"But what business is it of yours?" said Goriot.
"Why, I ought to tell him so, that he may prevent his son from putting in an appearance----"
Just at that moment Vautrin's voice broke in upon them; he was standing at the threshold of his door and singing:
"Oh! Richard, oh my king!
All the world abandons thee!
Broum! broum! broum! broum! broum!
The same old story everywhere, A roving heart and a . . . tra la la."
"Gentlemen!" shouted Christophe, "the soup is ready, and every one is waiting for you."
"Here," Vautrin called down to him, "come and take a bottle of my Bordeaux."
"Do you think your watch is pretty?" asked Goriot. "She has good taste, hasn't she? Eh?"
Vautrin, Father Goriot, and Rastignac came downstairs in company, and, all three of them being late, were obliged to sit together.
Eugene was as distant as possible in his manner to Vautrin during dinner; but the other, so charming in Mme. Vauquer's opinion, had never been so witty. His lively sallies and sparkling talk put the whole table in good humor. His assurance and coolness filled Eugene with consternation.
"Why, what has come to you to-day?" inquired Mme. Vauquer. "You are as merry as a skylark."
"I am always in spirits after I have made a good bargain."
"Bargain?" said Eugene.
"Well, yes, bargain. I have just delivered a lot of goods, and I shall be paid a handsome commission on them--Mlle. Michonneau," he went on, seeing that the elderly spinster was scrutinizing him intently, "have you any objection to some feature in my face, that you are ****** those lynx eyes at me? Just let me know, and I will have it changed to oblige you . . . We shall not fall out about it, Poiret, I dare say?" he added, winking at the superannuated clerk.
"Bless my soul, you ought to stand as model for a burlesque Hercules," said the young painter.
"I will, upon my word! if Mlle. Michonneau will consent to sit as the Venus of Pere-Lachaise," replied Vautrin.
"There's Poiret," suggested Bianchon.
"Oh! Poiret shall pose as Poiret. He can be a garden god!" cried Vautrin; "his name means a pear----"
"A sleepy pear!" Bianchon put in. "You will come in between the pear and the cheese."
"What stuff are you all talking!" said Mme. Vauquer; "you would do better to treat us to your Bordeaux; I see a glimpse of a bottle there. It would keep us all in a good humor, and it is good for the stomach besides."
"Gentlemen," said Vautrin, "the Lady President calls us to order.
Mme. Couture and Mlle. Victorine will take your jokes in good part, but respect the innocence of the aged Goriot. I propose a glass or two of Bordeauxrama, rendered twice illustrious by the name of Laffite, no political allusions intended.--Come, you Turk!" he added, looking at Christophe, who did not offer to stir. "Christophe! Here! What, you don't answer to your own name?
Bring us some liquor, Turk!"
"Here it is, sir," said Christophe, holding out the bottle.
Vautrin filled Eugene's glass and Goriot's likewise, then he deliberately poured out a few drops into his own glass, and sipped it while his two neighbors drank their wine. All at once he made a grimace.
"Corked!" he cried. "The devil! You can drink the rest of this, Christophe, and go and find another bottle; take from the right- hand side, you know. There are sixteen of us; take down eight bottles."
"If you are going to stand treat," said the painter, "I will pay for a hundred chestnuts."
"Oh! oh!"
"Booououh!"
"Prrr!"
These exclamations came from all parts of the table like squibs from a set firework.
"Come, now, Mama Vauquer, a couple of bottles of champagne," called Vautrin.
"Quien! just like you! Why not ask for the whole house at once. A couple of bottles of champagne; that means twelve francs! I shall never see the money back again, I know! But if M. Eugene has a mind to pay for it, I have some currant cordial."
"That currant cordial of hers is as bad as a black draught," muttered the medical student.
"Shut up, Bianchon," exclaimed Rastignac; "the very mention of black draught makes me feel----. Yes, champagne, by all means; I will pay for it," he added.
"Sylvie," called Mme. Vauquer, "bring in some biscuits, and the little cakes."
"Those little cakes are mouldy graybeards," said Vautrin. "But trot out the biscuits."
The Bordeaux wine circulated; the dinner table became a livelier scene than ever, and the fun grew fast and furious. Imitations of the cries of various animals mingled with the loud laughter; the Museum official having taken it into his head to mimic a cat-call rather like the caterwauling of the animal in question, eight voices simultaneously struck up with the following variations:
"Scissors to grind!"
"Chick-weeds for singing bir-ds!"
"Brandy-snaps, ladies!"
"China to mend!"
"Boat ahoy!"
"Sticks to beat your wives or your clothes!"
"Old clo'!"
"Cherries all ripe!"
But the palm was awarded to Bianchon for the nasal accent with which he rendered the cry of "Umbrellas to me-end!"
