“No. Let me alone,” cried the Countess shaking off the hand that her father had laid on her arm. “She is more merciless than my husband. Any one might think she was a model of all the virtues herself!”
“I would rather have people think that I owed money to M. de Marsay than own that M. de Trailles had cost me more than two hundred thousand francs,” retorted Mme. de Nucingen.
“Delphine!” cried the Countess, stepping towards her sister.
“I shall tell you the truth about yourself if you begin to slander me,” said the Baroness coldly.
“Delphine! you are a ——”
Father Goriot sprang between them, grasped the Countess’ hand, and laid his own over her mouth.
“Good heavens, father! What have you been handling this morning?” said Anastasie.
“Ah! well, yes, I ought not to have touched you,” said the poor father, wiping his hands on his trousers, “but I have been packing up my things; I did not know that you were coming to see me.”
He was glad that he had drawn down her wrath upon himself.
“Ah!” he sighed, as he sat down, “you children have broken my heart between you. This is killing me. My head feels as if it were on fire. Be good to each other and love each other! This will be the death of me! Delphine! Nasie! come, be sensible; you are both in the wrong. Come, Dedel,” he added, looking through his tears at the Baroness, “she must have twelve thousand francs, you see; let us see if we can find them for her. Oh, my girls, do not look at each other like that!” and he sank on his knees beside Delphine. “Ask her to forgive you—just to please me,” he said in her ear. “She is more miserable than you are. Come now, Dedel.”