Father Goriot (World's Classics Series). Оноре де Бальзак

the artist; “he does that sort of thing to delude us into thinking that he was a vermicelli maker.”

      “Your nose is a corn-sampler, it appears?” inquired the official.

      “Corn what?” asked Bianchon.

      “Corn-el.”

      “Corn-et.”

      “Corn-elian.”

      “Corn-ice.”

      “Corn-ucopia.”

      “Corn-crake.”

      “Corn-cockle.”

      “Corn-orama.”

      The eight responses came like a rolling fire from every part of the room, and the laughter that followed was the more uproarious because poor Father Goriot stared at the others with a puzzled look, like a foreigner trying to catch the meaning of words in a language which he does not understand.

      “Corn? . . . ” he said, turning to Vautrin, his next neighbor.

      “Corn on your foot, old man!” said Vautrin, and he drove Father Goriot’s cap down over his eyes by a blow on the crown.

      The poor old man thus suddenly attacked was for a moment too bewildered to do anything. Christophe carried off his plate, thinking that he had finished his soup, so that when Goriot had pushed back his cap from his eyes his spoon encountered the table. Every one burst out laughing. “You are a disagreeable joker, sir,” said the old man, “and if you take any further liberties with me —”

      “Well, what then, old boy?” Vautrin interrupted.

      “Well, then, you shall pay dearly for it some day —”

      “Down below, eh?” said the artist, “in the little dark corner where they put naughty boys.”

      “Well, mademoiselle,” Vautrin said, turning to Victorine, “you are eating nothing. So papa was refractory, was he?”

      “A monster!” said Mme. Couture.

      “Mademoiselle might make application for aliment pending her suit; she is not eating anything. Eh! eh! just see how Father Goriot is staring at Mlle. Victorine.”

      The old man had forgotten his dinner, he was so absorbed in gazing at the poor girl; the sorrow in her face was unmistakable — the slighted love of a child whose father would not recognize her.

      “We are mistaken about Father Goriot, my dear boy,” said Eugene in a low voice. “He is not an idiot, nor wanting in energy. Try your Gall system on him, and let me know what you think. I saw him crush a silver dish last night as if it had been made of wax; there seems to be something extraordinary going on in his mind just now, to judge by his face. His life is so mysterious that it must be worth studying. Oh! you may laugh, Bianchon; I am not joking.”

      “The man is a subject, is he?” said Bianchon; “all right! I will dissect him, if he will give me the chance.”

      “No; feel his bumps.”

      “Hm! — his stupidity might perhaps be contagious.”