summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/1237-h/1237-h.htm
blob: e60f2bc48fba6ac0c1500e9d278293b2fb76cfe8 (plain) 
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
684
685
686
687
688
689
690
691
692
693
694
695
696
697
698
699
700
701
702
703
704
705
706
707
708
709
710
711
712
713
714
715
716
717
718
719
720
721
722
723
724
725
726
727
728
729
730
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744
745
746
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813
814
815
816
817
818
819
820
821
822
823
824
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896
897
898
899
900
901
902
903
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928
929
930
931
932
933
934
935
936
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977
978
979
980
981
982
983
984
985
986
987
988
989
990
991
992
993
994
995
996
997
998
999
1000
1001
1002
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027
1028
1029
1030
1031
1032
1033
1034
1035
1036
1037
1038
1039
1040
1041
1042
1043
1044
1045
1046
1047
1048
1049
1050
1051
1052
1053
1054
1055
1056
1057
1058
1059
1060
1061
1062
1063
1064
1065
1066
1067
1068
1069
1070
1071
1072
1073
1074
1075
1076
1077
1078
1079
1080
1081
1082
1083
1084
1085
1086
1087
1088
1089
1090
1091
1092
1093
1094
1095
1096
1097
1098
1099
1100
1101
1102
1103
1104
1105
1106
1107
1108
1109
1110
1111
1112
1113
1114
1115
1116
1117
1118
1119
1120
1121
1122
1123
1124
1125
1126
1127
1128
1129
1130
1131
1132
1133
1134
1135
1136
1137
1138
1139
1140
1141
1142
1143
1144
1145
1146
1147
1148
1149
1150
1151
1152
1153
1154
1155
1156
1157
1158
1159
1160
1161
1162
1163
1164
1165
1166
1167
1168
1169
1170
1171
1172
1173
1174
1175
1176
1177
1178
1179
1180
1181
1182
1183
1184
1185
1186
1187
1188
1189
1190
1191
1192
1193
1194
1195
1196
1197
1198
1199
1200
1201
1202
1203
1204
1205
1206
1207
1208
1209
1210
1211
1212
1213
1214
1215
1216
1217
1218
1219
1220
1221
1222
1223
1224
1225
1226
1227
1228
1229
1230
1231
1232
1233
1234
1235
1236
1237
1238
1239
1240
1241
1242
1243
1244
1245
1246
1247
1248
1249
1250
1251
1252
1253
1254
1255
1256
1257
1258
1259
1260
1261
1262
1263
1264
1265
1266
1267
1268
1269
1270
1271
1272
1273
1274
1275
1276
1277
1278
1279
1280
1281
1282
1283
1284
1285
1286
1287
1288
1289
1290
1291
1292
1293
1294
1295
1296
1297
1298
1299
1300
1301
1302
1303
1304
1305
1306
1307
1308
1309
1310
1311
1312
1313
1314
1315
1316
1317
1318
1319
1320
1321
1322
1323
1324
1325
1326
1327
1328
1329
1330
1331
1332
1333
1334
1335
1336
1337
1338
1339
1340
1341
1342
1343
1344
1345
1346
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371
1372
1373
1374
1375
1376
1377
1378
1379
1380
1381
1382
1383
1384
1385
1386
1387
1388
1389
1390
1391
1392
1393
1394
1395
1396
1397
1398
1399
1400
1401
1402
1403
1404
1405
1406
1407
1408
1409
1410
1411
1412
1413
1414
1415
1416
1417
1418
1419
1420
1421
1422
1423
1424
1425
1426
1427
1428
1429
1430
1431
1432
1433
1434
1435
1436
1437
1438
1439
1440
1441
1442
1443
1444
1445
1446
1447
1448
1449
1450
1451
1452
1453
1454
1455
1456
1457
1458
1459
1460
1461
1462
1463
1464
1465
1466
1467
1468
1469
1470
1471
1472
1473
1474
1475
1476
1477
1478
1479
1480
1481
1482
1483
1484
1485
1486
1487
1488
1489
1490
1491
1492
1493
1494
1495
1496
1497
1498
1499
1500
1501
1502
1503
1504
1505
1506
1507
1508
1509
1510
1511
1512
1513
1514
1515
1516
1517
1518
1519
1520
1521
1522
1523
1524
1525
1526
1527
1528
1529
1530
1531
1532
1533
1534
1535
1536
1537
1538
1539
1540
1541
1542
1543
1544
1545
1546
1547
1548
1549
1550
1551
1552
1553
1554
1555
1556
1557
1558
1559
1560
1561
1562
1563
1564
1565
1566
1567
1568
1569
1570
1571
1572
1573
1574
1575
1576
1577
1578
1579
1580
1581
1582
1583
1584
1585
1586
1587
1588
1589
1590
1591
1592
1593
1594
1595
1596
1597
1598
1599
1600
1601
1602
1603
1604
1605
1606
1607
1608
1609
1610
1611
1612
1613
1614
1615
1616
1617
1618
1619
1620
1621
1622
1623
1624
1625
1626
1627
1628
1629
1630
1631
1632
1633
1634
1635
1636
1637
1638
1639
1640
1641
1642
1643
1644
1645
1646
1647
1648
1649
1650
1651
1652
1653
1654
1655
1656
1657
1658
1659
1660
1661
1662
1663
1664
1665
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690
1691
1692
1693
1694
1695
1696
1697
1698
1699
1700
1701
1702
1703
1704
1705
1706
1707
1708
1709
1710
1711
1712
1713
1714
1715
1716
1717
1718
1719
1720
1721
1722
1723
1724
1725
1726
1727
1728
1729
1730
1731
1732
1733
1734
1735
1736
1737
1738
1739
1740
1741
1742
1743
1744
1745
1746
1747
1748
1749
1750
1751
1752
1753
1754
1755
1756
1757
1758
1759
1760
1761
1762
1763
1764
1765
1766
1767
1768
1769
1770
1771
1772
1773
1774
1775
1776
1777
1778
1779
1780
1781
1782
1783
1784
1785
1786
1787
1788
1789
1790
1791
1792
1793
1794
1795
1796
1797
1798
1799
1800
1801
1802
1803
1804
1805
1806
1807
1808
1809
1810
1811
1812
1813
1814
1815
1816
1817
1818
1819
1820
1821
1822
1823
1824
1825
1826
1827
1828
1829
1830
1831
1832
1833
1834
1835
1836
1837
1838
1839
1840
1841
1842
1843
1844
1845
1846
1847
1848
1849
1850
1851
1852
1853
1854
1855
1856
1857
1858
1859
1860
1861
1862
1863
1864
1865
1866
1867
1868
1869
1870
1871
1872
1873
1874
1875
1876
1877
1878
1879
1880
1881
1882
1883
1884
1885
1886
1887
1888
1889
1890
1891
1892
1893
1894
1895
1896
1897
1898
1899
1900
1901
1902
1903
1904
1905
1906
1907
1908
1909
1910
1911
1912
1913
1914
1915
1916
1917
1918
1919
1920
1921
1922
1923
1924
1925
1926
1927
1928
1929
1930
1931
1932
1933
1934
1935
1936
1937
1938
1939
1940
1941
1942
1943
1944
1945
1946
1947
1948
1949
1950
1951
1952
1953
1954
1955
1956
1957
1958
1959
1960
1961
1962
1963
1964
1965
1966
1967
1968
1969
1970
1971
1972
1973
1974
1975
1976
1977
1978
1979
1980
1981
1982
1983
1984
1985
1986
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
2020
2021
2022
2023
2024
2025
2026
2027
2028
2029
2030
2031
2032
2033
2034
2035
2036
2037
2038
2039
2040
2041
2042
2043
2044
2045
2046
2047
2048
2049
2050
2051
2052
2053
2054
2055
2056
2057
2058
2059
2060
2061
2062
2063
2064
2065
2066
2067
2068
2069
2070
2071
2072
2073
2074
2075
2076
2077
2078
2079
2080
2081
2082
2083
2084
2085
2086
2087
2088
2089
2090
2091
2092
2093
2094
2095
2096
2097
2098
2099
2100
2101
2102
2103
2104
2105
2106
2107
2108
2109
2110
2111
2112
2113
2114
2115
2116
2117
2118
2119
2120
2121
2122
2123
2124
2125
2126
2127
2128
2129
2130
2131
2132
2133
2134
2135
2136
2137
2138
2139
2140
2141
2142
2143
2144
2145
2146
2147
2148
2149
2150
2151
2152
2153
2154
2155
2156
2157
2158
2159
2160
2161
2162
2163
2164
2165
2166
2167
2168
2169
2170
2171
2172
2173
2174
2175
2176
2177
2178
2179
2180
2181
2182
2183
2184
2185
2186
2187
2188
2189
2190
2191
2192
2193
2194
2195
2196
2197
2198
2199
2200
2201
2202
2203
2204
2205
2206
2207
2208
2209
2210
2211
2212
2213
2214
2215
2216
2217
2218
2219
2220
2221
2222
2223
2224
2225
2226
2227
2228
2229
2230
2231
2232
2233
2234
2235
2236
2237
2238
2239
2240
2241
2242
2243
2244
2245
2246
2247
2248
2249
2250
2251
2252
2253
2254
2255
2256
2257
2258
2259
2260
2261
2262
2263
2264
2265
2266
2267
2268
2269
2270
2271
2272
2273
2274
2275
2276
2277
2278
2279
2280
2281
2282
2283
2284
2285
2286
2287
2288
2289
2290
2291
2292
2293
2294
2295
2296
2297
2298
2299
2300
2301
2302
2303
2304
2305
2306
2307
2308
2309
2310
2311
2312
2313
2314
2315
2316
2317
2318
2319
2320
2321
2322
2323
2324
2325
2326
2327
2328
2329
2330
2331
2332
2333
2334
2335
2336
2337
2338
2339
2340
2341
2342
2343
2344
2345
2346
2347
2348
2349
2350
2351
2352
2353
2354
2355
2356
2357
2358
2359
2360
2361
2362
2363
2364
2365
2366
2367
2368
2369
2370
2371
2372
2373
2374
2375
2376
2377
2378
2379
2380
2381
2382
2383
2384
2385
2386
2387
2388
2389
2390
2391
2392
2393
2394
2395
2396
2397
2398
2399
2400
2401
2402
2403
2404
2405
2406
2407
2408
2409
2410
2411
2412
2413
2414
2415
2416
2417
2418
2419
2420
2421
2422
2423
2424
2425
2426
2427
2428
2429
2430
2431
2432
2433
2434
2435
2436
2437
2438
2439
2440
2441
2442
2443
2444
2445
2446
2447
2448
2449
2450
2451
2452
2453
2454
2455
2456
2457
2458
2459
2460
2461
2462
2463
2464
2465
2466
2467
2468
2469
2470
2471
2472
2473
2474
2475
2476
2477
2478
2479
2480
2481
2482
2483
2484
2485
2486
2487
2488
2489
2490
2491
2492
2493
2494
2495
2496
2497
2498
2499
2500
2501
2502
2503
2504
2505
2506
2507
2508
2509
2510
2511
2512
2513
2514
2515
2516
2517
2518
2519
2520
2521
2522
2523
2524
2525
2526
2527
2528
2529
2530
2531
2532
2533
2534
2535
2536
2537
2538
