For several months the old wine-grower came constantly to his wife’s room at all hours of the day, without ever uttering his daughter’s name, or seeing her, or making the smallest allusion¹ to her. Madame Grandet did not leave her chamber², and daily grew worse. Nothing softened³ the old man; he remained unmoved, harsh, and cold as a granite⁴ rock. He continued to go and come about his business as usual; but ceased to stutter, talked less, and was more obdurate⁵ in business transactions than ever before. Often he made mistakes in adding up his figures.  
“Something is going on at the Grandets,” said the Grassinists and the Cruchotines.
 
“What has happened in the Grandet family?” became a fixed⁶ question which everybody asked everybody else at the little evening-parties of Saumur. Eugenie went to Mass escorted by Nanon. If Madame des Grassins said a few words to her on coming out of church, she answered in an evasive manner, without satisfying any curiosity. However, at the end of two months, it became impossible to hide, either from the three Cruchots or from Madame des Grassins, the fact that Eugenie was in confinement⁷. There came a moment when all pretexts⁸ failed to explain her perpetual absence. Then, though it was impossible to discover by whom the secret had been betrayed, all the town became aware that ever since New Year’s day Mademoiselle Grandet had been kept in her room without fire, on bread and water, by her father’s orders, and that Nanon cooked little dainties and took them to her secretly at night. It was even known that the young woman was not able to see or take care of her mother, except at certain times when her father was out of the house.
 
Grandet’s conduct was severely⁹ condemned¹⁰. The whole town outlawed¹¹ him, so to speak; they remembered his treachery, his hard-heartedness, and they excommunicated him. When he passed along the streets, people pointed¹² him out and muttered at him. When his daughter came down the winding¹³ street, accompanied by Nanon, on her way to Mass or Vespers, the inhabitants ran to the windows and examined with intense curiosity the bearing of the rich heiress and her countenance¹⁴, which bore the impress of angelic gentleness and melancholy¹⁵. Her imprisonment¹⁶ and the condemnation¹⁷ of her father were as nothing to her. Had she not a map of the world, the little bench, the garden, the angle of the wall? Did she not taste upon her lips the honey that love’s kisses left there? She was ignorant for a time that the town talked about her, just as Grandet himself was ignorant of it. Pious¹⁸ and pure in heart before God, her conscience and her love helped her to suffer patiently the wrath¹⁹ and vengeance²⁰ of her father.
 
One deep grief silenced all others. Her mother, that gentle, tender creature, made beautiful by the light which shone from the inner to the outer as she approached the tomb,—her mother was perishing from day to day. Eugenie often reproached herself as the innocent cause of the slow, cruel malady²¹ that was wasting her away. This remorse²², though her mother soothed²³ it, bound her still closer to her love. Every morning, as soon as her father left the house, she went to the bedside of her mother, and there Nanon brought her breakfast. The poor girl, sad, and suffering through the sufferings of her mother, would turn her face to the old servant with a mute gesture, weeping, and yet not daring to speak of her cousin. It was Madame Grandet who first found courage to say,—
 
“Where is he? Why does he not write?”
 
“Let us think about him, mother, but not speak of him. You are ill—you, before all.”
 
“All” meant “him.”
 
“My child,” said Madame Grandet, “I do not wish to live. God protects me and enables me to look with joy to the end of my misery²⁴.”
 
Every utterance²⁵ of this woman was unfalteringly pious and Christian²⁶. Sometimes, during the first months of the year, when her husband came to breakfast with her and tramped up and down the room, she would say to him a few religious words, always spoken with angelic sweetness, yet with the firmness of a woman to whom approaching death lends a courage she had lacked in life.
 
“Monsieur, I thank you for the interest you take in my health,” she would answer when he made some commonplace inquiry²⁷; “but if you really desire to render my last moments less bitter and to ease my grief, take back your daughter: be a Christian, a husband, and a father.”
 
When he heard these words, Grandet would sit down by the bed with the air of a man who sees the rain coming and quietly gets under the shelter of a gateway²⁸ till it is over. When these touching²⁹, tender, and religious supplications had all been made, he would say,—
 
“You are rather pale to-day, my poor wife.”
 
Absolute forgetfulness of his daughter seemed graven on his stony³⁰ brow, on his closed lips. He was unmoved by the tears which flowed down the white cheeks of his unhappy wife as she listened to his meaningless answers.
 
“May God pardon you,” she said, “even as I pardon you! You will some day stand in need of mercy.”
 
Since Madame Grandet’s illness he had not dared to make use of his terrible “Ta, ta, ta, ta!” Yet, for all that, his despotic nature was not disarmed³¹ by this angel of gentleness, whose ugliness day by day decreased, driven out by the ineffable³² expression of moral qualities which shone upon her face. She was all soul. The spirit of prayer seemed to purify her and refine those homely³³ features and make them luminous³⁴. Who has not seen the phenomenon of a like transfiguration on sacred faces where the habits of the soul have triumphed over the plainest features, giving them that spiritual illumination whose light comes from the purity and nobility of the inward thought? The spectacle of this transformation³⁵ wrought³⁶ by the struggle which consumed the last shreds³⁷ of the human life of this woman, did somewhat affect the old cooper, though feebly, for his nature was of iron; if his language ceased to be contemptuous, an imperturbable³⁸ silence, which saved his dignity as master of the household, took its place and ruled his conduct.
 
