"I will repay you in a minute," returned Eugene. He unsealed one of the bags as he spoke, counted out a hundred and forty francs, and pushed them towards Mme. Vauquer. "Short reckonings make good friends" he added, turning to the widow; "that clears our accounts till the end of the year. Can you give me change for a five-franc piece?"
"Good friends make short reckonings," echoed Poiret, with a glance at Vautrin.
"Here is your franc," said Rastignac, holding out the coin to the sphinx in the black wig.
"Any one might think that you were afraid to owe me a trifle," exclaimed this latter, with a searching glance that seemed to read the young man's inmost thoughts; there was a satirical and cynical smile on Vautrin's face such as Eugene had seen scores of times already; every time he saw it, it exasperated him almost beyond endurance.
"Well . . . so I am," he answered. He held both the bags in his hand, and had risen to go up to his room.
Vautrin made as if he were going out through the sitting-room, and the student turned to go through the second door that opened into the square lobby at the foot of the staircase.
"Do you know, Monsieur le Marquis de Rastignacorama, that what you were saying just now was not exactly polite?" Vautrin remarked, as he rattled his sword-cane across the panels of the sitting-room door, and came up to the student.
Rastignac looked coolly at Vautrin, drew him to the foot of the staircase, and shut the dining-room door. They were standing in the little square lobby between the kitchen and the dining-room; the place was lighted by an iron-barred fanlight above a door that gave access into the garden. Sylvie came out of her kitchen, and Eugene chose that moment to say:
MONSIEUR Vautrin, I am not a marquis, and my name is not Rastignacorama."
"They will fight," said Mlle. Michonneau, in an indifferent tone.
"Fight!" echoed Poiret.
"Not they," replied Mme. Vauquer, lovingly fingering her pile of coins.
"But there they are under the lime-trees," cried Mlle. Victorine, who had risen so that she might see out into the garden. "Poor young man! he was in the right, after all."
"We must go upstairs, my pet," said Mme. Couture; "it is no business of ours."
At the door, however, Mme. Couture and Victorine found their progress barred by the portly form of Sylvie the cook.
"What ever can have happened?" she said. "M. Vautrin said to M.
Eugene, 'Let us have an explanation!' then he took him by the arm, and there they are, out among the artichokes."
Vautrin came in while she was speaking. "Mamma Vauquer," he said smiling, "don't frighten yourself at all. I am only going to try my pistols under the lime-trees."
"Oh! monsieur," cried Victorine, clasping her hands as she spoke, "why do you want to kill M. Eugene?"
Vautrin stepped back a pace or two, and gazed at Victorine.
"Oh! this is something fresh!" he exclaimed in a bantering tone, that brought the color into the poor girl's face. "That young fellow yonder is very nice, isn't he?" he went on. "You have given me a notion, my pretty child; I will make you both happy."
Mme. Couture laid her hand on the arm of her ward, and drew the girl away, as she said in her ear:
"Why, Victorine, I cannot imagine what has come over you this morning."
"I don't want any shots fired in my garden," said Mme. Vauquer.
"You will frighten the neighborhood and bring the police up here all in a moment."
"Come, keep cool, Mamma Vauquer," answered Vautrin. "There, there; it's all right; we will go to the shooting-gallery."
He went back to Rastignac, laying his hand familiarly on the young man's arm.
"When I have given you ocular demonstration of the fact that I can put a bullet through the ace on a card five times running at thirty-five paces," he said, "that won't take away your appetite, I suppose? You look to me to be inclined to be a trifle quarrelsome this morning, and as if you would rush on your death like a blockhead."
"Do you draw back?" asked Eugene.
"Don't try to raise my temperature," answered Vautrin, "it is not cold this morning. Let us go and sit over there," he added, pointing to the green-painted garden seats; "no one can overhear us. I want a little talk with you. You are not a bad sort of youngster, and I have no quarrel with you. I like you, take Trump--(confound it!)--take Vautrin's word for it. What makes me like you? I will tell you by-and-by. Meantime, I can tell you that I know you as well as if I had made you myself, as I will prove to you in a minute. Put down your bags," he continued, pointing to the round table.
Rastignac deposited his money on the table, and sat down. He was consumed with curiosity, which the sudden change in the manner of the man before him had excited to the highest pitch. Here was a strange being who, a moment ago, had talked of killing him, and now posed as his protector.
"You would like to know who I really am, what I was, and what I do now," Vautrin went on. "You want to know too much, youngster.
Come! come! keep cool! You will hear more astonishing things than that. I have had my misfortunes. Just hear me out first, and you shall have your turn afterwards. Here is my past in three words.
Who am I? Vautrin. What do I do? Just what I please. Let us change the subject. You want to know my character. I am good- natured to those who do me a good turn, or to those whose hearts speak to mine. These last may do anything they like with me; they may bruise my shins, and I shall not tell them to 'mind what they are about'; but, nom d'une pipe, the devil himself is not an uglier customer than I can be if people annoy me, or if I don't happen to take to them; and you may just as well know at once that I think no more of killing a man than of that," and he spat before him as he spoke. "Only when it is absolutely necessary to do so, I do my best to kill him properly. I am what you call an artist. I have read Benvenuto Cellini's Memoirs, such as you see me; and, what is more, in Italian: A fine-spirited fellow he was!
