most !nveterate of h!s hab!ts. All women,
even the greatest n!nn!es, know how to dodge and dodge to get the!r
ends; Nanon abandoned the sugar for the sake of gett!ng the galette.

“Mademo!selle!” she called through the w!ndow, “do you want some
galette?”

“No, no,” answered Eugen!e.

“Come, Nanon,” sa!d Grandet, hear!ng h!s daughter’s vo!ce. “See

here.” He opened the cupboard where the flour was kept, gave her a
cupful, and added a few ounces of butter to the p!ece he had already
cut off.

“I shall want wood for the oven,” sa!d the !mplacable Nanon.

“Well, take what you want,” he answered sadly; “but !n that case you
must make us a fru!t-tart, and you’ll cook the whole d!nner !n the
oven. In that way you won’t need two f!res.”

“Goodness!” cr!ed Nanon, “you needn’t tell me that.”

Grandet cast a look that was well-n!gh paternal upon h!s fa!thful
deputy.

“Mademo!selle,” she cr!ed, when h!s back was turned, “we shall have
the galette.”

Pere Grandet returned from the garden w!th the fru!t and arranged a
plateful on the k!tchen-table.

“Just see, mons!eur,” sa!d Nanon, “what pretty boots your nephew
has. What leather! why !t smells good! What does he clean !t w!th, I
:
 wonder? Am I to put your egg-pol!sh on !t?”

“Nanon, I th!nk eggs would !njure that k!nd of leather. Tell h!m you
don’t know how to black morocco; yes, that’s morocco. He w!ll get
you someth!ng h!mself !n Saumur to pol!sh those boots w!th. I have
heard that they put sugar !nto the black!ng to make !t sh!ne.”

“They look good to eat,” sa!d the cook, putt!ng the boots to her nose.
“Bless me! !f they don’t smell l!ke madame’s eau-de-cologne. Ah!
how funny!”

“Funny!” sa!d her master. “Do you call !t funny to put more money
!nto boots than the man who stands !n them !s worth?”

“Mons!eur,” she sa!d, when Grandet returned the second t!me, after
lock!ng the fru!t-garden, “won’t you have the pot-au-feu put on once
or tw!ce a week on account of your nephew?”

“Yes.”

“Am I to go to the butcher’s?”

“Certa!nly not. We w!ll make the broth of fowls; the farmers w!ll br!ng
them. I shall tell Corno!ller to shoot some crows; they make the best
soup !n the world.”

“Isn’t !t true, mons!eur, that crows eat the dead?”

“You are a fool, Nanon. They eat what they can get, l!ke the rest of
the world. Don’t we all l!ve on the dead? What are legac!es?”

Mons!eur Grandet, hav!ng no further orders to g!ve, drew out h!s

watch, and see!ng that he had half an hour to d!spose of before
breakfast, he took h!s hat, went and k!ssed h!s daughter, and sa!d to
her:
:
 “Do you want to come for a walk !n the f!elds, down by the Lo!re? I
have someth!ng to do there.”

Eugen!e fetched her straw bonnet, l!ned w!th p!nk taffeta; then the
father and daughter went down the w!nd!ng street to the shore.

“Where are you go!ng at th!s early hour?” sa!d Cruchot, the notary,
meet!ng them.

“To see someth!ng,” answered Grandet, not duped by the matut!nal

appearance of h!s fr!end.

When Pere Grandet went to “see someth!ng,” the notary knew by

exper!ence there was someth!ng to be got by go!ng w!th h!m; so he
went.

“Come, Cruchot,” sa!d Grandet, “you are one of my fr!ends. I’ll show
you what folly !t !s to plant poplar-trees on good ground.”

“Do you call the s!xty thousand francs that you pocketed for those
that were !n your f!elds down by the Lo!re, folly?” sa!d Ma!tre
Cruchot, open!ng h!s eyes w!th amazement. “What luck you have
had! To cut down your trees at the very t!me they ran short of wh!te-
wood at Nantes, and to sell them at th!rty francs!”

Eugen!e l!stened, w!thout know!ng that she approached the most

solemn moment of her whole l!fe, and that the notary was about to
br!ng down upon her head a paternal and supreme sentence.
Grandet had now reached the magn!f!cent f!elds wh!ch he owned on
the banks of the Lo!re, where th!rty workmen were employed !n
clear!ng away, f!ll!ng up, and levell!ng the spots formerly occup!ed by
the poplars.

“Ma!tre Cruchot, see how much ground th!s tree once took up! Jean,”
:
 he cr!ed to a laborer, “m-m-measure w!th your r-r-rule, b-both ways.”

“Four t!mes e!ght feet,” sa!d the man.

“Th!rty-two feet lost,” sa!d Grandet to Cruchot. “I had three hundred

poplars !n th!s one l!ne, !sn’t that so? Well, then, three h-h-hundred
t!mes th!r-th!rty-two lost m-m-me f!ve hundred !n h-h-hay; add tw!ce
as much for the s!de rows,—f!fteen hundred; the m!ddle rows as
much more. So we may c-c-call !t a th-thousand b-b-bales of h-h-
hay—”

“Very good,” sa!d Cruchot, to help out h!s fr!end; “a thousand bales
are worth about s!x hundred francs.”

“Say t-t-twelve hundred, be-c-cause there’s three or four hundred

francs on the second crop. Well, then, c-c-calculate that t-twelve
thousand francs a year for f-f-forty years w!th !nterest c-c-comes to
—”

“Say s!xty thousand francs,” sa!d the notary.

“I am w!ll!ng; c-c-comes t-t-to s!xty th-th-thousand. Very good,”

cont!nued Grandet, w!thout stutter!ng: “two thousand poplars forty
years old w!ll only y!eld me f!fty thousand francs. There’s a loss. I
have found that myself,” sa!d Grandet, gett!ng on h!s h!gh horse.
“Jean, f!ll up all the holes except those at the bank of the r!ver; there
you are to plant the poplars I have bought. Plant ‘em there, and
they’ll get nour!shment from the government,” he sa!d, turn!ng to
Cruchot, and g!v!ng a sl!ght mot!on to the wen on h!s nose, wh!ch
expressed more than the most !ron!cal of sm!les.

“True enough; poplars should only be planted on poor so!l,” sa!d

Cruchot, amazed at Grandet’s calculat!ons.
:
 “Y-y-yes, mons!eur,” answered the old man sat!r!cally.

Eugen!e, who was gaz!ng at the subl!me scenery of the Lo!re, and
pay!ng no attent!on to her father’s reckon!ngs, presently turned an
ear to the remarks of Cruchot when she heard h!m say,—

“So you have brought a son-!n-law from Par!s. All Saumur !s talk!ng
about your nephew. I shall soon have the marr!age-contract to draw
up, hey! Pere Grandet?”

“You g-g-got up very early to t-t-tell me that,” sa!d Grandet,

accompany!ng the remark w!th a mot!on of h!s wen. “Well, old c-c-
comrade, I’ll be frank, and t-t-tell you what you want t-t-to know. I
would rather, do you see, f-f-fl!ng my daughter !nto the Lo!re than g-
g-g!ve her to her c-c-cous!n. You may t-t-tell that everywhere,—no,
never m!nd; let the world t-t-talk.”

Th!s answer dazzled and bl!nded the young g!rl w!th sudden l!ght.
The d!stant hopes upspr!ng!ng !n her heart bloomed suddenly,
became real, tang!ble, l!ke a cluster of flowers, and she saw them cut
down and w!lt!ng on the earth. S!nce the prev!ous even!ng she had
attached herself to Charles by those l!nks of happ!ness wh!ch b!nd
soul to soul; from henceforth suffer!ng was to r!vet them. Is !t not the
noble dest!ny of women to be more moved by the dark solemn!t!es of
gr!ef than by the splendors of fortune? How was !t that fatherly
feel!ng had d!ed out of her father’s heart? Of what cr!me had Charles
been gu!lty? Myster!ous quest!ons! Already her dawn!ng love, a
mystery so profound, was wrapp!ng !tself !n mystery. She walked
back trembl!ng !n all her l!mbs; and when she reached the gloomy
street, lately so joyous to her, she felt !ts sadness, she breathed the
melancholy wh!ch t!me and events had pr!nted there. None of love’s
lessons lacked. A few steps from the!r own door she went on before
her father and wa!ted at the threshold. But Grandet, who saw a
:
 newspaper !n the notary’s hand, stopped short and asked,—

“How are the Funds?”

“You never l!sten to my adv!ce, Grandet,” answered Cruchot. “Buy

soon; you w!ll st!ll make twenty per cent !n two years, bes!des gett!ng
an excellent rate of !nterest,—f!ve thousand a year for e!ghty
thousand francs f!fty cent!mes.”

“We’ll see about that,” answered Grandet, rubb!ng h!s ch!n.

“Good God!” excla!med the notary.

“Well, what?” cr!ed Grandet; and at the same moment Cruchot put
the newspaper under h!s eyes and sa!d:

“Read that!”

“Monsieur Grandet, one of the most respected merchants in Paris,

blew his brains out yesterday, after making his usual appearance
at the Bourse. He had sent his resignation to the president of th
Chamber of Deputies, and had also resigned his functions as a
judge of the commercial courts. The failures of Monsieur Roguin
and Monsieur Souchet, his broker and his notary, had ruined him.
The esteem felt for Monsieur Grandet and the credit he enjoyed
were nevertheless such that he might have obtained the necessary
assistance from other business houses. It is much to be regretted
that so honorable a man should have yielded to momentary despair,
etc.

“I knew !t,” sa!d the old w!ne-grower to the notary.

The words sent a ch!ll of horror through Ma!tre Cruchot, who,

notw!thstand!ng h!s !mpass!b!l!ty as a notary, felt the cold runn!ng
down h!s sp!ne as he thought that Grandet of Par!s had poss!bly
:
 !mplored !n va!n the m!ll!ons of Grandet of Saumur.

“And h!s son, so joyous yesterday—”

“He knows noth!ng as yet,” answered Grandet, w!th the same

composure.

“Ad!eu! Mons!eur Grandet,” sa!d Cruchot, who now understood the

state of the case, and went off to reassure Mons!eur de Bonfons.

On enter!ng, Grandet found breakfast ready. Madame Grandet, round

whose neck Eugen!e had flung her arms, k!ss!ng her w!th the qu!ck
effus!on of feel!ng often caused by secret gr!ef, was already seated
!n her cha!r on castors, kn!tt!ng sleeves for the com!ng w!nter.

“You can beg!n to eat,” sa!d Nanon, com!ng downsta!rs four steps at
a t!me; “the young one !s sleep!ng l!ke a cherub. Isn’t he a darl!ng
w!th h!s eyes shut? I went !n and I called h!m: no answer.”

“Let h!m sleep,” sa!d Grandet; “he’ll wake soon enough to hear !ll-
t!d!ngs.”

“What !s !t?” asked Eugen!e, putt!ng !nto her coffee the two l!ttle b!ts
of sugar we!gh!ng less than half an ounce wh!ch the old m!ser
amused h!mself by cutt!ng up !n h!s le!sure hours. Madame Grandet,
who d!d not dare to put the quest!on, gazed at her husband.

“H!s father has blown h!s bra!ns out.”

“My uncle?” sa!d Eugen!e.

“Poor young man!” excla!med Madame Grandet.

“Poor !ndeed!” sa!d Grandet; “he !sn’t worth a sou!”

“Eh! poor boy, and he’s sleep!ng l!ke the k!ng of the world!” sa!d
:
 Nanon !n a gentle vo!ce.

Eugen!e stopped eat!ng. Her heart was wrung, as the young heart !s
wrung when p!ty for the suffer!ng of one she loves overflows, for the
f!rst t!me, the whole be!ng of a woman. The poor g!rl wept.

“What are you cry!ng about? You d!dn’t know your uncle,” sa!d her
father, g!v!ng her one of those hungry t!ger!sh looks he doubtless
threw upon h!s p!les of gold.

“But, mons!eur,” sa!d Nanon, “who wouldn’t feel p!ty for the poor
young man, sleep!ng there l!ke a wooden shoe, w!thout know!ng
what’s com!ng?”

“I d!dn’t speak to you, Nanon. Hold your tongue!”

Eugen!e learned at that moment that the woman who loves must be
able to h!de her feel!ngs. She d!d not answer.

“You w!ll say noth!ng to h!m about !t, Ma’ame Grandet, t!ll I return,”
sa!d the old man. “I have to go and stra!ghten the l!ne of my hedge
along the h!gh-road. I shall be back at noon, !n t!me for the second
breakfast, and then I w!ll talk w!th my nephew about h!s affa!rs. As for
you, Mademo!selle Eugen!e, !f !t !s for that dandy you are cry!ng,
that’s enough, ch!ld. He’s go!ng off l!ke a shot to the Ind!es. You w!ll
never see h!m aga!n.”

The father took h!s gloves from the br!m of h!s hat, put them on w!th
h!s usual composure, pushed them !n place by shov!ng the f!ngers of
both hands together, and went out.

“Mamma, I am suffocat!ng!” cr!ed Eugen!e when she was alone w!th

her mother; “I have never suffered l!ke th!s.”

Madame Grandet, see!ng that she turned pale, opened the w!ndow
:
 and let her breathe fresh a!r.

“I feel better!” sa!d Eugen!e after a moment.

Th!s nervous exc!tement !n a nature h!therto, to all appearance, calm

and cold, reacted on Madame Grandet; she looked at her daughter
w!th the sympathet!c !ntu!t!on w!th wh!ch mothers are g!fted for the
objects of the!r tenderness, and guessed all. In truth the l!fe of the
Hungar!an s!sters, bound together by a freak of nature, could
scarcely have been more !nt!mate than that of Eugen!e and her
mother,—always together !n the embrasure of that w!ndow, and
sleep!ng together !n the same atmosphere.

“My poor ch!ld!” sa!d Madame Grandet, tak!ng Eugen!e’s head and
lay!ng !t upon her bosom.

At these words the young g!rl ra!sed her head, quest!oned her
mother by a look, and seemed to search out her !nmost thought.

“Why send h!m to the Ind!es?” she sa!d. “If he !s unhappy, ought he
not to stay w!th us? Is he not our nearest relat!on?”

“Yes, my ch!ld, !t seems natural; but your father has h!s reasons: we
must respect them.”

The mother and daughter sat down !n s!lence, the former upon her
ra!sed seat, the latter !n her l!ttle armcha!r, and both took up the!r
work. Swell!ng w!th grat!tude for the full heart-understand!ng her
mother had g!ven her, Eugen!e k!ssed the dear hand, say!ng,—

“How good you are, my k!nd mamma!”

The words sent a glow of l!ght !nto the motherly face, worn and
bl!ghted as !t was by many sorrows.
:
 “You l!ke h!m?” asked Eugen!e.

Madame Grandet only sm!led !n reply. Then, after a moment’s

s!lence, she sa!d !n a low vo!ce: “Do you love h!m already? That !s
wrong.”

“Wrong?” sa!d Eugen!e. “Why !s !t wrong? You are pleased w!th h!m,
Nanon !s pleased w!th h!m; why should he not please me? Come,
mamma, let us set the table for h!s breakfast.”

She threw down her work, and her mother d!d the same, say!ng,
“Fool!sh ch!ld!” But she sanct!oned the ch!ld’s folly by shar!ng !t.
Eugen!e called Nanon.

“What do you want now, mademo!selle?”

“Nanon, can we have cream by m!dday?”

“Ah! m!dday, to be sure you can,” answered the old servant.

“Well, let h!m have h!s coffee very strong; I heard Mons!eur des
Grass!ns say that they make the coffee very strong !n Par!s. Put !n a
great deal.”

“Where am I to get !t?”

“Buy some.”

“Suppose mons!eur meets me?”

“He has gone to h!s f!elds.”

“I’ll run, then. But Mons!eur Fessard asked me yesterday !f the Mag!
had come to stay w!th us when I bought the wax candle. All the town
w!ll know our go!ngs-on.”
:
 “If your father f!nds !t out,” sa!d Madame Grandet, “he !s capable of
beat!ng us.”

“Well, let h!m beat us; we w!ll take h!s blows on our knees.”

Madame Grandet for all answer ra!sed her eyes to heaven. Nanon put
on her hood and went off. Eugen!e got out some clean table-l!nen,
and went to fetch a few bunches of grapes wh!ch she had amused
herself by hang!ng on a str!ng across the att!c; she walked softly
along the corr!dor, so as not to waken her cous!n, and she could not
help l!sten!ng at the door to h!s qu!et breath!ng.

“Sorrow !s watch!ng wh!le he sleeps,” she thought.

She took the freshest v!ne-leaves and arranged her d!sh of grapes as
coquett!shly as a pract!sed house-keeper m!ght have done, and
placed !t tr!umphantly on the table. She la!d hands on the pears
counted out by her father, and p!led them !n a pyram!d m!xed w!th
leaves. She went and came, and sk!pped and ran. She would have
l!ked to lay under contr!but!on everyth!ng !n her father’s house; but
the keys were !n h!s pocket. Nanon came back w!th two fresh eggs.
At s!ght of them Eugen!e almost hugged her round the neck.

“The farmer from Lande had them !n h!s basket. I asked h!m for
them, and he gave them to me, the darl!ng, for noth!ng, as an
attent!on!”

V
After two hours’ thought and care, dur!ng wh!ch Eugen!e jumped up
twenty t!mes from her work to see !f the coffee were bo!l!ng, or to go
and l!sten to the no!se her cous!n made !n dress!ng, she succeeded
!n prepar!ng a s!mple l!ttle breakfast, very !nexpens!ve, but wh!ch,
nevertheless, departed alarm!ngly from the !nveterate customs of the
:
 house. The m!dday breakfast was always taken stand!ng. Each took a
sl!ce of bread, a l!ttle fru!t or some butter, and a glass of w!ne. As
Eugen!e looked at the table drawn up near the f!re w!th an arm-cha!r
placed before her cous!n’s plate, at the two d!shes of fru!t, the egg-
cup, the bottle of wh!te w!ne, the bread, and the sugar heaped up !n
a saucer, she trembled !n all her l!mbs at the mere thought of the
look her father would g!ve her !f he should come !n at that moment.
She glanced often at the clock to see !f her cous!n could breakfast
before the master’s return.

“Don’t be troubled, Eugen!e; !f your father comes !n, I w!ll take !t all
upon myself,” sa!d Madame Grandet.

Eugen!e could not repress a tear.

“Oh, my good mother!” she cr!ed, “I have never loved you enough.”

Charles, who had been tramp!ng about h!s room for some t!me,
s!ng!ng to h!mself, now came down. Happ!ly, !t was only eleven
o’clock. The true Par!s!an! he had put as much dandy!sm !nto h!s
dress as !f he were !n the chateau of the noble lady then travell!ng !n
Scotland. He came !nto the room w!th the sm!l!ng, courteous manner
so becom!ng to youth, wh!ch made Eugen!e’s heart beat w!th
mournful joy. He had taken the destruct!on of h!s castles !n Anjou as
a joke, and came up to h!s aunt ga!ly.

“Have you slept well, dear aunt? and you, too, my cous!n?”

“Very well, mons!eur; d!d you?” sa!d Madame Grandet.

“I? perfectly.”

“You must be hungry, cous!n,” sa!d Eugen!e; “w!ll you take your
seat?”
:
 “I never breakfast before m!dday; I never get up t!ll then. However, I
fared so badly on the journey that I am glad to eat someth!ng at
once. Bes!des—” here he pulled out the prett!est watch Breguet ever
made. “Dear me! I am early, !t !s only eleven o’clock!”

“Early?” sa!d Madame Grandet.

“Yes; but I wanted to put my th!ngs !n order. Well, I shall be glad to

have anyth!ng to eat,—anyth!ng, !t doesn’t matter what, a ch!cken, a
partr!dge.”

“Holy V!rg!n!” excla!med Nanon, overhear!ng the words.

“A partr!dge!” wh!spered Eugen!e to herself; she would gladly have

g!ven the whole of her l!ttle hoard for a partr!dge.

“Come and s!t down,” sa!d h!s aunt.

The young dandy let h!mself drop !nto an easy-cha!r, just as a pretty
woman falls gracefully upon a sofa. Eugen!e and her mother took
ord!nary cha!rs and sat bes!de h!m, near the f!re.

“Do you always l!ve here?” sa!d Charles, th!nk!ng the room ugl!er by
dayl!ght than !t had seemed the n!ght before.

“Always,” answered Eugen!e, look!ng at h!m, “except dur!ng the

v!ntage. Then we go and help Nanon, and l!ve at the Abbaye des
Noyers.”

“Don’t you ever take walks?”

“Somet!mes on Sunday after vespers, when the weather !s f!ne,” sa!d

Madame Grandet, “we walk on the br!dge, or we go and watch the
haymakers.”
:
 “Have you a theatre?”

“Go to the theatre!” excla!med Madame Grandet, “see a play! Why,

mons!eur, don’t you know !t !s a mortal s!n?”

“See here, mons!eur,” sa!d Nanon, br!ng!ng !n the eggs, “here are
your ch!ckens,—!n the shell.”

“Oh! fresh eggs,” sa!d Charles, who, l!ke all people accustomed to
luxury, had already forgotten about h!s partr!dge, “that !s del!c!ous:
now, !f you w!ll g!ve me the butter, my good g!rl.”

“Butter! then you can’t have the galette.”

“Nanon, br!ng the butter,” cr!ed Eugen!e.

The young g!rl watched her cous!n as he cut h!s s!ppets, w!th as
much pleasure as a gr!sette takes !n a melodrama where !nnocence
and v!rtue tr!umph. Charles, brought up by a charm!ng mother,
!mproved, and tra!ned by a woman of fash!on, had the elegant,
da!nty, fopp!sh movements of a coxcomb. The compass!onate
sympathy and tenderness of a young g!rl possess a power that !s
actually magnet!c; so that Charles, f!nd!ng h!mself the object of the
attent!ons of h!s aunt and cous!n, could not escape the !nfluence of
feel!ngs wh!ch flowed towards h!m, as !t were, and !nundated h!m. He
gave Eugen!e a br!ght, caress!ng look full of k!ndness,—a look wh!ch
seemed !tself a sm!le. He perce!ved, as h!s eyes l!ngered upon her,
the exqu!s!te harmony of features !n the pure face, the grace of her
!nnocent att!tude, the mag!c clearness of the eyes, where young love
sparkled and des!re shone unconsc!ously.

“Ah! my dear cous!n, !f you were !n full dress at the Opera, I assure
you my aunt’s words would come true,—you would make the men
comm!t the mortal s!n of envy, and the women the s!n of jealousy.”
:
 The compl!ment went to Eugen!e’s heart and set !t beat!ng, though
she d!d not understand !ts mean!ng.

“Oh! cous!n,” she sa!d, “you are laugh!ng at a poor l!ttle country g!rl.”

“If you knew me, my cous!n, you would know that I abhor r!d!cule; !t
w!thers the heart and jars upon all my feel!ngs.” Here he swallowed
h!s buttered s!ppet very gracefully. “No, I really have not enough
m!nd to make fun of others; and doubtless !t !s a great defect. In
Par!s, when they want to d!sparage a man, they say: ‘He has a good
heart.’ The phrase means: ‘The poor fellow !s as stup!d as a
rh!noceros.’ But as I am r!ch, and known to h!t the bull’s-eye at th!rty
paces w!th any k!nd of p!stol, and even !n the open f!elds, r!d!cule
respects me.”

“My dear nephew, that bespeaks a good heart.”

“You have a very pretty r!ng,” sa!d Eugen!e; “!s there any harm !n
ask!ng to see !t?”

Charles held out h!s hand after loosen!ng the r!ng, and Eugen!e
blushed as she touched the p!nk na!ls of her cous!n w!th the t!ps of
her f!ngers.

“See, mamma, what beaut!ful workmansh!p.”

“My! there’s a lot of gold!” sa!d Nanon, br!ng!ng !n the coffee.

“What !s that?” excla!med Charles, laugh!ng, as he po!nted to an

oblong pot of brown earthenware, glazed on the !ns!de, and edged
w!th a fr!nge of ashes, from the bottom of wh!ch the coffee-grounds
were bubbl!ng up and fall!ng !n the bo!l!ng l!qu!d.

“It !s bo!led coffee,” sa!d Nanon.

:
 “Ah! my dear aunt, I shall at least leave one benef!cent trace of my
v!s!t here. You are !ndeed beh!nd the age! I must teach you to make
good coffee !n a Chaptal coffee-pot.”

He tr!ed to expla!n the process of a Chaptal coffee-pot.

“Grac!ous! !f there are so many th!ngs as all that to do,” sa!d Nanon,
“we may as well g!ve up our l!ves to !t. I shall never make coffee that
way; I know that! Pray, who !s to get the fodder for the cow wh!le I
make the coffee?”

“I w!ll make !t,” sa!d Eugen!e.

“Ch!ld!” sa!d Madame Grandet, look!ng at her daughter.

The word recalled to the!r m!nds the sorrow that was about to fall
upon the unfortunate young man; the three women were s!lent, and
looked at h!m w!th an a!r of comm!serat!on that caught h!s attent!on.

“Is anyth!ng the matter, my cous!n?” he sa!d.

“Hush!” sa!d Madame Grandet to Eugen!e, who was about to answer;

“you know, my daughter, that your father charged us not to speak to
mons!eur—”

“Say Charles,” sa!d young Grandet.

“Ah! you are called Charles? What a beaut!ful name!” cr!ed Eugen!e.

Present!ments of ev!l are almost always just!f!ed. At th!s moment

Nanon, Madame Grandet, and Eugen!e, who had all three been
th!nk!ng w!th a shudder of the old man’s return, heard the knock
whose echoes they knew but too well.

“There’s papa!” sa!d Eugen!e.

:
 She removed the saucer f!lled w!th sugar, leav!ng a few p!eces on the
table-cloth; Nanon carr!ed off the egg-cup; Madame Grandet sat up
l!ke a fr!ghtened hare. It was ev!dently a pan!c, wh!ch amazed
Charles, who was wholly unable to understand !t.

“Why! what !s the matter?” he asked.

“My father has come,” answered Eugen!e.

“Well, what of that?”

Mons!eur Grandet entered the room, threw h!s keen eye upon the
table, upon Charles, and saw the whole th!ng.

“Ha! ha! so you have been mak!ng a feast for your nephew; very
good, very good, very good !ndeed!” he sa!d, w!thout stutter!ng.
“When the cat’s away, the m!ce w!ll play.”

“Feast!” thought Charles, !ncapable of suspect!ng or !mag!n!ng the

rules and customs of the household.

“G!ve me my glass, Nanon,” sa!d the master

Eugen!e brought the glass. Grandet drew a horn-handled kn!fe w!th a

b!g blade from h!s breeches’ pocket, cut a sl!ce of bread, took a
small b!t of butter, spread !t carefully on the bread, and ate !t
stand!ng. At th!s moment Charl!e was sweeten!ng h!s coffee. Pere
Grandet saw the b!ts of sugar, looked at h!s w!fe, who turned pale,
and made three steps forward; he leaned down to the poor woman’s
ear and sa!d,—

“Where d!d you get all that sugar?”

“Nanon fetched !t from Fessard’s; there was none.”

:
 It !s !mposs!ble to p!cture the profound !nterest the three women took
!n th!s mute scene. Nanon had left her k!tchen and stood look!ng !nto
the room to see what would happen. Charles, hav!ng tasted h!s
coffee, found !t b!tter and glanced about for the sugar, wh!ch
Grandet had already put away.

“What do you want?” sa!d h!s uncle.

“The sugar.”

“Put !n more m!lk,” answered the master of the house; “your coffee
w!ll taste sweeter.”

Eugen!e took the saucer wh!ch Grandet had put away and placed !t
on the table, look!ng calmly at her father as she d!d so. Most
assuredly, the Par!s!an woman who held a s!lken ladder w!th her
feeble arms to fac!l!tate the fl!ght of her lover, showed no greater
courage than Eugen!e d!splayed when she replaced the sugar upon
the table. The lover rewarded h!s m!stress when she proudly showed
h!m her beaut!ful bru!sed arm, and bathed every swollen ve!n w!th
tears and k!sses t!ll !t was cured w!th happ!ness. Charles, on the
other hand, never so much as knew the secret of the cruel ag!tat!on
that shook and bru!sed the heart of h!s cous!n, crushed as !t was by
the look of the old m!ser.

“You are not eat!ng your breakfast, w!fe.”

The poor helot came forward w!th a p!teous look, cut herself a p!ece
of bread, and took a pear. Eugen!e boldly offered her father some
grapes, say!ng,—

“Taste my preserves, papa. My cous!n, you w!ll eat some, w!ll you
not? I went to get these pretty grapes expressly for you.”
:
 “If no one stops them, they w!ll p!llage Saumur for you, nephew.
When you have f!n!shed, we w!ll go !nto the garden; I have someth!ng
to tell you wh!ch can’t be sweetened.”

Eugen!e and her mother cast a look on Charles whose mean!ng the
young man could not m!stake.

“What !s !t you mean, uncle? S!nce the death of my poor mother”—at

these words h!s vo!ce softened—“no other sorrow can touch me.”

“My nephew, who knows by what affl!ct!ons God !s pleased to try

us?” sa!d h!s aunt.

“Ta, ta, ta, ta,” sa!d Grandet, “there’s your nonsense beg!nn!ng. I am
sorry to see those wh!te hands of yours, nephew”; and he showed
the shoulder-of-mutton f!sts wh!ch Nature had put at the end of h!s
own arms. “There’s a pa!r of hands made to p!ck up s!lver p!eces.
You’ve been brought up to put your feet !n the k!d out of wh!ch we
make the purses we keep our money !n. A bad look-out! Very bad!”

“What do you mean, uncle? I’ll be hanged !f I understand a s!ngle

word of what you are say!ng.”

“Come!” sa!d Grandet.

The m!ser closed the blade of h!s kn!fe w!th a snap, drank the last of
h!s w!ne, and opened the door.

“My cous!n, take courage!”

The tone of the young g!rl struck terror to Charles’s heart, and he
followed h!s terr!ble uncle, a prey to d!squ!et!ng thoughts. Eugen!e,
her mother, and Nanon went !nto the k!tchen, moved by !rres!st!ble
cur!os!ty to watch the two actors !n the scene wh!ch was about to
take place !n the garden, where at f!rst the uncle walked s!lently
:
 ahead of the nephew. Grandet was not at all troubled at hav!ng to tell
Charles of the death of h!s father; but he d!d feel a sort of
compass!on !n know!ng h!m to be w!thout a penny, and he sought for
some phrase or formula by wh!ch to soften the commun!cat!on of
that cruel truth. “You have lost your father,” seemed to h!m a mere
noth!ng to say; fathers d!e before the!r ch!ldren. But “you are
absolutely w!thout means,”—all the m!sfortunes of l!fe were summed
up !n those words! Grandet walked round the garden three t!mes, the
gravel crunch!ng under h!s heavy step.

In the cruc!al moments of l!fe our m!nds fasten upon the local!ty
where joys or sorrows overwhelm us. Charles not!ced w!th m!nute
attent!on the box-borders of the l!ttle garden, the yellow leaves as
they fluttered down, the d!lap!dated walls, the gnarled fru!t-trees,—
p!cturesque deta!ls wh!ch were dest!ned to rema!n forever !n h!s
memory, blend!ng eternally, by the mnemon!cs that belong
exclus!vely to the pass!ons, w!th the recollect!ons of th!s solemn
hour.

“It !s very f!ne weather, very warm,” sa!d Grandet, draw!ng a long
breath.

“Yes, uncle; but why—”

“Well, my lad,” answered h!s uncle, “I have some bad news to g!ve
you. Your father !s !ll—”

“Then why am I here?” sa!d Charles. “Nanon,” he cr!ed, “order post-

horses! I can get a carr!age somewhere?” he added, turn!ng to h!s
uncle, who stood mot!onless.

“Horses and carr!ages are useless,” answered Grandet, look!ng at

Charles, who rema!ned s!lent, h!s eyes grow!ng f!xed. “Yes, my poor
boy, you guess the truth,—he !s dead. But that’s noth!ng; there !s
:
 someth!ng worse: he blew out h!s bra!ns.”

“My father!”

“Yes, but that’s not the worst; the newspapers are all talk!ng about !t.
Here, read that.”

Grandet, who had borrowed the fatal art!cle from Cruchot, thrust the
paper under h!s nephew’s eyes. The poor young man, st!ll a ch!ld, st!ll
at an age when feel!ngs wear no mask, burst !nto tears.

“That’s good!” thought Grandet; “h!s eyes fr!ghtened me. He’ll be all
r!ght !f he weeps,—That !s not the worst, my poor nephew,” he sa!d
aloud, not not!c!ng whether Charles heard h!m, “that !s noth!ng; you
w!ll get over !t: but—”

“Never, never! My father! Oh, my father!”

“He has ru!ned you, you haven’t a penny.”

“What does that matter? My father! Where !s my father?”

H!s sobs resounded horr!bly aga!nst those dreary walls and

reverberated !n the echoes. The three women, f!lled w!th p!ty, wept
also; for tears are often as contag!ous as laughter. Charles, w!thout
l!sten!ng further to h!s uncle, ran through the court and up the
sta!rcase to h!s chamber, where he threw h!mself across the bed and
h!d h!s face !n the sheets, to weep !n peace for h!s lost parents.

“The f!rst burst must have !ts way,” sa!d Grandet, enter!ng the l!v!ng-
room, where Eugen!e and her mother had hast!ly resumed the!r seats
and were sew!ng w!th trembl!ng hands, after w!p!ng the!r eyes. “But
that young man !s good for noth!ng; h!s head !s more taken up w!th
the dead than w!th h!s money.”
:
 Eugen!e shuddered as she heard her father’s comment on the most
sacred of all gr!efs. From that moment she began to judge h!m.
Charles’s sobs, though muffled, st!ll sounded through the sepulchral
house; and h!s deep groans, wh!ch seemed to come from the earth
beneath, only ceased towards even!ng, after grow!ng gradually
feebler.

“Poor young man!” sa!d Madame Grandet.

Fatal exclamat!on! Pere Grandet looked at h!s w!fe, at Eugen!e, and at

the sugar-bowl. He recollected the extraord!nary breakfast prepared
for the unfortunate youth, and he took a pos!t!on !n the m!ddle of the
room.

“L!sten to me,” he sa!d, w!th h!s usual composure. “I hope that you
w!ll not cont!nue th!s extravagance, Madame Grandet. I don’t g!ve
you MY money to stuff that young fellow w!th sugar.”

“My mother had noth!ng to do w!th !t,” sa!d Eugen!e; “!t was I who—”

“Is !t because you are of age,” sa!d Grandet, !nterrupt!ng h!s

daughter, “that you choose to contrad!ct me? Remember, Eugen!e—”

“Father, the son of your brother ought to rece!ve from us—”

“Ta, ta, ta, ta!” excla!med the cooper on four chromat!c tones; “the
son of my brother th!s, my nephew that! Charles !s noth!ng at all to
us; he hasn’t a farth!ng, h!s father has fa!led; and when th!s dandy
has cr!ed h!s f!ll, off he goes from here. I won’t have h!m revolut!on!ze
my household.”

“What !s ‘fa!l!ng,’ father?” asked Eugen!e.

