“Mademoiselle,” he cried, “your father is asking for you—something terrible has happened! M. Frederic has had a sword thrust in the forehead in a duel, and the doctors have given him up. You will scarcely be in time to say good-bye to him! he is unconscious.”
“Poor young fellow!” exclaimed Vautrin. “How can people brawl when they have a certain income of thirty thousand livres? Young people have bad manners, and that is a fact.”
“Sir!” cried Eugene.
“Well, what then, you big baby!” said Vautrin, swallowing down his coffee imperturbably, an operation which Mlle. Michonneau watched with such close attention that she had no emotion to spare for the amazing news that had struck the others dumb with amazement. “Are there not duels every morning in Paris?” added Vautrin.
“I will go with you, Victorine,” said Mme. Couture, and the two women hurried away at once without either hats or shawls. But before she went, Victorine, with her eyes full of tears, gave Eugene a glance that said—“How little I thought that our happiness should cost me tears!”
“Dear me, you are a prophet, M. Vautrin,” said Mme. Vauquer.
“I am all sorts of things,” said Vautrin.
“Queer, isn’t it?” said Mme. Vauquer, stringing together a succession of commonplaces suited to the occasion. “Death takes us off without asking us about it. The young often go before the old. It is a lucky thing for us women that we are not liable to fight duels, but we have other complaints that men don’t suffer from. We bear children, and it takes a long time to get over it. What a windfall for Victorine! Her father will have to acknowledge her now!”
“There!” said Vautrin, looking at Eugene, “yesterday she had not a penny; this morning she has several millions to her fortune.”
“I say, M. Eugene!” cried Mme. Vauquer, “you have landed on your feet!”