2539
2540
2541
2542
2543
2544
2545
2546
2547
2548
2549
2550
2551
2552
2553
2554
2555
2556
2557
2558
2559
2560
2561
2562
2563
2564
2565
2566
2567
2568
2569
2570
2571
2572
2573
2574
2575
2576
2577
2578
2579
2580
2581
2582
2583
2584
2585
2586
2587
2588
2589
2590
2591
2592
2593
2594
2595
2596
2597
2598
2599
2600
2601
2602
2603
2604
2605
2606
2607
2608
2609
2610
2611
2612
2613
2614
2615
2616
2617
2618
2619
2620
2621
2622
2623
2624
2625
2626
2627
2628
2629
2630
2631
2632
2633
2634
2635
2636
2637
2638
2639
2640
2641
2642
2643
2644
2645
2646
2647
2648
2649
2650
2651
2652
2653
2654
2655
2656
2657
2658
2659
2660
2661
2662
2663
2664
2665
2666
2667
2668
2669
2670
2671
2672
2673
2674
2675
2676
2677
2678
2679
2680
2681
2682
2683
2684
2685
2686
2687
2688
2689
2690
2691
2692
2693
2694
2695
2696
2697
2698
2699
2700
2701
2702
2703
2704
2705
2706
2707
2708
2709
2710
2711
2712
2713
2714
2715
2716
2717
2718
2719
2720
2721
2722
2723
2724
2725
2726
2727
2728
2729
2730
2731
2732
2733
2734
2735
2736
2737
2738
2739
2740
2741
2742
2743
2744
2745
2746
2747
2748
2749
2750
2751
2752
2753
2754
2755
2756
2757
2758
2759
2760
2761
2762
2763
2764
2765
2766
2767
2768
2769
2770
2771
2772
2773
2774
2775
2776
2777
2778
2779
2780
2781
2782
2783
2784
2785
2786
2787
2788
2789
2790
2791
2792
2793
2794
2795
2796
2797
2798
2799
2800
2801
2802
2803
2804
2805
2806
2807
2808
2809
2810
2811
2812
2813
2814
2815
2816
2817
2818
2819
2820
2821
2822
2823
2824
2825
2826
2827
2828
2829
2830
2831
2832
2833
2834
2835
2836
2837
2838
2839
2840
2841
2842
2843
2844
2845
2846
2847
2848
2849
2850
2851
2852
2853
2854
2855
2856
2857
2858
2859
2860
2861
2862
2863
2864
2865
2866
2867
2868
2869
2870
2871
2872
2873
2874
2875
2876
2877
2878
2879
2880
2881
2882
2883
2884
2885
2886
2887
2888
2889
2890
2891
2892
2893
2894
2895
2896
2897
2898
2899
2900
2901
2902
2903
2904
2905
2906
2907
2908
2909
2910
2911
2912
2913
2914
2915
2916
2917
2918
2919
2920
2921
2922
2923
2924
2925
2926
2927
2928
2929
2930
2931
2932
2933
2934
2935
2936
2937
2938
2939
2940
2941
2942
2943
2944
2945
2946
2947
2948
2949
2950
2951
2952
2953
2954
2955
2956
2957
2958
2959
2960
2961
2962
2963
2964
2965
2966
2967
2968
2969
2970
2971
2972
2973
2974
2975
2976
2977
2978
2979
2980
2981
2982
2983
2984
2985
2986
2987
2988
2989
2990
2991
2992
2993
2994
2995
2996
2997
2998
2999
3000
3001
3002
3003
3004
3005
3006
3007
3008
3009
3010
3011
3012
3013
3014
3015
3016
3017
3018
3019
3020
3021
3022
3023
3024
3025
3026
3027
3028
3029
3030
3031
3032
3033
3034
3035
3036
3037
3038
3039
3040
3041
3042
3043
3044
3045
3046
3047
3048
3049
3050
3051
3052
3053
3054
3055
3056
3057
3058
3059
3060
3061
3062
3063
3064
3065
3066
3067
3068
3069
3070
3071
3072
3073
3074
3075
3076
3077
3078
3079
3080
3081
3082
3083
3084
3085
3086
3087
3088
3089
3090
3091
3092
3093
3094
3095
3096
3097
3098
3099
3100
3101
3102
3103
3104
3105
3106
3107
3108
3109
3110
3111
3112
3113
3114
3115
3116
3117
3118
3119
3120
3121
3122
3123
3124
3125
3126
3127
3128
3129
3130
3131
3132
3133
3134
3135
3136
3137
3138
3139
3140
3141
3142
3143
3144
3145
3146
3147
3148
3149
3150
3151
3152
3153
3154
3155
3156
3157
3158
3159
3160
3161
3162
3163
3164
3165
3166
3167
3168
3169
3170
3171
3172
3173
3174
3175
3176
3177
3178
3179
3180
3181
3182
3183
3184
3185
3186
3187
3188
3189
3190
3191
3192
3193
3194
3195
3196
3197
3198
3199
3200
3201
3202
3203
3204
3205
3206
3207
3208
3209
3210
3211
3212
3213
3214
3215
3216
3217
3218
3219
3220
3221
3222
3223
3224
3225
3226
3227
3228
3229
3230
3231
3232
3233
3234
3235
3236
3237
3238
3239
3240
3241
3242
3243
3244
3245
3246
3247
3248
3249
3250
3251
3252
3253
3254
3255
3256
3257
3258
3259
3260
3261
3262
3263
3264
3265
3266
3267
3268
3269
3270
3271
3272
3273
3274
3275
3276
3277
3278
3279
3280
3281
3282
3283
3284
3285
3286
3287
3288
3289
3290
3291
3292
3293
3294
3295
3296
3297
3298
3299
3300
3301
3302
3303
3304
3305
3306
3307
3308
3309
3310
3311
3312
3313
3314
3315
3316
3317
3318
3319
3320
3321
3322
3323
3324
3325
3326
3327
3328
3329
3330
3331
3332
3333
3334
3335
3336
3337
3338
3339
3340
3341
3342
3343
3344
3345
3346
3347
3348
3349
3350
3351
3352
3353
3354
3355
3356
3357
3358
3359
3360
3361
3362
3363
3364
3365
3366
3367
3368
3369
3370
3371
3372
3373
3374
3375
3376
3377
3378
3379
3380
3381
3382
3383
3384
3385
3386
3387
3388
3389
3390
3391
3392
3393
3394
3395
3396
3397
3398
3399
3400
3401
3402
3403
3404
3405
3406
3407
3408
3409
3410
3411
3412
3413
3414
3415
3416
3417
3418
3419
3420
3421
3422
3423
3424
3425
3426
3427
3428
3429
3430
3431
3432
3433
3434
3435
3436
3437
3438
3439
3440
3441
3442
3443
3444
3445
3446
3447
3448
3449
3450
3451
3452
3453
3454
3455
3456
3457
3458
3459
3460
3461
3462
3463
3464
3465
3466
3467
3468
3469
3470
3471
3472
3473
3474
3475
3476
3477
3478
3479
3480
3481
3482
3483
3484
3485
3486
3487
3488
3489
3490
3491
3492
3493
3494
3495
3496
3497
3498
3499
3500
3501
3502
3503
3504
3505
3506
3507
3508
3509
3510
3511
3512
3513
3514
3515
3516
3517
3518
3519
3520
3521
3522
3523
3524
3525
3526
3527
3528
3529
3530
3531
3532
3533
3534
3535
3536
3537
3538
3539
3540
3541
3542
3543
3544
3545
3546
3547
3548
3549
3550
3551
3552
3553
3554
3555
3556
3557
3558
3559
3560
3561
3562
3563
3564
3565
3566
3567
3568
3569
3570
3571
3572
3573
3574
3575
3576
3577
3578
3579
3580
3581
3582
3583
3584
3585
3586
3587
3588
3589
3590
3591
3592
3593
3594
3595
3596
3597
3598
3599
3600
3601
3602
3603
3604
3605
3606
3607
3608
3609
3610
3611
3612
3613
3614
3615
3616
3617
3618
3619
3620
3621
3622
3623
3624
3625
3626
3627
3628
3629
3630
3631
3632
3633
3634
3635
3636
3637
3638
3639
3640
3641
3642
3643
3644
3645
3646
3647
3648
3649
3650
3651
3652
3653
3654
3655
3656
3657
3658
3659
3660
3661
3662
3663
3664
3665
3666
3667
3668
3669
3670
3671
3672
3673
3674
3675
3676
3677
3678
3679
3680
3681
3682
3683
3684
3685
3686
3687
3688
3689
3690
3691
3692
3693
3694
3695
3696
3697
3698
3699
3700
3701
3702
3703
3704
3705
3706
3707
3708
3709
3710
3711
3712
3713
3714
3715
3716
3717
3718
3719
3720
3721
3722
3723
3724
3725
3726
3727
3728
3729
3730
3731
3732
3733
3734
3735
3736
3737
3738
3739
3740
3741
3742
3743
3744
3745
3746
3747
3748
3749
3750
3751
3752
3753
3754
3755
3756
3757
3758
3759
3760
3761
3762
3763
3764
3765
3766
3767
3768
3769
3770
3771
3772
3773
3774
3775
3776
3777
3778
3779
3780
3781
3782
3783
3784
3785
3786
3787
3788
3789
3790
3791
3792
3793
3794
3795
3796
3797
3798
3799
3800
3801
3802
3803
3804
3805
3806
3807
3808
3809
3810
3811
3812
3813
3814
3815
3816
3817
3818
3819
3820
3821
3822
3823
3824
3825
3826
3827
3828
3829
3830
3831
3832
3833
3834
3835
3836
3837
3838
3839
3840
3841
3842
3843
3844
3845
3846
3847
3848
3849
3850
3851
3852
3853
3854
3855
3856
3857
3858
3859
3860
3861
3862
3863
3864
3865
3866
3867
3868
3869
3870
3871
3872
3873
3874
3875
3876
3877
3878
3879
3880
3881
3882
3883
3884
3885
3886
3887
3888
3889
3890
3891
3892
3893
3894
3895
3896
3897
3898
3899
3900
3901
3902
3903
3904
3905
3906
3907
3908
3909
3910
3911
3912
3913
3914
3915
3916
3917
3918
3919
3920
3921
3922
3923
3924
3925
3926
3927
3928
3929
3930
3931
3932
3933
3934
3935
3936
3937
3938
3939
3940
3941
3942
3943
3944
3945
3946
3947
3948
3949
3950
3951
3952
3953
3954
3955
3956
3957
3958
3959
3960
3961
3962
3963
3964
3965
3966
3967
3968
3969
3970
3971
3972
3973
3974
3975
3976
3977
3978
3979
3980
3981
3982
3983
3984
3985
3986
3987
3988
3989
3990
3991
3992
3993
3994
3995
3996
3997
3998
3999
4000
4001
4002
4003
4004
4005
4006
4007
4008
4009
4010
4011
4012
4013
4014
4015
4016
4017
4018
4019
4020
4021
4022
4023
4024
4025
4026
4027
4028
4029
4030
4031
4032
4033
4034
4035
4036
4037
4038
4039
4040
4041
4042
4043
4044
4045
4046
4047
4048
4049
4050
4051
4052
4053
4054
4055
4056
4057
4058
4059
4060
4061
4062
4063
4064
4065
4066
4067
4068
4069
4070
4071
4072
4073
4074
4075
4076
4077
4078
4079
4080
4081
4082
4083
4084
4085
4086
4087
4088
4089
4090
4091
4092
4093
4094
4095
4096
4097
4098
4099
4100
4101
4102
4103
4104
4105
4106
4107
4108
4109
4110
4111
4112
4113
4114
4115
4116
4117
4118
4119
4120
4121
4122
4123
4124
4125
4126
4127
4128
4129
4130
4131
4132
4133
4134
4135
4136
4137
4138
4139
4140
4141
4142
4143
4144
4145
4146
4147
4148
4149
4150
4151
4152
4153
4154
4155
4156
4157
4158
4159
4160
4161
4162
4163
4164
4165
4166
4167
4168
4169
4170
4171
4172
4173
4174
4175
4176
4177
4178
4179
4180
4181
4182
4183
4184
4185