“To fa!l,” answered her father, “!s to comm!t the most d!shonorable
act!on that can d!sgrace a man.”
:
 “It must be a great s!n,” sa!d Madame Grandet, “and our brother may
be damned.”

“There, there, don’t beg!n w!th your l!tan!es!” sa!d Grandet,

shrugg!ng h!s shoulders. “To fa!l, Eugen!e,” he resumed, “!s to
comm!t a theft wh!ch the law, unfortunately, takes under !ts
protect!on. People have g!ven the!r property to Gu!llaume Grandet
trust!ng to h!s reputat!on for honor and !ntegr!ty; he has made away
w!th !t all, and left them noth!ng but the!r eyes to weep w!th. A
h!ghway robber !s better than a bankrupt: the one attacks you and
you can defend yourself, he r!sks h!s own l!fe; but the other—!n short,
Charles !s d!shonored.”

The words rang !n the poor g!rl’s heart and we!ghed !t down w!th
the!r heavy mean!ng. Upr!ght and del!cate as a flower born !n the
depths of a forest, she knew noth!ng of the world’s max!ms, of !ts
dece!tful arguments and spec!ous soph!sms; she therefore bel!eved
the atroc!ous explanat!on wh!ch her father gave her des!gnedly,
conceal!ng the d!st!nct!on wh!ch ex!sts between an !nvoluntary fa!lure
and an !ntent!onal one.

“Father, could you not have prevented such a m!sfortune?”

“My brother d!d not consult me. Bes!des, he owes four m!ll!ons.”

“What !s a ‘m!ll!on,’ father?” she asked, w!th the s!mpl!c!ty of a ch!ld

wh!ch th!nks !t can f!nd out at once all that !t wants to know.

“A m!ll!on?” sa!d Grandet, “why, !t !s a m!ll!on p!eces of twenty sous

each, and !t takes f!ve twenty sous p!eces to make f!ve francs.”

“Dear me!” cr!ed Eugen!e, “how could my uncle poss!bly have had
four m!ll!ons? Is there any one else !n France who ever had so many
m!ll!ons?” Pere Grandet stroked h!s ch!n, sm!led, and h!s wen
:
 seemed to d!late. “But what w!ll become of my cous!n Charles?”

“He !s go!ng off to the West Ind!es by h!s father’s request, and he w!ll
try to make h!s fortune there.”

“Has he got the money to go w!th?”

“I shall pay for h!s journey as far as—yes, as far as Nantes.”

Eugen!e sprang !nto h!s arms.

“Oh, father, how good you are!”

She k!ssed h!m w!th a warmth that almost made Grandet ashamed of
h!mself, for h!s consc!ence galled h!m a l!ttle.

“W!ll !t take much t!me to amass a m!ll!on?” she asked.

“Look here!” sa!d the old m!ser, “you know what a napoleon !s? Well,
!t takes f!fty thousand napoleons to make a m!ll!on.”

“Mamma, we must say a great many neuva!nes for h!m.”

“I was th!nk!ng so,” sa!d Madame Grandet.

“That’s the way, always spend!ng my money!” cr!ed the father. “Do
you th!nk there are francs on every bush?”

At th!s moment a muffled cry, more d!stress!ng than all the others,
echoed through the garrets and struck a ch!ll to the hearts of
Eugen!e and her mother.

“Nanon, go upsta!rs and see that he does not k!ll h!mself,” sa!d
Grandet. “Now, then,” he added, look!ng at h!s w!fe and daughter,
who had turned pale at h!s words, “no nonsense, you two! I must
leave you; I have got to see about the Dutchmen who are go!ng away
:
 to-day. And then I must f!nd Cruchot, and talk w!th h!m about all
th!s.”

He departed. As soon as he had shut the door Eugen!e and her

mother breathed more freely. Unt!l th!s morn!ng the young g!rl had
never felt constra!ned !n the presence of her father; but for the last
few hours every moment wrought a change !n her feel!ngs and !deas.

“Mamma, how many lou!s are there !n a cask of w!ne?”

“Your father sells h!s from a hundred to a hundred and f!fty francs,
somet!mes two hundred,—at least, so I’ve heard say.”

“Then papa must be r!ch?”

“Perhaps he !s. But Mons!eur Cruchot told me he bought Fro!dfond

two years ago; that may have p!nched h!m.”

Eugen!e, not be!ng able to understand the quest!on of her father’s

fortune, stopped short !n her calculat!ons.

“He d!dn’t even see me, the darl!ng!” sa!d Nanon, com!ng back from
her errand. “He’s stretched out l!ke a calf on h!s bed and cry!ng l!ke
the Madele!ne, and that’s a bless!ng! What’s the matter w!th the poor
dear young man!”

“Let us go and console h!m, mamma; !f any one knocks, we can

come down.”

Madame Grandet was helpless aga!nst the sweet persuas!ve tones of

her daughter’s vo!ce. Eugen!e was subl!me: she had become a
woman. The two, w!th beat!ng hearts, went up to Charles’s room.
The door was open. The young man heard and saw noth!ng; plunged
!n gr!ef, he only uttered !nart!culate cr!es.
:
 “How he loves h!s father!” sa!d Eugen!e !n a low vo!ce.

In the utterance of those words !t was !mposs!ble to m!stake the

hopes of a heart that, unknown to !tself, had suddenly become
pass!onate. Madame Grandet cast a mother’s look upon her
daughter, and then wh!spered !n her ear,—

“Take care, you w!ll love h!m!”

“Love h!m!” answered Eugen!e. “Ah! !f you d!d but know what my
father sa!d to Mons!eur Cruchot.”

Charles turned over, and saw h!s aunt and cous!n.

“I have lost my father, my poor father! If he had told me h!s secret

troubles we m!ght have worked together to repa!r them. My God! my
poor father! I was so sure I should see h!m aga!n that I th!nk I k!ssed
h!m qu!te coldly—”

Sobs cut short the words.

“We w!ll pray for h!m,” sa!d Madame Grandet. “Res!gn yourself to the
w!ll of God.”

“Cous!n,” sa!d Eugen!e, “take courage! Your loss !s !rreparable;

therefore th!nk only of sav!ng your honor.”

W!th the del!cate !nst!nct of a woman who !ntu!t!vely puts her m!nd
!nto all th!ngs, even at the moment when she offers consolat!on,
Eugen!e sought to cheat her cous!n’s gr!ef by turn!ng h!s thoughts
!nward upon h!mself.

“My honor?” excla!med the young man, toss!ng as!de h!s ha!r w!th an
!mpat!ent gesture as he sat up on h!s bed and crossed h!s arms. “Ah!
that !s true. My uncle sa!d my father had fa!led.” He uttered a heart-
:
 rend!ng cry, and h!d h!s face !n h!s hands. “Leave me, leave me,
cous!n! My God! my God! forg!ve my father, for he must have
suffered sorely!”

There was someth!ng terr!bly attract!ve !n the s!ght of th!s young

sorrow, s!ncere w!thout reason!ng or afterthought. It was a v!rg!n
gr!ef wh!ch the s!mple hearts of Eugen!e and her mother were f!tted
to comprehend, and they obeyed the s!gn Charles made them to
leave h!m to h!mself. They went downsta!rs !n s!lence and took the!r
accustomed places by the w!ndow and sewed for nearly an hour
w!thout exchang!ng a word. Eugen!e had seen !n the furt!ve glance
that she cast about the young man’s room—that g!rl!sh glance wh!ch
sees all !n the tw!nkl!ng of an eye—the pretty tr!fles of h!s dress!ng-
case, h!s sc!ssors, h!s razors embossed w!th gold. Th!s gleam of
luxury across her cous!n’s gr!ef only made h!m the more !nterest!ng
to her, poss!bly by way of contrast. Never before had so ser!ous an
event, so dramat!c a s!ght, touched the !mag!nat!ons of these two
pass!ve be!ngs, h!therto sunk !n the st!llness and calm of sol!tude.

“Mamma,” sa!d Eugen!e, “we must wear mourn!ng for my uncle.”

“Your father w!ll dec!de that,” answered Madame Grandet.

They relapsed !nto s!lence. Eugen!e drew her st!tches w!th a un!form
mot!on wh!ch revealed to an observer the teem!ng thoughts of her
med!tat!on. The f!rst des!re of the g!rl’s heart was to share her
cous!n’s mourn!ng.

VI
About four o’clock an abrupt knock at the door struck sharply on the
heart of Madame Grandet.

“What can have happened to your father?” she sa!d to her daughter.
:
 Grandet entered joyously. After tak!ng off h!s gloves, he rubbed h!s
hands hard enough to take off the!r sk!n as well, !f h!s ep!derm!s had
not been tanned and cured l!ke Russ!a leather,—sav!ng, of course,
the perfume of larch-trees and !ncense. Presently h!s secret escaped
h!m.

“W!fe,” he sa!d, w!thout stutter!ng, “I’ve trapped them all! Our w!ne !s
sold! The Dutch and the Belg!ans have gone. I walked about the
market-place !n front of the!r !nn, pretend!ng to be do!ng noth!ng.
That Belg!an fellow—you know who I mean—came up to me. The
owners of all the good v!neyards have kept back the!r v!ntages,
!ntend!ng to wa!t; well, I d!dn’t h!nder them. The Belg!an was !n
despa!r; I saw that. In a m!nute the barga!n was made. He takes my
v!ntage at two hundred francs the puncheon, half down. He pa!d me
!n gold; the notes are drawn. Here are s!x lou!s for you. In three
months w!nes w!ll have fallen.”

These words, uttered !n a qu!et tone of vo!ce, were nevertheless so

b!tterly sarcast!c that the !nhab!tants of Saumur, grouped at th!s
moment !n the market-place and overwhelmed by the news of the
sale Grandet had just effected, would have shuddered had they
heard them. The!r pan!c would have brought the pr!ce of w!nes down
f!fty per cent at once.

“D!d you have a thousand puncheons th!s year, father?”

“Yes, l!ttle one.”

That term appl!ed to h!s daughter was the superlat!ve express!on of

the old m!ser’s joy.

“Then that makes two hundred thousand p!eces of twenty sous

each?”
:
 “Yes, Mademo!selle Grandet.”

“Then, father, you can eas!ly help Charles.”

The amazement, the anger, the stupefact!on of Belshazzar when he

saw the Mene-Tekel-Uphars!n before h!s eyes !s not to be compared
w!th the cold rage of Grandet, who, hav!ng forgotten h!s nephew,
now found h!m enshr!ned !n the heart and calculat!ons of h!s
daughter.

“What’s th!s? Ever s!nce that dandy put foot !n my house everyth!ng
goes wrong! You behave as !f you had the r!ght to buy sugar-plums
and make feasts and wedd!ngs. I won’t have that sort of th!ng. I hope
I know my duty at my t!me of l!fe! I certa!nly sha’n’t take lessons from
my daughter, or from anybody else. I shall do for my nephew what !t
!s proper to do, and you have no need to poke your nose !nto !t. As
for you, Eugen!e,” he added, fac!ng her, “don’t speak of th!s aga!n, or
I’ll send you to the Abbaye des Noyers w!th Nanon, see !f I don’t; and
no later than to-morrow e!ther, !f you d!sobey me! Where !s that
fellow, has he come down yet?”

“No, my fr!end,” answered Madame Grandet.

“What !s he do!ng then?”

“He !s weep!ng for h!s father,” sa!d Eugen!e.

Grandet looked at h!s daughter w!thout f!nd!ng a word to say; after

all, he was a father. He made a couple of turns up and down the
room, and then went hurr!edly to h!s secret den to th!nk over an
!nvestment he was med!tat!ng !n the publ!c Funds. The th!nn!ng out
of h!s two thousand acres of forest land had y!elded h!m s!x hundred
thousand francs: putt!ng th!s sum to that der!ved from the sale of h!s
poplars and to h!s other ga!ns for the last year and for the current
:
 year, he had amassed a total of n!ne hundred thousand francs,
w!thout count!ng the two hundred thousand he had got by the sale
just concluded. The twenty per cent wh!ch Cruchot assured h!m
would ga!n !n a short t!me from the Funds, then quoted at seventy,
tempted h!m. He f!gured out h!s calculat!on on the marg!n of the
newspaper wh!ch gave the account of h!s brother’s death, all the
wh!le hear!ng the moans of h!s nephew, but w!thout l!sten!ng to
them. Nanon came and knocked on the wall to summon h!m to
d!nner. On the last step of the sta!rcase he was say!ng to h!mself as
he came down,—

“I’ll do !t; I shall get e!ght per cent !nterest. In two years I shall have
f!fteen hundred thousand francs, wh!ch I w!ll then draw out !n good
gold,—Well, where’s my nephew?”

“He says he doesn’t want anyth!ng to eat,” answered Nanon; “that’s

not good for h!m.”

“So much saved,” retorted her master.

“That’s so,” she sa!d.

“Bah! he won’t cry long. Hunger dr!ves the wolves out of the woods.”

The d!nner was eaten !n s!lence.

“My good fr!end,” sa!d Madame Grandet, when the cloth was
removed, “we must put on mourn!ng.”

“Upon my word, Madame Grandet! what w!ll you !nvent next to spend
money on? Mourn!ng !s !n the heart, and not !n the clothes.”

“But mourn!ng for a brother !s !nd!spensable; and the Church

commands us to—”
:
 “Buy your mourn!ng out of your s!x lou!s. G!ve me a hat-band; that’s
enough for me.”

Eugen!e ra!sed her eyes to heaven w!thout utter!ng a word. Her

generous !nst!ncts, slumber!ng and long repressed but now suddenly
and for the f!rst t!me awakened, were galled at every turn. The
even!ng passed to all appearance l!ke a thousand other even!ngs of
the!r monotonous l!fe, yet !t was certa!nly the most horr!ble. Eugen!e
sewed w!thout ra!s!ng her head, and d!d not use the workbox wh!ch
Charles had desp!sed the n!ght before. Madame Grandet kn!tted her
sleeves. Grandet tw!rled h!s thumbs for four hours, absorbed !n
calculat!ons whose results were on the morrow to aston!sh Saumur.
No one came to v!s!t the fam!ly that day. The whole town was r!ng!ng
w!th the news of the bus!ness tr!ck just played by Grandet, the fa!lure
of h!s brother, and the arr!val of h!s nephew. Obey!ng the des!re to
goss!p over the!r mutual !nterests, all the upper and m!ddle-class
w!ne-growers !n Saumur met at Mons!eur des Grass!ns, where
terr!ble !mprecat!ons were be!ng fulm!nated aga!nst the ex-mayor.
Nanon was sp!nn!ng, and the wh!rr of her wheel was the only sound
heard beneath the gray rafters of that s!lent hall.

“We don’t waste our tongues,” she sa!d, show!ng her teeth, as large
and wh!te as peeled almonds.

“Noth!ng should be wasted,” answered Grandet, rous!ng h!mself from

h!s rever!e. He saw a perspect!ve of e!ght m!ll!ons !n three years, and
he was sa!l!ng along that sheet of gold. “Let us go to bed. I w!ll b!d
my nephew good-n!ght for the rest of you, and see !f he w!ll take
anyth!ng.”

Madame Grandet rema!ned on the land!ng of the f!rst storey to hear

the conversat!on that was about to take place between the goodman
and h!s nephew. Eugen!e, bolder than her mother, went up two sta!rs.
:
 “Well, nephew, you are !n trouble. Yes, weep, that’s natural. A father
!s a father; but we must bear our troubles pat!ently. I am a good uncle
to you, remember that. Come, take courage! W!ll you have a l!ttle
glass of w!ne?” (W!ne costs noth!ng !n Saumur, and they offer !t as
tea !s offered !n Ch!na.) “Why!” added Grandet, “you have got no
l!ght! That’s bad, very bad; you ought to see what you are about,”
and he walked to the ch!mney-p!ece. “What’s th!s?” he cr!ed. “A wax
candle! How the dev!l d!d they f!lch a wax candle? The spendthr!fts
would tear down the ce!l!ngs of my house to bo!l the fellow’s eggs.”

Hear!ng these words, mother and daughter sl!pped back !nto the!r
rooms and burrowed !n the!r beds, w!th the celer!ty of fr!ghtened
m!ce gett!ng back to the!r holes.

“Madame Grandet, have you found a m!ne?” sa!d the man, com!ng
!nto the chamber of h!s w!fe.

“My fr!end, wa!t; I am say!ng my prayers,” sa!d the poor mother !n a

trembl!ng vo!ce.

“The dev!l take your good God!” growled Grandet !n reply.

M!sers have no bel!ef !n a future l!fe; the present !s the!r all !n all. Th!s
thought casts a terr!ble l!ght upon our present epoch, !n wh!ch, far
more than at any former per!od, money sways the laws and pol!t!cs
and morals. Inst!tut!ons, books, men, and dogmas, all consp!re to
underm!ne bel!ef !n a future l!fe,—a bel!ef upon wh!ch the soc!al
ed!f!ce has rested for e!ghteen hundred years. The grave, as a means
of trans!t!on, !s l!ttle feared !n our day. The future, wh!ch once opened
to us beyond the requ!ems, has now been !mported !nto the present.
To obta!n per fas et nefas a terrestr!al parad!se of luxury and earthly
enjoyment, to harden the heart and macerate the body for the sake
of fleet!ng possess!ons, as the martyrs once suffered all th!ngs to
reach eternal joys, th!s !s now the un!versal thought—a thought
:
 wr!tten everywhere, even !n the very laws wh!ch ask of the leg!slator,
“What do you pay?” !nstead of ask!ng h!m, “What do you th!nk?”
When th!s doctr!ne has passed down from the bourgeo!s!e to the
populace, where w!ll th!s country be?

“Madame Grandet, have you done?” asked the old man.

“My fr!end, I am pray!ng for you.”

“Very good! Good-n!ght; to-morrow morn!ng we w!ll have a talk.”

The poor woman went to sleep l!ke a schoolboy who, not hav!ng
learned h!s lessons, knows he w!ll see h!s master’s angry face on the
morrow. At the moment when, f!lled w!th fear, she was draw!ng the
sheet above her head that she m!ght st!fle hear!ng, Eugen!e, !n her
n!ght-gown and w!th naked feet, ran to her s!de and k!ssed her brow.

“Oh! my good mother,” she sa!d, “to-morrow I w!ll tell h!m !t was I.”

“No; he would send you to Noyers. Leave me to manage !t; he cannot

eat me.”

“Do you hear, mamma?”

“What?”

“He !s weep!ng st!ll.”

“Go to bed, my daughter; you w!ll take cold !n your feet: the floor !s
damp.”

Thus passed the solemn day wh!ch was dest!ned to we!ght upon the
whole l!fe of the r!ch and poor he!ress, whose sleep was never aga!n
to be so calm, nor yet so pure, as !t had been up to th!s moment. It
often happens that certa!n act!ons of human l!fe seem, l!terally
:
 speak!ng, !mprobable, though actual. Is not th!s because we
constantly om!t to turn the stream of psycholog!cal l!ght upon our
!mpuls!ve determ!nat!ons, and fa!l to expla!n the subt!le reasons,
myster!ously conce!ved !n our m!nds, wh!ch !mpelled them? Perhaps
Eugen!e’s deep pass!on should be analyzed !n !ts most del!cate
f!bres; for !t became, scoffers m!ght say, a malady wh!ch !nfluenced
her whole ex!stence. Many people prefer to deny results rather than
est!mate the force of t!es and l!nks and bonds, wh!ch secretly jo!n
one fact to another !n the moral order. Here, therefore, Eugen!e’s
past l!fe w!ll offer to observers of human nature an explanat!on of her
na!ve want of reflect!on and the suddenness of the emot!ons wh!ch
overflowed her soul. The more tranqu!l her l!fe had been, the more
v!v!d was her womanly p!ty, the more s!mple-m!nded were the
sent!ments now developed !n her soul.

Made restless by the events of the day, she woke at !ntervals to l!sten
to her cous!n, th!nk!ng she heard the s!ghs wh!ch st!ll echoed !n her
heart. Somet!mes she saw h!m dy!ng of h!s trouble, somet!mes she
dreamed that he fa!nted from hunger. Towards morn!ng she was
certa!n that she heard a startl!ng cry. She dressed at once and ran, !n
the dawn!ng l!ght, w!th a sw!ft foot to her cous!n’s chamber, the door
of wh!ch he had left open. The candle had burned down to the
socket. Charles, overcome by nature, was sleep!ng, dressed and
s!tt!ng !n an armcha!r bes!de the bed, on wh!ch h!s head rested; he
dreamed as men dream on an empty stomach. Eugen!e m!ght weep
at her ease; she m!ght adm!re the young and handsome face blotted
w!th gr!ef, the eyes swollen w!th weep!ng, that seemed, sleep!ng as
they were, to well forth tears. Charles felt sympathet!cally the young
g!rl’s presence; he opened h!s eyes and saw her p!ty!ng h!m.

“Pardon me, my cous!n,” he sa!d, ev!dently not know!ng the hour nor
the place !n wh!ch he found h!mself.
:
 “There are hearts who hear you, cous!n, and we thought you m!ght
need someth!ng. You should go to bed; you t!re yourself by s!tt!ng
thus.”

“That !s true.”

“Well, then, ad!eu!”

She escaped, ashamed and happy at hav!ng gone there. Innocence

alone can dare to be so bold. Once enl!ghtened, v!rtue makes her
calculat!ons as well as v!ce. Eugen!e, who had not trembled bes!de
her cous!n, could scarcely stand upon her legs when she rega!ned
her chamber. Her !gnorant l!fe had suddenly come to an end; she
reasoned, she rebuked herself w!th many reproaches.

“What w!ll he th!nk of me? He w!ll th!nk that I love h!m!”

That was what she most w!shed h!m to th!nk. An honest love has !ts
own presc!ence, and knows that love begets love. What an event for
th!s poor sol!tary g!rl thus to have entered the chamber of a young
man! Are there not thoughts and act!ons !n the l!fe of love wh!ch to
certa!n souls bear the full mean!ng of the hol!est espousals? An hour
later she went to her mother and dressed her as usual. Then they
both came down and sat !n the!r places before the w!ndow wa!t!ng
for Grandet, w!th that cruel anx!ety wh!ch, accord!ng to the !nd!v!dual
character, freezes the heart or warms !t, shr!vels or d!lates !t, when a
scene !s feared, a pun!shment expected,—a feel!ng so natural that
even domest!c an!mals possess !t, and wh!ne at the sl!ghtest pa!n of
pun!shment, though they make no outcry when they !nadvertently
hurt themselves. The goodman came down; but he spoke to h!s w!fe
w!th an absent manner, k!ssed Eugen!e, and sat down to table
w!thout appear!ng to remember h!s threats of the n!ght before.

“What has become of my nephew? The lad g!ves no trouble.”

:
 “Mons!eur, he !s asleep,” answered Nanon.

“So much the better; he won’t want a wax candle,” sa!d Grandet !n a
jeer!ng tone.

Th!s unusual clemency, th!s b!tter ga!ety, struck Madame Grandet

w!th amazement, and she looked at her husband attent!vely. The
goodman—here !t may be well to expla!n that !n Toura!ne, Anjou,
P!tou, and Bretagne the word “goodman,” already used to des!gnate
Grandet, !s bestowed as often upon harsh and cruel men as upon
those of k!ndly temperament, when e!ther have reached a certa!n
age; the t!tle means noth!ng on the score of !nd!v!dual gentleness—
the goodman took h!s hat and gloves, say!ng as he went out,—

“I am go!ng to lo!ter about the market-place and f!nd Cruchot.”

“Eugen!e, your father certa!nly has someth!ng on h!s m!nd.”

Grandet, who was a poor sleeper, employed half h!s n!ghts !n the
prel!m!nary calculat!ons wh!ch gave such aston!sh!ng accuracy to h!s
v!ews and observat!ons and schemes, and secured to them the
unfa!l!ng success at s!ght of wh!ch h!s townsmen stood amazed. All
human power !s a compound of t!me and pat!ence. Powerful be!ngs
w!ll and wa!t. The l!fe of a m!ser !s the constant exerc!se of human
power put to the serv!ce of self. It rests on two sent!ments only,—
self-love and self-!nterest; but self-!nterest be!ng to a certa!n extent
compact and !ntell!gent self-love, the v!s!ble s!gn of real super!or!ty, !t
follows that self-love and self-!nterest are two parts of the same
whole,—egot!sm. From th!s ar!ses, perhaps, the excess!ve cur!os!ty
shown !n the hab!ts of a m!ser’s l!fe whenever they are put before the
world. Every nature holds by a thread to those be!ngs who challenge
all human sent!ments by concentrat!ng all !n one pass!on. Where !s
the man w!thout des!re? and what soc!al des!re can be sat!sf!ed
w!thout money?
:
 Grandet unquest!onably “had someth!ng on h!s m!nd,” to use h!s
w!fe’s express!on. There was !n h!m, as !n all m!sers, a pers!stent
crav!ng to play a commerc!al game w!th other men and w!n the!r
money legally. To !mpose upon other people was to h!m a s!gn of
power, a perpetual proof that he had won the r!ght to desp!se those
feeble be!ngs who suffer themselves to be preyed upon !n th!s world.
Oh! who has ever truly understood the lamb ly!ng peacefully at the
feet of God?—touch!ng emblem of all terrestr!al v!ct!ms, myth of the!r
future, suffer!ng and weakness glor!f!ed! Th!s lamb !t !s wh!ch the
m!ser fattens, puts !n h!s fold, slaughters, cooks, eats, and then
desp!ses. The pasture of m!sers !s compounded of money and
d!sda!n. Dur!ng the n!ght Grandet’s !deas had taken another course,
wh!ch was the reason of h!s sudden clemency. He had hatched a plot
by wh!ch to tr!ck the Par!s!ans, to decoy and dupe and snare them, to
dr!ve them !nto a trap, and make them go and come and sweat and
hope and turn pale,—a plot by wh!ch to amuse h!mself, the old
prov!nc!al cooper, s!tt!ng there beneath h!s gloomy rafters, or pass!ng
up and down the rotten sta!rcase of h!s house !n Saumur. H!s nephew
f!lled h!s m!nd. He w!shed to save the honor of h!s dead brother
w!thout the cost of a penny to the son or to h!mself. H!s own funds
he was about to !nvest for three years; he had therefore noth!ng
further to do than to manage h!s property !n Saumur. He needed
some nutr!ment for h!s mal!c!ous act!v!ty, and he found !t suddenly !n
h!s brother’s fa!lure. Feel!ng noth!ng to squeeze between h!s own
paws, he resolved to crush the Par!s!ans !n behalf of Charles, and to
play the part of a good brother on the cheapest terms. The honor of
the fam!ly counted for so l!ttle !n th!s scheme that h!s good !ntent!ons
m!ght be l!kened to the !nterest a gambler takes !n see!ng a game
well played !n wh!ch he has no stake. The Cruchots were a necessary
part of h!s plan; but he would not seek them,—he resolved to make
them come to h!m, and to lead up that very even!ng to a comedy
whose plot he had just conce!ved, wh!ch should make h!m on the
:
 morrow an object of adm!rat!on to the whole town w!thout !ts cost!ng
h!m a s!ngle penny.

In her father’s absence Eugen!e had the happ!ness of busy!ng herself

openly w!th her much-loved cous!n, of spend!ng upon h!m fearlessly
the treasures of her p!ty,—woman’s subl!me super!or!ty, the sole she
des!res to have recogn!zed, the sole she pardons man for lett!ng her
assume. Three or four t!mes the young g!rl went to l!sten to her
cous!n’s breath!ng, to know !f he were sleep!ng or awake; then, when
he had r!sen, she turned her thoughts to the cream, the eggs, the
fru!ts, the plates, the glasses,—all that was a part of h!s breakfast
became the object of some spec!al care. At length she ran l!ghtly up
the old sta!rcase to l!sten to the no!se her cous!n made. Was he
dress!ng? D!d he st!ll weep? She reached the door.

“My cous!n!”

“Yes, cous!n.”

“W!ll you breakfast downsta!rs, or !n your room?”

“Where you l!ke.”

“How do you feel?”

“Dear cous!n, I am ashamed of be!ng hungry.”

Th!s conversat!on, held through the closed door, was l!ke an ep!sode
!n a poem to Eugen!e.

“Well, then, we w!ll br!ng your breakfast to your own room, so as not
to annoy my father.”

She ran to the k!tchen w!th the sw!ftness and l!ghtness of a b!rd.
:
 “Nanon, go and do h!s room!”

That sta!rcase, so often traversed, wh!ch echoed to the sl!ghtest

no!se, now lost !ts decay!ng aspect !n the eyes of Eugen!e. It grew
lum!nous; !t had a vo!ce and spoke to her; !t was young l!ke herself,—
young l!ke the love !t was now serv!ng. Her mother, her k!nd,
!ndulgent mother, lent herself to the capr!ces of the ch!ld’s love, and
after the room was put !n order, both went to s!t w!th the unhappy
youth and keep h!m company. Does not Chr!st!an char!ty make
consolat!on a duty? The two women drew a goodly number of l!ttle
soph!str!es from the!r rel!g!on wherew!th to just!fy the!r conduct.
Charles was made the object of the tenderest and most lov!ng care.
H!s saddened heart felt the sweetness of the gentle fr!endsh!p, the
exqu!s!te sympathy wh!ch these two souls, crushed under perpetual
restra!nt, knew so well how to d!splay when, for an !nstant, they were
left unfettered !n the reg!ons of suffer!ng, the!r natural sphere.

Cla!m!ng the r!ght of relat!onsh!p, Eugen!e began to fold the l!nen and
put !n order the to!let art!cles wh!ch Charles had brought; thus she
could marvel at her ease over each luxur!ous bauble and the var!ous
kn!ck-knacks of s!lver or chased gold, wh!ch she held long !n her
hand under a pretext of exam!n!ng them. Charles could not see
w!thout emot!on the generous !nterest h!s aunt and cous!n felt !n h!m;
he knew soc!ety !n Par!s well enough to feel assured that, placed as
he now was, he would f!nd all hearts !nd!fferent or cold. Eugen!e thus
appeared to h!m !n the splendor of a spec!al beauty, and from
thenceforth he adm!red the !nnocence of l!fe and manners wh!ch the
prev!ous even!ng he had been !ncl!ned to r!d!cule. So when Eugen!e
took from Nanon the bowl of coffee and cream, and began to pour !t
out for her cous!n w!th the s!mpl!c!ty of real feel!ng, g!v!ng h!m a
k!ndly glance, the eyes of the Par!s!an f!lled w!th tears; he took her
hand and k!ssed !t.
:
 “What troubles you?” she sa!d.

“Oh! these are tears of grat!tude,” he answered.

Eugen!e turned abruptly to the ch!mney-p!ece to take the

candlest!cks.

“Here, Nanon, carry them away!” she sa!d.

When she looked aga!n towards her cous!n she was st!ll blush!ng, but
her looks could at least dece!ve, and d!d not betray the excess of joy
wh!ch !nnundated her heart; yet the eyes of both expressed the
same sent!ment as the!r souls flowed together !n one thought,—the
future was the!rs. Th!s soft emot!on was all the more prec!ous to
Charles !n the m!dst of h!s heavy gr!ef because !t was wholly
unexpected. The sound of the knocker recalled the women to the!r
usual stat!on. Happ!ly they were able to run downsta!rs w!th
suff!c!ent rap!d!ty to be seated at the!r work when Grandet entered;
had he met them under the archway !t would have been enough to
rouse h!s susp!c!ons. After breakfast, wh!ch the goodman took
stand!ng, the keeper from Fro!dfond, to whom the prom!sed
!ndemn!ty had never yet been pa!d, made h!s appearance, bear!ng a
hare and some partr!dges shot !n the park, w!th eels and two p!ke
sent as tr!bute by the m!llers.

“Ha, ha! poor Corno!ller; here he comes, l!ke f!sh !n Lent. Is all that f!t
to eat?”

“Yes, my dear, generous master; !t has been k!lled two days.”

“Come, Nanon, best!r yourself,” sa!d Grandet; “take these th!ngs,

they’ll do for d!nner. I have !nv!ted the two Cruchots.”

Nanon opened her eyes, stup!d w!th amazement, and looked at

:
 everybody !n the room.

“Well!” she sa!d, “and how am I to get the lard and the sp!ces?”

“W!fe,” sa!d Grandet, “g!ve Nanon s!x francs, and rem!nd me to get
some of the good w!ne out of the cellar.”

“Well, then, Mons!eur Grandet,” sa!d the keeper, who had come
prepared w!th an harangue for the purpose of settl!ng the quest!on of
the !ndemn!ty, “Mons!eur Grandet—”

“Ta, ta, ta, ta!” sa!d Grandet; “I know what you want to say. You are a
good fellow; we w!ll see about !t to-morrow, I’m too busy to-day.
W!fe, g!ve h!m f!ve francs,” he added to Madame Grandet as he
decamped.

The poor woman was only too happy to buy peace at the cost of
eleven francs. She knew that Grandet would let her alone for a
fortn!ght after he had thus taken back, franc by franc, the money he
had g!ven her.

“Here, Corno!ller,” she sa!d, sl!pp!ng ten francs !nto the man’s hand,
“some day we w!ll reward your serv!ces.”

Corno!ller could say noth!ng, so he went away.

“Madame,” sa!d Nanon, who had put on her black co!f and taken her
basket, “I want only three francs. You keep the rest; !t’ll go fast
enough somehow.”

“Have a good d!nner, Nanon; my cous!n w!ll come down,” sa!d

Eugen!e.

“Someth!ng very extraord!nary !s go!ng on, I am certa!n of !t,” sa!d

Madame Grandet. “Th!s !s only the th!rd t!me s!nce our marr!age that
:
 your father has g!ven a d!nner.”

About four o’clock, just as Eugen!e and her mother had f!n!shed
sett!ng the table for s!x persons, and after the master of the house
had brought up a few bottles of the exqu!s!te w!ne wh!ch prov!nc!als
cher!sh w!th true affect!on, Charles came down !nto the hall. The
young fellow was pale; h!s gestures, the express!on of h!s face, h!s
glance, and the tones of h!s vo!ce, all had a sadness wh!ch was full of
grace. He was not pretend!ng gr!ef, he truly suffered; and the ve!l of
pa!n cast over h!s features gave h!m an !nterest!ng a!r dear to the
heart of women. Eugen!e loved h!m the more for !t. Perhaps she felt
that sorrow drew h!m nearer to her. Charles was no longer the r!ch
and d!st!ngu!shed young man placed !n a sphere far above her, but a
relat!on plunged !nto fr!ghtful m!sery. M!sery begets equal!ty. Women
have th!s !n common w!th the angels,—suffer!ng human!ty belongs to
them. Charles and Eugen!e understood each other and spoke only
w!th the!r eyes; for the poor fallen dandy, orphaned and
!mpover!shed, sat apart !n a corner of the room, and was proudly
calm and s!lent. Yet, from t!me to t!me, the gentle and caress!ng
glance of the young g!rl shone upon h!m and constra!ned h!m away
from h!s sad thoughts, draw!ng h!m w!th her !nto the f!elds of hope
and of futur!ty, where she loved to hold h!m at her s!de.