When the faithful Nanon appeared in the market, many quips and quirks³⁹ and complaints about the master whistled in her ears; but however loudly public opinion condemned Monsieur Grandet, the old servant defended him, for the honor of the family.
 
“Well!” she would say to his detractors, “don’t we all get hard as we grow old? Why shouldn’t he get horny too? Stop telling lies. Mademoiselle lives like a queen. She’s alone, that’s true; but she likes it. Besides, my masters have good reasons.”
 
At last, towards the end of spring, Madame Grandet, worn out by grief even more than by illness, having failed, in spite of her prayers, to reconcile the father and daughter, confided⁴⁰ her secret troubles to the Cruchots.
 
“Keep a girl of twenty-three on bread and water!” cried Monsieur de Bonfons; “without any reason, too! Why, that constitutes wrongful cruelty; she can contest, as much in as upon—”
 
“Come, nephew, spare us your legal jargon,” said the notary⁴¹. “Set your mind at ease, madame; I will put a stop to such treatment to-morrow.”
 
Eugenie, hearing herself mentioned, came out of her room.
 
“Gentlemen,” she said, coming forward with a proud step, “I beg you not to interfere⁴² in this matter. My father is master in his own house. As long as I live under his roof I am bound to obey him. His conduct is not subject to the approbation⁴³ or the disapprobation of the world; he is accountable to God only. I appeal to your friendship to keep total silence in this affair. To blame my father is to attack our family honor. I am much obliged to you for the interest you have shown in me; you will do me an additional service if you will put a stop to the offensive rumors⁴⁴ which are current in the town, of which I am accidentally informed.”
 
“She is right,” said Madame Grandet.
 
“Mademoiselle, the best way to stop such rumors is to procure⁴⁵ your liberty,” answered the old notary respectfully, struck with the beauty which seclusion⁴⁶, melancholy, and love had stamped upon her face.
 
“Well, my daughter, let Monsieur Cruchot manage the matter if he is so sure of success. He understands your father, and how to manage him. If you wish to see me happy for my few remaining days, you must, at any cost, be reconciled to your father.”
 
On the morrow Grandet, in pursuance of a custom he had begun since Eugenie’s imprisonment, took a certain number of turns up and down the little garden; he had chosen the hour when Eugenie brushed and arranged her hair. When the old man reached the walnut-tree he hid behind its trunk and remained for a few moments watching his daughter’s movements, hesitating, perhaps, between the course to which the obstinacy⁴⁷ of his character impelled⁴⁸ him and his natural desire to embrace his child. Sometimes he sat down on the rotten old bench where Charles and Eugenie had vowed⁴⁹ eternal love; and then she, too, looked at her father secretly in the mirror before which she stood. If he rose and continued his walk, she sat down obligingly at the window and looked at the angle of the wall where the pale flowers hung, where the Venus-hair grew from the crevices⁵⁰ with the bindweed and the sedum,—a white or yellow stone-crop very abundant in the vineyards of Saumur and at Tours. Maitre Cruchot came early, and found the old wine-grower sitting in the fine June weather on the little bench, his back against the division wall of the garden, engaged in watching his daughter.
 
“What may you want, Maitre Cruchot?” he said, perceiving the notary.
 
“I came to speak to you on business.”
 
“Ah! ah! have you brought some gold in exchange for my silver?”
 
“No, no, I have not come about money; it is about your daughter Eugenie. All the town is talking of her and you.”
 
“What does the town meddle⁵¹ for? A man’s house is his castle.”
 
“Very true; and a man may kill himself if he likes, or, what is worse, he may fling his money into the gutter⁵².”
 
“What do you mean?”
 
“Why, your wife is very ill, my friend. You ought to consult Monsieur Bergerin; she is likely to die. If she does die without receiving proper care, you will not be very easy in mind, I take it.”
 
“Ta, ta, ta, ta! you know a deal about my wife! These doctors, if they once get their foot in your house, will come five and six times a day.”
 
“Of course you will do as you think best. We are old friends; there is no one in all Saumur who takes more interest than I in what concerns you. Therefore, I was bound to tell you this. However, happen what may, you have the right to do as you please; you can choose your own course. Besides, that is not what brings me here. There is another thing which may have serious results for you. After all, you can’t wish to kill your wife; her life is too important to you. Think of your situation in connection with your daughter if Madame Grandet dies. You must render an account to Eugenie, because you enjoy your wife’s estate only during her lifetime. At her death your daughter can claim a division of property, and she may force you to sell Froidfond. In short, she is her mother’s heir, and you are not.”
 
These words fell like a thunderbolt on the old man, who was not as wise about law as he was about business. He had never thought of a legal division of the estate.
 
“Therefore I advise you to treat her kindly,” added Cruchot, in conclusion.
 
“But do you know what she has done, Cruchot?”
 
“What?” asked the notary, curious to hear the truth and find out the cause of the quarrel.
 
“She has given away her gold!”
 
“Well, wasn’t it hers?” said the notary.
 
“They all tell me that!” exclaimed the old man, letting his arms fall to his sides with a movement that was truly tragic⁵³.
 
“Are you going—for a mere⁵⁴ nothing,&rdq............