4186
4187
4188
4189
4190
4191
4192
4193
4194
4195
4196
4197
4198
4199
4200
4201
4202
4203
4204
4205
4206
4207
4208
4209
4210
4211
4212
4213
4214
4215
4216
4217
4218
4219
4220
4221
4222
4223
4224
4225
4226
4227
4228
4229
4230
4231
4232
4233
4234
4235
4236
4237
4238
4239
4240
4241
4242
4243
4244
4245
4246
4247
4248
4249
4250
4251
4252
4253
4254
4255
4256
4257
4258
4259
4260
4261
4262
4263
4264
4265
4266
4267
4268
4269
4270
4271
4272
4273
4274
4275
4276
4277
4278
4279
4280
4281
4282
4283
4284
4285
4286
4287
4288
4289
4290
4291
4292
4293
4294
4295
4296
4297
4298
4299
4300
4301
4302
4303
4304
4305
4306
4307
4308
4309
4310
4311
4312
4313
4314
4315
4316
4317
4318
4319
4320
4321
4322
4323
4324
4325
4326
4327
4328
4329
4330
4331
4332
4333
4334
4335
4336
4337
4338
4339
4340
4341
4342
4343
4344
4345
4346
4347
4348
4349
4350
4351
4352
4353
4354
4355
4356
4357
4358
4359
4360
4361
4362
4363
4364
4365
4366
4367
4368
4369
4370
4371
4372
4373
4374
4375
4376
4377
4378
4379
4380
4381
4382
4383
4384
4385
4386
4387
4388
4389
4390
4391
4392
4393
4394
4395
4396
4397
4398
4399
4400
4401
4402
4403
4404
4405
4406
4407
4408
4409
4410
4411
4412
4413
4414
4415
4416
4417
4418
4419
4420
4421
4422
4423
4424
4425
4426
4427
4428
4429
4430
4431
4432
4433
4434
4435
4436
4437
4438
4439
4440
4441
4442
4443
4444
4445
4446
4447
4448
4449
4450
4451
4452
4453
4454
4455
4456
4457
4458
4459
4460
4461
4462
4463
4464
4465
4466
4467
4468
4469
4470
4471
4472
4473
4474
4475
4476
4477
4478
4479
4480
4481
4482
4483
4484
4485
4486
4487
4488
4489
4490
4491
4492
4493
4494
4495
4496
4497
4498
4499
4500
4501
4502
4503
4504
4505
4506
4507
4508
4509
4510
4511
4512
4513
4514
4515
4516
4517
4518
4519
4520
4521
4522
4523
4524
4525
4526
4527
4528
4529
4530
4531
4532
4533
4534
4535
4536
4537
4538
4539
4540
4541
4542
4543
4544
4545
4546
4547
4548
4549
4550
4551
4552
4553
4554
4555
4556
4557
4558
4559
4560
4561
4562
4563
4564
4565
4566
4567
4568
4569
4570
4571
4572
4573
4574
4575
4576
4577
4578
4579
4580
4581
4582
4583
4584
4585
4586
4587
4588
4589
4590
4591
4592
4593
4594
4595
4596
4597
4598
4599
4600
4601
4602
4603
4604
4605
4606
4607
4608
4609
4610
4611
4612
4613
4614
4615
4616
4617
4618
4619
4620
4621
4622
4623
4624
4625
4626
4627
4628
4629
4630
4631
4632
4633
4634
4635
4636
4637
4638
4639
4640
4641
4642
4643
4644
4645
4646
4647
4648
4649
4650
4651
4652
4653
4654
4655
4656
4657
4658
4659
4660
4661
4662
4663
4664
4665
4666
4667
4668
4669
4670
4671
4672
4673
4674
4675
4676
4677
4678
4679
4680
4681
4682
4683
4684
4685
4686
4687
4688
4689
4690
4691
4692
4693
4694
4695
4696
4697
4698
4699
4700
4701
4702
4703
4704
4705
4706
4707
4708
4709
4710
4711
4712
4713
4714
4715
4716
4717
4718
4719
4720
4721
4722
4723
4724
4725
4726
4727
4728
4729
4730
4731
4732
4733
4734
4735
4736
4737
4738
4739
4740
4741
4742
4743
4744
4745
4746
4747
4748
4749
4750
4751
4752
4753
4754
4755
4756
4757
4758
4759
4760
4761
4762
4763
4764
4765
4766
4767
4768
4769
4770
4771
4772
4773
4774
4775
4776
4777
4778
4779
4780
4781
4782
4783
4784
4785
4786
4787
4788
4789
4790
4791
4792
4793
4794
4795
4796
4797
4798
4799
4800
4801
4802
4803
4804
4805
4806
4807
4808
4809
4810
4811
4812
4813
4814
4815
4816
4817
4818
4819
4820
4821
4822
4823
4824
4825
4826
4827
4828
4829
4830
4831
4832
4833
4834
4835
4836
4837
4838
4839
4840
4841
4842
4843
4844
4845
4846
4847
4848
4849
4850
4851
4852
4853
4854
4855
4856
4857
4858
4859
4860
4861
4862
4863
4864
4865
4866
4867
4868
4869
4870
4871
4872
4873
4874
4875
4876
4877
4878
4879
4880
4881
4882
4883
4884
4885
4886
4887
4888
4889
4890
4891
4892
4893
4894
4895
4896
4897
4898
4899
4900
4901
4902
4903
4904
4905
4906
4907
4908
4909
4910
4911
4912
4913
4914
4915
4916
4917
4918
4919
4920
4921
4922
4923
4924
4925
4926
4927
4928
4929
4930
4931
4932
4933
4934
4935
4936
4937
4938
4939
4940
4941
4942
4943
4944
4945
4946
4947
4948
4949
4950
4951
4952
4953
4954
4955
4956
4957
4958
4959
4960
4961
4962
4963
4964
4965
4966
4967
4968
4969
4970
4971
4972
4973
4974
4975
4976
4977
4978
4979
4980
4981
4982
4983
4984
4985
4986
4987
4988
4989
4990
4991
4992
4993
4994
4995
4996
4997
4998
4999
5000
5001
5002
5003
5004
5005
5006
5007
5008
5009
5010
5011
5012
5013
5014
5015
5016
5017
5018
5019
5020
5021
5022
5023
5024
5025
5026
5027
5028
5029
5030
5031
5032
5033
5034
5035
5036
5037
5038
5039
5040
5041
5042
5043
5044
5045
5046
5047
5048
5049
5050
5051
5052
5053
5054
5055
5056
5057
5058
5059
5060
5061
5062
5063
5064
5065
5066
5067
5068
5069
5070
5071
5072
5073
5074
5075
5076
5077
5078
5079
5080
5081
5082
5083
5084
5085
5086
5087
5088
5089
5090
5091
5092
5093
5094
5095
5096
5097
5098
5099
5100
5101
5102
5103
5104
5105
5106
5107
5108
5109
5110
5111
5112
5113
5114
5115
5116
5117
5118
5119
5120
5121
5122
5123
5124
5125
5126
5127
5128
5129
5130
5131
5132
5133
5134
5135
5136
5137
5138
5139
5140
5141
5142
5143
5144
5145
5146
5147
5148
5149
5150
5151
5152
5153
5154
5155
5156
5157
5158
5159
5160
5161
5162
5163
5164
5165
5166
5167
5168
5169
5170
5171
5172
5173
5174
5175
5176
5177
5178
5179
5180
5181
5182
5183
5184
5185
5186
5187
5188
5189
5190
5191
5192
5193
5194
5195
5196
5197
5198
5199
5200
5201
5202
5203
5204
5205
5206
5207
5208
5209
5210
5211
5212
5213
5214
5215
5216
5217
5218
5219
5220
5221
5222
5223
5224
5225
5226
5227
5228
5229
5230
5231
5232
5233
5234
5235
5236
5237
5238
5239
5240
5241
5242
5243
5244
5245
5246
5247
5248
5249
5250
5251
5252
5253
5254
5255
5256
5257
5258
5259
5260
5261
5262
5263
5264
5265
5266
5267
5268
5269
5270
5271
5272
5273
5274
5275
5276
5277
5278
5279
5280
5281
5282
5283
5284
5285
5286
5287
5288
5289
5290
5291
5292
5293
5294
5295
5296
5297
5298
5299
5300
5301
5302
5303
5304
5305
5306
5307
5308
5309
5310
5311
5312
5313
5314
5315
5316
5317
5318
5319
5320
5321
5322
5323
5324
5325
5326
5327
5328
5329
5330
5331
5332
5333
5334
5335
5336
5337
5338
5339
5340
5341
5342
5343
5344
5345
5346
5347
5348
5349
5350
5351
5352
5353
5354
5355
5356
5357
5358
5359
5360
5361
5362
5363
5364
5365
5366
5367
5368
5369
5370
5371
5372
5373
5374
5375
5376
5377
5378
5379
5380
5381
5382
5383
5384
5385
5386
5387
5388
5389
5390
5391
5392
5393
5394
5395
5396
5397
5398
5399
5400
5401
5402
5403
5404
5405
5406
5407
5408
5409
5410
5411
5412
5413
5414
5415
5416
5417
5418
5419
5420
5421
5422
5423
5424
5425
5426
5427
5428
5429
5430
5431
5432
5433
5434
5435
5436
5437
5438
5439
5440
5441
5442
5443
5444
5445
5446
5447
5448
5449
5450
5451
5452
5453
5454
5455
5456
5457
5458
5459
5460
5461
5462
5463
5464
5465
5466
5467
5468
5469
5470
5471
5472
5473
5474
5475
5476
5477
5478
5479
5480
5481
5482
5483
5484
5485
5486
5487
5488
5489
5490
5491
5492
5493
5494
5495
5496
5497
5498
5499
5500
5501
5502
5503
5504
5505
5506
5507
5508
5509
5510
5511
5512
5513
5514
5515
5516
5517
5518
5519
5520
5521
5522
5523
5524
5525
5526
5527
5528
5529
5530
5531
5532
5533
5534
5535
5536
5537
5538
5539
5540
5541
5542
5543
5544
5545
5546
5547
5548
5549
5550
5551
5552
5553
5554
5555
5556
5557
5558
5559
5560
5561
5562
5563
5564
5565
5566
5567
5568
5569
5570
5571
5572
5573
5574
5575
5576
5577
5578
5579
5580
5581
5582
5583
5584
5585
5586
5587
5588
5589
5590
5591
5592
5593
5594
5595
5596
5597
5598
5599
5600
5601
5602
5603
5604
5605
5606
5607
5608
5609
5610
5611
5612
5613
5614
5615
5616
5617
5618
5619
5620
5621
5622
5623
5624
5625
5626
5627
5628
5629
5630
5631
5632
5633
5634
5635
5636
5637
5638
5639
5640
5641
5642
5643
5644
5645
5646
5647
5648
5649
5650
5651
5652
5653
5654
5655
5656
5657
5658
5659
5660
5661
5662
5663
5664
5665
5666
5667
5668
5669
5670
5671
5672
5673
5674
5675
5676
5677
5678
5679
5680
5681
5682
5683
5684
5685
5686
5687
5688
5689
5690
5691
5692
5693
5694
5695
5696
5697
5698
5699
5700
5701
5702
5703
5704
5705
5706
5707
5708
5709
5710
5711
5712
5713
5714
5715
5716
5717
5718
5719
5720
5721
5722
5723
5724
5725
5726
5727
5728
5729
5730
5731
5732
5733
5734
5735
5736
5737
5738
5739
5740
5741
5742
5743
5744
5745
5746
5747
5748
5749
5750
5751
5752
5753
5754
5755
5756
5757
5758
5759
5760
5761
5762
5763
5764
5765
5766
5767
5768
5769
5770
5771
5772
5773
5774
5775
5776
5777
5778
5779
5780
5781
5782
5783
5784
5785
5786
5787
5788
5789
5790
5791
5792
5793
5794
5795
5796
5797
5798
5799
5800
5801
5802
5803
5804
5805
5806
5807
5808
5809
5810
5811
5812
5813
5814
5815
5816
5817
5818
5819
5820
5821
5822
5823
5824
5825
5826
5827
5828
5829
5830
5831
5832
5833