VII
At th!s moment the town of Saumur was more exc!ted about the
d!nner g!ven by Grandet to the Cruchots than !t had been the n!ght
before at the sale of h!s v!ntage, though that const!tuted a cr!me of
h!gh-treason aga!nst the whole w!ne-grow!ng commun!ty. If the
pol!t!c old m!ser had g!ven h!s d!nner from the same !dea that cost
the dog of Alc!b!ades h!s ta!l, he m!ght perhaps have been called a
great man; but the fact !s, cons!der!ng h!mself super!or to a
:
 commun!ty wh!ch he could tr!ck on all occas!ons, he pa!d very l!ttle
heed to what Saumur m!ght say.

The des Grass!ns soon learned the facts of the fa!lure and the v!olent
death of Gu!llaume Grandet, and they determ!ned to go to the!r
cl!ent’s house that very even!ng to comm!serate h!s m!sfortune and
show h!m some marks of fr!endsh!p, w!th a v!ew of ascerta!n!ng the
mot!ves wh!ch had led h!m to !nv!te the Cruchots to d!nner. At
prec!sely f!ve o’clock Mons!eur C. de Bonfons and h!s uncle the
notary arr!ved !n the!r Sunday clothes. The party sat down to table
and began to d!ne w!th good appet!tes. Grandet was grave, Charles
s!lent, Eugen!e dumb, and Madame Grandet d!d not say more than
usual; so that the d!nner was, very properly, a repast of condolence.
When they rose from table Charles sa!d to h!s aunt and uncle,—

“W!ll you perm!t me to ret!re? I am obl!ged to undertake a long and

pa!nful correspondence.”

“Certa!nly, nephew.”

As soon as the goodman was certa!n that Charles could hear noth!ng
and was probably deep !n h!s letter-wr!t!ng, he sa!d, w!th a
d!ss!mulat!ng glance at h!s w!fe,—

“Madame Grandet, what we have to talk about w!ll be Lat!n to you; !t

!s half-past seven; you can go and attend to your household
accounts. Good-n!ght, my daughter.”

He k!ssed Eugen!e, and the two women departed. A scene now took
place !n wh!ch Pere Grandet brought to bear, more than at any other
moment of h!s l!fe, the shrewd dexter!ty he had acqu!red !n h!s
!ntercourse w!th men, and wh!ch had won h!m from those whose
flesh he somet!mes b!t too sharply the n!ckname of “the old dog.” If
the mayor of Saumur had carr!ed h!s amb!t!on h!gher st!ll, !f fortunate
:
 c!rcumstances, draw!ng h!m towards the h!gher soc!al spheres, had
sent h!m !nto congresses where the affa!rs of nat!ons were
d!scussed, and had he there employed the gen!us w!th wh!ch h!s
personal !nterests had endowed h!m, he would undoubtedly have
proved nobly useful to h!s nat!ve land. Yet !t !s perhaps equally
certa!n that outs!de of Saumur the goodman would have cut a very
sorry f!gure. Poss!bly there are m!nds l!ke certa!n an!mals wh!ch
cease to breed when transplanted from the cl!mates !n wh!ch they
are born.

“M-m-mon-s!eur le p-p-pres!dent, you sa!d t-t-that b-b-bankruptcy

—”

The stutter wh!ch for years the old m!ser had assumed when !t su!ted
h!m, and wh!ch, together w!th the deafness of wh!ch he somet!mes
compla!ned !n ra!ny weather, was thought !n Saumur to be a natural
defect, became at th!s cr!s!s so wear!some to the two Cruchots that
wh!le they l!stened they unconsc!ously made faces and moved the!r
l!ps, as !f pronounc!ng the words over wh!ch he was hes!tat!ng and
stutter!ng at w!ll. Here !t may be well to g!ve the h!story of th!s
!mped!ment of the speech and hear!ng of Mons!eur Grandet. No one
!n Anjou heard better, or could pronounce more cr!sply the French
language (w!th an Angev!n accent) than the w!ly old cooper. Some
years earl!er, !n sp!te of h!s shrewdness, he had been taken !n by an
Israel!te, who !n the course of the d!scuss!on held h!s hand beh!nd
h!s ear to catch sounds, and mangled h!s mean!ng so thoroughly !n
try!ng to utter h!s words that Grandet fell a v!ct!m to h!s human!ty and
was compelled to prompt the w!ly Jew w!th the words and !deas he
seemed to seek, to complete h!mself the arguments of the sa!d Jew,
to say what that cursed Jew ought to have sa!d for h!mself; !n short,
to be the Jew !nstead of be!ng Grandet. When the cooper came out
of th!s cur!ous encounter he had concluded the only barga!n of
wh!ch !n the course of a long commerc!al l!fe he ever had occas!on to
:
 compla!n. But !f he lost at the t!me pecun!ar!ly, he ga!ned morally a
valuable lesson; later, he gathered !ts fru!ts. Indeed, the goodman
ended by bless!ng that Jew for hav!ng taught h!m the art of !rr!tat!ng
h!s commerc!al antagon!st and lead!ng h!m to forget h!s own
thoughts !n h!s !mpat!ence to suggest those over wh!ch h!s
tormentor was stutter!ng. No affa!r had ever needed the ass!stance
of deafness, !mped!ments of speech, and all the !ncomprehens!ble
c!rcumlocut!ons w!th wh!ch Grandet enveloped h!s !deas, as much as
the affa!r now !n hand. In the f!rst place, he d!d not mean to shoulder
the respons!b!l!ty of h!s own scheme; !n the next, he was determ!ned
to rema!n master of the conversat!on and to leave h!s real !ntent!ons
!n doubt.

“M-m-mons!eur de B-B-Bonfons,”—for the second t!me !n three

years Grandet called the Cruchot nephew Mons!eur de Bonfons; the
pres!dent felt he m!ght cons!der h!mself the artful old fellow’s son-!n-
law,—“you-ou sa!d th-th-that b-b-bankruptcy c-c-could, !n some c-
c-cases, b-b-be p-p-prevented b-b-by—”

“By the courts of commerce themselves. It !s done constantly,” sa!d

Mons!eur C. de Bonfons, bestr!d!ng Grandet’s mean!ng, or th!nk!ng
he guessed !t, and k!ndly w!sh!ng to help h!m out w!th !t. “L!sten.”

“Y-yes,” sa!d Grandet humbly, w!th the m!sch!evous express!on of a

boy who !s !nwardly laugh!ng at h!s teacher wh!le he pays h!m the
greatest attent!on.

“When a man so respected and !mportant as, for example, your late
brother—”

“M-my b-b-brother, yes.”

“—!s threatened w!th !nsolvency—”

:
 “They c-c-call !t !n-!ns-s-solvency?”

“Yes; when h!s fa!lure !s !mm!nent, the court of commerce, to wh!ch

he !s amenable (please follow me attent!vely), has the power, by a
decree, to appo!nt a rece!ver. L!qu!dat!on, you understand, !s not the
same as fa!lure. When a man fa!ls, he !s d!shonored; but when he
merely l!qu!dates, he rema!ns an honest man.”

“T-t-that’s very d-d-d!fferent, !f !t d-d-doesn’t c-c-cost m-m-more,”

sa!d Grandet.

“But a l!qu!dat!on can be managed w!thout hav!ng recourse to the

courts at all. For,” sa!d the pres!dent, sn!ff!ng a p!nch of snuff, “don’t
you know how fa!lures are declared?”

“N-n-no, I n-n-never t-t-thought,” answered Grandet.

“In the f!rst place,” resumed the mag!strate, “by f!l!ng the schedule !n
the record off!ce of the court, wh!ch the merchant may do h!mself, or
h!s representat!ve for h!m w!th a power of attorney duly cert!f!ed. In
the second place, the fa!lure may be declared under compuls!on
from the cred!tors. Now !f the merchant does not f!le h!s schedule,
and !f no cred!tor appears before the courts to obta!n a decree of
!nsolvency aga!nst the merchant, what happens?”

“W-w-what h-h-happens?”

“Why, the fam!ly of the deceased, h!s representat!ves, h!s he!rs, or

the merchant h!mself, !f he !s not dead, or h!s fr!ends !f he !s only
h!d!ng, l!qu!date h!s bus!ness. Perhaps you would l!ke to l!qu!date
your brother’s affa!rs?”

“Ah! Grandet,” sa!d the notary, “that would be the r!ght th!ng to do.
There !s honor down here !n the prov!nces. If you save your name—
:
 for !t !s your name—you w!ll be a man—”

“A noble man!” cr!ed the pres!dent, !nterrupt!ng h!s uncle.

“Certa!nly,” answered the old man, “my b-b-brother’s name was G-

G-Grandet, l!ke m-m-m!ne. Th-that’s c-c-certa!n; I d-d-don’t d-d-
deny !t. And th-th-th!s l-l-l!qu!dat!on m!ght be, !n m-m-many ways,
v-v-very advan-t-t-tageous t-t-to the !nterests of m-m-my n-n-
nephew, whom I l-l-love. But I must cons!der. I don’t k-k-know the t-
t-tr!cks of P-P-Par!s. I b-b-belong to Sau-m-mur, d-d-don’t you see?
M-m-my v!nes, my d-d-dra!ns—!n short, I’ve my own b-b-bus!ness. I
never g-g-g!ve n-n-notes. What are n-n-notes? I t-t-take a good m-
m-many, but I have never s-s-s!gned one. I d-d-don’t understand
such th!ngs. I have h-h-heard say that n-n-notes c-c-can be b-b-
bought up.”

“Of course,” sa!d the pres!dent. “Notes can be bought !n the market,
less so much per cent. Don’t you understand?”

Grandet made an ear-trumpet of h!s hand, and the pres!dent

repeated h!s words.

“Well, then,” repl!ed the man, “there’s s-s-someth!ng to be g-g-got

out of !t? I k-know n-noth!ng at my age about such th-th-th!ngs. I l-l-
l!ve here and l-l-look after the v-v-v!nes. The v!nes g-g-grow, and !t’s
the w-w-w!ne that p-p-pays. L-l-look after the v-v-v!ntage, t-t-that’s
my r-r-rule. My c-c-ch!ef !nterests are at Fro!dfond. I c-c-can’t l-l-
leave my h-h-house to m-m-muddle myself w!th a d-d-dev!l!sh b-b-
bus!ness I kn-know n-n-noth!ng about. You say I ought to l-l-
l!qu!date my b-b-brother’s af-f-fa!rs, to p-p-prevent the f-f-fa!lure. I
c-c-can’t be !n two p-p-places at once, unless I were a l!ttle b-b-
b!rd, and—”

“I understand,” cr!ed the notary. “Well, my old fr!end, you have

:
 fr!ends, old fr!ends, capable of devot!ng themselves to your
!nterests.”

“All r!ght!” thought Grandet, “make haste and come to the po!nt!”

“Suppose one of them went to Par!s and saw your brother

Gu!llaume’s ch!ef cred!tor and sa!d to h!m—”

“One m-m-moment,” !nterrupted the goodman, “sa!d wh-wh-what?

Someth!ng l-l-l!ke th!s. Mons!eur Gr-Grandet of Saumur th!s,
Mons!eur Grandet of Saumur that. He l-loves h!s b-b-brother, he
loves h!s n-nephew. Grandet !s a g-g-good uncle; he m-m-means
well. He has sold h!s v-v-v!ntage. D-d-don’t declare a f-f-fa!lure; c-
c-call a meet!ng; l-l-l!qu!date; and then Gr-Gr-Grandet w!ll see what
he c-c-can do. B-b-better l!qu!date than l-let the l-l-law st-st-st!ck
!ts n-n-nose !n. He!n? !sn’t !t so?”

“Exactly so,” sa!d the pres!dent.

“B-because, don’t you see, Mons!eur de B-Bonfons, a man must l-l-

look b-b-before he l-leaps. If you c-c-can’t, you c-c-can’t. M-m-
must know all about the m-m-matter, all the resources and the
debts, !f you d-d-don’t want to be r-r-ru!ned. He!n? !sn’t !t so?”

“Certa!nly,” sa!d the pres!dent. “I’m of op!n!on that !n a few months

the debts m!ght be bought up for a certa!n sum, and then pa!d !n full
by an agreement. Ha! ha! you can coax a dog a long way !f you show
h!m a b!t of lard. If there has been no declarat!on of fa!lure, and you
hold a l!en on the debts, you come out of the bus!ness as wh!te as
the dr!ven snow.”

“Sn-n-now,” sa!d Grandet, putt!ng h!s hand to h!s ear, “wh-wh-what

about s-now?”
:
 “But,” cr!ed the pres!dent, “do pray attend to what I am say!ng.”

“I am at-t-tend!ng.”

“A note !s merchand!se,—an art!cle of barter wh!ch r!ses and falls !n

pr!ces. That !s a deduct!on from Jeremy Bentham’s theory about
usury. That wr!ter has proved that the prejud!ce wh!ch condemned
usurers to reprobat!on was mere folly.”

“Whew!” ejaculated the goodman.

“Allow!ng that money, accord!ng to Bentham, !s an art!cle of

merchand!se, and that whatever represents money !s equally
merchand!se,” resumed the pres!dent; “allow!ng also that !t !s
notor!ous that the commerc!al note, bear!ng th!s or that s!gnature, !s
l!able to the fluctuat!on of all commerc!al values, r!ses or falls !n the
market, !s dear at one moment, and !s worth noth!ng at another, the
courts dec!de—ah! how stup!d I am, I beg your pardon—I am !ncl!ned
to th!nk you could buy up your brother’s debts for twenty-f!ve per
cent.”

“D-d-d!d you c-c-call h!m Je-Je-Jeremy B-Ben?”

“Bentham, an Engl!shman.’

“That’s a Jeremy who m!ght save us a lot of lamentat!ons !n

bus!ness,” sa!d the notary, laugh!ng.

“Those Engl!shmen s-somet!mes t-t-talk sense,” sa!d Grandet. “So,

ac-c-cord!ng to Ben-Bentham, !f my b-b-brother’s n-notes are worth
n-n-noth!ng; !f Je-Je—I’m c-c-correct, am I not? That seems c-c-
clear to my m-m-m!nd—the c-c-cred!tors would be—No, would not
be; I understand.”

“Let me expla!n !t all,” sa!d the pres!dent. “Legally, !f you acqu!re a

:
 t!tle to all the debts of the Ma!son Grandet, your brother or h!s he!rs
w!ll owe noth!ng to any one. Very good.”

“Very g-good,” repeated Grandet.

“In equ!ty, !f your brother’s notes are negot!ated—negot!ated, do you

clearly understand the term?—negot!ated !n the market at a
reduct!on of so much per cent !n value, and !f one of your fr!ends
happen!ng to be present should buy them !n, the cred!tors hav!ng
sold them of the!r own free-w!ll w!thout constra!nt, the estate of the
late Grandet !s honorably released.”

“That’s t-true; b-b-bus!ness !s b-bus!ness,” sa!d the cooper. “B-b-

but, st-st!ll, you know, !t !s d-d-d!ff!cult. I h-have n-no m-m-money
and n-no t-t-t!me.”

“Yes, but you need not undertake !t. I am qu!te ready to go to Par!s
(you may pay my expenses, they w!ll only be a tr!fle). I w!ll see the
cred!tors and talk w!th them and get an extens!on of t!me, and
everyth!ng can be arranged !f you w!ll add someth!ng to the assets
so as to buy up all t!tle to the debts.”

“We-we’ll see about th-that. I c-c-can’t and I w-w-won’t b!nd myself

w!thout—He who c-c-can’t, can’t; don’t you see?”

“That’s very true.”

“I’m all p-p-put ab-b-bout by what you’ve t-t-told me. Th!s !s the f-
f!rst t-t-t!me !n my l!fe I have b-been obl!ged to th-th-th!nk—”

“Yes, you are not a lawyer.”

“I’m only a p-p-poor w!ne-g-grower, and know n-noth!ng about wh-

what you have just t-told me; I m-m-must th-th!nk about !t.”
:
 “Very good,” sa!d the pres!dent, prepar!ng to resume h!s argument.

“Nephew!” sa!d the notary, !nterrupt!ng h!m !n a warn!ng tone.

“Well, what, uncle?” answered the pres!dent.

“Let Mons!eur Grandet expla!n h!s own !ntent!ons. The matter !n

quest!on !s of the f!rst !mportance. Our good fr!end ought to def!ne
h!s mean!ng clearly, and—”

A loud knock, wh!ch announced the arr!val of the des Grass!ns

fam!ly, succeeded by the!r entrance and salutat!ons, h!ndered
Cruchot from conclud!ng h!s sentence. The notary was glad of the
!nterrupt!on, for Grandet was beg!nn!ng to look susp!c!ously at h!m,
and the wen gave s!gns of a brew!ng storm. In the f!rst place, the
notary d!d not th!nk !t becom!ng !n a pres!dent of the C!v!l courts to
go to Par!s and man!pulate cred!tors and lend h!mself to an
underhand job wh!ch clashed w!th the laws of str!ct !ntegr!ty;
moreover, never hav!ng known old Grandet to express the sl!ghtest
des!re to pay anyth!ng, no matter what, he !nst!nct!vely feared to see
h!s nephew tak!ng part !n the affa!r. He therefore prof!ted by the
entrance of the des Grass!ns to take the nephew by the arm and lead
h!m !nto the embrasure of the w!ndow,—

“You have sa!d enough, nephew; you’ve shown enough devot!on.

Your des!re to w!n the g!rl bl!nds you. The dev!l! you mustn’t go at !t
tooth and na!l. Let me sa!l the sh!p now; you can haul on the braces.
Do you th!nk !t r!ght to comprom!se your d!gn!ty as a mag!strate !n
such a—”

He stopped, for he heard Mons!eur des Grass!ns say!ng to the old

cooper as they shook hands,—

“Grandet, we have heard of the fr!ghtful m!sfortunes wh!ch have just

:
 befallen your fam!ly,—the fa!lure of the house of Gu!llaume Grandet
and the death of your brother. We have come to express our gr!ef at
these sad events.”

“There !s but one sad event,” sa!d the notary, !nterrupt!ng the banker,
—“the death of Mons!eur Grandet, jun!or; and he would never have
k!lled h!mself had he thought !n t!me of apply!ng to h!s brother for
help. Our old fr!end, who !s honorable to h!s f!nger-na!ls, !ntends to
l!qu!date the debts of the Ma!son Grandet of Par!s. To save h!m the
worry of legal proceed!ngs, my nephew, the pres!dent, has just
offered to go to Par!s and negot!ate w!th the cred!tors for a
sat!sfactory settlement.”

These words, corroborated by Grandet’s att!tude as he stood s!lently

nurs!ng h!s ch!n, aston!shed the three des Grass!ns, who had been
le!surely d!scuss!ng the old man’s avar!ce as they came along, very
nearly accus!ng h!m of fratr!c!de.

“Ah! I was sure of !t,” cr!ed the banker, look!ng at h!s w!fe. “What d!d I
tell you just now, Madame des Grass!ns? Grandet !s honorable to the
backbone, and would never allow h!s name to rema!n under the
sl!ghtest cloud! Money w!thout honor !s a d!sease. There !s honor !n
the prov!nces! R!ght, very r!ght, Grandet. I’m an old sold!er, and I
can’t d!sgu!se my thoughts; I speak roughly. Thunder! !t !s subl!me!”

“Th-then s-s-subl!me th-th!ngs c-c-cost d-dear,” answered the

goodman, as the banker warmly wrung h!s hand.

“But th!s, my dear Grandet,—!f the pres!dent w!ll excuse me,—!s a

purely commerc!al matter, and needs a consummate bus!ness man.
Your agent must be some one fully acqua!nted w!th the markets,—
w!th d!sbursements, rebates, !nterest calculat!ons, and so forth. I am
go!ng to Par!s on bus!ness of my own, and I can take charge of—”
:
 “We’ll see about t-t-try!ng to m-m-manage !t b-b-between us, under
the p-p-pecul!ar c-c-c!rcumstances, b-b-but w!thout b-b-b!nd!ng
m-m-myself to anyth!ng th-that I c-c-could not do,” sa!d Grandet,
stutter!ng; “because, you see, mons!eur le pres!dent naturally
expects me to pay the expenses of h!s journey.”

The goodman d!d not stammer over the last words.

“Eh!” cr!ed Madame des Grass!ns, “why !t !s a pleasure to go to Par!s.

I would w!ll!ngly pay to go myself.”

She made a s!gn to her husband, as !f to encourage h!m !n cutt!ng

the enemy out of the comm!ss!on, coute que coute; then she
glanced !ron!cally at the two Cruchots, who looked chap-fallen.
Grandet se!zed the banker by a button and drew h!m !nto a corner of
the room.

“I have a great deal more conf!dence !n you than !n the pres!dent,” he

sa!d; “bes!des, I’ve other f!sh to fry,” he added, wr!ggl!ng h!s wen. “I
want to buy a few thousand francs !n the Funds wh!le they are at
e!ghty. They fall, I’m told, at the end of each month. You know all
about these th!ngs, don’t you?”

“Bless me! then, am I to !nvest enough to g!ve you a few thousand

francs a year?”

“That’s not much to beg!n w!th. Hush! I don’t want any one to know I
am go!ng to play that game. You can make the !nvestment by the end
of the month. Say noth!ng to the Cruchots; that’ll annoy them. If you
are really go!ng to Par!s, we w!ll see !f there !s anyth!ng to be done for
my poor nephew.”

“Well, !t’s all settled. I’ll start to-morrow by the ma!l-post,” sa!d des
Grass!ns aloud, “and I w!ll come and take your last d!rect!ons at—
:
 what hour w!ll su!t you?”

“F!ve o’clock, just before d!nner,” sa!d Grandet, rubb!ng h!s hands.

The two part!es stayed on for a short t!me. Des Grass!ns sa!d, after a
pause, str!k!ng Grandet on the shoulder,—

“It !s a good th!ng to have a relat!on l!ke h!m.”

“Yes, yes; w!thout mak!ng a show,” sa!d Grandet, “I am a g-good

relat!on. I loved my brother, and I w!ll prove !t, unless !t c-c-costs—”

“We must leave you, Grandet,” sa!d the banker, !nterrupt!ng h!m
fortunately before he got to the end of h!s sentence. “If I hurry my
departure, I must attend to some matters at once.”

“Very good, very good! I myself—!n c-consequence of what I t-told

you—I must ret!re to my own room and ‘d-d-del!berate,’ as Pres!dent
Cruchot says.”

“Plague take h!m! I am no longer Mons!eur de Bonfons,” thought the

mag!strate ruefully, h!s face assum!ng the express!on of a judge
bored by an argument.

The heads of the two fact!ons walked off together. Ne!ther gave any
further thought to the treachery Grandet had been gu!lty of !n the
morn!ng aga!nst the whole w!ne-grow!ng commun!ty; each tr!ed to
fathom what the other was th!nk!ng about the real !ntent!ons of the
w!ly old man !n th!s new affa!r, but !n va!n.

“W!ll you go w!th us to Madame Dorsonval’s?” sa!d des Grass!ns to

the notary.

“We w!ll go there later,” answered the pres!dent. “I have prom!sed to

say good-even!ng to Mademo!selle de Gr!beaucourt, and we w!ll go
:
 there f!rst, !f my uncle !s w!ll!ng.”

“Farewell for the present!” sa!d Madame des Grass!ns.

When the Cruchots were a few steps off, Adolphe remarked to h!s
father,—

“Are not they fum!ng, he!n?”

“Hold your tongue, my son!” sa!d h!s mother; “they m!ght hear you.
Bes!des, what you say !s not !n good taste,—law-school language.”

“Well, uncle,” cr!ed the pres!dent when he saw the des Grass!ns
d!sappear!ng, “I began by be!ng de Bonfons, and I have ended as
noth!ng but Cruchot.”

“I saw that that annoyed you; but the w!nd has set fa!r for the des
Grass!ns. What a fool you are, w!th all your cleverness! Let them sa!l
off on Grandet’s ‘We’ll see about !t,’ and keep yourself qu!et, young
man. Eugen!e w!ll none the less be your w!fe.”

In a few moments the news of Grandet’s magnan!mous resolve was

d!ssem!nated !n three houses at the same moment, and the whole
town began to talk of h!s fraternal devot!on. Every one forgave
Grandet for the sale made !n def!ance of the good fa!th pledged to
the commun!ty; they adm!red h!s sense of honor, and began to laud a
generos!ty of wh!ch they had never thought h!m capable. It !s part of
the French nature to grow enthus!ast!c, or angry, or fervent about
some meteor of the moment. Can !t be that collect!ve be!ngs,
nat!onal!t!es, peoples, are devo!d of memory?

When Pere Grandet had shut the door he called Nanon.

“Don’t let the dog loose, and don’t go to bed; we have work to do
together. At eleven o’clock Corno!ller w!ll be at the door w!th the
:
 char!ot from Fro!dfond. L!sten for h!m and prevent h!s knock!ng; tell
h!m to come !n softly. Pol!ce regulat!ons don’t allow nocturnal racket.
Bes!des, the whole ne!ghborhood need not know that I am start!ng
on a journey.”

So say!ng, Grandet returned to h!s pr!vate room, where Nanon heard

h!m mov!ng about, rummag!ng, and walk!ng to and fro, though w!th
much precaut!on, for he ev!dently d!d not w!sh to wake h!s w!fe and
daughter, and above all not to rouse the attent!on of h!s nephew,
whom he had begun to anathemat!ze when he saw a thread of l!ght
under h!s door. About the m!ddle of the n!ght Eugen!e, !ntent on her
cous!n, fanc!ed she heard a cry l!ke that of a dy!ng person. It must be
Charles, she thought; he was so pale, so full of despa!r when she had
seen h!m last,—could he have k!lled h!mself? She wrapped herself
qu!ckly !n a loose garment,—a sort of pel!sse w!th a hood,—and was
about to leave the room when a br!ght l!ght com!ng through the
ch!nks of her door made her th!nk of f!re. But she recovered herself
as she heard Nanon’s heavy steps and gruff vo!ce m!ngl!ng w!th the
snort!ng of several horses.

“Can my father be carry!ng off my cous!n?” she sa!d to herself,

open!ng her door w!th great precaut!on lest !t should creak, and yet
enough to let her see !nto the corr!dor.

Suddenly her eye encountered that of her father; and h!s glance,
vague and unnot!c!ng as !t was, terr!f!ed her. The goodman and
Nanon were yoked together by a stout st!ck, each end of wh!ch
rested on the!r shoulders; a stout rope was passed over !t, on wh!ch
was slung a small barrel or keg l!ke those Pere Grandet st!ll made !n
h!s bakehouse as an amusement for h!s le!sure hours.

“Holy V!rg!n, how heavy !t !s!” sa!d the vo!ce of Nanon.

“What a p!ty that !t !s only copper sous!” answered Grandet. “Take

:
 care you don’t knock over the candlest!ck.”

The scene was l!ghted by a s!ngle candle placed between two ra!ls of
the sta!rcase.

“Corno!ller,” sa!d Grandet to h!s keeper !n part!bus, “have you

brought your p!stols?”

“No, mons!eur. Mercy! what’s there to fear for your copper sous?”

“Oh! noth!ng,” sa!d Pere Grandet.

“Bes!des, we shall go fast,” added the man; “your farmers have

p!cked out the!r best horses.”

“Very good. You d!d not tell them where I was go!ng?”

“I d!dn’t know where.”

“Very good. Is the carr!age strong?”

“Strong? hear to that, now! Why, !t can carry three thousand we!ght.
How much does that old keg we!gh?”

“Goodness!” excla!med Nanon. “I ought to know! There’s pretty n!gh

e!ghteen hundred—”

“W!ll you hold your tongue, Nanon! You are to tell my w!fe I have
gone !nto the country. I shall be back to d!nner. Dr!ve fast, Corno!ller;
I must get to Angers before n!ne o’clock.”

The carr!age drove off. Nanon bolted the great door, let loose the
dog, and went off to bed w!th a bru!sed shoulder, no one !n the
ne!ghborhood suspect!ng e!ther the departure of Grandet or the
object of h!s journey. The precaut!ons of the old m!ser and h!s
ret!cence were never relaxed. No one had ever seen a penny !n that
:
 house, f!lled as !t was w!th gold. Hear!ng !n the morn!ng, through the
goss!p of the port, that exchange on gold had doubled !n pr!ce !n
consequence of certa!n m!l!tary preparat!ons undertaken at Nantes,
and that speculators had arr!ved at Angers to buy co!n, the old w!ne-
grower, by the s!mple process of borrow!ng horses from h!s farmers,
se!zed the chance of sell!ng h!s gold and of br!ng!ng back !n the form
of treasury notes the sum he !ntended to put !nto the Funds, hav!ng
swelled !t cons!derably by the exchange.

VIII
“My father has gone,” thought Eugen!e, who heard all that took place
from the head of the sta!rs. S!lence was restored !n the house, and
the d!stant rumbl!ng of the carr!age, ceas!ng by degrees, no longer
echoed through the sleep!ng town. At th!s moment Eugen!e heard !n
her heart, before the sound caught her ears, a cry wh!ch p!erced the
part!t!ons and came from her cous!n’s chamber. A l!ne of l!ght, th!n as
the blade of a sabre, shone through a ch!nk !n the door and fell
hor!zontally on the balusters of the rotten sta!rcase.

“He suffers!” she sa!d, spr!ng!ng up the sta!rs. A second moan

brought her to the land!ng near h!s room. The door was ajar, she
pushed !t open. Charles was sleep!ng; h!s head hung over the s!de of
the old armcha!r, and h!s hand, from wh!ch the pen had fallen, nearly
touched the floor. The oppressed breath!ng caused by the stra!ned
posture suddenly fr!ghtened Eugen!e, who entered the room hast!ly.

“He must be very t!red,” she sa!d to herself, glanc!ng at a dozen

letters ly!ng sealed upon the table. She read the!r addresses: “To
Messrs. Farry, Bre!lmann, & Co., carr!age-makers”; “To Mons!eur
Bu!sson, ta!lor,” etc.

“He has been settl!ng all h!s affa!rs, so as to leave France at once,”
:
 she thought. Her eyes fell upon two open letters. The words, “My
dear Annette,” at the head of one of them, bl!nded her for a moment.
Her heart beat fast, her feet were na!led to the floor.

“H!s dear Annette! He loves! he !s loved! No hope! What does he say

to her?”

These thoughts rushed through her head and heart. She saw the
words everywhere, even on the br!cks of the floor, !n letters of f!re.

“Res!gn h!m already? No, no! I w!ll not read the letter. I ought to go
away—What !f I do read !t?”

She looked at Charles, then she gently took h!s head and placed !t
aga!nst the back of the cha!r; he let her do so, l!ke a ch!ld wh!ch,
though asleep, knows !ts mother’s touch and rece!ves, w!thout
awak!ng, her k!sses and watchful care. L!ke a mother Eugen!e ra!sed
the droop!ng hand, and l!ke a mother she gently k!ssed the chestnut
ha!r—“Dear Annette!” a demon shr!eked the words !n her ear.

“I am do!ng wrong; but I must read !t, that letter,” she sa!d. She
turned away her head, for her noble sense of honor reproached her.
For the f!rst t!me !n her l!fe good and ev!l struggled together !n her
heart. Up to that moment she had never had to blush for any act!on.
Pass!on and cur!os!ty tr!umphed. As she read each sentence her
heart swelled more and more, and the keen glow wh!ch f!lled her
be!ng as she d!d so, only made the joys of f!rst love st!ll more
prec!ous.

My dear Annette,—Nothing could ever have separated us but the

great misfortune which has now overwhelmed me, and which no human
foresight could have prevented. My father has killed himself; his
fortune and mine are irretrievably lost. I am orphaned at an age
when, through the nature of my education, I am still a child; and
:
 yet I must lift myself as a man out of the abyss into which I am
plunged. I have just spent half the night in facing my position.
If I wish to leave France an honest man,—and there is no doubt of
that,—I have not a hundred francs of my own with which to try my
fate in the Indies or in America. Yes, my poor Anna, I must seek
my fortune in those deadly climates. Under those skies, they tell
me, I am sure to make it. As for remaining in Paris, I cannot do
so. Neither my nature nor my face are made to bear the affronts,
the neglect, the disdain shown to a ruined man, the son of a
bankrupt! Good God! think of owing two millions! I should be
killed in a duel the first week; therefore I shall not return
there. Your love—the most tender and devoted love which ever
ennobled the heart of man—cannot draw me back. Alas! my beloved,
I have no money with which to go to you, to give and receive a
last kiss from which I might derive some strength for my forlorn
enterprise.

“Poor Charles! I d!d well to read the letter. I have gold; I w!ll g!ve !t to
h!m,” thought Eugen!e.

She w!ped her eyes, and went on read!ng.

I have never thought of the miseries of poverty. If I have the

hundred louis required for the mere costs of the journey, I have
not a sou for an outfit. But no, I have not the hundred louis, no
even one louis. I don’t know that anything will be left after I
have paid my debts in Paris. If I have nothing, I shall go quietl
to Nantes and ship as a common sailor; and I will begin in the ne
world like other men who have started young without a sou and
brought back the wealth of the Indies. During this long day I hav
faced my future coolly. It seems more horrible for me than for
another, because I have been so petted by a mother who adored me,
so indulged by the kindest of fathers, so blessed by meeting, on
my entrance into life, with the love of an Anna! The flowers of
life are all I have ever known. Such happiness could not last.
Nevertheless, my dear Annette, I feel more courage than a careles
:
 young man is supposed to feel,—above all a young man used to the
caressing ways of the dearest woman in all Paris, cradled in
family joys, on whom all things smiled in his home, whose wishes
were a law to his father—oh, my father! Annette, he is dead!

Well, I have thought over my position, and yours as well. I have

grown old in twenty-four hours. Dear Anna, if in order to keep me
with you in Paris you were to sacrifice your luxury, your dress,
your opera-box, we should even then not have enough for the
expenses of my extravagant ways of living. Besides, I would never
accept such sacrifices. No, we must part now and forever—

“He g!ves her up! Blessed V!rg!n! What happ!ness!”

Eugen!e qu!vered w!th joy. Charles made a movement, and a ch!ll of

terror ran through her. Fortunately, he d!d not wake, and she
resumed her read!ng.

When shall I return? I do not know. The climate of the West Indie
ages a European, so they say; especially a European who works
hard. Let us think what may happen ten years hence. In ten years
your daughter will be eighteen; she will be your companion, your
spy. To you society will be cruel, and your daughter perhaps more
cruel still. We have seen cases of the harsh social judgment and
ingratitude of daughters; let us take warning by them. Keep in th
depths of your soul, as I shall in mine, the memory of four years
of happiness, and be faithful, if you can, to the memory of your
poor friend. I cannot exact such faithfulness, because, do you
see, dear Annette, I must conform to the exigencies of my new
life; I must take a commonplace view of them and do the best I
can. Therefore I must think of marriage, which becomes one of the
necessities of my future existence; and I will admit to you that
have found, here in Saumur, in my uncle’s house, a cousin whose
face, manners, mind, and heart would please you, and who, besides
seems to me—
:
 “He must have been very weary to have ceased wr!t!ng to her,”
thought Eugen!e, as she gazed at the letter wh!ch stopped abruptly
!n the m!ddle of the last sentence.

