“Then stop and take care of him,” returned Vautrin. “‘Tis your duty as a meek and obedient wife,” he whispered in her ear. “The young fellow worships you, and you will be his little wife—there’s your fortune for you. In short,” he added aloud, “they lived happily ever afterwards, were much looked up to in all the countryside, and had a numerous family. That is how all the romances end.—Now, mamma,” he went on, as he turned to Madame Vauquer and put his arm round her waist, “put on your bonnet, your best flowered silk, and the countess’ scarf, while I go out and call a cab—all my own self.”
And he started out, singing as he went:
“Oh! sun! divine sun!
Ripening the pumpkins every one.”
“My goodness! Well, I’m sure! Mme. Couture, I could live happily in a garret with a man like that.—There, now!” she added, looking round for the old vermicelli maker, “there is that Father Goriot half seas over. He never thought of taking me anywhere, the old skinflint. But he will measure his length somewhere. My word! it is disgraceful to lose his senses like that, at his age! You will be telling me that he couldn’t lose what he hadn’t got—Sylvie, just take him up to his room!”
Sylvie took him by the arm, supported him upstairs, and flung him just as he was, like a package, across the bed.
“Poor young fellow!” said Mme. Couture, putting back Eugene’s hair that had fallen over his eyes; “he is like a young girl, he does not know what dissipation is.”
“Well, I can tell you this, I know,” said Mme. Vauquer, “I have taken lodgers these thirty years, and a good many have passed through my hands, as the saying is, but I have never seen a nicer nor a more aristocratic looking young man than M. Eugene. How handsome he looks sleeping! Just let his head rest on your shoulder, Mme. Couture. Pshaw! he falls over towards Mlle. Victorine. There’s a special providence for young things. A little more, and he would have broken his head against the knob of the chair. They’d make a pretty pair those two would!”
“Hush, my good neighbor,” cried Mme. Couture, “you are saying such things——”
“Pooh!” put in Mme. Vauquer, “he does not hear.—Here, Sylvie! come and help me to dress. I shall put on my best stays.”
“What! your best stays just after dinner, madame?” said Sylvie. “No, you can get some one else to lace you. I am not going to be your murderer. It’s a rash thing to do, and might cost you your life.”