5834
5835
5836
5837
5838
5839
5840
5841
5842
5843
5844
5845
5846
5847
5848
5849
5850
5851
5852
5853
5854
5855
5856
5857
5858
5859
5860
5861
5862
5863
5864
5865
5866
5867
5868
5869
5870
5871
5872
5873
5874
5875
5876
5877
5878
5879
5880
5881
5882
5883
5884
5885
5886
5887
5888
5889
5890
5891
5892
5893
5894
5895
5896
5897
5898
5899
5900
5901
5902
5903
5904
5905
5906
5907
5908
5909
5910
5911
5912
5913
5914
5915
5916
5917
5918
5919
5920
5921
5922
5923
5924
5925
5926
5927
5928
5929
5930
5931
5932
5933
5934
5935
5936
5937
5938
5939
5940
5941
5942
5943
5944
5945
5946
5947
5948
5949
5950
5951
5952
5953
5954
5955
5956
5957
5958
5959
5960
5961
5962
5963
5964
5965
5966
5967
5968
5969
5970
5971
5972
5973
5974
5975
5976
5977
5978
5979
5980
5981
5982
5983
5984
5985
5986
5987
5988
5989
5990
5991
5992
5993
5994
5995
5996
5997
5998
5999
6000
6001
6002
6003
6004
6005
6006
6007
6008
6009
6010
6011
6012
6013
6014
6015
6016
6017
6018
6019
6020
6021
6022
6023
6024
6025
6026
6027
6028
6029
6030
6031
6032
6033
6034
6035
6036
6037
6038
6039
6040
6041
6042
6043
6044
6045
6046
6047
6048
6049
6050
6051
6052
6053
6054
6055
6056
6057
6058
6059
6060
6061
6062
6063
6064
6065
6066
6067
6068
6069
6070
6071
6072
6073
6074
6075
6076
6077
6078
6079
6080
6081
6082
6083
6084
6085
6086
6087
6088
6089
6090
6091
6092
6093
6094
6095
6096
6097
6098
6099
6100
6101
6102
6103
6104
6105
6106
6107
6108
6109
6110
6111
6112
6113
6114
6115
6116
6117
6118
6119
6120
6121
6122
6123
6124
6125
6126
6127
6128
6129
6130
6131
6132
6133
6134
6135
6136
6137
6138
6139
6140
6141
6142
6143
6144
6145
6146
6147
6148
6149
6150
6151
6152
6153
6154
6155
6156
6157
6158
6159
6160
6161
6162
6163
6164
6165
6166
6167
6168
6169
6170
6171
6172
6173
6174
6175
6176
6177
6178
6179
6180
6181
6182
6183
6184
6185
6186
6187
6188
6189
6190
6191
6192
6193
6194
6195
6196
6197
6198
6199
6200
6201
6202
6203
6204
6205
6206
6207
6208
6209
6210
6211
6212
6213
6214
6215
6216
6217
6218
6219
6220
6221
6222
6223
6224
6225
6226
6227
6228
6229
6230
6231
6232
6233
6234
6235
6236
6237
6238
6239
6240
6241
6242
6243
6244
6245
6246
6247
6248
6249
6250
6251
6252
6253
6254
6255
6256
6257
6258
6259
6260
6261
6262
6263
6264
6265
6266
6267
6268
6269
6270
6271
6272
6273
6274
6275
6276
6277
6278
6279
6280
6281
6282
6283
6284
6285
6286
6287
6288
6289
6290
6291
6292
6293
6294
6295
6296
6297
6298
6299
6300
6301
6302
6303
6304
6305
6306
6307
6308
6309
6310
6311
6312
6313
6314
6315
6316
6317
6318
6319
6320
6321
6322
6323
6324
6325
6326
6327
6328
6329
6330
6331
6332
6333
6334
6335
6336
6337
6338
6339
6340
6341
6342
6343
6344
6345
6346
6347
6348
6349
6350
6351
6352
6353
6354
6355
6356
6357
6358
6359
6360
6361
6362
6363
6364
6365
6366
6367
6368
6369
6370
6371
6372
6373
6374
6375
6376
6377
6378
6379
6380
6381
6382
6383
6384
6385
6386
6387
6388
6389
6390
6391
6392
6393
6394
6395
6396
6397
6398
6399
6400
6401
6402
6403
6404
6405
6406
6407
6408
6409
6410
6411
6412
6413
6414
6415
6416
6417
6418
6419
6420
6421
6422
6423
6424
6425
6426
6427
6428
6429
6430
6431
6432
6433
6434
6435
6436
6437
6438
6439
6440
6441
6442
6443
6444
6445
6446
6447
6448
6449
6450
6451
6452
6453
6454
6455
6456
6457
6458
6459
6460
6461
6462
6463
6464
6465
6466
6467
6468
6469
6470
6471
6472
6473
6474
6475
6476
6477
6478
6479
6480
6481
6482
6483
6484
6485
6486
6487
6488
6489
6490
6491
6492
6493
6494
6495
6496
6497
6498
6499
6500
6501
6502
6503
6504
6505
6506
6507
6508
6509
6510
6511
6512
6513
6514
6515
6516
6517
6518
6519
6520
6521
6522
6523
6524
6525
6526
6527
6528
6529
6530
6531
6532
6533
6534
6535
6536
6537
6538
6539
6540
6541
6542
6543
6544
6545
6546
6547
6548
6549
6550
6551
6552
6553
6554
6555
6556
6557
6558
6559
6560
6561
6562
6563
6564
6565
6566
6567
6568
6569
6570
6571
6572
6573
6574
6575
6576
6577
6578
6579
6580
6581
6582
6583
6584
6585
6586
6587
6588
6589
6590
6591
6592
6593
6594
6595
6596
6597
6598
6599
6600
6601
6602
6603
6604
6605
6606
6607
6608
6609
6610
6611
6612
6613
6614
6615
6616
6617
6618
6619
6620
6621
6622
6623
6624
6625
6626
6627
6628
6629
6630
6631
6632
6633
6634
6635
6636
6637
6638
6639
6640
6641
6642
6643
6644
6645
6646
6647
6648
6649
6650
6651
6652
6653
6654
6655
6656
6657
6658
6659
6660
6661
6662
6663
6664
6665
6666
6667
6668
6669
6670
6671
6672
6673
6674
6675
6676
6677
6678
6679
6680
6681
6682
6683
6684
6685
6686
6687
6688
6689
6690
6691
6692
6693
6694
6695
6696
6697
6698
6699
6700
6701
6702
6703
6704
6705
6706
6707
6708
6709
6710
6711
6712
6713
6714
6715
6716
6717
6718
6719
6720
6721
6722
6723
6724
6725
6726
6727
6728
6729
6730
6731
6732
6733
6734
6735
6736
6737
6738
6739
6740
6741
6742
6743
6744
6745
6746
6747
6748
6749
6750
6751
6752
6753
6754
6755
6756
6757
6758
6759
6760
6761
6762
6763
6764
6765
6766
6767
6768
6769
6770
6771
6772
6773
6774
6775
6776
6777
6778
6779
6780
6781
6782
6783
6784
6785
6786
6787
6788
6789
6790
6791
6792
6793
6794
6795
6796
6797
6798
6799
6800
6801
6802
6803
6804
6805
6806
6807
6808
6809
6810
6811
6812
6813
6814
6815
6816
6817
6818
6819
6820
6821
6822
6823
6824
6825
6826
6827
6828
6829
6830
6831
6832
6833
6834
6835
6836
6837
6838
6839
6840
6841
6842
6843
6844
6845
6846
6847
6848
6849
6850
6851
6852
6853
6854
6855
6856
6857
6858
6859
6860
6861
6862
6863
6864
6865
6866
6867
6868
6869
6870
6871
6872
6873
6874
6875
6876
6877
6878
6879
6880
6881
6882
6883
6884
6885
6886
6887
6888
6889
6890
6891
6892
6893
6894
6895
6896
6897
6898
6899
6900
6901
6902
6903
6904
6905
6906
6907
6908
6909
6910
6911
6912
6913
6914
6915
6916
6917
6918
6919
6920
6921
6922
6923
6924
6925
6926
6927
6928
6929
6930
6931
6932
6933
6934
6935
6936
6937
6938
6939
6940
6941
6942
6943
6944
6945
6946
6947
6948
6949
6950
6951
6952
6953
6954
6955
6956
6957
6958
6959
6960
6961
6962
6963
6964
6965
6966
6967
6968
6969
6970
6971
6972
6973
6974
6975
6976
6977
6978
6979
6980
6981
6982
6983
6984
6985
6986
6987
6988
6989
6990
6991
6992
6993
6994
6995
6996
6997
6998
6999
7000
7001
7002
7003
7004
7005
7006
7007
7008
7009
7010
7011
7012
7013
7014
7015
7016
7017
7018
7019
7020
7021
7022
7023
7024
7025
7026
7027
7028
7029
7030
7031
7032
7033
7034
7035
7036
7037
7038
7039
7040
7041
7042
7043
7044
7045
7046
7047
7048
7049
7050
7051
7052
7053
7054
7055
7056
7057
7058
7059
7060
7061
7062
7063
7064
7065
7066
7067
7068
7069
7070
7071
7072
7073
7074
7075
7076
7077
7078
7079
7080
7081
7082
7083
7084
7085
7086
7087
7088
7089
7090
7091
7092
7093
7094
7095
7096
7097
7098
7099
7100
7101
7102
7103
7104
7105
7106
7107
7108
7109
7110
7111
7112
7113
7114
7115
7116
7117
7118
7119
7120
7121
7122
7123
7124
7125
7126
7127
7128
7129
7130
7131
7132
7133
7134
7135
7136
7137
7138
7139
7140
7141
7142
7143
7144
7145
7146
7147
7148
7149
7150
7151
7152
7153
7154
7155
7156
7157
7158
7159
7160
7161
7162
7163
7164
7165
7166
7167
7168
7169
7170
7171
7172
7173
7174
7175
7176
7177
7178
7179
7180
7181
7182
7183
7184
7185
7186
7187
7188
7189
7190
7191
7192
7193
7194
7195
7196
7197
7198
7199
7200
7201
7202
7203
7204
7205
7206
7207
7208
7209
7210
7211
7212
7213
7214
7215
7216
7217
7218
7219
7220
7221
7222
7223
7224
7225
7226
7227
7228
7229
7230
7231
7232
7233
7234
7235
7236
7237
7238
7239
7240
7241
7242
7243
7244
7245
7246
7247
7248
7249
7250
7251
7252
7253
7254
7255
7256
7257
7258
7259
7260
7261
7262
7263
7264
7265
7266
7267
7268
7269
7270
7271
7272
7273
7274
7275
7276
7277
7278
7279
7280
7281
7282
7283
7284
7285
7286
7287
7288
7289
7290
7291
7292
7293
7294
7295
7296
7297
7298
7299
7300
7301
7302
7303
7304
7305
7306
7307
7308
7309
7310
7311
7312
7313
7314
7315
7316
7317
7318
7319
7320
7321
7322
7323
7324
7325
7326
7327
7328
7329
7330
7331
7332
7333
7334
7335
7336
7337
7338
7339
7340
7341
7342
7343
7344
7345
7346
7347
7348
7349
7350
7351
7352
7353
7354
7355
7356
7357
7358
7359
7360
7361
7362
7363
7364
7365
7366
7367
7368
7369
7370
7371
7372
7373
7374
7375
7376
7377
7378
7379
7380
7381
7382
7383
7384
7385
7386
7387
7388
7389
7390
7391
7392
7393
7394
7395
7396
7397
7398
7399
7400
7401
7402
7403
7404
7405
7406
7407
7408
7409
7410
7411
7412
7413
7414
7415
7416
7417
7418
7419
7420
7421
7422
7423
7424
7425
7426
7427
7428
7429
7430
7431
7432
7433
7434
7435
7436
7437
7438
7439
7440
7441
7442
7443
7444
7445
7446
7447
7448
7449
7450
7451
7452
7453
7454
7455
7456
7457
7458
7459
7460
7461
7462
7463
7464
7465
7466
7467
7468
7469
7470
7471
7472
7473
7474
7475
7476
7477
7478
7479
7480
7481