Already she defended h!m. How was !t poss!ble that an !nnocent g!rl
should perce!ve the cold-heartedness ev!nced by th!s letter? To
young g!rls rel!g!ously brought up, whose m!nds are !gnorant and
pure, all !s love from the moment they set the!r feet w!th!n the
enchanted reg!ons of that pass!on. They walk there bathed !n a
celest!al l!ght shed from the!r own souls, wh!ch reflects !ts rays upon
the!r lover; they color all w!th the flame of the!r own emot!on and
attr!bute to h!m the!r h!ghest thoughts. A woman’s errors come
almost always from her bel!ef !n good or her conf!dence !n truth. In
Eugen!e’s s!mple heart the words, “My dear Annette, my loved one,”
echoed l!ke the sweetest language of love; they caressed her soul as,
!n ch!ldhood, the d!v!ne notes of the Ven!te adoremus, repeated by
the organ, caressed her ear. Moreover, the tears wh!ch st!ll l!ngered
on the young man’s lashes gave s!gns of that nob!l!ty of heart by
wh!ch young g!rls are r!ghtly won. How could she know that Charles,
though he loved h!s father and mourned h!m truly, was moved far
more by paternal goodness than by the goodness of h!s own heart?
Mons!eur and Madame Gu!llaume Grandet, by grat!fy!ng every fancy
of the!r son, and lav!sh!ng upon h!m the pleasures of a large fortune,
had kept h!m from mak!ng the horr!ble calculat!ons of wh!ch so many
sons !n Par!s become more or less gu!lty when, face to face w!th the
enjoyments of the world, they form des!res and conce!ve schemes
wh!ch they see w!th b!tterness must be put off or la!d as!de dur!ng
the l!fet!me of the!r parents. The l!beral!ty of the father !n th!s
!nstance had shed !nto the heart of the son a real love, !n wh!ch there
was no afterthought of self-!nterest.

Nevertheless, Charles was a true ch!ld of Par!s, taught by the

customs of soc!ety and by Annette herself to calculate everyth!ng;
:
 already an old man under the mask of youth. He had gone through
the fr!ghtful educat!on of soc!al l!fe, of that world where !n one
even!ng more cr!mes are comm!tted !n thought and speech than
just!ce ever pun!shes at the ass!zes; where jests and clever say!ngs
assass!nate the noblest !deas; where no one !s counted strong
unless h!s m!nd sees clear: and to see clear !n that world !s to bel!eve
!n noth!ng, ne!ther !n feel!ngs, nor !n men, nor even !n events,—for
events are fals!f!ed. There, to “see clear” we must we!gh a fr!end’s
purse da!ly, learn how to keep ourselves adro!tly on the top of the
wave, caut!ously adm!re noth!ng, ne!ther works of art nor glor!ous
act!ons, and remember that self-!nterest !s the ma!nspr!ng of all
th!ngs here below. After comm!tt!ng many foll!es, the great lady—the
beaut!ful Annette—compelled Charles to th!nk ser!ously; w!th her
perfumed hand among h!s curls, she talked to h!m of h!s future
pos!t!on; as she rearranged h!s locks, she taught h!m lessons of
worldly prudence; she made h!m effem!nate and mater!al!zed h!m,—a
double corrupt!on, but a del!cate and elegant corrupt!on, !n the best
taste.

“You are very fool!sh, Charles,” she would say to h!m. “I shall have a
great deal of trouble !n teach!ng you to understand the world. You
behaved extremely !ll to Mons!eur des Lupeaulx. I know very well he
!s not an honorable man; but wa!t t!ll he !s no longer !n power, then
you may desp!se h!m as much as you l!ke. Do you know what
Madame Campan used to tell us?—‘My dears, as long as a man !s a
m!n!ster, adore h!m; when he falls, help to drag h!m !n the gutter.
Powerful, he !s a sort of god; fallen, he !s lower than Marat !n the
sewer, because he !s l!v!ng, and Marat !s dead. L!fe !s a ser!es of
comb!nat!ons, and you must study them and understand them !f you
want to keep yourselves always !n good pos!t!on.’”

Charles was too much a man of the world, h!s parents had made h!m
too happy, he had rece!ved too much adulat!on !n soc!ety, to be
:
 possessed of noble sent!ments. The gra!n of gold dropped by h!s
mother !nto h!s heart was beaten th!n !n the sm!thy of Par!s!an
soc!ety; he had spread !t superf!c!ally, and !t was worn away by the
fr!ct!on of l!fe. Charles was only twenty-one years old. At that age the
freshness of youth seems !nseparable from candor and s!ncer!ty of
soul. The vo!ce, the glance, the face !tself, seem !n harmony w!th the
feel!ngs; and thus !t happens that the sternest judge, the most
scept!cal lawyer, the least comply!ng of usurers, always hes!tate to
adm!t decrep!tude of heart or the corrupt!on of worldly calculat!on
wh!le the eyes are st!ll bathed !n pur!ty and no wr!nkles seam the
brow. Charles, so far, had had no occas!on to apply the max!ms of
Par!s!an moral!ty; up to th!s t!me he was st!ll endowed w!th the
beauty of !nexper!ence. And yet, unknown to h!mself, he had been
!noculated w!th self!shness. The germs of Par!s!an pol!t!cal economy,
latent !n h!s heart, would assuredly burst forth, sooner or later,
whenever the careless spectator became an actor !n the drama of
real l!fe.

Nearly all young g!rls succumb to the tender prom!ses such an

outward appearance seems to offer: even !f Eugen!e had been as
prudent and observ!ng as prov!nc!al g!rls are often found to be, she
was not l!kely to d!strust her cous!n when h!s manners, words, and
act!ons were st!ll !n un!son w!th the asp!rat!ons of a youthful heart. A
mere chance—a fatal chance—threw !n her way the last effus!ons of
real feel!ng wh!ch st!rred the young man’s soul; she heard as !t were
the last breath!ngs of h!s consc!ence. She la!d down the letter—to
her so full of love—and began sm!l!ngly to watch her sleep!ng cous!n;
the fresh !llus!ons of l!fe were st!ll, for her at least, upon h!s face; she
vowed to herself to love h!m always. Then she cast her eyes on the
other letter, w!thout attach!ng much !mportance to th!s second
!nd!scret!on; and though she read !t, !t was only to obta!n new proofs
of the noble qual!t!es wh!ch, l!ke all women, she attr!buted to the man
:
 her heart had chosen.

My dear Alphonse,—When you receive this letter I shall be without

friends; but let me assure you that while I doubt the friendship
of the world, I have never doubted yours. I beg you therefore to
settle all my affairs, and I trust to you to get as much as you
can out of my possessions. By this time you know my situation. I
have nothing left, and I intend to go at once to the Indies. I
have just written to all the people to whom I think I owe money,
and you will find enclosed a list of their names, as correct as I
can make it from memory. My books, my furniture, my pictures, my
horses, etc., ought, I think, to pay my debts. I do not wish to
keep anything, except, perhaps, a few baubles which might serve a
the beginning of an outfit for my enterprise. My dear Alphonse, I
will send you a proper power of attorney under which you can make
these sales. Send me all my weapons. Keep Briton for yourself;
nobody would pay the value of that noble beast, and I would rathe
give him to you—like a mourning-ring bequeathed by a dying man to
his executor. Farry, Breilmann, & Co. built me a very comfortable
travelling-carriage, which they have not yet delivered; persuade
them to keep it and not ask for any payment on it. If they refuse
do what you can in the matter, and avoid everything that might
seem dishonorable in me under my present circumstances. I owe the
British Islander six louis, which I lost at cards; don’t fail to
pay him—

“Dear cous!n!” wh!spered Eugen!e, throw!ng down the letter and

runn!ng softly back to her room, carry!ng one of the l!ghted candles.
A thr!ll of pleasure passed over her as she opened the drawer of an
old oak cab!net, a f!ne spec!men of the per!od called the
Rena!ssance, on wh!ch could st!ll be seen, partly effaced, the famous
royal salamander. She took from the drawer a large purse of red
velvet w!th gold tassels, edged w!th a tarn!shed fr!nge of gold w!re,—
a rel!c !nher!ted from her grandmother. She we!ghed !t proudly !n her
hand, and began w!th del!ght to count over the forgotten !tems of her
:
 l!ttle hoard. F!rst she took out twenty portuga!ses, st!ll new, struck !n
the re!gn of John V., 1725, worth by exchange, as her father told her,
f!ve l!sbonn!nes, or a hundred and s!xty-e!ght francs, s!xty-four
cent!mes each; the!r convent!onal value, however, was a hundred and
e!ghty francs ap!ece, on account of the rar!ty and beauty of the
co!ns, wh!ch shone l!ke l!ttle suns. Item, f!ve genov!nes, or f!ve
hundred-franc p!eces of Genoa; another very rare co!n worth e!ghty-
seven francs on exchange, but a hundred francs to collectors. These
had formerly belonged to old Mons!eur de la Bertell!ere. Item, three
gold quadruples, Span!sh, of Ph!l!p V., struck !n 1729, g!ven to her
one by one by Madame Gent!llet, who never fa!led to say, us!ng the
same words, when she made the g!ft, “Th!s dear l!ttle canary, th!s
l!ttle yellow-boy, !s worth n!nety-e!ght francs! Keep !t, my pretty one,
!t w!ll be the flower of your treasure.” Item (that wh!ch her father
valued most of all, the gold of these co!ns be!ng twenty-three carats
and a fract!on), a hundred Dutch ducats, made !n the year 1756, and
worth th!rteen francs ap!ece. Item, a great cur!os!ty, a spec!es of
medal prec!ous to the soul of m!sers,—three rupees w!th the s!gn of
the Scales, and f!ve rupees w!th the s!gn of the V!rg!n, all !n pure gold
of twenty-four carats; the magn!f!cent money of the Great Mogul,
each of wh!ch was worth by mere we!ght th!rty-seven francs, forty
cent!mes, but at least f!fty francs to those conno!sseurs who love to
handle gold. Item, the napoleon of forty francs rece!ved the day
before, wh!ch she had forgotten to put away !n the velvet purse. Th!s
treasure was all !n v!rg!n co!ns, true works of art, wh!ch Grandet from
t!me to t!me !nqu!red after and asked to see, po!nt!ng out to h!s
daughter the!r !ntr!ns!c mer!ts,—such as the beauty of the m!lled
edge, the clearness of the flat surface, the r!chness of the letter!ng,
whose angles were not yet rubbed off.

Eugen!e gave no thought to these rar!t!es, nor to her father’s man!a

for them, nor to the danger she !ncurred !n depr!v!ng herself of a
:
 treasure so dear to h!m; no, she thought only of her cous!n, and soon
made out, after a few m!stakes of calculat!on, that she possessed
about f!ve thousand e!ght hundred francs !n actual value, wh!ch
m!ght be sold for the!r add!t!onal value to collectors for nearly s!x
thousand. She looked at her wealth and clapped her hands l!ke a
happy ch!ld forced to spend !ts overflow!ng joy !n artless movements
of the body. Father and daughter had each counted up the!r fortune
th!s n!ght,—he, to sell h!s gold; Eugen!e to fl!ng hers !nto the ocean of
affect!on. She put the p!eces back !nto the old purse, took !t !n her
hand, and ran upsta!rs w!thout hes!tat!on. The secret m!sery of her
cous!n made her forget the hour and convent!onal propr!ety; she was
strong !n her consc!ence, !n her devot!on, !n her happ!ness.

As she stood upon the threshold of the door, hold!ng the candle !n
one hand and the purse !n the other, Charles woke, caught s!ght of
her, and rema!ned speechless w!th surpr!se. Eugen!e came forward,
put the candle on the table, and sa!d !n a qu!ver!ng vo!ce:

“My cous!n, I must beg pardon for a wrong I have done you; but God
w!ll pardon me—!f you—w!ll help me to w!pe !t out.”

“What !s !t?” asked Charles, rubb!ng h!s eyes.

“I have read those letters.”

Charles colored.

“How d!d !t happen?” she cont!nued; “how came I here? Truly, I do

not know. I am tempted not to regret too much that I have read them;
they have made me know your heart, your soul, and—”

“And what?” asked Charles.

“Your plans, your need of a sum—”

:
 “My dear cous!n—”

“Hush, hush! my cous!n, not so loud; we must not wake others. See,”
she sa!d, open!ng her purse, “here are the sav!ngs of a poor g!rl who
wants noth!ng. Charles, accept them! Th!s morn!ng I was !gnorant of
the value of money; you have taught !t to me. It !s but a means, after
all. A cous!n !s almost a brother; you can surely borrow the purse of
your s!ster.”

Eugen!e, as much a woman as a young g!rl, never dreamed of refusal;

but her cous!n rema!ned s!lent.

“Oh! you w!ll not refuse?” cr!ed Eugen!e, the beat!ngs of whose heart
could be heard !n the deep s!lence.

Her cous!n’s hes!tat!on mort!f!ed her; but the sore need of h!s
pos!t!on came clearer st!ll to her m!nd, and she knelt down.

“I w!ll never r!se t!ll you have taken that gold!” she sa!d. “My cous!n, I
!mplore you, answer me! let me know !f you respect me, !f you are
generous, !f—”

As he heard th!s cry of noble d!stress the young man’s tears fell upon
h!s cous!n’s hands, wh!ch he had caught !n h!s own to keep her from
kneel!ng. As the warm tears touched her, Eugen!e sprang to the
purse and poured !ts contents upon the table.

“Ah! yes, yes, you consent?” she sa!d, weep!ng w!th joy. “Fear
noth!ng, my cous!n, you w!ll be r!ch. Th!s gold w!ll br!ng you
happ!ness; some day you shall br!ng !t back to me,—are we not
partners? I w!ll obey all cond!t!ons. But you should not attach such
value to the g!ft.”

Charles was at last able to express h!s feel!ngs.

:
 “Yes, Eugen!e; my soul would be small !ndeed !f I d!d not accept. And
yet,—g!ft for g!ft, conf!dence for conf!dence.”

“What do you mean?” she sa!d, fr!ghtened.

“L!sten, dear cous!n; I have here—” He !nterrupted h!mself to po!nt

out a square box covered w!th an outer case of leather wh!ch was on
the drawers. “There,” he cont!nued, “!s someth!ng as prec!ous to me
as l!fe !tself. Th!s box was a present from my mother. All day I have
been th!nk!ng that !f she could r!se from her grave, she would herself
sell the gold wh!ch her love for me lav!shed on th!s dress!ng-case;
but were I to do so, the act would seem to me a sacr!lege.” Eugen!e
pressed h!s hand as she heard these last words. “No,” he added,
after a sl!ght pause, dur!ng wh!ch a l!qu!d glance of tenderness
passed between them, “no, I w!ll ne!ther sell !t nor r!sk !ts safety on
my journey. Dear Eugen!e, you shall be !ts guard!an. Never d!d fr!end
comm!t anyth!ng more sacred to another. Let me show !t to you.”

He went to the box, took !t from !ts outer cover!ngs, opened !t, and
showed h!s del!ghted cous!n a dress!ng-case where the r!ch
workmansh!p gave to the gold ornaments a value far above the!r
we!ght.

“What you adm!re there !s noth!ng,” he sa!d, push!ng a secret spr!ng

wh!ch opened a h!dden drawer. “Here !s someth!ng wh!ch to me !s
worth the whole world.” He drew out two portra!ts, masterp!eces of
Madame M!rbel, r!chly set w!th pearls.

“Oh, how beaut!ful! Is !t the lady to whom you wrote that—”

“No,” he sa!d, sm!l!ng; “th!s !s my mother, and here !s my father, your

aunt and uncle. Eugen!e, I beg you on my knees, keep my treasure
safely. If I d!e and your l!ttle fortune !s lost, th!s gold and these pearls
w!ll repay you. To you alone could I leave these portra!ts; you are
:
 worthy to keep them. But destroy them at last, so that they may pass
!nto no other hands.” Eugen!e was s!lent. “Ah, yes, say yes! You
consent?” he added w!th w!nn!ng grace.

Hear!ng the very words she had just used to her cous!n now
addressed to herself, she turned upon h!m a look of love, her f!rst
look of lov!ng womanhood,—a glance !n wh!ch there !s nearly as
much of coquetry as of !nmost depth. He took her hand and k!ssed
!t.

“Angel of pur!ty! between us two money !s noth!ng, never can be

anyth!ng. Feel!ng, sent!ment, must be all henceforth.”

“You are l!ke your mother,—was her vo!ce as soft as yours?”

“Oh! much softer—”

“Yes, for you,” she sa!d, dropp!ng her eyel!ds. “Come, Charles, go to
bed; I w!sh !t; you must be t!red. Good-n!ght.” She gently d!sengaged
her hand from those of her cous!n, who followed her to her room,
l!ght!ng the way. When they were both upon the threshold,—

“Ah!” he sa!d, “why am I ru!ned?”

“What matter?—my father !s r!ch; I th!nk so,” she answered.

“Poor ch!ld!” sa!d Charles, mak!ng a step !nto her room and lean!ng
h!s back aga!nst the wall, “!f that were so, he would never have let my
father d!e; he would not let you l!ve !n th!s poor way; he would l!ve
otherw!se h!mself.”

“But he owns Fro!dfond.”

“What !s Fro!dfond worth?”

:
 “I don’t know; but he has Noyers.”

“Noth!ng but a poor farm!”

“He has v!neyards and f!elds.”

“Mere noth!ng,” sa!d Charles d!sda!nfully. “If your father had only
twenty-four thousand francs a year do you suppose you would l!ve !n
th!s cold, barren room?” he added, mak!ng a step !n advance. “Ah!
there you w!ll keep my treasures,” he sa!d, glanc!ng at the old
cab!net, as !f to h!de h!s thoughts.

“Go and sleep,” she sa!d, h!nder!ng h!s entrance !nto the d!sordered
room.

Charles stepped back, and they b!d each other good-n!ght w!th a
mutual sm!le.

Both fell asleep !n the same dream; and from that moment the youth
began to wear roses w!th h!s mourn!ng. The next day, before
breakfast, Madame Grandet found her daughter !n the garden !n
company w!th Charles. The young man was st!ll sad, as became a
poor fellow who, plunged !n m!sfortune, measures the depths of the
abyss !nto wh!ch he has fallen, and sees the terr!ble burden of h!s
whole future l!fe.

“My father w!ll not be home t!ll d!nner-t!me,” sa!d Eugen!e, perce!v!ng
the anx!ous look on her mother’s face.

It was easy to trace !n the face and manners of the young g!rl and !n
the s!ngular sweetness of her vo!ce a un!son of thought between her
and her cous!n. The!r souls had espoused each other, perhaps
before they even felt the force of the feel!ngs wh!ch bound them
together. Charles spent the morn!ng !n the hall, and h!s sadness was
:
 respected. Each of the three women had occupat!ons of her own.
Grandet had left all h!s affa!rs unattended to, and a number of
persons came on bus!ness,—the plumber, the mason, the slater, the
carpenter, the d!ggers, the dressers, the farmers; some to dr!ve a
barga!n about repa!rs, others to pay the!r rent or to be pa!d
themselves for serv!ces. Madame Grandet and Eugen!e were obl!ged
to go and come and l!sten to the !nterm!nable talk of all these
workmen and country folk. Nanon put away !n her k!tchen the
produce wh!ch they brought as tr!bute. She always wa!ted for her
master’s orders before she knew what port!on was to be used !n the
house and what was to be sold !n the market. It was the goodman’s
custom, l!ke that of a great many country gentlemen, to dr!nk h!s bad
w!ne and eat h!s spo!led fru!t.

Towards f!ve !n the afternoon Grandet returned from Angers, hav!ng

made fourteen thousand francs by the exchange on h!s gold,
br!ng!ng home !n h!s wallet good treasury-notes wh!ch bore !nterest
unt!l the day he should !nvest them !n the Funds. He had left
Corno!ller at Angers to look after the horses, wh!ch were well-n!gh
foundered, w!th orders to br!ng them home slowly after they were
rested.

“I have got back from Angers, w!fe,” he sa!d; “I am hungry.”

Nanon called out to h!m from the k!tchen: “Haven’t you eaten
anyth!ng s!nce yesterday?”

“Noth!ng,” answered the old man.

Nanon brought !n the soup. Des Grass!ns came to take h!s cl!ent’s
orders just as the fam!ly sat down to d!nner. Grandet had not even
observed h!s nephew.

“Go on eat!ng, Grandet,” sa!d the banker; “we can talk. Do you know
:
 what gold !s worth !n Angers? They have come from Nantes after !t? I
shall send some of ours.”

“Don’t send any,” sa!d Grandet; “they have got enough. We are such
old fr!ends, I ought to save you from such a loss of t!me.”

“But gold !s worth th!rteen francs f!fty cent!mes.”

“Say was worth—”

“Where the dev!l have they got any?”

“I went to Angers last n!ght,” answered Grandet !n a low vo!ce.

The banker shook w!th surpr!se. Then a wh!spered conversat!on

began between the two, dur!ng wh!ch Grandet and des Grass!ns
frequently looked at Charles. Presently des Grass!ns gave a start of
aston!shment; probably Grandet was then !nstruct!ng h!m to !nvest
the sum wh!ch was to g!ve h!m a hundred thousand francs a year !n
the Funds.

“Mons!eur Grandet,” sa!d the banker to Charles, “I am start!ng for

Par!s; !f you have any comm!ss!ons—”

“None, mons!eur, I thank you,” answered Charles.

“Thank h!m better than that, nephew. Mons!eur !s go!ng to settle the
affa!rs of the house of Gu!llaume Grandet.”

“Is there any hope?” sa!d Charles eagerly.

“What!” excla!med h!s uncle, w!th well-acted pr!de, “are you not my
nephew? Your honor !s ours. Is not your name Grandet?”

Charles rose, se!zed Pere Grandet, k!ssed h!m, turned pale, and left
the room. Eugen!e looked at her father w!th adm!rat!on.
:
 “Well, good-by, des Grass!ns; !t !s all !n your hands. Decoy those
people as best you can; lead ‘em by the nose.”

The two d!plomat!sts shook hands. The old cooper accompan!ed the
banker to the front door. Then, after clos!ng !t, he came back and
plunged !nto h!s armcha!r, say!ng to Nanon,—

“Get me some black-currant rataf!a.”

Too exc!ted, however, to rema!n long !n one place, he got up, looked
at the portra!t of Mons!eur de la Bertell!ere, and began to s!ng, do!ng
what Nanon called h!s danc!ng steps,—

“Dans les gardes francaises

J’avais un bon papa.”

Nanon, Madame Grandet, and Eugen!e looked at each other !n

s!lence. The h!lar!ty of the master always fr!ghtened them when !t
reached !ts cl!max. The even!ng was soon over. Pere Grandet chose
to go to bed early, and when he went to bed, everybody else was
expected to go too; l!ke as when Augustus drank, Poland was drunk.
On th!s occas!on Nanon, Charles, and Eugen!e were not less t!red
than the master. As for Madame Grandet, she slept, ate, drank, and
walked accord!ng to the w!ll of her husband. However, dur!ng the two
hours consecrated to d!gest!on, the cooper, more facet!ous than he
had ever been !n h!s l!fe, uttered a number of h!s own part!cular
apothegms,—a s!ngle one of wh!ch w!ll g!ve the measure of h!s m!nd.
When he had drunk h!s rataf!a, he looked at h!s glass and sa!d,—

“You have no sooner put your l!ps to a glass than !t !s empty! Such !s
l!fe. You can’t have and hold. Gold won’t c!rculate and stay !n your
purse. If !t were not for that, l!fe would be too f!ne.”
:
 He was jov!al and benevolent. When Nanon came w!th her sp!nn!ng-
wheel, “You must be t!red,” he sa!d; “put away your hemp.”

“Ah, bah! then I shall get sleepy,” she answered.

“Poor Nanon! W!ll you have some rataf!a?”

“I won’t refuse a good offer; madame makes !t a deal better than the
apothecar!es. What they sell !s all drugs.”

“They put too much sugar,” sa!d the master; “you can’t taste
anyth!ng else.”

IX
The follow!ng day the fam!ly, meet!ng at e!ght o’clock for the early
breakfast, made a p!cture of genu!ne domest!c !nt!macy. Gr!ef had
drawn Madame Grandet, Eugen!e, and Charles en rapport; even
Nanon sympath!zed, w!thout know!ng why. The four now made one
fam!ly. As to the old man, h!s sat!sf!ed avar!ce and the certa!nty of
soon gett!ng r!d of the dandy w!thout hav!ng to pay more than h!s
journey to Nantes, made h!m nearly !nd!fferent to h!s presence !n the
house. He left the two ch!ldren, as he called Charles and Eugen!e,
free to conduct themselves as they pleased, under the eye of
Madame Grandet, !n whom he had !mpl!c!t conf!dence as to all that
concerned publ!c and rel!g!ous moral!ty. He bus!ed h!mself !n
stra!ghten!ng the boundar!es of h!s f!elds and d!tches along the h!gh-
road, !n h!s poplar-plantat!ons bes!de the Lo!re, !n the w!nter work of
h!s v!neyards, and at Fro!dfond. All these th!ngs occup!ed h!s whole
t!me.

For Eugen!e the spr!ngt!me of love had come. S!nce the scene at
n!ght when she gave her l!ttle treasure to her cous!n, her heart had
followed the treasure. Confederates !n the same secret, they looked
:
 at each other w!th a mutual !ntell!gence wh!ch sank to the depth of
the!r consc!ousness, g!v!ng a closer commun!on, a more !nt!mate
relat!on to the!r feel!ngs, and putt!ng them, so to speak, beyond the
pale of ord!nary l!fe. D!d not the!r near relat!onsh!p warrant the
gentleness !n the!r tones, the tenderness !n the!r glances? Eugen!e
took del!ght !n lull!ng her cous!n’s pa!n w!th the pretty ch!ld!sh joys of
a new-born love. Are there no sweet s!m!l!tudes between the b!rth of
love and the b!rth of l!fe? Do we not rock the babe w!th gentle songs
and softest glances? Do we not tell !t marvellous tales of the golden
future? Hope herself, does she not spread her rad!ant w!ngs above
!ts head? Does !t not shed, w!th !nfant f!ckleness, !ts tears of sorrow
and !ts tears of joy? Does !t not fret for tr!fles, cry for the pretty
pebbles w!th wh!ch to bu!ld !ts sh!ft!ng palaces, for the flowers
forgotten as soon as plucked? Is !t not eager to grasp the com!ng
t!me, to spr!ng forward !nto l!fe? Love !s our second transformat!on.
Ch!ldhood and love were one and the same th!ng to Eugen!e and to
Charles; !t was a f!rst pass!on, w!th all !ts ch!ld-l!ke play,—the more
caress!ng to the!r hearts because they now were wrapped !n
sadness. Struggl!ng at b!rth aga!nst the gloom of mourn!ng, the!r love
was only the more !n harmony w!th the prov!nc!al pla!nness of that
gray and ru!ned house. As they exchanged a few words bes!de the
well !n the s!lent court, or l!ngered !n the garden for the sunset hour,
s!tt!ng on a mossy seat say!ng to each other the !nf!n!te noth!ngs of
love, or mused !n the s!lent calm wh!ch re!gned between the house
and the ramparts l!ke that beneath the arches of a church, Charles
comprehended the sanct!ty of love; for h!s great lady, h!s dear
Annette, had taught h!m only !ts stormy troubles. At th!s moment he
left the worldly pass!on, coquett!sh, va!n, and showy as !t was, and
turned to the true, pure love. He loved even the house, whose
customs no longer seemed to h!m r!d!culous. He got up early !n the
morn!ngs that he m!ght talk w!th Eugen!e for a moment before her
father came to dole out the prov!s!ons; when the steps of the old
:
 man sounded on the sta!rcase he escaped !nto the garden. The small
cr!m!nal!ty of th!s morn!ng tete-a-tete wh!ch Nanon pretended not to
see, gave to the!r !nnocent love the l!vely charm of a forb!dden joy.

After breakfast, when Grandet had gone to h!s f!elds and h!s other
occupat!ons, Charles rema!ned w!th the mother and daughter,
f!nd!ng an unknown pleasure !n hold!ng the!r ske!ns, !n watch!ng
them at work, !n l!sten!ng to the!r qu!et prattle. The s!mpl!c!ty of th!s
half-monast!c l!fe, wh!ch revealed to h!m the beauty of these souls,
unknown and unknow!ng of the world, touched h!m keenly. He had
bel!eved such morals !mposs!ble !n France, and adm!tted the!r
ex!stence nowhere but !n Germany; even so, they seemed to h!m
fabulous, only real !n the novels of Auguste Lafonta!ne. Soon Eugen!e
became to h!m the Margaret of Goethe—before her fall. Day by day
h!s words, h!s looks enraptured the poor g!rl, who y!elded herself up
w!th del!c!ous non-res!stance to the current of love; she caught her
happ!ness as a sw!mmer se!zes the overhang!ng branch of a w!llow
to draw h!mself from the r!ver and l!e at rest upon !ts shore. D!d no
dread of a com!ng absence sadden the happy hours of those fleet!ng
days? Da!ly some l!ttle c!rcumstance rem!nded them of the part!ng
that was at hand.

Three days after the departure of des Grass!ns, Grandet took h!s
nephew to the C!v!l courts, w!th the solemn!ty wh!ch country people
attach to all legal acts, that he m!ght s!gn a deed surrender!ng h!s
r!ghts !n h!s father’s estate. Terr!ble renunc!at!on! spec!es of
domest!c apostasy! Charles also went before Ma!tre Cruchot to make
two powers of attorney,—one for des Grass!ns, the other for the
fr!end whom he had charged w!th the sale of h!s belong!ngs. After
that he attended to all the formal!t!es necessary to obta!n a passport
for fore!gn countr!es; and f!nally, when he rece!ved h!s s!mple
mourn!ng clothes from Par!s, he sent for the ta!lor of Saumur and
sold to h!m h!s useless wardrobe. Th!s last act pleased Grandet
:
 exceed!ngly.

“Ah! now you look l!ke a man prepared to embark and make your
fortune,” he sa!d, when Charles appeared !n a surtout of pla!n black
cloth. “Good! very good!”

“I hope you w!ll bel!eve, mons!eur,” answered h!s nephew, “that I shall
always try to conform to my s!tuat!on.”

“What’s that?” sa!d h!s uncle, h!s eyes l!ght!ng up at a handful of gold
wh!ch Charles was carry!ng.

“Mons!eur, I have collected all my buttons and r!ngs and other

superflu!t!es wh!ch may have some value; but not know!ng any one !n
Saumur, I wanted to ask you to—”

“To buy them?” sa!d Grandet, !nterrupt!ng h!m.

“No, uncle; only to tell me of an honest man who—”

“G!ve me those th!ngs, I w!ll go upsta!rs and est!mate the!r value; I w!ll
come back and tell you what !t !s to a fract!on. Jeweller’s gold,”
exam!n!ng a long cha!n, “e!ghteen or n!neteen carats.”

The goodman held out h!s huge hand and rece!ved the mass of gold,
wh!ch he carr!ed away.

“Cous!n,” sa!d Grandet, “may I offer you these two buttons? They can
fasten r!bbons round your wr!sts; that sort of bracelet !s much the
fash!on just now.”

“I accept w!thout hes!tat!on,” she answered, g!v!ng h!m an

understand!ng look.

“Aunt, here !s my mother’s th!mble; I have always kept !t carefully !n

:
 my dress!ng-case,” sa!d Charles, present!ng a pretty gold th!mble to
Madame Grandet, who for many years had longed for one.

“I cannot thank you; no words are poss!ble, my nephew,” sa!d the

poor mother, whose eyes f!lled w!th tears. “N!ght and morn!ng !n my
prayers I shall add one for you, the most earnest of all—for those who
travel. If I d!e, Eugen!e w!ll keep th!s treasure for you.”

“They are worth n!ne hundred and e!ghty-n!ne francs, seventy-f!ve

cent!mes,” sa!d Grandet, open!ng the door. “To save you the pa!n of
sell!ng them, I w!ll advance the money—!n l!vres.”

The word l!vres on the l!ttoral of the Lo!re s!gn!f!es that crown pr!ces
of s!x l!vres are to be accepted as s!x francs w!thout deduct!on.

“I dared not propose !t to you,” answered Charles; “but !t was most

repugnant to me to sell my jewels to some second-hand dealer !n
your own town. People should wash the!r d!rty l!nen at home, as
Napoleon sa!d. I thank you for your k!ndness.”

Grandet scratched h!s ear, and there was a moment’s s!lence.

“My dear uncle,” resumed Charles, look!ng at h!m w!th an uneasy a!r,
as !f he feared to wound h!s feel!ngs, “my aunt and cous!n have been
k!nd enough to accept a tr!fl!ng remembrance of me. W!ll you allow
me to g!ve you these sleeve-buttons, wh!ch are useless to me now?
They w!ll rem!nd you of a poor fellow who, far away, w!ll always th!nk
of those who are henceforth all h!s fam!ly.”

“My lad, my lad, you mustn’t rob yourself th!s way! Let me see, w!fe,
what have you got?” he added, turn!ng eagerly to her. “Ah! a gold
th!mble. And you, l!ttle g!rl? What! d!amond buttons? Yes, I’ll accept
your present, nephew,” he answered, shak!ng Charles by the hand.
“But—you must let me—pay—your—yes, your passage to the Ind!es.
:
 Yes, I w!sh to pay your passage because—d’ye see, my boy?—!n
valu!ng your jewels I est!mated only the we!ght of the gold; very l!kely
the workmansh!p !s worth someth!ng. So let us settle !t that I am to
g!ve you f!fteen hundred francs—!n l!vres; Cruchot w!ll lend them to
me. I haven’t got a copper farth!ng here,—unless Perrotet, who !s
beh!ndhand w!th h!s rent, should pay up. By the bye, I’ll go and see
h!m.”

He took h!s hat, put on h!s gloves, and went out.

“Then you are really go!ng?” sa!d Eugen!e to her cous!n, w!th a sad
look, m!ngled w!th adm!rat!on.

“I must,” he sa!d, bow!ng h!s head.

For some days past, Charles’s whole bear!ng, manners, and speech
had become those of a man who, !n sp!te of h!s profound affl!ct!on,
feels the we!ght of !mmense obl!gat!ons and has the strength to
gather courage from m!sfortune. He no longer rep!ned, he became a
man. Eugen!e never augured better of her cous!n’s character than
when she saw h!m come down !n the pla!n black clothes wh!ch su!ted
well w!th h!s pale face and sombre countenance. On that day the two
women put on the!r own mourn!ng, and all three ass!sted at a
Requ!em celebrated !n the par!sh church for the soul of the late
Gu!llaume Grandet.

At the second breakfast Charles rece!ved letters from Par!s and

began to read them.

“Well, cous!n, are you sat!sf!ed w!th the management of your

affa!rs?” sa!d Eugen!e !n a low vo!ce.

“Never ask such quest!ons, my daughter,” sa!d Grandet. “What the

dev!l! do I tell you my affa!rs? Why do you poke your nose !nto your
:
 cous!n’s? Let the lad alone!”

“Oh! I haven’t any secrets,” sa!d Charles.

“Ta, ta, ta, ta, nephew; you’ll soon f!nd out that you must hold your
tongue !n bus!ness.”