7482
7483
7484
7485
7486
7487
7488
7489
7490
7491
7492
7493
7494
7495
7496
7497
7498
7499
7500
7501
7502
7503
7504
7505
7506
7507
7508
7509
7510
7511
7512
7513
7514
7515
7516
7517
7518
7519
7520
7521
7522
7523
7524
7525
7526
7527
7528
7529
7530
7531
7532
7533
7534
7535
7536
7537
7538
7539
7540
7541
7542
7543
7544
7545
7546
7547
7548
7549
7550
7551
7552
7553
7554
7555
7556
7557
7558
7559
7560
7561
7562
7563
7564
7565
7566
7567
7568
7569
7570
7571
7572
7573
7574
7575
7576
7577
7578
7579
7580
7581
7582
7583
7584
7585
7586
7587
7588
7589
7590
7591
7592
7593
7594
7595
7596
7597
7598
7599
7600
7601
7602
7603
7604
7605
7606
7607
7608
7609
7610
7611
7612
7613
7614
7615
7616
7617
7618
7619
7620
7621
7622
7623
7624
7625
7626
7627
7628
7629
7630
7631
7632
7633
7634
7635
7636
7637
7638
7639
7640
7641
7642
7643
7644
7645
7646
7647
7648
7649
7650
7651
7652
7653
7654
7655
7656
7657
7658
7659
7660
7661
7662
7663
7664
7665
7666
7667
7668
7669
7670
7671
7672
7673
7674
7675
7676
7677
7678
7679
7680
7681
7682
7683
7684
7685
7686
7687
7688
7689
7690
7691
7692
7693
7694
7695
7696
7697
7698
7699
7700
7701
7702
7703
7704
7705
7706
7707
7708
7709
7710
7711
7712
7713
7714
7715
7716
7717
7718
7719
7720
7721
7722
7723
7724
7725
7726
7727
7728
7729
7730
7731
7732
7733
7734
7735
7736
7737
7738
7739
7740
7741
7742
7743
7744
7745
7746
7747
7748
7749
7750
7751
7752
7753
7754
7755
7756
7757
7758
7759
7760
7761
7762
7763
7764
7765
7766
7767
7768
7769
7770
7771
7772
7773
7774
7775
7776
7777
7778
7779
7780
7781
7782
7783
7784
7785
7786
7787
7788
7789
7790
7791
7792
7793
7794
7795
7796
7797
7798
7799
7800
7801
7802
7803
7804
7805
7806
7807
7808
7809
7810
7811
7812
7813
7814
7815
7816
7817
7818
7819
7820
7821
7822
7823
7824
7825
7826
7827
7828
7829
7830
7831
7832
7833
7834
7835
7836
7837
7838
7839
7840
7841
7842
7843
7844
7845
7846
7847
7848
7849
7850
7851
7852
7853
7854
7855
7856
7857
7858
7859
7860
7861
7862
7863
7864
7865
7866
7867
7868
7869
7870
7871
7872
7873
7874
7875
7876
7877
7878
7879
7880
7881
7882
7883
7884
7885
7886
7887
7888
7889
7890
7891
7892
7893
7894
7895
7896
7897
7898
7899
7900
7901
7902
7903
7904
7905
7906
7907
7908
7909
7910
7911
7912
7913
7914
7915
7916
7917
7918
7919
7920
7921
7922
7923
7924
7925
7926
7927
7928
7929
7930
7931
7932
7933
7934
7935
7936
7937
7938
7939
7940
7941
7942
7943
7944
7945
7946
7947
7948
7949
7950
7951
7952
7953
7954
7955
7956
7957
7958
7959
7960
7961
7962
7963
7964
7965
7966
7967
7968
7969
7970
7971
7972
7973
7974
7975
7976
7977
7978
7979
7980
7981
7982
7983
7984
7985
7986
7987
7988
7989
7990
7991
7992
7993
7994
7995
7996
7997
7998
7999
8000
8001
8002
8003
8004
8005
8006
8007
8008
8009
8010
8011
8012
8013
8014
8015
8016
8017
8018
8019
8020
8021
8022
8023
8024
8025
8026
8027
8028
8029
8030
8031
8032
8033
8034
8035
8036
8037
8038
8039
8040
8041
8042
8043
8044
8045
8046
8047
8048
8049
8050
8051
8052
8053
8054
8055
8056
8057
8058
8059
8060
8061
8062
8063
8064
8065
8066
8067
8068
8069
8070
8071
8072
8073
8074
8075
8076
8077
8078
8079
8080
8081
8082
8083
8084
8085
8086
8087
8088
8089
8090
8091
8092
8093
8094
8095
8096
8097
8098
8099
8100
8101
8102
8103
8104
8105
8106
8107
8108
8109
8110
8111
8112
8113
8114
8115
8116
8117
8118
8119
8120
8121
8122
8123
8124
8125
8126
8127
8128
8129
8130
8131
8132
8133
8134
8135
8136
8137
8138
8139
8140
8141
8142
8143
8144
8145
8146
8147
8148
8149
8150
8151
8152
8153
8154
8155
8156
8157
8158
8159
8160
8161
8162
8163
8164
8165
8166
8167
8168
8169
8170
8171
8172
8173
8174
8175
8176
8177
8178
8179
8180
8181
8182
8183
8184
8185
8186
8187
8188
8189
8190
8191
8192
8193
8194
8195
8196
8197
8198
8199
8200
8201
8202
8203
8204
8205
8206
8207
8208
8209
8210
8211
8212
8213
8214
8215
8216
8217
8218
8219
8220
8221
8222
8223
8224
8225
8226
8227
8228
8229
8230
8231
8232
8233
8234
8235
8236
8237
8238
8239
8240
8241
8242
8243
8244
8245
8246
8247
8248
8249
8250
8251
8252
8253
8254
8255
8256
8257
8258
8259
8260
8261
8262
8263
8264
8265
8266
8267
8268
8269
8270
8271
8272
8273
8274
8275
8276
8277
8278
8279
8280
8281
8282
8283
8284
8285
8286
8287
8288
8289
8290
8291
8292
8293
8294
8295
8296
8297
8298
8299
8300
8301
8302
8303
8304
8305
8306
8307
8308
8309
8310
8311
8312
8313
8314
8315
8316
8317
8318
8319
8320
8321
8322
8323
8324
8325
8326
8327
8328
8329
8330
8331
8332
8333
8334
8335
8336
8337
8338
8339
8340
8341
8342
8343
8344
8345
8346
8347
8348
8349
8350
8351
8352
8353
8354
8355
8356
8357
8358
8359
8360
8361
8362
8363
8364
8365
8366
8367
8368
8369
8370
8371
8372
8373
8374
8375
8376
8377
8378
8379
8380
8381
8382
8383
8384
8385
8386
8387
8388
8389
8390
8391
8392
8393
8394
8395
8396
8397
8398
8399
8400
8401
8402
8403
8404
8405
8406
8407
8408
8409
8410
8411
8412
8413
8414
8415
8416
8417
8418
8419
8420
8421
8422
8423
8424
8425
8426
8427
8428
8429
8430
8431
8432
8433
8434
8435
8436
8437
8438
8439
8440
8441
8442
8443
8444
8445
8446
8447
8448
8449
8450
8451
8452
8453
8454
8455
8456
8457
8458
8459
8460
8461
8462
8463
8464
8465
8466
8467
8468
8469
8470
8471
8472
8473
8474
8475
8476
8477
8478
8479
8480
8481
8482
8483
8484
8485
8486
8487
8488
8489
8490
8491
8492
8493
8494
8495
8496
8497
8498
8499
8500
8501
8502
8503
8504
8505
8506
8507
8508
8509
8510
8511
8512
8513
8514
8515
8516
8517
8518
8519
8520
8521
8522
8523
8524
8525
8526
8527
8528
8529
8530
8531
8532
8533
8534
8535
8536
8537
8538
8539
8540
8541
8542
8543
8544
8545
8546
8547
8548
8549
8550
8551
8552
8553
8554
8555
8556
8557
8558
8559
8560
8561
8562
8563
8564
8565
8566
8567
8568
8569
8570
8571
8572
8573
8574
8575
8576
8577
8578
8579
8580
8581
8582
8583
8584
8585
8586
8587
8588
8589
8590
8591
8592
8593
8594
8595
8596
8597
8598
8599
8600
8601
8602
8603
8604
8605
8606
8607
8608
8609
8610
8611
8612
8613
8614
8615
8616
8617
8618
8619
8620
8621
8622
8623
8624
8625
8626
8627
8628
8629
8630
8631
8632
8633
8634
8635
8636
8637
8638
8639
8640
8641
8642
8643
8644
8645
8646
8647
8648
8649
8650
8651
8652
8653
8654
8655
8656
8657
8658
8659
8660
8661
8662
8663
8664
8665
8666
8667
8668
8669
8670
8671
8672
8673
8674
8675
8676
8677
8678
8679
8680
8681
8682
8683
8684
8685
8686
8687
8688
8689
8690
8691
8692
8693
8694
8695
8696
8697
8698
8699
8700
8701
8702
8703
8704
8705
8706
8707
8708
8709
8710
8711
8712
8713
8714
8715
8716
8717
8718
8719
8720
8721
8722
8723
8724
8725
8726
8727
8728
8729
8730
8731
8732
8733
8734
8735
8736
8737
8738
8739
8740
8741
8742
8743
8744
8745
8746
8747
8748
8749
8750
8751
8752
8753
8754
8755
8756
8757
8758
8759
8760
8761
8762
8763
8764
8765
8766
8767
8768
8769
8770
8771
8772
8773
8774
8775
8776
8777
8778
8779
8780
8781
8782
8783
8784
8785
8786
8787
8788
8789
8790
8791
8792
8793
8794
8795
8796
8797
8798
8799
8800
8801
8802
8803
8804
8805
8806
8807
8808
8809
8810
8811
8812
8813
8814
8815
8816
8817
8818
8819
8820
8821
8822
8823
8824
8825
8826
8827
8828
8829
8830
8831
8832
8833
8834
8835
8836
8837
8838
8839
8840
8841
8842
8843
8844
8845
8846
8847
8848
8849
8850
8851
8852
8853
8854
8855
8856
8857
8858
8859
8860
8861
8862
8863
8864
8865
8866
8867
8868
8869
8870
8871
8872
8873
8874
8875
8876
8877
8878
8879
8880
8881
8882
8883
8884
8885
8886
8887
8888
8889
8890
8891
8892
8893
8894
8895
8896
8897
8898
8899
8900
8901
8902
8903
8904
8905
8906
8907
8908
8909
8910
8911
8912
8913
8914
8915
8916
8917
8918
8919
8920
8921
8922
8923
8924
8925
8926
8927
8928
8929
8930
8931
8932
8933
8934
8935
8936
8937
8938
8939
8940
8941
8942
8943
8944
8945
8946
8947
8948
8949
8950
8951
8952
8953
8954
8955
8956
8957
8958
8959
8960
8961
8962
8963
8964
8965
8966
8967
8968
8969
8970
8971
8972
8973
8974
8975
8976
8977
8978
8979
8980
8981
8982
8983
8984
8985
8986
8987
8988
8989
8990
8991
8992
8993
8994
8995
8996
8997
8998
8999
9000
9001
9002
9003
9004
9005
9006
9007
9008
9009
9010
9011
9012
9013
9014
9015
9016
9017
9018
9019
9020
9021
9022
9023
9024
9025
9026
9027
9028
9029
9030
9031
9032
9033
9034
9035
9036
9037
9038
9039
9040
9041
9042
9043
9044
9045
9046
9047
9048
9049
9050
9051
9052
9053
9054
9055
9056
9057
9058
9059
9060
9061
9062
9063
9064
9065
9066
9067
9068
9069
9070
9071
9072
9073
9074
9075
9076
9077
9078
9079
9080
9081
9082
9083
9084
9085
9086
9087
9088
9089
9090
9091
9092
9093
9094
9095
9096
9097
9098
9099
9100
9101
9102
9103
9104
9105
9106
9107
9108
9109
9110
9111
9112
9113
9114
9115
9116
9117
9118
9119
9120
9121
9122
9123
9124
9125
9126
9127
9128
9129
9130
9131
9132
9133
9134
9135
9136
9137
9138
9139
9140
9141
9142
9143
9144
9145
9146
9147
9148
9149
9150
9151
9152
9153
9154
9155
9156
9157
9158
9159
9160
9161
9162
9163
9164
9165
9166
9167
9168
9169
9170
9171
9172
9173
9174
9175
9176
9177
9178
9179
9180
9181
9182
9183
9184
9185
9186
9187
9188
9189
9190
9191
9192
9193
9194
9195
9196
9197
9198
9199
9200
9201
9202
9203
9204
9205
9206
9207
9208
9209
9210
9211
9212
9213
9214
9215
9216
9217
9218
9219
9220
9221
9222
9223
9224
9225
9226
9227
9228
9229
9230
9231
9232
9233
9234
9235
9236
9237
9238
9239
9240
9241
9242
9243
9244
9245
9246
9247
9248
9249
9250
9251
9252
9253
9254
9255
9256
9257
9258
9259
9260
9261
9262
9263
9264
9265
9266
9267
9268
9269
9270
9271
9272
9273
9274
9275
9276
9277
9278
9279
9280
9281
9282
9283
9284
9285
9286
9287
9288
9289
9290
9291
9292
9293
9294
9295
9296
9297
9298
9299
9300
9301
9302
9303
9304
9305
9306
9307
9308
9309
9310
9311
9312
9313
9314
9315
9316
9317
9318
9319
9320
9321
9322
9323
9324
9325
9326
9327
9328
9329
9330
9331
9332
9333
9334
9335
9336
9337
9338
9339
9340
9341
9342
9343
9344
9345
9346
9347
9348
9349
9350
9351
9352
9353
9354
9355
9356
9357
9358
9359
9360
9361
9362
9363
9364
9365
9366
9367
9368
9369
9370
9371
9372
9373
9374
9375
9376
9377
9378
9379
9380
9381
9382
9383
9384
9385
9386
9387
9388
9389
9390
9391
9392
9393
9394
9395
9396
9397
9398
9399
9400
9401
9402
9403
9404
9405
9406
9407
9408
9409
9410
9411
9412
9413
9414
9415
9416
9417
9418
9419
9420
9421
9422
9423
9424
9425
9426
9427
9428
9429
9430
9431
9432
9433
9434
9435
9436
9437
9438
9439
9440
9441
9442
9443
9444
9445
9446
9447
9448
9449
9450
9451
9452
9453
9454
9455
9456
9457
9458
9459
9460
9461
9462
9463
9464
9465
9466
9467
9468
9469
9470
9471
9472
9473
9474
9475
9476
9477
9478
9479
9480
9481
9482
9483
9484
9485
9486
9487
9488
9489
9490
9491
9492
9493
9494
9495
9496
9497
9498
9499
9500
9501
9502
9503
9504
9505
9506
9507
9508
9509
9510
9511
9512
9513
9514
9515
9516
9517
9518
9519
9520
9521
9522
9523
9524
9525
9526
9527
9528
9529
9530
9531
9532
9533
9534
9535
9536
9537
9538
9539
9540
9541
9542
9543
9544
9545
9546
9547
9548
9549
9550
9551
9552
9553
9554
9555
9556
9557
9558
9559
9560
9561
9562
9563
9564
9565
9566
9567
9568
9569
9570
9571
9572
9573
9574
9575
9576
9577
9578
9579
9580
9581
9582
9583
9584
9585
9586
9587
9588
9589
9590
9591
9592
9593
9594
9595
9596
9597
9598
9599
9600
9601
9602
9603
9604
9605
9606
9607
9608
9609
9610
9611
9612
9613
9614
9615
9616
9617
9618
9619
9620
9621
9622
9623
9624
9625
9626
9627
9628
9629
9630
9631
9632
9633
9634
9635
9636
9637
9638
9639
9640
9641
9642
9643
9644
9645
9646
9647
9648
9649
9650
9651
9652
9653
9654
9655
9656
9657
9658
9659
9660
9661
9662
9663
9664
9665
9666
9667
9668
9669
9670
9671
9672
9673
9674
9675
9676
9677
9678
9679
9680
9681
9682
9683
9684
9685
9686
9687
9688
9689
9690
9691
9692
9693
9694
9695
9696
9697
9698
9699
9700
9701
9702
9703
9704
9705
9706
9707
9708
9709
9710
9711
9712
9713
9714
9715
9716
9717
9718
9719
9720
9721
9722
9723
9724
9725
9726
9727
9728
9729
9730
9731
9732
9733
9734
9735
9736
9737
9738
9739
9740
9741
9742
9743
9744
9745
9746
9747
9748
9749
9750
9751
9752
9753
9754
9755
9756
9757
9758
9759
9760
9761
9762
9763
9764
9765
9766
9767
9768
9769
9770
9771
9772
9773
9774
9775
9776
9777
9778
9779
9780
9781
9782
9783
9784
9785
9786
9787
9788
9789
9790
9791
9792
9793
9794
9795
9796
9797
9798
9799
9800
9801
9802
9803
9804
9805
9806
9807
9808
9809
9810
9811
9812
9813
9814
9815
9816
9817
9818
9819
9820
9821
9822
9823
9824
9825
9826
9827
9828
9829
9830
9831
9832
9833
9834
9835
9836
9837
9838
9839
9840
9841
9842
9843
9844
9845
9846
9847
9848
9849
9850
9851
9852
9853
9854
9855
9856
9857
9858
9859
9860
9861
9862
9863
9864
9865
9866
9867
9868
9869
9870
9871
9872
9873
9874
9875
9876
9877
9878
9879
9880
9881
9882
9883
9884
9885
9886
9887
9888
9889
9890
9891
9892
9893
9894
9895
9896
9897
9898
9899
9900
9901
9902
9903
9904
9905
9906
9907
9908
9909
9910
9911
9912
9913
9914
9915
9916
9917
9918
9919
9920
9921
9922
9923
9924
9925
9926
9927
9928
9929
9930
9931
9932
9933
9934
9935
9936
9937
9938
9939
9940
9941
9942
9943
9944
9945
9946
9947
9948
9949
9950
9951
9952
9953
9954
9955
9956
9957
9958
9959
9960
9961
9962
9963
9964
9965
9966
9967
9968
9969
9970
9971
9972
9973
9974
9975
9976
9977
9978
9979
9980
9981
9982
9983
9984
9985
9986
9987
9988
9989
9990
9991
9992
9993
9994
9995
9996
9997
9998
9999
10000
10001
10002
10003
10004
10005
10006
10007
10008
10009
10010
10011
10012
10013
10014
10015
10016
10017
10018
10019
10020
10021
10022
10023
10024
10025
10026
10027
10028
10029
10030
10031
10032
10033
10034
10035
10036
10037
10038
10039
10040
10041
10042
10043
10044
10045
10046
10047
10048
10049
10050
10051
10052
10053
10054
10055
10056
10057
10058
10059
10060
10061
10062
10063
10064
10065
10066
10067
10068
10069
10070
10071
10072
10073
10074
10075
10076
10077
10078
10079
10080
10081
10082
10083
10084
10085
10086
10087
10088
10089
10090
10091
10092
10093
10094
10095
10096
10097
10098
10099
10100
10101
10102
10103
10104
10105
10106
10107
10108
10109
10110
10111
10112
10113
10114
10115
10116
10117
10118
10119
10120
10121
10122
10123
10124
10125
10126
10127
10128
10129
10130
10131
10132
10133
10134
10135
10136
10137
10138
10139
10140
10141
10142
10143
10144
10145
10146
10147
10148
10149
10150
10151
10152
10153
10154
10155
10156
10157
10158
10159
10160
10161
10162
10163
10164
10165
10166
10167
10168
10169
10170
10171
10172
10173
10174
10175
10176
10177
10178
10179
10180
10181
10182
10183
10184
10185
10186
10187
10188
10189
10190
10191
10192
10193
10194
10195
10196
10197
10198
10199
10200
10201
10202
10203
10204
10205
10206
10207
10208
10209
10210
10211
10212
10213
10214
10215
10216
10217
10218
10219
10220
10221
10222
10223
10224
10225
10226
10227
10228
10229
10230
10231
10232
10233
10234
10235
10236
10237
10238
10239
10240
10241
10242
10243
10244
10245
10246
10247
10248
10249
10250
10251
10252
10253
10254
10255
10256
10257
10258
10259
10260
10261
10262
10263
10264
10265
10266
10267
10268
10269
10270
10271
10272
10273
10274
10275
10276
10277
10278
10279
10280
10281
10282
10283
10284
10285
10286
10287
10288
10289
10290
10291
10292
10293
10294
10295
10296
10297
10298
10299
10300
10301
10302
10303
10304
10305
10306
10307
10308
10309
10310
10311
10312
10313
10314
10315
10316
10317
10318
10319
10320
10321
10322
10323
10324
10325
10326
10327
10328
10329
10330
10331
10332
10333
10334
10335
10336
10337
10338
10339
10340
10341
10342
10343
10344
10345
10346
10347
10348
10349
10350
10351
10352
10353
10354
10355
10356
10357
10358
10359
10360
10361
10362
10363
10364
10365
10366
10367
10368
10369
10370
10371
10372
10373
10374
10375
10376
10377
10378
10379
10380
10381
10382
10383
10384
10385
10386
10387
10388
10389
10390
10391
10392
10393
10394
10395
10396
10397
10398
10399
10400
10401
10402
10403
10404
10405
10406
10407
10408
10409
10410
10411
10412
10413
10414
10415
10416
10417
10418
10419
10420
10421
10422
10423
10424
10425
10426
10427
10428
10429
10430
10431
10432
10433
10434
10435
10436
10437
10438
10439
10440
10441
10442
10443
10444
10445
10446
10447
10448
10449
10450
10451
10452
10453
10454
10455
10456
10457
10458
10459
10460
10461
10462
10463
10464
10465
10466
10467
10468
10469
10470
10471
10472
10473
10474
10475
10476
10477
10478
10479
10480
10481
10482
10483
10484
10485
10486
10487
10488
10489
10490
10491
10492
10493
10494
10495
10496
10497
10498
10499
10500
10501
10502
10503
10504
10505
10506
10507
10508
10509
10510
10511
10512
10513
10514
10515
10516
10517
10518
10519
10520
10521
10522
10523
10524
10525
10526
10527
10528
10529
10530
10531
10532
10533
10534
10535
10536
10537
10538
10539
10540
10541
10542
10543
10544
10545
10546
10547
10548
10549
10550
10551
10552
10553
10554
10555
10556
10557
10558
10559
10560
10561
10562
10563
10564
10565
10566
10567
10568
10569
10570
10571
10572
10573
10574
10575
10576
10577
10578
10579
10580
10581
10582
10583
10584
10585
10586
10587
10588
10589
10590
10591
10592
10593
10594
10595
10596
10597
10598
10599
10600
10601
10602
10603
10604
10605
10606
10607
10608
10609
10610
10611
10612
10613
10614
10615
10616
10617
10618
10619
10620
10621
10622
10623
10624
10625
10626
10627
10628
10629
10630
10631
10632
10633
10634
10635
10636
10637
10638
10639
10640
10641
10642
10643
10644
10645
10646