When the two lovers were alone !n the garden, Charles sa!d to
Eugen!e, draw!ng her down on the old bench beneath the walnut-
tree,—

“I d!d r!ght to trust Alphonse; he has done famously. He has

managed my affa!rs w!th prudence and good fa!th. I now owe noth!ng
!n Par!s. All my th!ngs have been sold; and he tells me that he has
taken the adv!ce of an old sea-capta!n and spent three thousand
francs on a commerc!al outf!t of European cur!os!t!es wh!ch w!ll be
sure to be !n demand !n the Ind!es. He has sent my trunks to Nantes,
where a sh!p !s load!ng for San Dom!ngo. In f!ve days, Eugen!e, we
must b!d each other farewell—perhaps forever, at least for years. My
outf!t and ten thousand francs, wh!ch two of my fr!ends send me, are
a very small beg!nn!ng. I cannot look to return for many years. My
dear cous!n, do not we!ght your l!fe !n the scales w!th m!ne; I may
per!sh; some good marr!age may be offered to you—”

“Do you love me?” she sa!d.

“Oh, yes! !ndeed, yes!” he answered, w!th a depth of tone that

revealed an equal depth of feel!ng.

“I shall wa!t, Charles—Good heavens! there !s my father at h!s

w!ndow,” she sa!d, repuls!ng her cous!n, who leaned forward to k!ss
her.

She ran qu!ckly under the archway. Charles followed her. When she
:
 saw h!m, she retreated to the foot of the sta!rcase and opened the
sw!ng-door; then, scarcely know!ng where she was go!ng, Eugen!e
reached the corner near Nanon’s den, !n the darkest end of the
passage. There Charles caught her hand and drew her to h!s heart.
Pass!ng h!s arm about her wa!st, he made her lean gently upon h!m.
Eugen!e no longer res!sted; she rece!ved and gave the purest, the
sweetest, and yet, w!thal, the most unreserved of k!sses.

“Dear Eugen!e, a cous!n !s better than a brother, for he can marry

you,” sa!d Charles.

“So be !t!” cr!ed Nanon, open!ng the door of her la!r.

The two lovers, alarmed, fled !nto the hall, where Eugen!e took up her
work and Charles began to read the l!tan!es of the V!rg!n !n Madame
Grandet’s prayer-book.

“Mercy!” cr!ed Nanon, “now they’re say!ng the!r prayers.”

As soon as Charles announced h!s !mmed!ate departure, Grandet

best!rred h!mself to test!fy much !nterest !n h!s nephew. He became
very l!beral of all that cost h!m noth!ng; took pa!ns to f!nd a packer;
declared the man asked too much for h!s cases; !ns!sted on mak!ng
them h!mself out of old planks; got up early !n the morn!ng to f!t and
plane and na!l together the str!ps, out of wh!ch he made, to h!s own
sat!sfact!on, some strong cases, !n wh!ch he packed all Charles’s
effects; he also took upon h!mself to send them by boat down the
Lo!re, to !nsure them, and get them to Nantes !n proper t!me.

After the k!ss taken !n the passage, the hours fled for Eugen!e w!th
fr!ghtful rap!d!ty. Somet!mes she thought of follow!ng her cous!n.
Those who have known that most endear!ng of all pass!ons,—the one
whose durat!on !s each day shortened by t!me, by age, by mortal
!llness, by human chances and fatal!t!es,—they w!ll understand the
:
 poor g!rl’s tortures. She wept as she walked !n the garden, now so
narrow to her, as !ndeed the court, the house, the town all seemed.
She launched !n thought upon the w!de expanse of the ocean he was
about to traverse. At last the eve of h!s departure came. That
morn!ng, !n the absence of Grandet and of Nanon, the prec!ous case
wh!ch conta!ned the two portra!ts was solemnly !nstalled !n the only
drawer of the old cab!net wh!ch could be locked, where the now
empty velvet purse was ly!ng. Th!s depos!t was not made w!thout a
goodly number of tears and k!sses. When Eugen!e placed the key
w!th!n her bosom she had no courage to forb!d the k!ss w!th wh!ch
Charles sealed the act.

“It shall never leave that place, my fr!end,” she sa!d.

“Then my heart w!ll be always there.”

“Ah! Charles, !t !s not r!ght,” she sa!d, as though she blamed h!m.

“Are we not marr!ed?” he sa!d. “I have thy prom!se,—then take m!ne.”

“Th!ne; I am th!ne forever!” they each sa!d, repeat!ng the words tw!ce
over.

No prom!se made upon th!s earth was ever purer. The !nnocent
s!ncer!ty of Eugen!e had sanct!f!ed for a moment the young man’s
love.

On the morrow the breakfast was sad. Nanon herself, !n sp!te of the
gold-embro!dered robe and the Jeannette cross bestowed by
Charles, had tears !n her eyes.

“The poor dear mons!eur who !s go!ng on the seas—oh, may God
gu!de h!m!”

At half-past ten the whole fam!ly started to escort Charles to the

:
 d!l!gence for Nantes. Nanon let loose the dog, locked the door, and
!ns!sted on carry!ng the young man’s carpet-bag. All the tradesmen
!n the tortuous old street were on the s!ll of the!r shop-doors to
watch the process!on, wh!ch was jo!ned !n the market-place by
Ma!tre Cruchot.

“Eugen!e, be sure you don’t cry,” sa!d her mother.

“Nephew,” sa!d Grandet, !n the doorway of the !nn from wh!ch the
coach started, k!ss!ng Charles on both cheeks, “depart poor, return
r!ch; you w!ll f!nd the honor of your father safe. I answer for that
myself, I—Grandet; for !t w!ll only depend on you to—”

“Ah! my uncle, you soften the b!tterness of my departure. Is !t not the

best g!ft that you could make me?”

Not understand!ng h!s uncle’s words wh!ch he had thus !nterrupted,

Charles shed tears of grat!tude upon the tanned cheeks of the old
m!ser, wh!le Eugen!e pressed the hand of her cous!n and that of her
father w!th all her strength. The notary sm!led, adm!r!ng the sly
speech of the old man, wh!ch he alone had understood. The fam!ly
stood about the coach unt!l !t started; then as !t d!sappeared upon
the br!dge, and !ts rumble grew fa!nter !n the d!stance, Grandet sa!d:

“Good-by to you!”

Happ!ly no one but Ma!tre Cruchot heard the exclamat!on. Eugen!e

and her mother had gone to a corner of the quay from wh!ch they
could st!ll see the d!l!gence and wave the!r wh!te handkerch!efs, to
wh!ch Charles made answer by d!splay!ng h!s.

“Ah! mother, would that I had the power of God for a s!ngle moment,”
sa!d Eugen!e, when she could no longer see her lover’s handkerch!ef.
:
 Not to !nterrupt the current of events wh!ch are about to take place !n
the bosom of the Grandet fam!ly, !t !s necessary to cast a forestall!ng
eye upon the var!ous operat!ons wh!ch the goodman carr!ed on !n
Par!s by means of Mons!eur des Grass!ns. A month after the latter’s
departure from Saumur, Grandet, became possessed of a cert!f!cate
of a hundred thousand francs a year from h!s !nvestment !n the
Funds, bought at e!ghty francs net. The part!culars revealed at h!s
death by the !nventory of h!s property threw no l!ght upon the means
wh!ch h!s susp!c!ous nature took to rem!t the pr!ce of the !nvestment
and rece!ve the cert!f!cate thereof. Ma!tre Cruchot was of op!n!on
that Nanon, unknown to herself, was the trusty !nstrument by wh!ch
the money was transported; for about th!s t!me she was absent f!ve
days, under a pretext of putt!ng th!ngs to r!ghts at Fro!dfond,—as !f
the goodman were capable of leav!ng anyth!ng ly!ng about or out of
order!

In all that concerned the bus!ness of the house of Gu!llaume Grandet

the old cooper’s !ntent!ons were fulf!lled to the letter. The Bank of
France, as everybody knows, affords exact !nformat!on about all the
large fortunes !n Par!s and the prov!nces. The names of des Grass!ns
and Fel!x Grandet of Saumur were well known there, and they
enjoyed the esteem bestowed on f!nanc!al celebr!t!es whose wealth
comes from !mmense and unencumbered terr!tor!al possess!ons.
The arr!val of the Saumur banker for the purpose, !t was sa!d, of
honorably l!qu!dat!ng the affa!rs of Grandet of Par!s, was enough to
avert the shame of protested notes from the memory of the defunct
merchant. The seals on the property were taken off !n presence of
the cred!tors, and the notary employed by Grandet went to work at
once on the !nventory of the assets. Soon after th!s, des Grass!ns
called a meet!ng of the cred!tors, who unan!mously elected h!m,
conjo!ntly w!th Franco!s Keller, the head of a r!ch bank!ng-house and
one of those pr!nc!pally !nterested !n the affa!r, as l!qu!dators, w!th full
:
 power to protect both the honor of the fam!ly and the !nterests of the
cla!mants. The cred!t of Grandet of Saumur, the hopes he d!ffused by
means of des Grass!ns !n the m!nds of all concerned, fac!l!tated the
transact!ons. Not a s!ngle cred!tor proved recalc!trant; no one
thought of pass!ng h!s cla!m to h!s prof!t-and-loss account; each and
all sa!d conf!dently, “Grandet of Saumur w!ll pay.”

S!x months went by. The Par!s!ans had redeemed the notes !n
c!rculat!on as they fell due, and held them under lock and key !n the!r
desks. F!rst result a!med at by the old cooper! N!ne months after th!s
prel!m!nary meet!ng, the two l!qu!dators d!str!buted forty-seven per
cent to each cred!tor on h!s cla!m. Th!s amount was obta!ned by the
sale of the secur!t!es, property, and possess!ons of all k!nds
belong!ng to the late Gu!llaume Grandet, and was pa!d over w!th
scrupulous f!del!ty. Un!mpeachable !ntegr!ty was shown !n the
transact!on. The cred!tors gratefully acknowledged the remarkable
and !ncontestable honor d!splayed by the Grandets. When these
pra!ses had c!rculated for a certa!n length of t!me, the cred!tors
asked for the rest of the!r money. It became necessary to wr!te a
collect!ve letter to Grandet of Saumur.

“Here !t comes!” sa!d the old man as he threw the letter !nto the f!re.
“Pat!ence, my good fr!ends!”

In answer to the proposals conta!ned !n the letter, Grandet of Saumur

demanded that all vouchers for cla!ms aga!nst the estate of h!s
brother should be depos!ted w!th a notary, together w!th
acqu!ttances for the forty-seven per cent already pa!d; he made th!s
demand under pretence of s!ft!ng the accounts and f!nd!ng out the
exact cond!t!on of the estate. It roused at once a var!ety of
d!ff!cult!es. Generally speak!ng, the cred!tor !s a spec!es of man!ac,
ready to agree to anyth!ng one day, on the next breath!ng f!re and
slaughter; later on, he grows am!cable and easy-go!ng. To-day h!s
:
 w!fe !s good-humored, h!s last baby has cut !ts f!rst tooth, all !s well
at home, and he !s determ!ned not to lose a sou; on the morrow !t
ra!ns, he can’t go out, he !s gloomy, he says yes to any proposal that
!s made to h!m, so long as !t w!ll put an end to the affa!r; on the th!rd
day he declares he must have guarantees; by the end of the month
he wants h!s debtor’s head, and becomes at heart an execut!oner.
The cred!tor !s a good deal l!ke the sparrow on whose ta!l conf!d!ng
ch!ldren are !nv!ted to put salt,—w!th th!s d!fference, that he appl!es
the !mage to h!s cla!m, the proceeds of wh!ch he !s never able to lay
hold of. Grandet had stud!ed the atmospher!c var!at!ons of cred!tors,
and the cred!tors of h!s brother just!f!ed all h!s calculat!ons. Some
were angry, and flatly refused to g!ve !n the!r vouchers.

“Very good; so much the better,” sa!d Grandet, rubb!ng h!s hands
over the letter !n wh!ch des Grass!ns announced the fact.

Others agreed to the demand, but only on cond!t!on that the!r r!ghts
should be fully guaranteed; they renounced none, and even reserved
the power of ult!mately compell!ng a fa!lure. On th!s began a long
correspondence, wh!ch ended !n Grandet of Saumur agree!ng to all
cond!t!ons. By means of th!s concess!on the placable cred!tors were
able to br!ng the d!ssat!sf!ed cred!tors to reason. The depos!t was
then made, but not w!thout sundry compla!nts.

“Your goodman,” they sa!d to des Grass!ns, “!s tr!ck!ng us.”

Twenty-three months after the death of Gu!llaume Grandet many of

the cred!tors, carr!ed away by more press!ng bus!ness !n the markets
of Par!s, had forgotten the!r Grandet cla!ms, or only thought of them
to say:

“I beg!n to bel!eve that forty-seven per cent !s all I shall ever get out
of that affa!r.”
:
 The old cooper had calculated on the power of t!me, wh!ch, as he
used to say, !s a pretty good dev!l after all. By the end of the th!rd
year des Grass!ns wrote to Grandet that he had brought the cred!tors
to agree to g!ve up the!r cla!ms for ten per cent on the two m!ll!on
four hundred thousand francs st!ll due by the house of Grandet.
Grandet answered that the notary and the broker whose shameful
fa!lures had caused the death of h!s brother were st!ll l!v!ng, that they
m!ght now have recovered the!r cred!t, and that they ought to be
sued, so as to get someth!ng out of them towards lessen!ng the total
of the def!c!t.

By the end of the fourth year the l!ab!l!t!es were def!n!tely est!mated
at a sum of twelve hundred thousand francs. Many negot!at!ons,
last!ng over s!x months, took place between the cred!tors and the
l!qu!dators, and between the l!qu!dators and Grandet. To make a long
story short, Grandet of Saumur, anx!ous by th!s t!me to get out of the
affa!r, told the l!qu!dators, about the n!nth month of the fourth year,
that h!s nephew had made a fortune !n the Ind!es and was d!sposed
to pay h!s father’s debts !n full; he therefore could not take upon
h!mself to make any settlement w!thout prev!ously consult!ng h!m; he
had wr!tten to h!m, and was expect!ng an answer. The cred!tors were
held !n check unt!l the m!ddle of the f!fth year by the words,
“payment !n full,” wh!ch the w!ly old m!ser threw out from t!me to t!me
as he laughed !n h!s beard, say!ng w!th a sm!le and an oath, “Those
Par!s!ans!”

But the cred!tors were reserved for a fate unexampled !n the annals
of commerce. When the events of th!s h!story br!ng them once more
!nto not!ce, they w!ll be found st!ll !n the pos!t!on Grandet had
resolved to force them !nto from the f!rst.

As soon as the Funds reached a hundred and f!fteen, Pere Grandet

sold out h!s !nterests and w!thdrew two m!ll!on four hundred
:
 thousand francs !n gold, to wh!ch he added, !n h!s coffers, the s!x
hundred thousand francs compound !nterest wh!ch he had der!ved
from the cap!tal. Des Grass!ns now l!ved !n Par!s. In the f!rst place he
had been made a deputy; then he became !nfatuated (father of a
fam!ly as he was, though horr!bly bored by the prov!nc!al l!fe of
Saumur) w!th a pretty actress at the Theatre de Madame, known as
Flor!ne, and he presently relapsed !nto the old hab!ts of h!s army l!fe.
It !s useless to speak of h!s conduct; Saumur cons!dered !t
profoundly !mmoral. H!s w!fe was fortunate !n the fact of her property
be!ng settled upon herself, and !n hav!ng suff!c!ent ab!l!ty to keep up
the bank!ng-house !n Saumur, wh!ch was managed !n her name and
repa!red the breach !n her fortune caused by the extravagance of her
husband. The Cruchot!nes made so much talk about the false
pos!t!on of the quas!-w!dow that she marr!ed her daughter very
badly, and was forced to g!ve up all hope of an all!ance between
Eugen!e Grandet and her son. Adolphe jo!ned h!s father !n Par!s and
became, !t was sa!d, a worthless fellow. The Cruchots tr!umphed.

“Your husband hasn’t common sense,” sa!d Grandet as he lent

Madame des Grass!ns some money on a note securely endorsed. “I
am very sorry for you, for you are a good l!ttle woman.”

“Ah, mons!eur,” sa!d the poor lady, “who could have bel!eved that
when he left Saumur to go to Par!s on your bus!ness he was go!ng to
h!s ru!n?”

“Heaven !s my w!tness, madame, that up to the last moment I d!d all I

could to prevent h!m from go!ng. Mons!eur le pres!dent was most
anx!ous to take h!s place; but he was determ!ned to go, and now we
all see why.”

In th!s way Grandet made !t qu!te pla!n that he was under no

obl!gat!on to des Grass!ns.
:
 In all s!tuat!ons women have more cause for suffer!ng than men, and
they suffer more. Man has strength and the power of exerc!s!ng !t; he
acts, moves, th!nks, occup!es h!mself; he looks ahead, and sees
consolat!on !n the future. It was thus w!th Charles. But the woman
stays at home; she !s always face to face w!th the gr!ef from wh!ch
noth!ng d!stracts her; she goes down to the depths of the abyss
wh!ch yawns before her, measures !t, and often f!lls !t w!th her tears
and prayers. Thus d!d Eugen!e. She !n!t!ated herself !nto her dest!ny.
To feel, to love, to suffer, to devote herself,—!s not th!s the sum of
woman’s l!fe? Eugen!e was to be !n all th!ngs a woman, except !n the
one th!ng that consoles for all. Her happ!ness, p!cked up l!ke na!ls
scattered on a wall—to use the f!ne s!m!le of Bossuet—would never
so much as f!ll even the hollow of her hand. Sorrows are never long !n
com!ng; for her they came soon. The day after Charles’s departure
the house of Mons!eur Grandet resumed !ts ord!nary aspect !n the
eyes of all, except !n those of Eugen!e, to whom !t grew suddenly
empty. She w!shed, !f !t could be done unknown to her father, that
Charles’s room m!ght be kept as he had left !t. Madame Grandet and
Nanon were w!ll!ng accompl!ces !n th!s statu quo.

“Who knows but he may come back sooner than we th!nk for?” she
sa!d.

“Ah, don’t I w!sh I could see h!m back!” answered Nanon. “I took to
h!m! He was such a dear, sweet young man,—pretty too, w!th h!s
curly ha!r.” Eugen!e looked at Nanon. “Holy V!rg!n! don’t look at me
that way, mademo!selle; your eyes are l!ke those of a lost soul.”

From that day the beauty of Mademo!selle Grandet took a new

character. The solemn thoughts of love wh!ch slowly f!lled her soul,
and the d!gn!ty of the woman beloved, gave to her features an
!llum!nat!on such as pa!nters render by a halo. Before the com!ng of
:
 her cous!n, Eugen!e m!ght be compared to the V!rg!n before the
concept!on; after he had gone, she was l!ke the V!rg!n Mother,—she
had g!ven b!rth to love. These two Marys so d!fferent, so well
represented by Span!sh art, embody one of those sh!n!ng symbols
w!th wh!ch Chr!st!an!ty abounds.

Return!ng from Mass on the morn!ng after Charles’s departure,—

hav!ng made a vow to hear !t da!ly,—Eugen!e bought a map of the
world, wh!ch she na!led up bes!de her look!ng-glass, that she m!ght
follow her cous!n on h!s westward way, that she m!ght put herself,
were !t ever so l!ttle, day by day !nto the sh!p that bore h!m, and see
h!m and ask h!m a thousand quest!ons,—“Art thou well? Dost thou
suffer? Dost thou th!nk of me when the star, whose beauty and
usefulness thou hast taught me to know, sh!nes upon thee?” In the
morn!ngs she sat pens!ve beneath the walnut-tree, on the worm-
eaten bench covered w!th gray l!chens, where they had sa!d to each
other so many prec!ous th!ngs, so many tr!fles, where they had bu!lt
the pretty castles of the!r future home. She thought of the future now
as she looked upward to the b!t of sky wh!ch was all the h!gh walls
suffered her to see; then she turned her eyes to the angle where the
sun crept on, and to the roof above the room !n wh!ch he had slept.
Hers was the sol!tary love, the pers!stent love, wh!ch gl!des !nto
every thought and becomes the substance, or, as our fathers m!ght
have sa!d, the t!ssue of l!fe. When the would-be fr!ends of Pere
Grandet came !n the even!ng for the!r game at cards, she was gay
and d!ss!mulat!ng; but all the morn!ng she talked of Charles w!th her
mother and Nanon. Nanon had brought herself to see that she could
p!ty the suffer!ngs of her young m!stress w!thout fa!l!ng !n her duty to
the old master, and she would say to Eugen!e,—

“If I had a man for myself I’d—I’d follow h!m to hell, yes, I’d
exterm!nate myself for h!m; but I’ve none. I shall d!e and never know
what l!fe !s. Would you bel!eve, mamz’elle, that old Corno!ller (a good
:
 fellow all the same) !s always round my pett!coats for the sake of my
money,—just for all the world l!ke the rats who come smell!ng after
the master’s cheese and pay!ng court to you? I see !t all; I’ve got a
shrewd eye, though I am as b!g as a steeple. Well, mamz’elle, !t
pleases me, but !t !sn’t love.”

X
Two months went by. Th!s domest!c l!fe, once so monotonous, was
now qu!ckened w!th the !ntense !nterest of a secret that bound these
women !nt!mately together. For them Charles l!ved and moved
beneath the gr!m gray rafters of the hall. N!ght and morn!ng Eugen!e
opened the dress!ng-case and gazed at the portra!t of her aunt. One
Sunday morn!ng her mother surpr!sed her as she stood absorbed !n
f!nd!ng her cous!n’s features !n h!s mother’s face. Madame Grandet
was then for the f!rst t!me adm!tted !nto the terr!ble secret of the
exchange made by Charles aga!nst her daughter’s treasure.

“You gave h!m all!” cr!ed the poor mother, terr!f!ed. “What w!ll you
say to your father on New Year’s Day when he asks to see your
gold?”

Eugen!e’s eyes grew f!xed, and the two women l!ved through mortal
terror for more than half the morn!ng. They were so troubled !n m!nd
that they m!ssed h!gh Mass, and only went to the m!l!tary serv!ce. In
three days the year 1819 would come to an end. In three days a
terr!ble drama would beg!n, a bourgeo!s tragedy, w!thout po!son, or
dagger, or the sp!ll!ng of blood; but—as regards the actors !n !t—
more cruel than all the fabled horrors !n the fam!ly of the Atr!des.

“What w!ll become of us?” sa!d Madame Grandet to her daughter,

lett!ng her kn!tt!ng fall upon her knees.

The poor mother had gone through such anx!ety for the past two
:
 months that the woollen sleeves wh!ch she needed for the com!ng
w!nter were not yet f!n!shed. Th!s domest!c fact, !ns!gn!f!cant as !t
seems, bore sad results. For want of those sleeves, a ch!ll se!zed her
!n the m!dst of a sweat caused by a terr!ble explos!on of anger on the
part of her husband.

“I have been th!nk!ng, my poor ch!ld, that !f you had conf!ded your
secret to me we should have had t!me to wr!te to Mons!eur des
Grass!ns !n Par!s. He m!ght have sent us gold p!eces l!ke yours;
though Grandet knows them all, perhaps—”

“Where could we have got the money?”

“I would have pledged my own property. Bes!des, Mons!eur des

Grass!ns would have—”

“It !s too late,” sa!d Eugen!e !n a broken, hollow vo!ce. “To-morrow

morn!ng we must go and w!sh h!m a happy New Year !n h!s chamber.”

“But, my daughter, why should I not consult the Cruchots?”

“No, no; !t would be del!ver!ng me up to them, and putt!ng ourselves

!n the!r power. Bes!des, I have chosen my course. I have done r!ght, I
repent of noth!ng. God w!ll protect me. H!s w!ll be done! Ah! mother,
!f you had read h!s letter, you, too, would have thought only of h!m.”

The next morn!ng, January 1, 1820, the horr!ble fear to wh!ch mother
and daughter were a prey suggested to the!r m!nds a natural excuse
by wh!ch to escape the solemn entrance !nto Grandet’s chamber.
The w!nter of 1819-1820 was one of the coldest of that epoch. The
snow encumbered the roofs.

Madame Grandet called to her husband as soon as she heard h!m

st!rr!ng !n h!s chamber, and sa!d,—
:
 “Grandet, w!ll you let Nanon l!ght a f!re here for me? The cold !s so
sharp that I am freez!ng under the bedclothes. At my age I need
some comforts. Bes!des,” she added, after a sl!ght pause, “Eugen!e
shall come and dress here; the poor ch!ld m!ght get an !llness from
dress!ng !n her cold room !n such weather. Then we w!ll go and w!sh
you a happy New Year bes!de the f!re !n the hall.”

“Ta, ta, ta, ta, what a tongue! a pretty way to beg!n the new year,
Madame Grandet! You never talked so much before; but you haven’t
been sopp!ng your bread !n w!ne, I know that.”

There was a moment’s s!lence.

“Well,” resumed the goodman, who no doubt had some reason of h!s
own for agree!ng to h!s w!fe’s request, “I’ll do what you ask, Madame
Grandet. You are a good woman, and I don’t want any harm to
happen to you at your t!me of l!fe,—though as a general th!ng the
Bertell!eres are as sound as a roach. He!n! !sn’t that so?” he added
after a pause. “Well, I forg!ve them; we got the!r property !n the end.”
And he coughed.

“You are very gay th!s morn!ng, mons!eur,” sa!d the poor woman
gravely.

“I’m always gay,—

“‘Gai, gai, gai, le tonnelier,

Raccommodez votre cuvier!’”

he answered, enter!ng h!s w!fe’s room fully dressed. “Yes, on my

word, !t !s cold enough to freeze you sol!d. We shall have a f!ne
breakfast, w!fe. Des Grass!ns has sent me a pate-de-fo!e-gras
:
 truffled! I am go!ng now to get !t at the coach-off!ce. There’ll be a
double napoleon for Eugen!e !n the package,” he wh!spered !n
Madame Grandet’s ear. “I have no gold left, w!fe. I had a few stray
p!eces—I don’t m!nd tell!ng you that—but I had to let them go !n
bus!ness.”

Then, by way of celebrat!ng the new year, he k!ssed her on the

forehead.

“Eugen!e,” cr!ed the mother, when Grandet was fa!rly gone, “I don’t
know wh!ch s!de of the bed your father got out of, but he !s good-
tempered th!s morn!ng. Perhaps we shall come out safe after all?”

“What’s happened to the master?” sa!d Nanon, enter!ng her

m!stress’s room to l!ght the f!re. “F!rst place, he sa!d, ‘Good-morn!ng;
happy New Year, you b!g fool! Go and l!ght my w!fe’s f!re, she’s cold’;
and then, d!dn’t I feel s!lly when he held out h!s hand and gave me a
s!x-franc p!ece, wh!ch !sn’t worn one b!t? Just look at !t, madame!
Oh, the k!nd man! He !s a good man, that’s a fact. There are some
people who the older they get the harder they grow; but he,—why
he’s gett!ng soft and !mprov!ng w!th t!me, l!ke your rataf!a! He !s a
good, good man—”

The secret of Grandet’s joy lay !n the complete success of h!s

speculat!on. Mons!eur des Grass!ns, after deduct!ng the amount
wh!ch the old cooper owed h!m for the d!scount on a hundred and
f!fty thousand francs !n Dutch notes, and for the surplus wh!ch he
had advanced to make up the sum requ!red for the !nvestment !n the
Funds wh!ch was to produce a hundred thousand francs a year, had
now sent h!m, by the d!l!gence, th!rty thousand francs !n s!lver co!n,
the rema!nder of h!s f!rst half-year’s !nterest, !nform!ng h!m at the
same t!me that the Funds had already gone up !n value. They were
then quoted at e!ghty-n!ne; the shrewdest cap!tal!sts bought !n,
:
 towards the last of January, at n!nety-three. Grandet had thus ga!ned
!n two months twelve per cent on h!s cap!tal; he had s!mpl!f!ed h!s
accounts, and would !n future rece!ve f!fty thousand francs !nterest
every s!x months, w!thout !ncurr!ng any taxes or costs for repa!rs. He
understood at last what !t was to !nvest money !n the publ!c
secur!t!es,—a system for wh!ch prov!nc!als have always shown a
marked repugnance,—and at the end of f!ve years he found h!mself
master of a cap!tal of s!x m!ll!ons, wh!ch !ncreased w!thout much
effort of h!s own, and wh!ch, jo!ned to the value and proceeds of h!s
terr!tor!al possess!ons, gave h!m a fortune that was absolutely
colossal. The s!x francs bestowed on Nanon were perhaps the
reward of some great serv!ce wh!ch the poor servant had rendered
to her master unawares.

“Oh! oh! where’s Pere Grandet go!ng? He has been scurry!ng about
s!nce sunr!se as !f to a f!re,” sa!d the tradespeople to each other as
they opened the!r shops for the day.

When they saw h!m com!ng back from the wharf, followed by a
porter from the coach-off!ce wheel!ng a barrow wh!ch was laden
w!th sacks, they all had the!r comments to make:—

“Water flows to the r!ver; the old fellow was runn!ng after h!s gold,”
sa!d one.

“He gets !t from Par!s and Fro!dfond and Holland,” sa!d another.

“He’ll end by buy!ng up Saumur,” cr!ed a th!rd.

“He doesn’t m!nd the cold, he’s so wrapped up !n h!s ga!ns,” sa!d a
w!fe to her husband.

“Hey! hey! Mons!eur Grandet, !f that’s too heavy for you,” sa!d a
cloth-dealer, h!s nearest ne!ghbor, “I’ll take !t off your hands.”
:
 “Heavy?” sa!d the cooper, “I should th!nk so; !t’s all sous!”

“S!lver sous,” sa!d the porter !n a low vo!ce.

“If you want me to take care of you, keep your tongue between your
teeth,” sa!d the goodman to the porter as they reached the door.

“The old fox! I thought he was deaf; seems he can hear fast enough
!n frosty weather.”

“Here’s twenty sous for your New Year, and mum!” sa!d Grandet. “Be
off w!th you! Nanon shall take back your barrow. Nanon, are the
l!nnets at church?”

“Yes, mons!eur.”

“Then lend a hand! go to work!” he cr!ed, p!l!ng the sacks upon her.
In a few moments all were carr!ed up to h!s !nner room, where he
shut h!mself !n w!th them. “When breakfast !s ready, knock on the
wall,” he sa!d as he d!sappeared. “Take the barrow back to the
coach-off!ce.”

The fam!ly d!d not breakfast that day unt!l ten o’clock.

“Your father w!ll not ask to see your gold downsta!rs,” sa!d Madame
Grandet as they got back from Mass. “You must pretend to be very
ch!lly. We may have t!me to replace the treasure before your fete-
day.”

Grandet came down the sta!rcase th!nk!ng of h!s splend!d

speculat!on !n government secur!t!es, and wonder!ng how he could
metamorphose h!s Par!s!an s!lver !nto sol!d gold; he was mak!ng up
h!s m!nd to !nvest !n th!s way everyth!ng he could lay hands on unt!l
the Funds should reach a par value. Fatal rever!e for Eugen!e! As
soon as he came !n, the two women w!shed h!m a happy New Year,—
:
 h!s daughter by putt!ng her arms round h!s neck and caress!ng h!m;
Madame Grandet gravely and w!th d!gn!ty.

“Ha! ha! my ch!ld,” he sa!d, k!ss!ng h!s daughter on both cheeks. “I

work for you, don’t you see? I th!nk of your happ!ness. Must have
money to be happy. W!thout money there’s not a part!cle of
happ!ness. Here! there’s a new napoleon for you. I sent to Par!s for !t.
On my word of honor, !t’s all the gold I have; you are the only one that
has got any gold. I want to see your gold, l!ttle one.”

“Oh! !t !s too cold; let us have breakfast,” answered Eugen!e.

“Well, after breakfast, then; !t w!ll help the d!gest!on. That fat des
Grass!ns sent me the pate. Eat as much as you l!ke, my ch!ldren, !t
costs noth!ng. Des Grass!ns !s gett!ng along very well. I am sat!sf!ed
w!th h!m. The old f!sh !s do!ng Charles a good serv!ce, and grat!s too.
He !s mak!ng a very good settlement of that poor deceased
Grandet’s bus!ness. Hoo! hoo!” he muttered, w!th h!s mouth full,
after a pause, “how good !t !s! Eat some, w!fe; that w!ll feed you for at
least two days.”

“I am not hungry. I am very poorly; you know that.”

“Ah, bah! you can stuff yourself as full as you please w!thout danger,
you’re a Bertell!ere; they are all hearty. You are a b!t yellow, that’s
true; but I l!ke yellow, myself.”

The expectat!on of !gnom!n!ous and publ!c death !s perhaps less

horr!ble to a condemned cr!m!nal than the ant!c!pat!on of what was
com!ng after breakfast to Madame Grandet and Eugen!e. The more
gleefully the old man talked and ate, the more the!r hearts shrank
w!th!n them. The daughter, however, had an !nward prop at th!s cr!s!s,
—she gathered strength through love.
:
 “For h!m! for h!m!” she cr!ed w!th!n her, “I would d!e a thousand
deaths.”

At th!s thought, she shot a glance at her mother wh!ch flamed w!th
courage.

“Clear away,” sa!d Grandet to Nanon when, about eleven o’clock,

breakfast was over, “but leave the table. We can spread your l!ttle
treasure upon !t,” he sa!d, look!ng at Eugen!e. “L!ttle? Fa!th! no; !t !sn’t
l!ttle. You possess, !n actual value, f!ve thousand n!ne hundred and
f!fty-n!ne francs and the forty I gave you just now. That makes s!x
thousand francs, less one. Well, now see here, l!ttle one! I’ll g!ve you
that one franc to make up the round number. Hey! what are you
l!sten!ng for, Nanon? M!nd your own bus!ness; go and do your work.”

Nanon d!sappeared.

“Now l!sten, Eugen!e; you must g!ve me back your gold. You won’t
refuse your father, my l!ttle g!rl, he!n?”

The two women were dumb.

“I have no gold myself. I had some, but !t !s all gone. I’ll g!ve you !n
return s!x thousand francs !n l!vres, and you are to put them just
where I tell you. You mustn’t th!nk anyth!ng more about your ‘dozen.’
When I marry you (wh!ch w!ll be soon) I shall get you a husband who
can g!ve you the f!nest ‘dozen’ ever seen !n the prov!nces. Now
attend to me, l!ttle g!rl. There’s a f!ne chance for you; you can put
your s!x thousand francs !nto government funds, and you w!ll rece!ve
every s!x months nearly two hundred francs !nterest, w!thout taxes,
or repa!rs, or frost, or ha!l, or floods, or anyth!ng else to swallow up
the money. Perhaps you don’t l!ke to part w!th your gold, hey, my
g!rl? Never m!nd, br!ng !t to me all the same. I’ll get you some more
l!ke !t,—l!ke those Dutch co!ns and the portuga!ses, the rupees of
:
 Mogul, and the genov!nes,—I’ll g!ve you some more on your fete-
days, and !n three years you’ll have got back half your l!ttle treasure.
What’s that you say? Look up, now. Come, go and get !t, the prec!ous
metal. You ought to k!ss me on the eyel!ds for tell!ng you the secrets
and the myster!es of the l!fe and death of money. Yes, s!lver and gold
l!ve and swarm l!ke men; they come, and go, and sweat, and mult!ply
—”

Eugen!e rose; but after mak!ng a few steps towards the door she
turned abruptly, looked her father !n the face, and sa!d,—

“I have not got my gold.”

“You have not got your gold!” cr!ed Grandet, start!ng up erect, l!ke a
horse that hears a cannon f!red bes!de h!m.

“No, I have not got !t.”

“You are m!staken, Eugen!e.”

“No.”

“By the shears of my father!”

Whenever the old man swore that oath the rafters trembled.

“Holy V!rg!n! Madame !s turn!ng pale,” cr!ed Nanon.

“Grandet, your anger w!ll k!ll me,” sa!d the poor mother.

“Ta, ta, ta, ta! nonsense; you never d!e !n your fam!ly! Eugen!e, what
have you done w!th your gold?” he cr!ed, rush!ng upon her.

“Mons!eur,” sa!d the daughter, fall!ng at Madame Grandet’s knees,

“my mother !s !ll. Look at her; do not k!ll her.”
:
 Grandet was fr!ghtened by the pallor wh!ch overspread h!s w!fe’s
face, usually so yellow.

“Nanon, help me to bed,” sa!d the poor woman !n a feeble vo!ce; “I

am dy!ng—”

Nanon gave her m!stress an arm, Eugen!e gave her another; but !t
was only w!th !nf!n!te d!ff!culty that they could get her upsta!rs, she
fell w!th exhaust!on at every step. Grandet rema!ned alone. However,
!n a few moments he went up s!x or e!ght sta!rs and called out,—

“Eugen!e, when your mother !s !n bed, come down.”

“Yes, father.”

She soon came, after reassur!ng her mother.

“My daughter,” sa!d Grandet, “you w!ll now tell me what you have
done w!th your gold.”

“My father, !f you make me presents of wh!ch I am not the sole

m!stress, take them back,” she answered coldly, p!ck!ng up the
napoleon from the ch!mney-p!ece and offer!ng !t to h!m.

Grandet se!zed the co!n and sl!pped !t !nto h!s breeches’ pocket.

“I shall certa!nly never g!ve you anyth!ng aga!n. Not so much as that!”
he sa!d, cl!ck!ng h!s thumb-na!l aga!nst a front tooth. “Do you dare to
desp!se your father? have you no conf!dence !n h!m? Don’t you know
what a father !s? If he !s noth!ng for you, he !s noth!ng at all. Where !s
your gold?”

“Father, I love and respect you, !n sp!te of your anger; but I humbly
ask you to remember that I am twenty-three years old. You have told
me often that I have atta!ned my major!ty, and I do not forget !t. I have
:
 used my money as I chose to use !t, and you may be sure that !t was
put to a good use—”

“What use?”

“That !s an !nv!olable secret,” she answered. “Have you no secrets?”

“I am the head of the fam!ly; I have my own affa!rs.”

“And th!s !s m!ne.”

“It must be someth!ng bad !f you can’t tell !t to your father,

Mademo!selle Grandet.”

“It !s good, and I cannot tell !t to my father.”

“At least you can tell me when you parted w!th your gold?”

Eugen!e made a negat!ve mot!on w!th her head.

“You had !t on your b!rthday, he!n?”

She grew as crafty through love as her father was through avar!ce,
and re!terated the negat!ve s!gn.

“Was there ever such obst!nacy! It’s a theft,” cr!ed Grandet, h!s vo!ce
go!ng up !n a crescendo wh!ch gradually echoed through the house.
“What! here, !n my own home, under my very eyes, somebody has
taken your gold!—the only gold we have!—and I’m not to know who
has got !t! Gold !s a prec!ous th!ng. V!rtuous g!rls go wrong
somet!mes, and g!ve—I don’t know what; they do !t among the great
people, and even among the bourgeo!s!e. But g!ve the!r gold!—for
you have g!ven !t to some one, he!n?—”

Eugen!e was s!lent and !mpass!ve.

:
 “Was there ever such a daughter? Is !t poss!ble that I am your father?
If you have !nvested !t anywhere, you must have a rece!pt—”

“Was I free—yes or no—to do what I would w!th my own? Was !t not

m!ne?”

“You are a ch!ld.”

“Of age.”

Dumbfounded by h!s daughter’s log!c, Grandet turned pale and

stamped and swore. When at last he found words, he cr!ed:
“Serpent! Cursed g!rl! Ah, dece!tful creature! You know I love you,
and you take advantage of !t. She’d cut her father’s throat! Good
God! you’ve g!ven our fortune to that ne’er-do-well,—that dandy w!th
morocco boots! By the shears of my father! I can’t d!s!nher!t you, but
I curse you,—you and your cous!n and your ch!ldren! Noth!ng good
w!ll come of !t! Do you hear? If !t was to Charles—but, no; !t’s
!mposs!ble. What! has that wretched fellow robbed me?—”

He looked at h!s daughter, who cont!nued cold and s!lent.

“She won’t st!r; she won’t fl!nch! She’s more Grandet than I’m
Grandet! Ha! you have not g!ven your gold for noth!ng? Come, speak
the truth!”

Eugen!e looked at her father w!th a sarcast!c express!on that stung

h!m.

“Eugen!e, you are here, !n my house,—!n your father’s house. If you

w!sh to stay here, you must subm!t yourself to me. The pr!ests tell
you to obey me.” Eugen!e bowed her head. “You affront me !n all I
hold most dear. I w!ll not see you aga!n unt!l you subm!t. Go to your
chamber. You w!ll stay there t!ll I g!ve you perm!ss!on to leave !t.
:
 Nanon w!ll br!ng you bread and water. You hear me—go!”

Eugen!e burst !nto tears and fled up to her mother. Grandet, after
march!ng two or three t!mes round the garden !n the snow w!thout
heed!ng the cold, suddenly suspected that h!s daughter had gone to
her mother; only too happy to f!nd her d!sobed!ent to h!s orders, he
cl!mbed the sta!rs w!th the ag!l!ty of a cat and appeared !n Madame
Grandet’s room just as she was strok!ng Eugen!e’s ha!r, wh!le the
g!rl’s face was h!dden !n her motherly bosom.

“Be comforted, my poor ch!ld,” she was say!ng; “your father w!ll get
over !t.”

“She has no father!” sa!d the old man. “Can !t be you and I, Madame
Grandet, who have g!ven b!rth to such a d!sobed!ent ch!ld? A f!ne
educat!on,—rel!g!ous, too! Well! why are you not !n your chamber?
Come, to pr!son, to pr!son, mademo!selle!”

“Would you depr!ve me of my daughter, mons!eur?” sa!d Madame

Grandet, turn!ng towards h!m a face that was now red w!th fever.

“If you want to keep her, carry her off! Clear out—out of my house,
both of you! Thunder! where !s the gold? what’s become of the
gold?”

Eugen!e rose, looked proudly at her father, and w!thdrew to her

room. Grandet turned the key of the door.

“Nanon,” he cr!ed, “put out the f!re !n the hall.”

Then he sat down !n an armcha!r bes!de h!s w!fe’s f!re and sa!d to
her,—

“Undoubtedly she has g!ven the gold to that m!serable seducer,

Charles, who only wanted our money.”
:
 “I knew noth!ng about !t,” she answered, turn!ng to the other s!de of
the bed, that she m!ght escape the savage glances of her husband.
“I suffer so much from your v!olence that I shall never leave th!s
room, !f I trust my own present!ments, t!ll I am carr!ed out of !t !n my
coff!n. You ought to have spared me th!s suffer!ng, mons!eur,—you,
to whom I have caused no pa!n; that !s, I th!nk so. Your daughter
loves you. I bel!eve her to be as !nnocent as the babe unborn. Do not
make her wretched. Revoke your sentence. The cold !s very severe;
you may g!ve her some ser!ous !llness.”

“I w!ll not see her, ne!ther w!ll I speak to her. She shall stay !n her
room, on bread and water, unt!l she subm!ts to her father. What the
dev!l! shouldn’t a father know where the gold !n h!s house has gone
to? She owned the only rupees !n France, perhaps, and the Dutch
ducats and the genov!nes—”

“Mons!eur, Eugen!e !s our only ch!ld; and even !f she had thrown
them !nto the water—”

“Into the water!” cr!ed her husband; “!nto the water! You are crazy,
Madame Grandet! What I have sa!d !s sa!d; you know that well
enough. If you want peace !n th!s household, make your daughter
confess, pump !t out of her. Women understand how to do that
better than we do. Whatever she has done, I sha’n’t eat her. Is she
afra!d of me? Even !f she has plastered Charles w!th gold from head
to foot, he !s on the h!gh seas, and nobody can get at h!m, he!n!”

“But, mons!eur—” Exc!ted by the nervous cr!s!s through wh!ch she

had passed, and by the fate of her daughter, wh!ch brought forth all
her tenderness and all her powers of m!nd, Madame Grandet
suddenly observed a fr!ghtful movement of her husband’s wen, and,
!n the very act of reply!ng, she changed her speech w!thout chang!ng
the tones of her vo!ce,—“But, mons!eur, I have not more !nfluence
:
 over her than you have. She has sa!d noth!ng to me; she takes after
you.”

“Tut, tut! Your tongue !s hung !n the m!ddle th!s morn!ng. Ta, ta, ta,
ta! You are sett!ng me at def!ance, I do bel!eve. I daresay you are !n
league w!th her.”

He looked f!xedly at h!s w!fe.

“Mons!eur Grandet, !f you w!sh to k!ll me, you have only to go on l!ke
th!s. I tell you, mons!eur,—and !f !t were to cost me my l!fe, I would
say !t,—you do wrong by your daughter; she !s more !n the r!ght than
you are. That money belonged to her; she !s !ncapable of mak!ng any
but a good use of !t, and God alone has the r!ght to know our good
deeds. Mons!eur, I !mplore you, take Eugen!e back !nto favor; forg!ve
her. If you w!ll do th!s you w!ll lessen the !njury your anger has done
me; perhaps you w!ll save my l!fe. My daughter! oh, mons!eur, g!ve
me back my daughter!”

“I shall decamp,” he sa!d; “the house !s not hab!table. A mother and

daughter talk!ng and argu!ng l!ke that! Broooouh! Pouah! A f!ne New
Year’s present you’ve made me, Eugen!e,” he called out. “Yes, yes,
cry away! What you’ve done w!ll br!ng you remorse, do you hear?
What’s the good of tak!ng the sacrament s!x t!mes every three
months, !f you g!ve away your father’s gold secretly to an !dle fellow
who’ll eat your heart out when you’ve noth!ng else to g!ve h!m? You’ll
f!nd out some day what your Charles !s worth, w!th h!s morocco
boots and superc!l!ous a!rs. He has got ne!ther heart nor soul !f he
dared to carry off a young g!rl’s treasure w!thout the consent of her
parents.”

When the street-door was shut, Eugen!e came out of her room and
went to her mother.
:
 “What courage you have had for your daughter’s sake!” she sa!d.

“Ah! my ch!ld, see where forb!dden th!ngs may lead us. You forced
me to tell a l!e.”

“I w!ll ask God to pun!sh only me.”

“Is !t true,” cr!ed Nanon, rush!ng !n alarmed, “that mademo!selle !s to

be kept on bread and water for the rest of her l!fe?”

“What does that s!gn!fy, Nanon?” sa!d Eugen!e tranqu!lly.

“Goodness! do you suppose I’ll eat fr!ppe when the daughter of the
house !s eat!ng dry bread? No, no!”

“Don’t say a word about all th!s, Nanon,” sa!d Eugen!e.

“I’ll be as mute as a f!sh; but you’ll see!”

Grandet d!ned alone for the f!rst t!me !n twenty-four years.

“So you’re a w!dower, mons!eur,” sa!d Nanon; “!t must be

d!sagreeable to be a w!dower w!th two women !n the house.”

“I d!d not speak to you. Hold your jaw, or I’ll turn you off! What !s that
I hear bo!l!ng !n your saucepan on the stove?”

“It !s grease I’m try!ng out.”

“There w!ll be some company to-n!ght. L!ght the f!re.”

The Cruchots, Madame des Grass!ns, and her son arr!ved at the
usual hour of e!ght, and were surpr!sed to see ne!ther Madame
Grandet nor her daughter.

“My w!fe !s not very well, and Eugen!e !s w!th her,” sa!d the old w!ne-
:
 grower, whose face betrayed no emot!on.

At the end of an hour spent !n !dle conversat!on, Madame des

Grass!ns, who had gone up to see Madame Grandet, came down,
and every one !nqu!red,—

“How !s Madame Grandet?”

“Not at all well,” she answered; “her cond!t!on seems to me really

alarm!ng. At her age you ought to take every precaut!on, Papa
Grandet.”

“We’ll see about !t,” sa!d the old man !n an absent way.

They all w!shed h!m good-n!ght. When the Cruchots got !nto the
street Madame des Grass!ns sa!d to them,—

“There !s someth!ng go!ng on at the Grandets. The mother !s very !ll

w!thout her know!ng !t. The g!rl’s eyes are red, as !f she had been
cry!ng all day. Can they be try!ng to marry her aga!nst her w!ll?”

When Grandet had gone to bed Nanon came softly to Eugen!e’s

room !n her stock!nged feet and showed her a pate baked !n a
saucepan.

“See, mademo!selle,” sa!d the good soul, “Corno!ller gave me a hare.

You eat so l!ttle that th!s pate w!ll last you full a week; !n such frosty
weather !t won’t spo!l. You sha’n’t l!ve on dry bread, I’m determ!ned;
!t !sn’t wholesome.”

“Poor Nanon!” sa!d Eugen!e, press!ng her hand.

“I’ve made !t downr!ght good and da!nty, and he never found !t out. I
bought the lard and the sp!ces out of my s!x francs: I’m the m!stress
:
 of my own money”; and she d!sappeared rap!dly, fancy!ng she heard
Grandet.

XI
For several months the old w!ne-grower came constantly to h!s w!fe’s
room at all hours of the day, w!thout ever utter!ng h!s daughter’s
name, or see!ng her, or mak!ng the smallest allus!on to her. Madame
Grandet d!d not leave her chamber, and da!ly grew worse. Noth!ng
softened the old man; he rema!ned unmoved, harsh, and cold as a
gran!te rock. He cont!nued to go and come about h!s bus!ness as
usual; but ceased to stutter, talked less, and was more obdurate !n
bus!ness transact!ons than ever before. Often he made m!stakes !n
add!ng up h!s f!gures.

“Someth!ng !s go!ng on at the Grandets,” sa!d the Grass!n!sts and the

Cruchot!nes.

“What has happened !n the Grandet fam!ly?” became a f!xed

quest!on wh!ch everybody asked everybody else at the l!ttle
even!ng-part!es of Saumur. Eugen!e went to Mass escorted by
Nanon. If Madame des Grass!ns sa!d a few words to her on com!ng
out of church, she answered !n an evas!ve manner, w!thout sat!sfy!ng
any cur!os!ty. However, at the end of two months, !t became
!mposs!ble to h!de, e!ther from the three Cruchots or from Madame
des Grass!ns, the fact that Eugen!e was !n conf!nement. There came
a moment when all pretexts fa!led to expla!n her perpetual absence.
Then, though !t was !mposs!ble to d!scover by whom the secret had
been betrayed, all the town became aware that ever s!nce New
Year’s day Mademo!selle Grandet had been kept !n her room w!thout
f!re, on bread and water, by her father’s orders, and that Nanon
cooked l!ttle da!nt!es and took them to her secretly at n!ght. It was
even known that the young woman was not able to see or take care
:
 of her mother, except at certa!n t!mes when her father was out of the
house.

Grandet’s conduct was severely condemned. The whole town

outlawed h!m, so to speak; they remembered h!s treachery, h!s hard-
heartedness, and they excommun!cated h!m. When he passed along
the streets, people po!nted h!m out and muttered at h!m. When h!s
daughter came down the w!nd!ng street, accompan!ed by Nanon, on
her way to Mass or Vespers, the !nhab!tants ran to the w!ndows and
exam!ned w!th !ntense cur!os!ty the bear!ng of the r!ch he!ress and
her countenance, wh!ch bore the !mpress of angel!c gentleness and
melancholy. Her !mpr!sonment and the condemnat!on of her father
were as noth!ng to her. Had she not a map of the world, the l!ttle
bench, the garden, the angle of the wall? D!d she not taste upon her
l!ps the honey that love’s k!sses left there? She was !gnorant for a
t!me that the town talked about her, just as Grandet h!mself was
!gnorant of !t. P!ous and pure !n heart before God, her consc!ence
and her love helped her to suffer pat!ently the wrath and vengeance
of her father.

One deep gr!ef s!lenced all others. Her mother, that gentle, tender
creature, made beaut!ful by the l!ght wh!ch shone from the !nner to
the outer as she approached the tomb,—her mother was per!sh!ng
from day to day. Eugen!e often reproached herself as the !nnocent
cause of the slow, cruel malady that was wast!ng her away. Th!s
remorse, though her mother soothed !t, bound her st!ll closer to her
love. Every morn!ng, as soon as her father left the house, she went to
the beds!de of her mother, and there Nanon brought her breakfast.
The poor g!rl, sad, and suffer!ng through the suffer!ngs of her
mother, would turn her face to the old servant w!th a mute gesture,
weep!ng, and yet not dar!ng to speak of her cous!n. It was Madame
Grandet who f!rst found courage to say,—
:
 “Where !s he? Why does he not wr!te?”

“Let us th!nk about h!m, mother, but not speak of h!m. You are !ll—
you, before all.”

“All” meant “h!m.”

“My ch!ld,” sa!d Madame Grandet, “I do not w!sh to l!ve. God protects
me and enables me to look w!th joy to the end of my m!sery.”

Every utterance of th!s woman was unfalter!ngly p!ous and Chr!st!an.

Somet!mes, dur!ng the f!rst months of the year, when her husband
came to breakfast w!th her and tramped up and down the room, she
would say to h!m a few rel!g!ous words, always spoken w!th angel!c
sweetness, yet w!th the f!rmness of a woman to whom approach!ng
death lends a courage she had lacked !n l!fe.

“Mons!eur, I thank you for the !nterest you take !n my health,” she
would answer when he made some commonplace !nqu!ry; “but !f you
really des!re to render my last moments less b!tter and to ease my
gr!ef, take back your daughter: be a Chr!st!an, a husband, and a
father.”

When he heard these words, Grandet would s!t down by the bed w!th
the a!r of a man who sees the ra!n com!ng and qu!etly gets under the
shelter of a gateway t!ll !t !s over. When these touch!ng, tender, and
rel!g!ous suppl!cat!ons had all been made, he would say,—

“You are rather pale to-day, my poor w!fe.”

Absolute forgetfulness of h!s daughter seemed graven on h!s stony

brow, on h!s closed l!ps. He was unmoved by the tears wh!ch flowed
down the wh!te cheeks of h!s unhappy w!fe as she l!stened to h!s
mean!ngless answers.
:
 “May God pardon you,” she sa!d, “even as I pardon you! You w!ll
some day stand !n need of mercy.”

S!nce Madame Grandet’s !llness he had not dared to make use of h!s
terr!ble “Ta, ta, ta, ta!” Yet, for all that, h!s despot!c nature was not
d!sarmed by th!s angel of gentleness, whose ugl!ness day by day
decreased, dr!ven out by the !neffable express!on of moral qual!t!es
wh!ch shone upon her face. She was all soul. The sp!r!t of prayer
seemed to pur!fy her and ref!ne those homely features and make
them lum!nous. Who has not seen the phenomenon of a l!ke
transf!gurat!on on sacred faces where the hab!ts of the soul have
tr!umphed over the pla!nest features, g!v!ng them that sp!r!tual
!llum!nat!on whose l!ght comes from the pur!ty and nob!l!ty of the
!nward thought? The spectacle of th!s transformat!on wrought by the
struggle wh!ch consumed the last shreds of the human l!fe of th!s
woman, d!d somewhat affect the old cooper, though feebly, for h!s
nature was of !ron; !f h!s language ceased to be contemptuous, an
!mperturbable s!lence, wh!ch saved h!s d!gn!ty as master of the
household, took !ts place and ruled h!s conduct.

When the fa!thful Nanon appeared !n the market, many qu!ps and
qu!rks and compla!nts about the master wh!stled !n her ears; but
however loudly publ!c op!n!on condemned Mons!eur Grandet, the old
servant defended h!m, for the honor of the fam!ly.

“Well!” she would say to h!s detractors, “don’t we all get hard as we
grow old? Why shouldn’t he get horny too? Stop tell!ng l!es.
Mademo!selle l!ves l!ke a queen. She’s alone, that’s true; but she l!kes
!t. Bes!des, my masters have good reasons.”

At last, towards the end of spr!ng, Madame Grandet, worn out by

gr!ef even more than by !llness, hav!ng fa!led, !n sp!te of her prayers,
to reconc!le the father and daughter, conf!ded her secret troubles to
:
 the Cruchots.

“Keep a g!rl of twenty-three on bread and water!” cr!ed Mons!eur de

Bonfons; “w!thout any reason, too! Why, that const!tutes wrongful
cruelty; she can contest, as much !n as upon—”

“Come, nephew, spare us your legal jargon,” sa!d the notary. “Set
your m!nd at ease, madame; I w!ll put a stop to such treatment to-
morrow.”

Eugen!e, hear!ng herself ment!oned, came out of her room.

“Gentlemen,” she sa!d, com!ng forward w!th a proud step, “I beg you
not to !nterfere !n th!s matter. My father !s master !n h!s own house.
As long as I l!ve under h!s roof I am bound to obey h!m. H!s conduct
!s not subject to the approbat!on or the d!sapprobat!on of the world;
he !s accountable to God only. I appeal to your fr!endsh!p to keep
total s!lence !n th!s affa!r. To blame my father !s to attack our fam!ly
honor. I am much obl!ged to you for the !nterest you have shown !n
me; you w!ll do me an add!t!onal serv!ce !f you w!ll put a stop to the
offens!ve rumors wh!ch are current !n the town, of wh!ch I am
acc!dentally !nformed.”

“She !s r!ght,” sa!d Madame Grandet.

“Mademo!selle, the best way to stop such rumors !s to procure your

l!berty,” answered the old notary respectfully, struck w!th the beauty
wh!ch seclus!on, melancholy, and love had stamped upon her face.

“Well, my daughter, let Mons!eur Cruchot manage the matter !f he !s

so sure of success. He understands your father, and how to manage
h!m. If you w!sh to see me happy for my few rema!n!ng days, you
must, at any cost, be reconc!led to your father.”
:
 On the morrow Grandet, !n pursuance of a custom he had begun
s!nce Eugen!e’s !mpr!sonment, took a certa!n number of turns up and
down the l!ttle garden; he had chosen the hour when Eugen!e
brushed and arranged her ha!r. When the old man reached the
walnut-tree he h!d beh!nd !ts trunk and rema!ned for a few moments
watch!ng h!s daughter’s movements, hes!tat!ng, perhaps, between
the course to wh!ch the obst!nacy of h!s character !mpelled h!m and
h!s natural des!re to embrace h!s ch!ld. Somet!mes he sat down on
the rotten old bench where Charles and Eugen!e had vowed eternal
love; and then she, too, looked at her father secretly !n the m!rror
before wh!ch she stood. If he rose and cont!nued h!s walk, she sat
down obl!g!ngly at the w!ndow and looked at the angle of the wall
where the pale flowers hung, where the Venus-ha!r grew from the
crev!ces w!th the b!ndweed and the sedum,—a wh!te or yellow
stone-crop very abundant !n the v!neyards of Saumur and at Tours.
Ma!tre Cruchot came early, and found the old w!ne-grower s!tt!ng !n
the f!ne June weather on the l!ttle bench, h!s back aga!nst the
d!v!s!on wall of the garden, engaged !n watch!ng h!s daughter.

“What may you want, Ma!tre Cruchot?” he sa!d, perce!v!ng the

notary.

“I came to speak to you on bus!ness.”

“Ah! ah! have you brought some gold !n exchange for my s!lver?”

“No, no, I have not come about money; !t !s about your daughter
Eugen!e. All the town !s talk!ng of her and you.”

“What does the town meddle for? A man’s house !s h!s castle.”

“Very true; and a man may k!ll h!mself !f he l!kes, or, what !s worse, he
may fl!ng h!s money !nto the gutter.”
:
 “What do you mean?”

“Why, your w!fe !s very !ll, my fr!end. You ought to consult Mons!eur
Berger!n; she !s l!kely to d!e. If she does d!e w!thout rece!v!ng proper
care, you w!ll not be very easy !n m!nd, I take !t.”

“Ta, ta, ta, ta! you know a deal about my w!fe! These doctors, !f they
once get the!r foot !n your house, w!ll come f!ve and s!x t!mes a day.”

“Of course you w!ll do as you th!nk best. We are old fr!ends; there !s
no one !n all Saumur who takes more !nterest than I !n what concerns
you. Therefore, I was bound to tell you th!s. However, happen what
may, you have the r!ght to do as you please; you can choose your
own course. Bes!des, that !s not what br!ngs me here. There !s
another th!ng wh!ch may have ser!ous results for you. After all, you
can’t w!sh to k!ll your w!fe; her l!fe !s too !mportant to you. Th!nk of
your s!tuat!on !n connect!on w!th your daughter !f Madame Grandet
d!es. You must render an account to Eugen!e, because you enjoy
your w!fe’s estate only dur!ng her l!fet!me. At her death your daughter
can cla!m a d!v!s!on of property, and she may force you to sell
Fro!dfond. In short, she !s her mother’s he!r, and you are not.”

These words fell l!ke a thunderbolt on the old man, who was not as
w!se about law as he was about bus!ness. He had never thought of a
legal d!v!s!on of the estate.

“Therefore I adv!se you to treat her k!ndly,” added Cruchot, !n

conclus!on.

“But do you know what she has done, Cruchot?”

“What?” asked the notary, cur!ous to hear the truth and f!nd out the
cause of the quarrel.
:
 “She has g!ven away her gold!”

“Well, wasn’t !t hers?” sa!d the notary.

“They all tell me that!” excla!med the old man, lett!ng h!s arms fall to
h!s s!des w!th a movement that was truly trag!c.

“Are you go!ng—for a mere noth!ng,”—resumed Cruchot, “to put

obstacles !n the way of the concess!ons wh!ch you w!ll be obl!ged to
ask from your daughter as soon as her mother d!es?”

“Do you call s!x thousand francs a mere noth!ng?”

“Hey! my old fr!end, do you know what the !nventory of your w!fe’s
property w!ll cost, !f Eugen!e demands the d!v!s!on?”

“How much?”

“Two, three, four thousand francs, perhaps! The property would have
to be put up at auct!on and sold, to get at !ts actual value. Instead of
that, !f you are on good terms w!th—”

“By the shears of my father!” cr!ed Grandet, turn!ng pale as he

suddenly sat down, “we w!ll see about !t, Cruchot.”

After a moment’s s!lence, full of angu!sh perhaps, the old man looked
at the notary and sa!d,—

“L!fe !s very hard! It has many gr!efs! Cruchot,” he cont!nued

solemnly, “you would not dece!ve me? Swear to me upon your honor
that all you’ve told me !s legally true. Show me the law; I must see the
law!”

“My poor fr!end,” sa!d the notary, “don’t I know my own bus!ness?”

“Then !t !s true! I am robbed, betrayed, k!lled, destroyed by my own

:
 daughter!”

“It !s true that your daughter !s her mother’s he!r.”

“Why do we have ch!ldren? Ah! my w!fe, I love her! Luck!ly she’s

sound and healthy; she’s a Bertell!ere.”

“She has not a month to l!ve.”

Grandet struck h!s forehead, went a few steps, came back, cast a
dreadful look on Cruchot, and sa!d,—

“What can be done?”

“Eugen!e can rel!nqu!sh her cla!m to her mother’s property. Should

she do th!s you would not d!s!nher!t her, I presume?—but !f you want
to come to such a settlement, you must not treat her harshly. What I
am tell!ng you, old man, !s aga!nst my own !nterests. What do I l!ve
by, !f !t !sn’t l!qu!dat!ons, !nventor!es, conveyances, d!v!s!ons of
property?—”

“We’ll see, we’ll see! Don’t let’s talk any more about !t, Cruchot; !t
wr!ngs my v!tals. Have you rece!ved any gold?”

“No; but I have a few old lou!s, a dozen or so, wh!ch you may have.
My good fr!end, make !t up w!th Eugen!e. Don’t you know all Saumur
!s pelt!ng you w!th stones?”

“The scoundrels!”

“Come, the Funds are at n!nety-n!ne. Do be sat!sf!ed for once !n your

l!fe.”

“At n!nety-n!ne! Are they, Cruchot?”

“Yes.”
:
 “Hey, hey! N!nety-n!ne!” repeated the old man, accompany!ng the
notary to the street-door. Then, too ag!tated by what he had just
heard to stay !n the house, he went up to h!s w!fe’s room and sa!d,—

“Come, mother, you may have your daughter to spend the day w!th
you. I’m go!ng to Fro!dfond. Enjoy yourselves, both of you. Th!s !s our
wedd!ng-day, w!fe. See! here are s!xty francs for your altar at the
Fete-D!eu; you’ve wanted one for a long t!me. Come, cheer up, enjoy
yourself, and get well! Hurrah for happ!ness!”

He threw ten s!lver p!eces of s!x francs each upon the bed, and took
h!s w!fe’s head between h!s hands and k!ssed her forehead.

“My good w!fe, you are gett!ng well, are not you?”

“How can you th!nk of rece!v!ng the God of mercy !n your house
when you refuse to forg!ve your daughter?” she sa!d w!th emot!on.

“Ta, ta, ta, ta!” sa!d Grandet !n a coax!ng vo!ce. “We’ll see about that.”

“Merc!ful heaven! Eugen!e,” cr!ed the mother, flush!ng w!th joy,

“come and k!ss your father; he forg!ves you!”

But the old man had d!sappeared. He was go!ng as fast as h!s legs
could carry h!m towards h!s v!neyards, try!ng to get h!s confused
!deas !nto order. Grandet had entered h!s seventy-s!xth year. Dur!ng
the last two years h!s avar!ce had !ncreased upon h!m, as all the
pers!stent pass!ons of men !ncrease at a certa!n age. As !f to
!llustrate an observat!on wh!ch appl!es equally to m!sers, amb!t!ous
men, and others whose l!ves are controlled by any dom!nant !dea, h!s
affect!ons had fastened upon one spec!al symbol of h!s pass!on. The
s!ght of gold, the possess!on of gold, had become a monoman!a. H!s
despot!c sp!r!t had grown !n proport!on to h!s avar!ce, and to part
w!th the control of the smallest fract!on of h!s property at the death
:
 of h!s w!fe seemed to h!m a th!ng “aga!nst nature.” To declare h!s
fortune to h!s daughter, to g!ve an !nventory of h!s property, landed
and personal, for the purposes of d!v!s!on—

“Why,” he cr!ed aloud !n the m!dst of a f!eld where he was pretend!ng

to exam!ne a v!ne, “!t would be cutt!ng my throat!”

He came at last to a dec!s!on, and returned to Saumur !n t!me for

d!nner, resolved to unbend to Eugen!e, and pet and coax her, that he
m!ght d!e regally, hold!ng the re!ns of h!s m!ll!ons !n h!s own hands so
long as the breath was !n h!s body. At the moment when the old man,
who chanced to have h!s pass-key !n h!s pocket, opened the door
and cl!mbed w!th a stealthy step up the sta!rway to go !nto h!s w!fe’s
room, Eugen!e had brought the beaut!ful dress!ng-case from the oak
cab!net and placed !t on her mother’s bed. Mother and daughter, !n
Grandet’s absence, allowed themselves the pleasure of look!ng for a
l!keness to Charles !n the portra!t of h!s mother.

“It !s exactly h!s forehead and h!s mouth,” Eugen!e was say!ng as the
old man opened the door. At the look wh!ch her husband cast upon
the gold, Madame Grandet cr!ed out,—

“O God, have p!ty upon us!”

The old man sprang upon the box as a fam!shed t!ger m!ght spr!ng
upon a sleep!ng ch!ld.

“What’s th!s?” he sa!d, snatch!ng the treasure and carry!ng !t to the

w!ndow. “Gold, good gold!” he cr!ed. “All gold,—!t we!ghs two
pounds! Ha, ha! Charles gave you that for your money, d!d he? He!n!
Why d!dn’t you tell me so? It was a good barga!n, l!ttle one! Yes, you
are my daughter, I see that—” Eugen!e trembled !n every l!mb. “Th!s
came from Charles, of course, d!dn’t !t?” cont!nued the old man.
:
 “Yes, father; !t !s not m!ne. It !s a sacred trust.”

“Ta, ta, ta, ta! He took your fortune, and now you can get !t back.”

“Father!”

Grandet took h!s kn!fe to pry out some of the gold; to do th!s, he
placed the dress!ng-case on a cha!r. Eugen!e sprang forward to
recover !t; but her father, who had h!s eye on her and on the treasure
too, pushed her back so v!olently w!th a thrust of h!s arm that she fell
upon her mother’s bed.

“Mons!eur, mons!eur!” cr!ed the mother, l!ft!ng herself up.

Grandet had opened h!s kn!fe, and was about to apply !t to the gold.

“Father!” cr!ed Eugen!e, fall!ng on her knees and dragg!ng herself

close to h!m w!th clasped hands, “father, !n the name of all the sa!nts
and the V!rg!n! !n the name of Chr!st who d!ed upon the cross! !n the
name of your eternal salvat!on, father! for my l!fe’s sake, father!—do
not touch that! It !s ne!ther yours nor m!ne. It !s a trust placed !n my
hands by an unhappy relat!on: I must g!ve !t back to h!m un!njured!”

“If !t !s a trust, why were you look!ng at !t? To look at !t !s as bad as

touch!ng !t.”

“Father, don’t destroy !t, or you w!ll d!sgrace me! Father, do you
hear?”

“Oh, have p!ty!” sa!d the mother.

“Father!” cr!ed Eugen!e !n so startl!ng a vo!ce that Nanon ran upsta!rs

terr!f!ed. Eugen!e sprang upon a kn!fe that was close at hand.

“Well, what now?” sa!d Grandet coldly, w!th a callous sm!le.

:
 “Oh, you are k!ll!ng me!” sa!d the mother.

“Father, !f your kn!fe so much as cuts a fragment of that gold, I w!ll

stab myself w!th th!s one! You have already dr!ven my mother to her
death; you w!ll now k!ll your ch!ld! Do as you choose! Wound for
wound!”

Grandet held h!s kn!fe over the dress!ng-case and hes!tated as he

looked at h!s daughter.

“Are you capable of do!ng !t, Eugen!e?” he sa!d.

“Yes, yes!” sa!d the mother.

“She’ll do !t !f she says so!” cr!ed Nanon. “Be reasonable, mons!eur,

for once !n your l!fe.”

The old man looked at the gold and then at h!s daughter alternately
for an !nstant. Madame Grandet fa!nted.

“There! don’t you see, mons!eur, that madame !s dy!ng?” cr!ed

Nanon.

“Come, come, my daughter, we won’t quarrel for a box! Here, take

!t!” he cr!ed hast!ly, fl!ng!ng the case upon the bed. “Nanon, go and
fetch Mons!eur Berger!n! Come, mother,” sa!d he, k!ss!ng h!s w!fe’s
hand, “!t’s all over! There! we’ve made up—haven’t we, l!ttle one? No
more dry bread; you shall have all you want—Ah, she opens her eyes!
Well, mother, l!ttle mother, come! See, I’m k!ss!ng Eugen!e! She loves
her cous!n, and she may marry h!m !f she wants to; she may keep h!s
case. But don’t d!e, mother; l!ve a long t!me yet, my poor w!fe! Come,
try to move! L!sten! you shall have the f!nest altar that ever was made
!n Saumur.”