10647
10648
10649
10650
10651
10652
10653
10654
10655
10656
10657
10658
10659
10660
10661
10662
10663
10664
10665
10666
10667
10668
10669
10670
10671
10672
10673
10674
10675
10676
10677
10678
10679
10680
10681
10682
10683
10684
10685
10686
10687
10688
10689
10690
10691
10692
10693
10694
10695
10696
10697
10698
10699
10700
10701
10702
10703
10704
10705
10706
10707
10708
10709
10710
10711
10712
10713
10714
10715
10716
10717
10718
10719
10720
10721
10722
10723
10724
10725
10726
10727
10728
10729
10730
10731
10732
10733
10734
10735
10736
10737
10738
10739
10740
10741
10742
10743
10744
10745
10746
10747
10748
10749
10750
10751
10752
10753
10754
10755
10756
10757
10758
10759
10760
10761
10762
10763
10764
10765
10766
10767
10768
10769
10770
10771
10772
10773
10774
10775
10776
10777
10778
10779
10780
10781
10782
10783
10784
10785
10786
10787
10788
10789
10790
10791
10792
10793
10794
10795
10796
10797
10798
10799
10800
10801
10802
10803
10804
10805
10806
10807
10808
10809
10810
10811
10812
10813
10814
10815
10816
10817
10818
10819
10820
10821
10822
10823
10824
10825
10826
10827
10828
10829
10830
10831
10832
10833
10834
10835
10836
10837
10838
10839
10840
10841
10842
10843
10844
10845
10846
10847
10848
10849
10850
10851
10852
10853
10854
10855
10856
10857
10858
10859
10860
10861
10862
10863
10864
10865
10866
10867
10868
10869
10870
10871
10872
10873
10874
10875
10876
10877
10878
10879
10880
10881
10882
10883
10884
10885
10886
10887
10888
10889
10890
10891
10892
10893
10894
10895
10896
10897
10898
10899
10900
10901
10902
10903
10904
10905
10906
10907
10908
10909
10910
10911
10912
10913
10914
10915
10916
10917
10918
10919
10920
10921
10922
10923
10924
10925
10926
10927
10928
10929
10930
10931
10932
10933
10934
10935
10936
10937
10938
10939
10940
10941
10942
10943
10944
10945
10946
10947
10948
10949
10950
10951
10952
10953
10954
10955
10956
10957
10958
10959
10960
10961
10962
10963
10964
10965
10966
10967
10968
10969
10970
10971
10972
10973
10974
10975
10976
10977
10978
10979
10980
10981
10982
10983
10984
10985
10986
10987
10988
10989
10990
10991
10992
10993
10994
10995
10996
10997
10998
10999
11000
11001
11002
11003
11004
11005
11006
11007
11008
11009
11010
11011
11012
11013
11014
11015
11016
11017
11018
11019
11020
11021
11022
11023
11024
11025
11026
11027
11028
11029
11030
11031
11032
11033
11034
11035
11036
11037
11038
11039
11040
11041
11042
11043
11044
11045
11046
11047
11048
11049
11050
11051
11052
11053
11054
11055
11056
11057
11058
11059
11060
11061
11062
11063
11064
11065
11066
11067
11068
11069
11070
11071
11072
11073
11074
11075
11076
11077
11078
11079
11080
11081
11082
11083
11084
11085
11086
11087
11088
11089
11090
11091
11092
11093
11094
11095
11096
11097
11098
11099
11100
11101
11102
11103
11104
11105
11106
11107
11108
11109
11110
11111
11112
11113
11114
11115
11116
11117
11118
11119
11120
11121
11122
11123
11124
11125
11126
11127
11128
11129
11130
11131
11132
11133
11134
11135
11136
11137
11138
11139
11140
11141
11142
11143
11144
11145
11146
11147
11148
11149
11150
11151
11152
11153
11154
11155
11156
11157
11158
11159
11160
11161
11162
11163
11164
11165
11166
11167
11168
11169
11170
11171
11172
11173
11174
11175
11176
11177
11178
11179
11180
11181
11182
11183
11184
11185
11186
11187
11188
11189
11190
11191
11192
11193
11194
11195
11196
11197
11198
11199
11200
11201
11202
11203
11204
11205
11206
11207
11208
11209
11210
11211
11212
11213
11214
11215
11216
11217
11218
11219
11220
11221
11222
11223
11224
11225
11226
11227
11228
11229
11230
11231
11232
11233
11234
11235
11236
11237
11238
11239
11240
11241
11242
11243
11244
11245
11246
11247
11248
11249
11250
11251
11252
11253
11254
11255
11256
11257
11258
11259
11260
11261
11262
11263
11264
11265
11266
11267
11268
11269
11270
11271
11272
11273
11274
11275
11276
11277
11278
11279
11280
11281
11282
11283
11284
11285
11286
11287
11288
11289
11290
11291
11292
11293
11294
11295
11296
11297
11298
11299
11300
11301
11302
11303
11304
11305
11306
11307
11308
11309
11310
11311
11312
11313
11314
11315
11316
11317
11318
11319
11320
11321
11322
11323
11324
11325
11326
11327
11328
11329
11330
11331
11332
11333
11334
11335
11336
11337
11338
11339
11340
11341
11342
11343
11344
11345
11346
11347
11348
11349
11350
11351
11352
11353
11354
11355
11356
11357
11358
11359
11360
11361
11362
11363
11364
11365
11366
11367
11368
11369
11370
11371
11372
11373
11374
11375
11376
11377
11378
11379
11380
11381
11382
11383
11384
11385
11386
11387
11388
11389
11390
11391
11392
11393
11394
11395
11396
11397
11398
11399
11400
11401
11402
11403
11404
11405
11406
11407
11408
11409
11410
11411
11412
11413
11414
11415
11416
11417
11418
11419
11420
11421
11422
11423
11424
11425
11426
11427
11428
11429
11430
11431
11432
11433
11434
11435
11436
11437
11438
11439
11440
11441
11442
11443
11444
11445
11446
11447
11448
11449
11450
11451
11452
11453
11454
11455
11456
11457
11458
11459
11460
11461
11462
11463
11464
11465
11466
11467
11468
11469
11470
11471
11472
11473
11474
11475
11476
11477
11478
11479
11480
11481
11482
11483
11484
11485
11486
11487
11488
11489
11490
11491
11492
11493
11494
11495
11496
11497
11498
11499
11500
11501
11502
11503
11504
11505
11506
11507
11508
11509
11510
11511
11512
11513
11514
11515
11516
11517
11518
11519
11520
11521
11522
11523
11524
11525
11526
11527
11528
11529
11530
11531
11532
11533
11534
11535
11536
11537
11538
11539
11540
11541
11542
11543
11544
11545
11546
11547
11548
11549
11550
11551
11552
11553
11554
11555
11556
11557
11558
11559
11560
11561
11562
11563
11564
11565
11566
11567
11568
11569
11570
11571
11572
11573
11574
11575
11576
11577
11578
11579
11580
11581
11582
11583
11584
11585
11586
11587
11588
11589
11590
11591
11592
11593
11594
11595
11596
11597
11598
11599
11600
11601
11602
11603
11604
11605
11606
11607
11608
11609
11610
11611
11612
11613
11614
11615
11616
11617
11618
11619
11620
11621
11622
11623
11624
11625
11626
11627
11628
11629
11630
11631
11632
11633
11634
11635
11636
11637
11638
11639
11640
11641
11642
11643
11644
11645
11646
11647
11648
11649
11650
11651
11652
11653
11654
11655
11656
11657
11658
11659
11660
11661
11662
11663
11664
11665
11666
11667
11668
11669
11670
11671
11672
11673
11674
11675
11676
11677
11678
11679
11680
11681
11682
11683
11684
11685
11686
11687
11688
11689
11690
11691
11692
11693
11694
11695
11696
11697
11698
11699
11700
11701
11702
11703
11704
11705
11706
11707
11708
11709
11710
11711
11712
11713
11714
11715
11716
11717
11718
11719
11720
11721
11722
11723
11724
11725
11726
11727
11728
11729
11730
11731
11732
11733
11734
11735
11736
11737
11738
11739
11740
11741
11742
11743
11744
11745
11746
11747
11748
11749
11750
11751
11752
11753
11754
11755
11756
11757
11758
11759
11760
11761
11762
11763
11764
11765
11766
11767
11768
11769
11770
11771
11772
11773
11774
11775
11776
11777
11778
11779
11780
11781
11782
11783
11784
11785
11786
11787
11788
11789
11790
11791
11792
11793
11794
11795
11796
11797
11798
11799
11800
11801
11802
11803
11804
11805
11806
11807
11808
11809
11810
11811
11812
11813
11814
11815
11816
11817
11818
11819
11820
11821
11822
11823
11824
11825
11826
11827
11828
11829
11830
11831
11832
11833
11834
11835
11836
11837
11838
11839
11840
11841
11842
11843
11844
11845
11846
11847
11848
11849
11850
11851
11852
11853
11854
11855
11856
11857
11858
11859
11860
11861
11862
11863
11864
11865
11866
11867
11868
11869
11870
11871
11872
11873
11874
11875
11876
11877
11878
11879
11880
11881
11882
11883
11884
11885
11886
11887
11888
11889
11890
11891
11892
11893
11894
11895
11896
11897
11898
11899
11900
11901
11902
11903
11904
11905
11906
11907
11908
11909
11910
11911
11912
11913
11914
11915
11916
11917
11918
11919
11920
11921
11922
11923
11924
11925
11926
11927
11928
11929
11930
11931
11932
11933
11934
11935
11936
11937
11938
11939
11940
11941
11942
11943
11944
11945
11946
11947
11948
11949
11950
11951
11952
11953
11954
11955
11956
11957
11958
11959
11960
11961
11962
11963
11964
11965
11966
11967
11968
11969
11970
11971
11972
11973
11974
11975
11976
11977
11978
11979
11980
11981
11982
11983
11984
11985
11986
11987
11988
11989
11990
11991
11992
11993
11994
11995
11996
11997
11998
11999
12000
12001
12002
12003
12004
12005
12006
12007
12008
12009
12010
12011
12012
12013
12014
12015
12016
12017
12018
12019