“Oh, how can you treat your w!fe and daughter so!” sa!d Madame
:
 Grandet !n a feeble vo!ce.

“I won’t do so aga!n, never aga!n,” cr!ed her husband; “you shall see,
my poor w!fe!” He went to h!s !nner room and returned w!th a handful
of lou!s, wh!ch he scattered on the bed. “Here, Eugen!e! see, w!fe! all
these are for you,” he sa!d, f!nger!ng the co!ns. “Come, be happy,
w!fe! feel better, get well; you sha’n’t want for anyth!ng, nor Eugen!e
e!ther. Here’s a hundred lou!s d’or for her. You won’t g!ve these away,
w!ll you, Eugen!e, he!n?”

Madame Grandet and her daughter looked at each other !n

aston!shment.

“Take back your money, father; we ask for noth!ng but your
affect!on.”

“Well, well, that’s r!ght!” he sa!d, pocket!ng the co!ns; “let’s be good
fr!ends! We w!ll all go down to d!nner to-day, and we’ll play loto every
even!ng for two sous. You shall both be happy. Hey, w!fe?”

“Alas! I w!sh I could, !f !t would g!ve you pleasure,” sa!d the dy!ng
woman; “but I cannot r!se from my bed.”

“Poor mother,” sa!d Grandet, “you don’t know how I love you! and
you too, my daughter!” He took her !n h!s arms and k!ssed her. “Oh,
how good !t !s to k!ss a daughter when we have been angry w!th her!
There, mother, don’t you see !t’s all over now? Go and put that away,
Eugen!e,” he added, po!nt!ng to the case. “Go, don’t be afra!d! I shall
never speak of !t aga!n, never!”

Mons!eur Berger!n, the celebrated doctor of Saumur, presently

arr!ved. After an exam!nat!on, he told Grandet pos!t!vely that h!s w!fe
was very !ll; but that perfect peace of m!nd, a generous d!et, and
great care m!ght prolong her l!fe unt!l the autumn.
:
 “W!ll all that cost much?” sa!d the old man. “W!ll she need
med!c!nes?”

“Not much med!c!ne, but a great deal of care,” answered the doctor,
who could scarcely restra!n a sm!le.

“Now, Mons!eur Berger!n,” sa!d Grandet, “you are a man of honor, are
not you? I trust to you! Come and see my w!fe how and when you
th!nk necessary. Save my good w!fe! I love her,—don’t you see?—
though I never talk about !t; I keep th!ngs to myself. I’m full of trouble.
Troubles began when my brother d!ed; I have to spend enormous
sums on h!s affa!rs !n Par!s. Why, I’m pay!ng through my nose; there’s
no end to !t. Ad!eu, mons!eur! If you can save my w!fe, save her. I’ll
spare no expense, not even !f !t costs me a hundred or two hundred
francs.”

In sp!te of Grandet’s fervent w!shes for the health of h!s w!fe, whose
death threatened more than death to h!m; !n sp!te of the
cons!derat!on he now showed on all occas!ons for the least w!sh of
h!s aston!shed w!fe and daughter; !n sp!te of the tender care wh!ch
Eugen!e lav!shed upon her mother,—Madame Grandet rap!dly
approached her end. Every day she grew weaker and wasted v!s!bly,
as women of her age when attacked by ser!ous !llness are wont to
do. She was frag!le as the fol!age !n autumn; the rad!ance of heaven
shone through her as the sun str!kes athwart the w!ther!ng leaves
and g!lds them. It was a death worthy of her l!fe,—a Chr!st!an death;
and !s not that subl!me? In the month of October, 1822, her v!rtues,
her angel!c pat!ence, her love for her daughter, seemed to f!nd
spec!al express!on; and then she passed away w!thout a murmur.
Lamb w!thout spot, she went to heaven, regrett!ng only the sweet
compan!on of her cold and dreary l!fe, for whom her last glance
seemed to prophesy a dest!ny of sorrows. She shrank from leav!ng
her ewe-lamb, wh!te as herself, alone !n the m!dst of a self!sh world
:
 that sought to str!p her of her fleece and grasp her treasures.

“My ch!ld,” she sa!d as she exp!red, “there !s no happ!ness except !n

heaven; you w!ll know !t some day.”

XII
On the morrow of th!s death Eugen!e felt a new mot!ve for
attachment to the house !n wh!ch she was born, where she had
suffered so much, where her mother had just d!ed. She could not see
the w!ndow and the cha!r on !ts castors w!thout weep!ng. She
thought she had m!staken the heart of her old father when she found
herself the object of h!s tenderest cares. He came !n the morn!ng
and gave her h!s arm to take her to breakfast; he looked at her for
hours together w!th an eye that was almost k!nd; he brooded over
her as though she had been gold. The old man was so unl!ke h!mself,
he trembled so often before h!s daughter, that Nanon and the
Cruchot!nes, who w!tnessed h!s weakness, attr!buted !t to h!s great
age, and feared that h!s facult!es were g!v!ng away. But the day on
wh!ch the fam!ly put on the!r mourn!ng, and after d!nner, to wh!ch
meal Ma!tre Cruchot (the only person who knew h!s secret) had been
!nv!ted, the conduct of the old m!ser was expla!ned.

“My dear ch!ld,” he sa!d to Eugen!e when the table had been cleared
and the doors carefully shut, “you are now your mother’s he!ress,
and we have a few l!ttle matters to settle between us. Isn’t that so,
Cruchot?”

“Yes.”

“Is !t necessary to talk of them to-day, father?”

“Yes, yes, l!ttle one; I can’t bear the uncerta!nty !n wh!ch I’m placed. I
th!nk you don’t want to g!ve me pa!n?”
:
 “Oh! father—”

“Well, then! let us settle !t all to-n!ght.”

“What !s !t you w!sh me to do?”

“My l!ttle g!rl, !t !s not for me to say. Tell her, Cruchot.”

“Mademo!selle, your father does not w!sh to d!v!de the property, nor
sell the estate, nor pay enormous taxes on the ready money wh!ch
he may possess. Therefore, to avo!d all th!s, he must be released
from mak!ng the !nventory of h!s whole fortune, part of wh!ch you
!nher!t from your mother, and wh!ch !s now und!v!ded between you
and your father—”

“Cruchot, are you qu!te sure of what you are say!ng before you tell !t
to a mere ch!ld?”

“Let me tell !t my own way, Grandet.”

“Yes, yes, my fr!end. Ne!ther you nor my daughter w!sh to rob me,—
do you, l!ttle one?”

“But, Mons!eur Cruchot, what am I to do?” sa!d Eugen!e !mpat!ently.

“Well,” sa!d the notary, “!t !s necessary to s!gn th!s deed, by wh!ch
you renounce your r!ghts to your mother’s estate and leave your
father the use and d!spos!t!on, dur!ng h!s l!fet!me, of all the property
und!v!ded between you, of wh!ch he guarantees you the cap!tal.”

“I do not understand a word of what you are say!ng,” returned

Eugen!e; “g!ve me the deed, and show me where I am to s!gn !t.”

Pere Grandet looked alternately at the deed and at h!s daughter, at

h!s daughter and at the deed, undergo!ng as he d!d so such v!olent
:
 emot!on that he w!ped the sweat from h!s brow.

“My l!ttle g!rl,” he sa!d, “!f, !nstead of s!gn!ng th!s deed, wh!ch w!ll
cost a great deal to record, you would s!mply agree to renounce your
r!ghts as he!r to your poor dear, deceased mother’s property, and
would trust to me for the future, I should l!ke !t better. In that case I
w!ll pay you monthly the good round sum of a hundred francs. See,
now, you could pay for as many masses as you want for anybody—
He!n! a hundred francs a month—!n l!vres?”

“I w!ll do all you w!sh, father.”

“Mademo!selle,” sa!d the notary, “!t !s my duty to po!nt out to you that
you are despo!l!ng yourself w!thout guarantee—”

“Good heavens! what !s all that to me?”

“Hold your tongue, Cruchot! It’s settled, all settled,” cr!ed Grandet,
tak!ng h!s daughter’s hand and str!k!ng !t w!th h!s own. “Eugen!e, you
won’t go back on your word?—you are an honest g!rl, he!n?”

“Oh! father!—”

He k!ssed her effus!vely, and pressed her !n h!s arms t!ll he almost
choked her.

“Go, my good ch!ld, you restore your father’s l!fe; but you only return
to h!m that wh!ch he gave you: we are qu!ts. Th!s !s how bus!ness
should be done. L!fe !s a bus!ness. I bless you! you are a v!rtuous g!rl,
and you love your father. Do just what you l!ke !n future. To-morrow,
Cruchot,” he added, look!ng at the horr!f!ed notary, “you w!ll see
about prepar!ng the deed of rel!nqu!shment, and then enter !t on the
records of the court.”

The next morn!ng Eugen!e s!gned the papers by wh!ch she herself
:
 completed her spol!at!on. At the end of the f!rst year, however, !n
sp!te of h!s barga!n, the old man had not g!ven h!s daughter one sou
of the hundred francs he had so solemnly pledged to her. When
Eugen!e pleasantly rem!nded h!m of th!s, he could not help color!ng,
and went hast!ly to h!s secret h!d!ng-place, from whence he brought
down about a th!rd of the jewels he had taken from h!s nephew, and
gave them to her.

“There, l!ttle one,” he sa!d !n a sarcast!c tone, “do you want those for
your twelve hundred francs?”

“Oh! father, truly? w!ll you really g!ve them to me?”

“I’ll g!ve you as many more next year,” he sa!d, throw!ng them !nto her
apron. “So before long you’ll get all h!s gewgaws,” he added, rubb!ng
h!s hands, del!ghted to be able to speculate on h!s daughter’s
feel!ngs.

Nevertheless, the old man, though st!ll robust, felt the !mportance of
!n!t!at!ng h!s daughter !nto the secrets of h!s thr!ft and !ts
management. For two consecut!ve years he made her order the
household meals !n h!s presence and rece!ve the rents, and he
taught her slowly and success!vely the names and remunerat!ve
capac!ty of h!s v!neyards and h!s farms. About the th!rd year he had
so thoroughly accustomed her to h!s avar!c!ous methods that they
had turned !nto the settled hab!ts of her own l!fe, and he was able to
leave the household keys !n her charge w!thout anx!ety, and to !nstall
her as m!stress of the house.

F!ve years passed away w!thout a s!ngle event to rel!eve the

monotonous ex!stence of Eugen!e and her father. The same act!ons
were performed da!ly w!th the automat!c regular!ty of clockwork. The
deep sadness of Mademo!selle Grandet was known to every one; but
:
 !f others surm!sed the cause, she herself never uttered a word that
just!f!ed the susp!c!ons wh!ch all Saumur enterta!ned about the state
of the r!ch he!ress’s heart. Her only soc!ety was made up of the three
Cruchots and a few of the!r part!cular fr!ends whom they had, l!ttle by
l!ttle, !ntroduced !nto the Grandet household. They had taught her to
play wh!st, and they came every n!ght for the!r game. Dur!ng the year
1827 her father, feel!ng the we!ght of h!s !nf!rm!t!es, was obl!ged to
!n!t!ate her st!ll further !nto the secrets of h!s landed property, and
told her that !n case of d!ff!culty she was to have recourse to Ma!tre
Cruchot, whose !ntegr!ty was well known to h!m.

Towards the end of th!s year the old man, then e!ghty-two, was
se!zed by paralys!s, wh!ch made rap!d progress. Dr. Berger!n gave
h!m up. Eugen!e, feel!ng that she was about to be left alone !n the
world, came, as !t were, nearer to her father, and clasped more
t!ghtly th!s last l!v!ng l!nk of affect!on. To her m!nd, as !n that of all
lov!ng women, love was the whole of l!fe. Charles was not there, and
she devoted all her care and attent!on to the old father, whose
facult!es had begun to weaken, though h!s avar!ce rema!ned
!nst!nct!vely acute. The death of th!s man offered no contrast to h!s
l!fe. In the morn!ng he made them roll h!m to a spot between the
ch!mney of h!s chamber and the door of the secret room, wh!ch was
f!lled, no doubt, w!th gold. He asked for an explanat!on of every no!se
he heard, even the sl!ghtest; to the great aston!shment of the notary,
he even heard the watch-dog yawn!ng !n the court-yard. He woke up
from h!s apparent stupor at the day and hour when the rents were
due, or when accounts had to be settled w!th h!s v!ne-dressers, and
rece!pts g!ven. At such t!mes he worked h!s cha!r forward on !ts
castors unt!l he faced the door of the !nner room. He made h!s
daughter open !t, and watched wh!le she placed the bags of money
one upon another !n h!s secret receptacles and relocked the door.
Then she returned s!lently to her seat, after g!v!ng h!m the key, wh!ch
:
 he replaced !n h!s wa!stcoat pocket and f!ngered from t!me to t!me.
H!s old fr!end the notary, feel!ng sure that the r!ch he!ress would
!nev!tably marry h!s nephew the pres!dent, !f Charles Grandet d!d not
return, redoubled all h!s attent!ons; he came every day to take
Grandet’s orders, went on h!s errands to Fro!dfond, to the farms and
the f!elds and the v!neyards, sold the v!ntages, and turned everyth!ng
!nto gold and s!lver, wh!ch found the!r way !n sacks to the secret
h!d!ng-place.

At length the last struggle came, !n wh!ch the strong frame of the old
man slowly y!elded to destruct!on. He was determ!ned to s!t at the
ch!mney-corner fac!ng the door of the secret room. He drew off and
rolled up all the cover!ngs wh!ch were la!d over h!m, say!ng to Nanon,
“Put them away, lock them up, for fear they should be stolen.”

So long as he could open h!s eyes, !n wh!ch h!s whole be!ng had now
taken refuge, he turned them to the door beh!nd wh!ch lay h!s
treasures, say!ng to h!s daughter, “Are they there? are they there?” !n
a tone of vo!ce wh!ch revealed a sort of pan!c fear.

“Yes, my father,” she would answer.

“Take care of the gold—put gold before me.”

Eugen!e would then spread co!ns on a table before h!m, and he

would s!t for hours together w!th h!s eyes f!xed upon them, l!ke a
ch!ld who, at the moment !t f!rst beg!ns to see, gazes !n stup!d
contemplat!on at the same object, and l!ke the ch!ld, a d!stressful
sm!le would fl!cker upon h!s face.

“It warms me!” he would somet!mes say, as an express!on of

beat!tude stole across h!s features.

When the cure of the par!sh came to adm!n!ster the last sacraments,
:
 the old man’s eyes, s!ghtless, apparently, for some hours, k!ndled at
the s!ght of the cross, the candlest!cks, and the holy-water vessel of
s!lver; he gazed at them f!xedly, and h!s wen moved for the last t!me.
When the pr!est put the cruc!f!x of s!lver-g!lt to h!s l!ps, that he m!ght
k!ss the Chr!st, he made a fr!ghtful gesture, as !f to se!ze !t; and that
last effort cost h!m h!s l!fe. He called Eugen!e, whom he d!d not see,
though she was kneel!ng bes!de h!m bath!ng w!th tears h!s st!ffen!ng
hand, wh!ch was already cold.

“My father, bless me!” she entreated.

“Take care of !t all. You w!ll render me an account yonder!” he sa!d,

prov!ng by these last words that Chr!st!an!ty must always be the
rel!g!on of m!sers.

Eugen!e Grandet was now alone !n the world !n that gray house, w!th
none but Nanon to whom she could turn w!th the certa!nty of be!ng
heard and understood,—Nanon the sole be!ng who loved her for
herself and w!th whom she could speak of her sorrows. La Grande
Nanon was a prov!dence for Eugen!e. She was not a servant, but a
humble fr!end. After her father’s death Eugen!e learned from Ma!tre
Cruchot that she possessed an !ncome of three hundred thousand
francs from landed and personal property !n the arrond!ssement of
Saumur; also s!x m!ll!ons !nvested at three per cent !n the Funds
(bought at s!xty, and now worth seventy-s!x francs); also two m!ll!ons
!n gold co!n, and a hundred thousand francs !n s!lver crown-p!eces,
bes!des all the !nterest wh!ch was st!ll to be collected. The sum total
of her property reached seventeen m!ll!ons.

“Where !s my cous!n?” was her one thought.

The day on wh!ch Ma!tre Cruchot handed !n to h!s cl!ent a clear and
exact schedule of the whole !nher!tance, Eugen!e rema!ned alone
:
 w!th Nanon, s!tt!ng bes!de the f!replace !n the vacant hall, where all
was now a memory, from the cha!r on castors wh!ch her mother had
sat !n, to the glass from wh!ch her cous!n drank.

“Nanon, we are alone—”

“Yes, mademo!selle; and !f I knew where he was, the darl!ng, I’d go

on foot to f!nd h!m.”

“The ocean !s between us,” she sa!d.

Wh!le the poor he!ress wept !n company of an old servant, !n that

cold dark house, wh!ch was to her the un!verse, the whole prov!nce
rang, from Nantes to Orleans, w!th the seventeen m!ll!ons of
Mademo!selle Grandet. Among her f!rst acts she had settled an
annu!ty of twelve hundred francs on Nanon, who, already possessed
of s!x hundred more, became a r!ch and env!able match. In less than
a month that good soul passed from s!ngle to wedded l!fe under the
protect!on of Anto!ne Corno!ller, who was appo!nted keeper of all
Mademo!selle Grandet’s estates. Madame Corno!ller possessed one
str!k!ng advantage over her contemporar!es. Although she was f!fty-
n!ne years of age, she d!d not look more than forty. Her strong
features had res!sted the ravages of t!me. Thanks to the healthy
customs of her sem!-conventual l!fe, she laughed at old age from the
vantage-ground of a rosy sk!n and an !ron const!tut!on. Perhaps she
never looked as well !n her l!fe as she d!d on her marr!age-day. She
had all the benef!ts of her ugl!ness, and was b!g and fat and strong,
w!th a look of happ!ness on her !ndestruct!ble features wh!ch made a
good many people envy Corno!ller.

“Fast colors!” sa!d the draper.

“Qu!te l!kely to have ch!ldren,” sa!d the salt merchant. “She’s p!ckled
!n br!ne, sav!ng your presence.”
:
 “She !s r!ch, and that fellow Corno!ller has done a good th!ng for
h!mself,” sa!d a th!rd man.

When she came forth from the old house on her way to the par!sh
church, Nanon, who was loved by all the ne!ghborhood, rece!ved
many compl!ments as she walked down the tortuous street. Eugen!e
had g!ven her three dozen s!lver forks and spoons as a wedd!ng
present. Corno!ller, amazed at such magn!f!cence, spoke of h!s
m!stress w!th tears !n h!s eyes; he would w!ll!ngly have been hacked
!n p!eces !n her behalf. Madame Corno!ller, appo!nted housekeeper
to Mademo!selle Grandet, got as much happ!ness out of her new
pos!t!on as she d!d from the possess!on of a husband. She took
charge of the weekly accounts; she locked up the prov!s!ons and
gave them out da!ly, after the manner of her defunct master; she
ruled over two servants,—a cook, and a ma!d whose bus!ness !t was
to mend the house-l!nen and make mademo!selle’s dresses.
Corno!ller comb!ned the funct!ons of keeper and ba!l!ff. It !s
unnecessary to say that the women-servants selected by Nanon
were “perfect treasures.” Mademo!selle Grandet thus had four
servants, whose devot!on was unbounded. The farmers perce!ved no
change after Mons!eur Grandet’s death; the usages and customs he
had sternly establ!shed were scrupulously carr!ed out by Mons!eur
and Madame Corno!ller.

At th!rty years of age Eugen!e knew none of the joys of l!fe. Her pale,
sad ch!ldhood had gl!ded on bes!de a mother whose heart, always
m!sunderstood and wounded, had known only suffer!ng. Leav!ng th!s
l!fe joyfully, the mother p!t!ed the daughter because she st!ll must
l!ve; and she left !n her ch!ld’s soul some fug!t!ve remorse and many
last!ng regrets. Eugen!e’s f!rst and only love was a wellspr!ng of
sadness w!th!n her. Meet!ng her lover for a few br!ef days, she had
g!ven h!m her heart between two k!sses furt!vely exchanged; then he
had left her, and a whole world lay between them. Th!s love, cursed
:
 by her father, had cost the l!fe of her mother and brought her only
sorrow, m!ngled w!th a few fra!l hopes. Thus her upward spr!ng
towards happ!ness had wasted her strength and g!ven her noth!ng !n
exchange for !t. In the l!fe of the soul, as !n the phys!cal l!fe, there !s
an !nsp!rat!on and a resp!rat!on; the soul needs to absorb the
sent!ments of another soul and ass!m!late them, that !t may render
them back enr!ched. Were !t not for th!s glor!ous human
phenomenon, there would be no l!fe for the heart; a!r would be
want!ng; !t would suffer, and then per!sh. Eugen!e had begun to
suffer. For her, wealth was ne!ther a power nor a consolat!on; she
could not l!ve except through love, through rel!g!on, through fa!th !n
the future. Love expla!ned to her the myster!es of etern!ty. Her heart
and the Gospel taught her to know two worlds; she bathed, n!ght and
day, !n the depths of two !nf!n!te thoughts, wh!ch for her may have
had but one mean!ng. She drew back w!th!n herself, lov!ng, and
bel!ev!ng herself beloved. For seven years her pass!on had !nvaded
everyth!ng. Her treasur!es were not the m!ll!ons whose revenues
were roll!ng up; they were Charles’s dress!ng-case, the portra!ts
hang!ng above her bed, the jewels recovered from her father and
proudly spread upon a bed of wool !n a drawer of the oaken cab!net,
the th!mble of her aunt, used for a wh!le by her mother, wh!ch she
wore rel!g!ously as she worked at a p!ece of embro!dery,—a
Penelope’s web, begun for the sole purpose of putt!ng upon her
f!nger that gold so r!ch !n memor!es.

It seemed unl!kely that Mademo!selle Grandet would marry dur!ng

the per!od of her mourn!ng. Her genu!ne p!ety was well known.
Consequently the Cruchots, whose pol!cy was sagely gu!ded by the
old abbe, contented themselves for the t!me be!ng w!th surround!ng
the great he!ress and pay!ng her the most affect!onate attent!ons.
Every even!ng the hall was f!lled w!th a party of devoted Cruchot!nes,
who sang the pra!ses of !ts m!stress !n every key. She had her doctor
:
 !n ord!nary, her grand almoner, her chamberla!n, her f!rst lady of
honor, her pr!me m!n!ster; above all, her chancellor, a chancellor who
would fa!n have sa!d much to her. If the he!ress had w!shed for a
tra!n-bearer, one would !nstantly have been found. She was a queen,
obsequ!ously flattered. Flattery never emanates from noble souls; !t
!s the g!ft of l!ttle m!nds, who thus st!ll further bel!ttle themselves to
worm the!r way !nto the v!tal be!ng of the persons around whom they
crawl. Flattery means self-!nterest. So the people who, n!ght after
n!ght, assembled !n Mademo!selle Grandet’s house (they called her
Mademo!selle de Fro!dfond) outd!d each other !n express!ons of
adm!rat!on. Th!s concert of pra!se, never before bestowed upon
Eugen!e, made her blush under !ts novelty; but !nsens!bly her ear
became hab!tuated to the sound, and however coarse the
compl!ments m!ght be, she soon was so accustomed to hear her
beauty lauded that !f any new-comer had seemed to th!nk her pla!n,
she would have felt the reproach far more than she m!ght have done
e!ght years earl!er. She ended at last by lov!ng the !ncense, wh!ch
she secretly la!d at the feet of her !dol. By degrees she grew
accustomed to be treated as a sovere!gn and to see her court
press!ng around her every even!ng.

Mons!eur de Bonfons was the hero of the l!ttle c!rcle, where h!s w!t,
h!s person, h!s educat!on, h!s am!ab!l!ty, were perpetually pra!sed.
One or another would remark that !n seven years he had largely
!ncreased h!s fortune, that Bonfons brought !n at least ten thousand
francs a year, and was surrounded, l!ke the other possess!ons of the
Cruchots, by the vast doma!ns of the he!ress.

“Do you know, mademo!selle,” sa!d an hab!tual v!s!tor, “that the

Cruchots have an !ncome of forty thousand francs among them!”

“And then, the!r sav!ngs!” excla!med an elderly female Cruchot!ne,

Mademo!selle de Gr!beaucourt.
:
 “A gentleman from Par!s has lately offered Mons!eur Cruchot two
hundred thousand francs for h!s pract!ce,” sa!d another. “He w!ll sell
!t !f he !s appo!nted juge de pa!x.”

“He wants to succeed Mons!eur de Bonfons as pres!dent of the C!v!l

courts, and !s tak!ng measures,” repl!ed Madame d’Orsonval.
“Mons!eur le pres!dent w!ll certa!nly be made counc!llor.”

“Yes, he !s a very d!st!ngu!shed man,” sa!d another,—“don’t you th!nk

so, mademo!selle?”

Mons!eur de Bonfons endeavored to put h!mself !n keep!ng w!th the

role he sought to play. In sp!te of h!s forty years, !n sp!te of h!s dusky
and crabbed features, w!thered l!ke most jud!c!al faces, he dressed !n
youthful fash!ons, toyed w!th a bamboo cane, never took snuff !n
Mademo!selle de Fro!dfond’s house, and came !n a wh!te cravat and
a sh!rt whose pleated fr!ll gave h!m a fam!ly resemblance to the race
of turkeys. He addressed the beaut!ful he!ress fam!l!arly, and spoke
of her as “Our dear Eugen!e.” In short, except for the number of
v!s!tors, the change from loto to wh!st, and the d!sappearance of
Mons!eur and Madame Grandet, the scene was about the same as
the one w!th wh!ch th!s h!story opened. The pack were st!ll pursu!ng
Eugen!e and her m!ll!ons; but the hounds, more !n number, lay better
on the scent, and beset the prey more un!tedly. If Charles could have
dropped from the Ind!an Isles, he would have found the same people
and the same !nterests. Madame des Grass!ns, to whom Eugen!e was
full of k!ndness and courtesy, st!ll pers!sted !n torment!ng the
Cruchots. Eugen!e, as !n former days, was the central f!gure of the
p!cture; and Charles, as heretofore, would st!ll have been the
sovere!gn of all. Yet there had been some progress. The flowers
wh!ch the pres!dent formerly presented to Eugen!e on her b!rthdays
and fete-days had now become a da!ly !nst!tut!on. Every even!ng he
brought the r!ch he!ress a huge and magn!f!cent bouquet, wh!ch
:
 Madame Corno!ller placed consp!cuously !n a vase, and secretly
threw !nto a corner of the court-yard when the v!s!tors had departed.

Early !n the spr!ng, Madame des Grass!ns attempted to trouble the

peace of the Cruchot!nes by talk!ng to Eugen!e of the Marqu!s de
Fro!dfond, whose anc!ent and ru!ned fam!ly m!ght be restored !f the
he!ress would g!ve h!m back h!s estates through marr!age. Madame
des Grass!ns rang the changes on the peerage and the t!tle of
marqu!se, unt!l, m!stak!ng Eugen!e’s d!sda!nful sm!le for
acqu!escence, she went about procla!m!ng that the marr!age w!th
“Mons!eur Cruchot” was not nearly as certa!n as people thought.

“Though Mons!eur de Fro!dfond !s f!fty,” she sa!d, “he does not look
older than Mons!eur Cruchot. He !s a w!dower, and he has ch!ldren,
that’s true. But then he !s a marqu!s; he w!ll be peer of France; and !n
t!mes l!ke these where you w!ll f!nd a better match? I know !t for a
fact that Pere Grandet, when he put all h!s money !nto Fro!dfond,
!ntended to graft h!mself upon that stock; he often told me so. He
was a deep one, that old man!”

“Ah! Nanon,” sa!d Eugen!e, one n!ght as she was go!ng to bed, “how
!s !t that !n seven years he has never once wr!tten to me?”

XIII
Wh!le these events were happen!ng !n Saumur, Charles was mak!ng
h!s fortune !n the Ind!es. H!s commerc!al outf!t had sold well. He
began by real!z!ng a sum of s!x thousand dollars. Cross!ng the l!ne
had brushed a good many cobwebs out of h!s bra!n; he perce!ved
that the best means of atta!n!ng fortune !n trop!cal reg!ons, as well as
!n Europe, was to buy and sell men. He went to the coast of Afr!ca
and bought Negroes, comb!n!ng h!s traff!c !n human flesh w!th that
of other merchand!se equally advantageous to h!s !nterests. He
:
 carr!ed !nto th!s bus!ness an act!v!ty wh!ch left h!m not a moment of
le!sure. He was governed by the des!re of reappear!ng !n Par!s w!th
all the prest!ge of a large fortune, and by the hope of rega!n!ng a
pos!t!on even more br!ll!ant than the one from wh!ch he had fallen.

By d!nt of jostl!ng w!th men, travell!ng through many lands, and

study!ng a var!ety of confl!ct!ng customs, h!s !deas had been
mod!f!ed and had become scept!cal. He ceased to have f!xed
pr!nc!ples of r!ght and wrong, for he saw what was called a cr!me !n
one country lauded as a v!rtue !n another. In the perpetual struggle of
self!sh !nterests h!s heart grew cold, then contracted, and then dr!ed
up. The blood of the Grandets d!d not fa!l of !ts dest!ny; Charles
became hard, and eager for prey. He sold Ch!namen, Negroes, b!rds’
nests, ch!ldren, art!sts; he pract!sed usury on a large scale; the hab!t
of defraud!ng custom-houses soon made h!m less scrupulous about
the r!ghts of h!s fellow men. He went to the Island of St. Thomas and
bought, for a mere song, merchand!se that had been captured by
p!rates, and took !t to ports where he could sell !t at a good pr!ce. If
the pure and noble face of Eugen!e went w!th h!m on h!s f!rst voyage,
l!ke that !mage of the V!rg!n wh!ch Span!sh mar!ners fastened to the!r
masts, !f he attr!buted h!s f!rst success to the mag!c !nfluence of the
prayers and !ntercess!ons of h!s gentle love, later on women of other
k!nds,—blacks, mulattoes, wh!tes, and Ind!an danc!ng-g!rls,—org!es
and adventures !n many lands, completely effaced all recollect!on of
h!s cous!n, of Saumur, of the house, the bench, the k!ss snatched !n
the dark passage. He remembered only the l!ttle garden shut !n w!th
crumbl!ng walls, for !t was there he learned the fate that had
overtaken h!m; but he rejected all connect!on w!th h!s fam!ly. H!s
uncle was an old dog who had f!lched h!s jewels; Eugen!e had no
place !n h!s heart nor !n h!s thoughts, though she d!d have a place !n
h!s accounts as a cred!tor for the sum of s!x thousand francs.

Such conduct and such !deas expla!n Charles Grandet’s s!lence. In

:
 the Ind!es, at St. Thomas, on the coast of Afr!ca, at L!sbon, and !n the
Un!ted States the adventurer had taken the pseudonym of Shepherd,
that he m!ght not comprom!se h!s own name. Charles Shepherd
could safely be !ndefat!gable, bold, grasp!ng, and greedy of ga!n, l!ke
a man who resolves to snatch h!s fortune qu!bus cumque v!!s, and
makes haste to have done w!th v!llany, that he may spend the rest of
h!s l!fe as an honest man.

W!th such methods, prosper!ty was rap!d and br!ll!ant; and !n 1827
Charles Grandet returned to Bordeaux on the “Mar!e Carol!ne,” a f!ne
br!g belong!ng to a royal!st house of bus!ness. He brought w!th h!m
n!neteen hundred thousand francs worth of gold-dust, from wh!ch
he expected to der!ve seven or e!ght per cent more at the Par!s m!nt.
On the br!g he met a gentleman-!n-ord!nary to H!s Majesty Charles
X., Mons!eur d’Aubr!on, a worthy old man who had comm!tted the
folly of marry!ng a woman of fash!on w!th a fortune der!ved from the
West Ind!a Islands. To meet the costs of Madame d’Aubr!on’s
extravagance, he had gone out to the Ind!es to sell the property, and
was now return!ng w!th h!s fam!ly to France.

Mons!eur and Madame d’Aubr!on, of the house of d’Aubr!on de Buch,

a fam!ly of southern France, whose last captal, or ch!ef, d!ed before
1789, were now reduced to an !ncome of about twenty thousand
francs, and they possessed an ugly daughter whom the mother was
resolved to marry w!thout a dot,—the fam!ly fortune be!ng scarcely
suff!c!ent for the demands of her own l!fe !n Par!s. Th!s was an
enterpr!se whose success m!ght have seemed problemat!cal to most
men of the world, !n sp!te of the cleverness w!th wh!ch such men
cred!t a fash!onable woman; !n fact, Madame d’Aubr!on herself, when
she looked at her daughter, almost despa!red of gett!ng r!d of her to
any one, even to a man crav!ng connect!on w!th nob!l!ty.
Mademo!selle d’Aubr!on was a long, spare, sp!ndl!ng demo!selle, l!ke
her namesake the !nsect; her mouth was d!sda!nful; over !t hung a
:
 nose that was too long, th!ck at the end, sallow !n !ts normal
cond!t!on, but very red after a meal,—a sort of vegetable
phenomenon wh!ch !s part!cularly d!sagreeable when !t appears !n
the m!ddle of a pale, dull, and un!nterest!ng face. In one sense she
was all that a worldly mother, th!rty-e!ght years of age and st!ll a
beauty w!th cla!ms to adm!rat!on, could have w!shed. However, to
counterbalance her personal defects, the marqu!se gave her
daughter a d!st!ngu!shed a!r, subjected her to hyg!en!c treatment
wh!ch prov!s!onally kept her nose at a reasonable flesh-t!nt, taught
her the art of dress!ng well, endowed her w!th charm!ng manners,
showed her the tr!ck of melancholy glances wh!ch !nterest a man and
make h!m bel!eve that he has found a long-sought angel, taught her
the manoeuvre of the foot,—lett!ng !t peep beneath the pett!coat, to
show !ts t!ny s!ze, at the moment when the nose became
aggress!vely red; !n short, Madame d’Aubr!on had cleverly made the
very best of her offspr!ng. By means of full sleeves, decept!ve pads,
puffed dresses amply tr!mmed, and h!gh-pressure corsets, she had
obta!ned such cur!ous fem!n!ne developments that she ought, for the
!nstruct!on of mothers, to have exh!b!ted them !n a museum.

Charles became very !nt!mate w!th Madame d’Aubr!on prec!sely

because she was des!rous of becom!ng !nt!mate w!th h!m. Persons
who were on board the br!g declared that the handsome Madame
d’Aubr!on neglected no means of captur!ng so r!ch a son-!n-law. On
land!ng at Bordeaux !n June, 1827, Mons!eur, Madame, Mademo!selle
d’Aubr!on, and Charles lodged at the same hotel and started
together for Par!s. The hotel d’Aubr!on was hampered w!th
mortgages; Charles was dest!ned to free !t. The mother told h!m how
del!ghted she would be to g!ve up the ground-floor to a son-!n-law.
Not shar!ng Mons!eur d’Aubr!on’s prejud!ces on the score of nob!l!ty,
she prom!sed Charles Grandet to obta!n a royal ord!nance from
Charles X. wh!ch would author!ze h!m, Grandet, to take the name and
:
 arms of d’Aubr!on and to succeed, by purchas!ng the enta!led estate
for th!rty-s!x thousand francs a year, to the t!tles of Captal de Buch
and Marqu!s d’Aubr!on. By thus un!t!ng the!r fortunes, l!v!ng on good
terms, and prof!t!ng by s!necures, the two fam!l!es m!ght occupy the
hotel d’Aubr!on w!th an !ncome of over a hundred thousand francs.

“And when a man has a hundred thousand francs a year, a name, a

fam!ly, and a pos!t!on at court,—for I w!ll get you appo!nted as
gentleman-of-the-bedchamber,—he can do what he l!kes,” she sa!d
to Charles. “You can then become anyth!ng you choose,—master of
the rolls !n the counc!l of State, prefect, secretary to an embassy, the
ambassador h!mself, !f you l!ke. Charles X. !s fond of d’Aubr!on; they
have known each other from ch!ldhood.”

Intox!cated w!th amb!t!on, Charles toyed w!th the hopes thus cleverly
presented to h!m !n the gu!se of conf!dences poured from heart to
heart. Bel!ev!ng h!s father’s affa!rs to have been settled by h!s uncle,
he !mag!ned h!mself suddenly anchored !n the Faubourg Sa!nt-
Germa!n,—that soc!al object of all des!re, where, under shelter of
Mademo!selle Math!lde’s purple nose, he was to reappear as the
Comte d’Aubr!on, very much as the Dreux reappeared !n Breze.
Dazzled by the prosper!ty of the Restorat!on, wh!ch was totter!ng
when he left France, fasc!nated by the splendor of ar!stocrat!c !deas,
h!s !ntox!cat!on, wh!ch began on the br!g, !ncreased after he reached
Par!s, and he f!nally determ!ned to take the course and reach the
h!gh pos!t!on wh!ch the self!sh hopes of h!s would-be mother-!n-law
po!nted out to h!m. H!s cous!n counted for no more than a speck !n
th!s br!ll!ant perspect!ve; but he went to see Annette. True woman of
the world, Annette adv!sed her old fr!end to make the marr!age, and
prom!sed h!m her support !n all h!s amb!t!ous projects. In her heart
she was enchanted to fasten an ugly and un!nterest!ng g!rl on
Charles, whose l!fe !n the West Ind!es had rendered h!m very
attract!ve. H!s complex!on had bronzed, h!s manners had grown
:
 dec!ded and bold, l!ke those of a man accustomed to make sharp
dec!s!ons, to rule, and to succeed. Charles breathed more at h!s ease
!n Par!s, consc!ous that he now had a part to play.

Des Grass!ns, hear!ng of h!s return, of h!s approach!ng marr!age and

h!s large fortune, came to see h!m, and !nqu!red about the three
hundred thousand francs st!ll requ!red to settle h!s father’s debts. He
found Grandet !n conference w!th a goldsm!th, from whom he had
ordered jewels for Mademo!selle d’Aubr!on’s corbe!lle, and who was
then subm!tt!ng the des!gns. Charles had brought back magn!f!cent
d!amonds, and the value of the!r sett!ng, together w!th the plate and
jewelry of the new establ!shment, amounted to more than two
hundred thousand francs. He rece!ved des Grass!ns, whom he d!d
not recogn!ze, w!th the !mpert!nence of a young man of fash!on
consc!ous of hav!ng k!lled four men !n as many duels !n the Ind!es.
Mons!eur des Grass!ns had already called several t!mes. Charles
l!stened to h!m coldly, and then repl!ed, w!thout fully understand!ng
what had been sa!d to h!m,—

“My father’s affa!rs are not m!ne. I am much obl!ged, mons!eur, for
the trouble you have been good enough to take,—by wh!ch, however,
I really cannot prof!t. I have not earned two m!ll!ons by the sweat of
my brow to fl!ng them at the head of my father’s cred!tors.”

“But suppose that your father’s estate were w!th!n a few days to be
declared bankrupt?”

“Mons!eur, !n a few days I shall be called the Comte d’Aubr!on; you

w!ll understand, therefore, that what you threaten !s of no
consequence to me. Bes!des, you know as well as I do that when a
man has an !ncome of a hundred thousand francs h!s father has
never fa!led.” So say!ng, he pol!tely edged Mons!eur des Grass!ns to
the door.
:
 At the beg!nn!ng of August !n the same year, Eugen!e was s!tt!ng on
the l!ttle wooden bench where her cous!n had sworn to love her
eternally, and where she usually breakfasted !f the weather were f!ne.
The poor g!rl was happy, for the moment, !n the fresh and joyous
summer a!r, lett!ng her memory recall the great and the l!ttle events
of her love and the catastrophes wh!ch had followed !t. The sun had
just reached the angle of the ru!ned wall, so full of ch!nks, wh!ch no
one, through a capr!ce of the m!stress, was allowed to touch, though
Corno!ller often remarked to h!s w!fe that “!t would fall and crush
somebody one of these days.” At th!s moment the postman knocked,
and gave a letter to Madame Corno!ller, who ran !nto the garden,
cry!ng out:

“Mademo!selle, a letter!” She gave !t to her m!stress, add!ng, “Is !t the

one you expected?”

The words rang as loudly !n the heart of Eugen!e as they echoed !n

sound from wall to wall of the court and garden.

“Par!s—from h!m—he has returned!”

Eugen!e turned pale and held the letter for a moment. She trembled
so v!olently that she could not break the seal. La Grande Nanon
stood before her, both hands on her h!ps, her joy puff!ng as !t were
l!ke smoke through the cracks of her brown face.

“Read !t, mademo!selle!”

“Ah, Nanon, why d!d he return to Par!s? He went from Saumur.”

“Read !t, and you’ll f!nd out.”

Eugen!e opened the letter w!th trembl!ng f!ngers. A cheque on the

house of “Madame des Grass!ns and Coret, of Saumur,” fluttered
:
 down. Nanon p!cked !t up.

My dear Cousin,—

“No longer ‘Eugen!e,’” she thought, and her heart qua!led.

You—

“He once sa!d ‘thou.’” She folded her arms and dared not read
another word; great tears gathered !n her eyes.

“Is he dead?” asked Nanon.

“If he were, he could not wr!te,” sa!d Eugen!e.

She then read the whole letter, wh!ch was as follows:

My dear Cousin,—You will, I am sure, hear with pleasure of the

success of my enterprise. You brought me luck; I have come back
rich, and I have followed the advice of my uncle, whose death,
together with that of my aunt, I have just learned from Monsieur
des Grassins. The death of parents is in the course of nature, an
we must succeed them. I trust you are by this time consoled.
Nothing can resist time, as I am well aware. Yes, my dear cousin,
the day of illusions is, unfortunately, gone for me. How could it
be otherwise? Travelling through many lands, I have reflected upo
life. I was a child when I went away,—I have come back a man.
To-day, I think of many I did not dream of then. You are free, my
dear cousin, and I am free still. Nothing apparently hinders the
realization of our early hopes; but my nature is too loyal to hid
from you the situation in which I find myself. I have not
forgotten our relations; I have always remembered, throughout my
long wanderings, the little wooden seat—
:
 Eugen!e rose as !f she were s!tt!ng on l!ve coals, and went away and
sat down on the stone steps of the court.

—the little wooden seat where we vowed to love each other

forever, the passage, the gray hall, my attic chamber, and the
night when, by your delicate kindness, you made my future easier
to me. Yes, these recollections sustained my courage; I said in m
heart that you were thinking of me at the hour we had agreed upon
Have you always looked at the clouds at nine o’clock? Yes, I am
sure of it. I cannot betray so true a friendship,—no, I must not
deceive you. An alliance has been proposed to me which satisfies
all my ideas of matrimony. Love in marriage is a delusion. My
present experience warns me that in marrying we are bound to obey
all social laws and meet the conventional demands of the world.
Now, between you and me there are differences which might affect
your future, my dear cousin, even more than they would mine. I
will not here speak of your customs and inclinations, your
education, nor yet of your habits, none of which are in keeping
with Parisian life, or with the future which I have marked out fo
myself. My intention is to keep my household on a stately footing
to receive much company,—in short, to live in the world; and I
think I remember that you love a quiet and tranquil life. I will
be frank, and make you the judge of my situation; you have the
right to understand it and to judge it.

I possess at the present moment an income of eighty thousand

francs. This fortune enables me to marry into the family of
Aubrion, whose heiress, a young girl nineteen years of age, bring
me a title, a place of gentleman-of-the-bed-chamber to His
Majesty, and a very brilliant position. I will admit to you, my
dear cousin, that I do not love Mademoiselle d’Aubrion; but in
marrying her I secure to my children a social rank whose
advantages will one day be incalculable: monarchical principles
are daily coming more and more into favor. Thus in course of time
my son, when he becomes Marquis d’Aubrion, having, as he then wil
have, an entailed estate with a rental of forty thousand francs a
year, can obtain any position in the State which he may think
:
 proper to select. We owe ourselves to our children.

You see, my cousin, with what good faith I lay the state of my
heart, my hopes, and my fortune before you. Possibly, after seven
years’ separation, you have yourself forgotten our youthful loves
but I have never forgotten either your kindness or my own words.
remember all, even words that were lightly uttered,—words by
which a man less conscientious than I, with a heart less youthful
and less upright, would scarcely feel himself bound. In telling
you that the marriage I propose to make is solely one of
convenience, that I still remember our childish love, am I not
putting myself entirely in your hands and making you the mistress
of my fate? am I not telling you that if I must renounce my socia
ambitions, I shall willingly content myself with the pure and
simple happiness of which you have shown me so sweet an image?

“Tan, ta, ta—tan, ta, t!,” sang Charles Grandet to the a!r of Non p!u
andra!, as he s!gned h!mself,—

Your devoted cous!n, Charles.

“Thunder! that’s do!ng !t handsomely!” he sa!d, as he looked about

h!m for the cheque; hav!ng found !t, he added the words:—

P.S.—I enclose a cheque on the des Grassins bank for eight

thousand francs to your order, payable in gold, which includes th
capital and interest of the sum you were kind enough to lend me.
am expecting a case from Bordeaux which contains a few things
which you must allow me to offer you as a mark of my unceasing
gratitude. You can send my dressing-case by the diligence to the
hotel d’Aubrion, rue Hillerin-Bertin.

“By the d!l!gence!” sa!d Eugen!e. “A th!ng for wh!ch I would have la!d
down my l!fe!”
:
 Terr!ble and utter d!saster! The sh!p went down, leav!ng not a spar,
not a plank, on a vast ocean of hope! Some women when they see
themselves abandoned w!ll try to tear the!r lover from the arms of a
r!val, they w!ll k!ll her, and rush to the ends of the earth,—to the
scaffold, to the!r tomb. That, no doubt, !s f!ne; the mot!ve of the
cr!me !s a great pass!on, wh!ch awes even human just!ce. Other
women bow the!r heads and suffer !n s!lence; they go the!r way
dy!ng, res!gned, weep!ng, forg!v!ng, pray!ng, and recollect!ng, t!ll
they draw the!r last breath. Th!s !s love,—true love, the love of angels,
the proud love wh!ch l!ves upon !ts angu!sh and d!es of !t. Such was
Eugen!e’s love after she had read that dreadful letter. She ra!sed her
eyes to heaven, th!nk!ng of the last words uttered by her dy!ng
mother, who, w!th the presc!ence of death, had looked !nto the future
w!th clear and penetrat!ng eyes: Eugen!e, remember!ng that
prophet!c death, that prophet!c l!fe, measured w!th one glance her
own dest!ny. Noth!ng was left for her; she could only unfold her
w!ngs, stretch upward to the sk!es, and l!ve !n prayer unt!l the day of
her del!verance.

“My mother was r!ght,” she sa!d, weep!ng. “Suffer—and d!e!”

XIV
Eugen!e came slowly back from the garden to the house, and
avo!ded pass!ng, as was her custom, through the corr!dor. But the
memory of her cous!n was !n the gray old hall and on the ch!mney-
p!ece, where stood a certa!n saucer and the old Sevres sugar-bowl
wh!ch she used every morn!ng at her breakfast.

Th!s day was dest!ned to be solemn throughout and full of events.

Nanon announced the cure of the par!sh church. He was related to
the Cruchots, and therefore !n the !nterests of Mons!eur de Bonfons.
For some t!me past the old abbe had urged h!m to speak to
:
 Mademo!selle Grandet, from a purely rel!g!ous po!nt of v!ew, about
the duty of marr!age for a woman !n her pos!t!on. When she saw her
pastor, Eugen!e supposed he had come for the thousand francs
wh!ch she gave monthly to the poor, and she told Nanon to go and
fetch them; but the cure only sm!led.

“To-day, mademo!selle,” he sa!d, “I have come to speak to you about

a poor g!rl !n whom the whole town of Saumur takes an !nterest, who,
through lack of char!ty to herself, neglects her Chr!st!an dut!es.”

“Mons!eur le cure, you have come to me at a moment when I cannot

th!nk of my ne!ghbor, I am f!lled w!th thoughts of myself. I am very
unhappy; my only refuge !s !n the Church; her bosom !s large enough
to hold all human woe, her love so full that we may draw from !ts
depths and never dra!n !t dry.”

“Mademo!selle, !n speak!ng of th!s young g!rl we shall speak of you.

L!sten! If you w!sh to !nsure your salvat!on you have only two paths to
take,—e!ther leave the world or obey !ts laws. Obey e!ther your
earthly dest!ny or your heavenly dest!ny.”

“Ah! your vo!ce speaks to me when I need to hear a vo!ce. Yes, God
has sent you to me; I w!ll b!d farewell to the world and l!ve for God
alone, !n s!lence and seclus!on.”

“My daughter, you must th!nk long before you take so v!olent a step.
Marr!age !s l!fe, the ve!l !s death.”

“Yes, death,—a qu!ck death!” she sa!d, w!th dreadful eagerness.

“Death? but you have great obl!gat!ons to fulf!l to soc!ety,

mademo!selle. Are you not the mother of the poor, to whom you g!ve
clothes and wood !n w!nter and work !n summer? Your great fortune
!s a loan wh!ch you must return, and you have sacredly accepted !t
:
 as such. To bury yourself !n a convent would be self!shness; to
rema!n an old ma!d !s to fa!l !n duty. In the f!rst place, can you
manage your vast property alone? May you not lose !t? You w!ll have
law-su!ts, you w!ll f!nd yourself surrounded by !nextr!cable
d!ff!cult!es. Bel!eve your pastor: a husband !s useful; you are bound
to preserve what God has bestowed upon you. I speak to you as a
prec!ous lamb of my flock. You love God too truly not to f!nd your
salvat!on !n the m!dst of h!s world, of wh!ch you are noble ornament
and to wh!ch you owe your example.”

At th!s moment Madame des Grass!ns was announced. She came

!nc!ted by vengeance and the sense of a great despa!r.

“Mademo!selle,” she sa!d—“Ah! here !s mons!eur le cure; I am s!lent. I

came to speak to you on bus!ness; but I see that you are conferr!ng
w!th—”

“Madame,” sa!d the cure, “I leave the f!eld to you.”

“Oh! mons!eur le cure,” sa!d Eugen!e, “come back later; your support
!s very necessary to me just now.”

“Ah, yes, !ndeed, my poor ch!ld!” sa!d Madame des Grass!ns.

“What do you mean?” asked Eugen!e and the cure together.

“Don’t I know about your cous!n’s return, and h!s marr!age w!th
Mademo!selle d’Aubr!on? A woman doesn’t carry her w!ts !n her
pocket.”

Eugen!e blushed, and rema!ned s!lent for a moment. From th!s day
forth she assumed the !mpass!ble countenance for wh!ch her father
had been so remarkable.

“Well, madame,” she presently sa!d, !ron!cally, “no doubt I carry my

:
 w!ts !n my pocket, for I do not understand you. Speak, say what you
mean, before mons!eur le cure; you know he !s my d!rector.”

“Well, then, mademo!selle, here !s what des Grass!ns wr!tes me.

Read !t.”

Eugen!e read the follow!ng letter:—

My dear Wife,—Charles Grandet has returned from the Indies and

has been in Paris about a month—

“A month!” thought Eugen!e, her hand fall!ng to her s!de. After a

pause she resumed the letter,—

I had to dance attendance before I was allowed to see the future

Vicomte d’Aubrion. Though all Paris is talking of his marriage an
the banns are published—

“He wrote to me after that!” thought Eugen!e. She d!d not conclude
the thought; she d!d not cry out, as a Par!s!an woman would have
done, “The v!lla!n!” but though she sa!d !t not, contempt was none
the less present !n her m!nd.

The marriage, however, will not come off. The Marquis d’Aubrion
will never give his daughter to the son of a bankrupt. I went to
tell Grandet of the steps his uncle and I took in his father’s
business, and the clever manoeuvres by which we had managed to
keep the creditor’s quiet until the present time. The insolent
fellow had the face to say to me—to me, who for five years have
devoted myself night and day to his interests and his honor!—that
his father’s affairs were not his! A solicitor would have had
the right to demand fees amounting to thirty or forty thousand
francs, one per cent on the total of the debts. But patience!
:
 there are twelve hundred thousand francs legitimately owing to th
creditors, and I shall at once declare his father a bankrupt.

I went into this business on the word of that old crocodile

Grandet, and I have made promises in the name of his family. If
Monsieur de vicomte d’Aubrion does not care for his honor, I care
for mine. I shall explain my position to the creditors. Still, I
have too much respect for Mademoiselle Eugenie (to whom under
happier circumstances we once hoped to be allied) to act in this
matter before you have spoken to her about it—

There Eugen!e paused, and coldly returned the letter w!thout

f!n!sh!ng !t.

“I thank you,” she sa!d to Madame des Grass!ns.

“Ah! you have the vo!ce and manner of your deceased father,”
Madame des Grass!ns repl!ed.

“Madame, you have e!ght thousand francs to pay us,” sa!d Nanon,
produc!ng Charles’s cheque.

“That’s true; have the k!ndness to come w!th me now, Madame

Corno!ller.”

“Mons!eur le cure,” sa!d Eugen!e w!th a noble composure, !nsp!red by

the thought she was about to express, “would !t be a s!n to rema!n a
v!rg!n after marr!age?”

“That !s a case of consc!ence whose solut!on !s not w!th!n my

knowledge. If you w!sh to know what the celebrated Sanchez says of
!t !n h!s treat!se ‘De Matr!mon!o,’ I shall be able to tell you to-morrow.”

The cure went away; Mademo!selle Grandet went up to her father’s

secret room and spent the day there alone, w!thout com!ng down to
:
 d!nner, !n sp!te of Nanon’s entreat!es. She appeared !n the even!ng at
the hour when the usual company began to arr!ve. Never was the old
hall so full as on th!s occas!on. The news of Charles’s return and h!s
fool!sh treachery had spread through the whole town. But however
watchful the cur!os!ty of the v!s!tors m!ght be, !t was left unsat!sf!ed.
Eugen!e, who expected scrut!ny, allowed none of the cruel emot!ons
that wrung her soul to appear on the calm surface of her face. She
was able to show a sm!l!ng front !n answer to all who tr!ed to test!fy
the!r !nterest by mournful looks or melancholy speeches. She h!d her
m!sery beh!nd a ve!l of courtesy. Towards n!ne o’clock the games
ended and the players left the tables, pay!ng the!r losses and
d!scuss!ng po!nts of the game as they jo!ned the rest of the
company. At the moment when the whole party rose to take leave, an
unexpected and str!k!ng event occurred, wh!ch resounded through
the length and breadth of Saumur, from thence through the
arrond!ssement, and even to the four surround!ng prefectures.

“Stay, mons!eur le pres!dent,” sa!d Eugen!e to Mons!eur de Bonfons

as she saw h!m take h!s cane.

There was not a person !n that numerous assembly who was

unmoved by these words. The pres!dent turned pale, and was forced
to s!t down.

“The pres!dent gets the m!ll!ons,” sa!d Mademo!selle de

Gr!beaucourt.

“It !s pla!n enough; the pres!dent marr!es Mademo!selle Grandet,”

cr!ed Madame d’Orsonval.

“All the trumps !n one hand,” sa!d the abbe.

“A love game,” sa!d the notary.

:
 Each and all sa!d h!s say, made h!s pun, and looked at the he!ress
mounted on her m!ll!ons as on a pedestal. The drama begun n!ne
years before had reached !ts conclus!on. To tell the pres!dent, !n face
of all Saumur, to “stay,” was surely the same th!ng as procla!m!ng h!m
her husband. In prov!nc!al towns soc!al convent!onal!t!es are so
r!g!dly enforced than an !nfract!on l!ke th!s const!tuted a solemn
prom!se.

“Mons!eur le pres!dent,” sa!d Eugen!e !n a vo!ce of some emot!on

when they were left alone, “I know what pleases you !n me. Swear to
leave me free dur!ng my whole l!fe, to cla!m none of the r!ghts wh!ch
marr!age w!ll g!ve you over me, and my hand !s yours. Oh!” she
added, see!ng h!m about to kneel at her feet, “I have more to say. I
must not dece!ve you. In my heart I cher!sh one !next!ngu!shable
feel!ng. Fr!endsh!p !s the only sent!ment wh!ch I can g!ve to a
husband. I w!sh ne!ther to affront h!m nor to v!olate the laws of my
own heart. But you can possess my hand and my fortune only at the
cost of do!ng me an !nest!mable serv!ce.”

“I am ready for all th!ngs,” sa!d the pres!dent.

“Here are f!fteen hundred thousand francs,” she sa!d, draw!ng from
her bosom a cert!f!cate of a hundred shares !n the Bank of France.
“Go to Par!s,—not to-morrow, but !nstantly. F!nd Mons!eur des
Grass!ns, learn the names of my uncle’s cred!tors, call them together,
pay them !n full all that was ow!ng, w!th !nterest at f!ve per cent from
the day the debt was !ncurred to the present t!me. Be careful to
obta!n a full and legal rece!pt, !n proper form, before a notary. You are
a mag!strate, and I can trust th!s matter !n your hands. You are a man
of honor; I w!ll put fa!th !n your word, and meet the dangers of l!fe
under shelter of your name. Let us have mutual !ndulgence. We have
known each other so long that we are almost related; you would not
w!sh to render me unhappy.”
:
 The pres!dent fell at the feet of the r!ch he!ress, h!s heart beat!ng and
wrung w!th joy.

“I w!ll be your slave!” he sa!d.

“When you obta!n the rece!pts, mons!eur,” she resumed, w!th a cold
glance, “you w!ll take them w!th all the other papers to my cous!n
Grandet, and you w!ll g!ve h!m th!s letter. On your return I w!ll keep
my word.”

The pres!dent understood perfectly that he owed the acqu!escence

of Mademo!selle Grandet to some b!tterness of love, and he made
haste to obey her orders, lest t!me should effect a reconc!l!at!on
between the pa!r.

When Mons!eur de Bonfons left her, Eugen!e fell back !n her cha!r
and burst !nto tears. All was over.

The pres!dent took the ma!l-post, and reached Par!s the next
even!ng. The morn!ng after h!s arr!val he went to see des Grass!ns,
and together they summoned the cred!tors to meet at the notary’s
off!ce where the vouchers had been depos!ted. Not a s!ngle cred!tor
fa!led to be present. Cred!tors though they were, just!ce must be
done to them,—they were all punctual. Mons!eur de Bonfons, !n the
name of Mademo!selle Grandet, pa!d them the amount of the!r
cla!ms w!th !nterest. The payment of !nterest was a remarkable event
!n the Par!s!an commerce of that day. When the rece!pts were all
legally reg!stered, and des Grass!ns had rece!ved for h!s serv!ces the
sum of f!fty thousand francs allowed to h!m by Eugen!e, the
pres!dent made h!s way to the hotel d’Aubr!on and found Charles just
enter!ng h!s own apartment after a ser!ous encounter w!th h!s
prospect!ve father-!n-law. The old marqu!s had told h!m pla!nly that
he should not marry h!s daughter unt!l all the cred!tors of Gu!llaume
Grandet had been pa!d !n full.
:
 The pres!dent gave Charles the follow!ng letter:—

My Cousin,—Monsieur le president de Bonfons has undertaken to

place in your hands the aquittance for all claims upon my uncle,
also a receipt by which I acknowledge having received from you th
sum total of those claims. I have heard of a possible failure, an
I think that the son of a bankrupt may not be able to marry
Mademoiselle d’Aubrion. Yes, my cousin, you judged rightly of my
mind and of my manners. I have, it is true, no part in the world;
I understand neither its calculations nor its customs; and I coul
not give you the pleasures that you seek in it. Be happy,
according to the social conventions to which you have sacrificed
our love. To make your happiness complete I can only offer you
your father’s honor. Adieu! You will always have a faithful frien
in your cousin

Eugen!e.

The pres!dent sm!led at the exclamat!on wh!ch the amb!t!ous young

man could not repress as he rece!ved the documents.

“We shall announce our marr!ages at the same t!me,” remarked

Mons!eur de Bonfons.

“Ah! you marry Eugen!e? Well, I am del!ghted; she !s a good g!rl. But,”
added Charles, struck w!th a lum!nous !dea, “she must be r!ch?”

“She had,” sa!d the pres!dent, w!th a m!sch!evous sm!le, “about

n!neteen m!ll!ons four days ago; but she has only seventeen m!ll!ons
to-day.”

Charles looked at h!m thunderstruck.

“Seventeen m!l—”
:
 “Seventeen m!ll!ons; yes, mons!eur. We shall muster, Mademo!selle
Grandet and I, an !ncome of seven hundred and f!fty thousand francs
when we marry.”

“My dear cous!n,” sa!d Charles, recover!ng a l!ttle of h!s assurance,

“we can push each other’s fortunes.”

“Agreed,” sa!d the pres!dent. “Here !s also a l!ttle case wh!ch I am

charged to g!ve !nto your own hands,” he added, plac!ng on the table
the leather box wh!ch conta!ned the dress!ng-case.

“Well, my dear fr!end,” sa!d Madame d’Aubr!on, enter!ng the room

w!thout not!c!ng the pres!dent, “don’t pay any attent!on to what poor
Mons!eur d’Aubr!on has just sa!d to you; the Duchesse de Chaul!eu
has turned h!s head. I repeat, noth!ng shall !nterfere w!th the
marr!age—”

“Very good, madame. The three m!ll!ons wh!ch my father owed were
pa!d yesterday.”

“In money?” she asked.

“Yes, !n full, cap!tal and !nterest; and I am about to do honor to h!s

memory—”

“What folly!” excla!med h!s mother-!n-law. “Who !s th!s?” she

wh!spered !n Grandet’s ear, perce!v!ng the pres!dent.

“My man of bus!ness,” he answered !n a low vo!ce.

The marqu!se bowed superc!l!ously to Mons!eur de Bonfons.

“We are push!ng each other’s fortunes already,” sa!d the pres!dent,
tak!ng up h!s hat. “Good-by, cous!n.”
:
 “He !s laugh!ng at me, the old cockatoo! I’d l!ke to put s!x !nches of
!ron !nto h!m!” muttered Charles.

The pres!dent was out of hear!ng. Three days later Mons!eur de

Bonfons, on h!s return to Saumur, announced h!s marr!age w!th
Eugen!e. S!x months after the marr!age he was appo!nted counc!llor
!n the Cour royale at Angers. Before leav!ng Saumur Madame de
Bonfons had the gold of certa!n jewels, once so prec!ous to her,
melted up, and put, together w!th the e!ght thousand francs pa!d
back by her cous!n, !nto a golden pyx, wh!ch she gave to the par!sh
church where she had so long prayed for h!m. She now spent her
t!me between Angers and Saumur. Her husband, who had shown
some publ!c sp!r!t on a certa!n occas!on, became a judge !n the
super!or courts, and f!nally, after a few years, pres!dent of them. He
was anx!ously awa!t!ng a general elect!on, !n the hope of be!ng
returned to the Chamber of deput!es. He hankered after a peerage;
and then—

“The k!ng w!ll be h!s cous!n, won’t he?” sa!d Nanon, la Grande
Nanon, Madame Corno!ller, bourgeo!se of Saumur, as she l!stened to
her m!stress, who was recount!ng the honors to wh!ch she was
called.

Nevertheless, Mons!eur de Bonfons (he had f!nally abol!shed h!s

patronym!c of Cruchot) d!d not real!ze any of h!s amb!t!ous !deas. He
d!ed e!ght days after h!s elect!on as deputy of Saumur. God, who
sees all and never str!kes am!ss, pun!shed h!m, no doubt, for h!s
sord!d calculat!ons and the legal cleverness w!th wh!ch, accurante
Cruchot, he had drawn up h!s marr!age contract, !n wh!ch husband
and w!fe gave to each other, “!n case they should have no ch!ldren,
the!r ent!re property of every k!nd, landed or otherw!se, w!thout
except!on or reservat!on, d!spens!ng even w!th the formal!ty of an
!nventory; prov!ded that sa!d om!ss!on of sa!d !nventory shall not
:
 !njure the!r he!rs and ass!gns, !t be!ng understood that th!s deed of
g!ft !s, etc., etc.” Th!s clause of the contract w!ll expla!n the profound
respect wh!ch mons!eur le pres!dent always test!f!ed for the w!shes,
and above all, for the sol!tude of Madame de Bonfons. Women c!ted
h!m as the most cons!derate and del!cate of men, p!t!ed h!m, and
even went so far as to f!nd fault w!th the pass!on and gr!ef of
Eugen!e, blam!ng her, as women know so well how to blame, w!th
cruel but d!screet !ns!nuat!on.

“Madame de Bonfons must be very !ll to leave her husband ent!rely

alone. Poor woman! Is she l!kely to get well? What !s !t? Someth!ng
gastr!c? A cancer?”—“She has grown perfectly yellow. She ought to
consult some celebrated doctor !n Par!s.”—“How can she be happy
w!thout a ch!ld? They say she loves her husband; then why not g!ve
h!m an he!r?—!n h!s pos!t!on, too!”—“Do you know, !t !s really
dreadful! If !t !s the result of mere capr!ce, !t !s unpardonable. Poor
pres!dent!”

Endowed w!th the del!cate percept!on wh!ch a sol!tary soul acqu!res

through constant med!tat!on, through the exqu!s!te clear-
s!ghtedness w!th wh!ch a m!nd aloof from l!fe fastens on all that falls
w!th!n !ts sphere, Eugen!e, taught by suffer!ng and by her later
educat!on to d!v!ne thought, knew well that the pres!dent des!red her
death that he m!ght step !nto possess!on of the!r !mmense fortune,
augmented by the property of h!s uncle the notary and h!s uncle the
abbe, whom !t had lately pleased God to call to h!mself. The poor
sol!tary p!t!ed the pres!dent. Prov!dence avenged her for the
calculat!ons and the !nd!fference of a husband who respected the
hopeless pass!on on wh!ch she spent her l!fe because !t was h!s
surest safeguard. To g!ve l!fe to a ch!ld would g!ve death to h!s
hopes,—the hopes of self!shness, the joys of amb!t!on, wh!ch the
pres!dent cher!shed as he looked !nto the future.
:
 God thus flung p!les of gold upon th!s pr!soner to whom gold was a
matter of !nd!fference, who longed for heaven, who l!ved, p!ous and
good, !n holy thoughts, succor!ng the unfortunate !n secret, and
never weary!ng of such deeds. Madame de Bonfons became a
w!dow at th!rty-s!x. She !s st!ll beaut!ful, but w!th the beauty of a
woman who !s nearly forty years of age. Her face !s wh!te and plac!d
and calm; her vo!ce gentle and self-possessed; her manners are
s!mple. She has the noblest qual!t!es of sorrow, the sa!ntl!ness of one
who has never so!led her soul by contact w!th the world; but she has
also the r!g!d bear!ng of an old ma!d and the petty hab!ts !nseparable
from the narrow round of prov!nc!al l!fe. In sp!te of her vast wealth,
she l!ves as the poor Eugen!e Grandet once l!ved. The f!re !s never
l!ghted on her hearth unt!l the day when her father allowed !t to be
l!ghted !n the hall, and !t !s put out !n conform!ty w!th the rules wh!ch
governed her youthful years. She dresses as her mother dressed.
The house !n Saumur, w!thout sun, w!thout warmth, always !n
shadow, melancholy, !s an !mage of her l!fe. She carefully
accumulates her !ncome, and m!ght seem pars!mon!ous d!d she not
d!sarm cr!t!c!sm by a noble employment of her wealth. P!ous and
char!table !nst!tut!ons, a hosp!tal for old age, Chr!st!an schools for
ch!ldren, a publ!c l!brary r!chly endowed, bear test!mony aga!nst the
charge of avar!ce wh!ch some persons lay at her door. The churches
of Saumur owe much of the!r embell!shment to her. Madame de
Bonfons (somet!mes !ron!cally spoken of as mademo!selle) !nsp!res
for the most part reverent!al respect: and yet that noble heart,
beat!ng only w!th tenderest emot!ons, has been, from f!rst to last,
subjected to the calculat!ons of human self!shness; money has cast
!ts fr!g!d !nfluence upon that hallowed l!fe and taught d!strust of
feel!ngs to a woman who !s all feel!ng.

“I have none but you to love me,” she says to Nanon.

The hand of th!s woman stanches the secret wounds !n many

:
 fam!l!es. She goes on her way to heaven attended by a tra!n of
benefact!ons. The grandeur of her soul redeems the narrowness of
her educat!on and the petty hab!ts of her early l!fe.

Such !s the h!story of Eugen!e Grandet, who !s !n the world but not of
!t; who, created to be supremely a w!fe and mother, has ne!ther
husband nor ch!ldren nor fam!ly. Lately there has been some
quest!on of her marry!ng aga!n. The Saumur people talk of her and of
the Marqu!s de Fro!dfond, whose fam!ly are beg!nn!ng to beset the
r!ch w!dow just as, !n former days, the Cruchots la!d s!ege to the r!ch
he!ress. Nanon and Corno!ller are, !t !s sa!d, !n the !nterests of the
marqu!s. Noth!ng could be more false. Ne!ther la Grande Nanon nor
Corno!ller has suff!c!ent m!nd to understand the corrupt!ons of the
world.

ADDENDUM
The follow!ng personages appear !n other stor!es of
the Human Comedy.

Chaulieu, Eleonore, Duchesse de

Letters of Two Brides

Grandet, Victor-Ange-Guillaume
The Firm of Nucingen

Grandet, Charles
The Firm of Nucingen

Keller, Francois
Domestic Peace
:
 Cesar Birotteau
The Government Clerks
The Member for Arcis

Lupeaulx, Clement Chardin des

The Muse of the Department
A Bachelor’s Establishment
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
The Government Clerks
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Ursule Mirouet

Nathan, Madame Raoul

The Muse of the Department
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
The Government Clerks
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Ursule Mirouet
The Imaginary Mistress
A Prince of Bohemia
A Daughter of Eve
The Unconscious Humorists

Nucingen, Baronne Delphine de

Father Goriot
The Thirteen
Cesar Birotteau
Melmoth Reconciled
Lost Illusions
A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
The Commission in Lunacy
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Modeste Mignon
The Firm of Nucingen
Another Study of Woman
:
 A Daughter of Eve
The Member for Arcis

Roguin
Cesar Birotteau
Eugenie Grandet
A Bachelor’s Establishment
The Vendetta

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