12020
12021
12022
12023
12024
12025
12026
12027
12028
12029
12030
12031
12032
12033
12034
12035
12036
12037
12038
12039
12040
12041
12042
12043
12044
12045
12046
12047
12048
12049
12050
12051
12052
12053
12054
12055
12056
12057
12058
12059
12060
12061
12062
12063
12064
12065
12066
12067
12068
12069
12070
12071
12072
12073
12074
12075
12076
12077
12078
12079
12080
12081
12082
12083
12084
12085
12086
12087
12088
12089
12090
12091
12092
12093
12094
12095
12096
12097
12098
12099
12100
12101
12102
12103
12104
12105
12106
12107
12108
12109
12110
12111
12112
12113
12114
12115
12116
12117
12118
12119
12120
12121
12122
12123
12124
12125
12126
12127
12128
12129
12130
12131
12132
12133
12134
12135
12136
12137
12138
12139
12140
12141
12142
12143
12144
12145
12146
12147
12148
12149
12150
12151
12152
12153
12154
12155
12156
12157
12158
12159
12160
12161
12162
12163
12164
12165
12166
12167
12168
12169
12170
12171
12172
12173
12174
12175
12176
12177
12178
12179
12180
12181
12182
12183
12184
12185
12186
12187
12188
12189
12190
12191
12192
12193
12194
12195
12196
12197
12198
12199
12200
12201
12202
12203
12204
12205
12206
12207
12208
12209
12210
12211
12212
12213
12214
12215
12216
12217
12218
12219
12220
12221
12222
12223
12224
12225
12226
12227
12228
12229
12230
12231
12232
12233
12234
12235
12236
12237
12238
12239
12240
12241
12242
12243
12244
12245
12246
12247
12248
12249
12250
12251
12252
12253
12254
12255
12256
12257
12258
12259
12260
12261
12262
12263
12264
12265
12266
12267
12268
12269
12270
12271
12272
12273
12274
12275
12276
12277
12278
12279
12280
12281
12282
12283
12284
12285
12286
12287
12288
12289
12290
12291
12292
12293
12294
12295
12296
12297
12298
12299
12300
12301
12302
12303
12304
12305
12306
12307
12308
12309
12310
12311
12312
12313
12314
12315
12316
12317
12318
12319
12320
12321
12322
12323
12324
12325
12326
12327
12328
12329
12330
12331
12332
12333
12334
12335
12336
12337
12338
12339
12340
12341
12342
12343
12344
12345
12346
12347
12348
12349
12350
12351
12352
12353
12354
12355
12356
12357
12358
12359
12360
12361
12362
12363
12364
12365
12366
12367
12368
12369
12370
12371
12372
12373
12374
12375
12376
12377
12378
12379
12380
12381
12382
12383
12384
12385
12386
12387
12388
12389
12390
12391
12392
12393
12394
12395
12396
12397
12398
12399
12400
12401
12402
12403
12404
12405
12406
12407
12408
12409
12410
12411
12412
12413
12414
12415
12416
12417
12418
12419
12420
12421
12422
12423
12424
12425
12426
12427
12428
12429
12430
12431
12432
12433
12434
12435
12436
12437
12438
12439
12440
12441
12442
12443
12444
12445
12446
12447
12448
12449
12450
12451
12452
12453
12454
12455
12456
12457
12458
12459
12460
12461
12462
12463
12464
12465
12466
12467
12468
12469
12470
12471
12472
12473
12474
12475
12476
12477
12478
12479
12480
12481
12482
12483
12484
12485
12486
12487
12488
12489
12490
12491
12492
12493
12494
12495
12496
12497
12498
12499
12500
12501
12502
12503
12504
12505
12506
12507
12508
12509
12510
12511
12512
12513
12514
12515
12516
12517
12518
12519
12520
12521
12522
12523
12524
12525
12526
12527
12528
12529
12530
12531
12532
12533
12534
12535
12536
12537
12538
12539
12540
12541
12542
12543
12544
12545
12546
12547
12548
12549
12550
12551
12552
12553
12554
12555
12556
12557
12558
12559
12560
12561
12562
12563
12564
12565
12566
12567
12568
12569
12570
12571
12572
12573
12574
12575
12576
12577
12578
12579
12580
12581
12582
12583
12584
12585
12586
12587
12588
12589
12590
12591
12592
12593
12594
12595
12596
12597
12598
12599
12600
12601
12602
12603
12604
12605
12606
12607
12608
12609
12610
12611
12612
12613
12614
12615
12616
12617
12618
12619
12620
12621
12622
12623
12624
12625
12626
12627
12628
12629
12630
12631
12632
12633
12634
12635
12636
12637
12638
12639
12640
12641
12642
12643
12644
12645
12646
12647
12648
12649
12650
12651
12652
12653
12654
12655
12656
12657
12658
12659
12660
12661
12662
12663

<!DOCTYPE html>

<html lang="en">
  <head>
    <meta charset="utf-8">
    <title>Father Goriot | Project Gutenberg</title>
    <style>

    body { margin:5%; text-align:justify}
    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
               text-align: right;}
    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}

</style>
  </head>
  <body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1237 ***</div>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h1>
      FATHER GORIOT
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Honore De Balzac
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
    <h3>
      Translated by Ellen Marriage
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br ><br >
    </p>
<pre>
     To the great and illustrious Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, a token
     of admiration for his works and genius.
                                                      DE BALZAC.
</pre>
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <h3>
      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> FATHER GORIOT </a><br ><br > <a
      href="#link2H_4_0002"> ADDENDUM </a><br ><br >
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br > <br > <a id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      FATHER GORIOT
    </h2>
    <p>
      Mme. Vauquer (<i>nee</i> de Conflans) is an elderly person, who for the
      past forty years has kept a lodging-house in the Rue
      Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, in the district that lies between the Latin
      Quarter and the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. Her house (known in the
      neighborhood as the <i>Maison Vauquer</i>) receives men and women, old and
      young, and no word has ever been breathed against her respectable
      establishment; but, at the same time, it must be said that as a matter of
      fact no young woman has been under her roof for thirty years, and that if
      a young man stays there for any length of time it is a sure sign that his
      allowance must be of the slenderest. In 1819, however, the time when this
      drama opens, there was an almost penniless young girl among Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s
      boarders.
    </p>
    <p>
      That word drama has been somewhat discredited of late; it has been
      overworked and twisted to strange uses in these days of dolorous
      literature; but it must do service again here, not because this story is
      dramatic in the restricted sense of the word, but because some tears may
      perhaps be shed <i>intra et extra muros</i> before it is over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Will any one without the walls of Paris understand it? It is open to
      doubt. The only audience who could appreciate the results of close
      observation, the careful reproduction of minute detail and local color,
      are dwellers between the heights of Montrouge and Montmartre, in a vale of
      crumbling stucco watered by streams of black mud, a vale of sorrows which
      are real and joys too often hollow; but this audience is so accustomed to
      terrible sensations, that only some unimaginable and well-neigh impossible
      woe could produce any lasting impression there. Now and again there are
      tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of the complication of virtues
      and vices that bring them about, that egotism and selfishness are forced
      to pause and are moved to pity; but the impression that they receive is
      like a luscious fruit, soon consumed. Civilization, like the car of
      Juggernaut, is scarcely stayed perceptibly in its progress by a heart less
      easy to break than the others that lie in its course; this also is broken,
      and Civilization continues on her course triumphant. And you, too, will do
      the like; you who with this book in your white hand will sink back among
      the cushions of your armchair, and say to yourself, &ldquo;Perhaps this may
      amuse me.&rdquo; You will read the story of Father Goriot&rsquo;s secret woes, and,
      dining thereafter with an unspoiled appetite, will lay the blame of your
      insensibility upon the writer, and accuse him of exaggeration, of writing
      romances. Ah! once for all, this drama is neither a fiction nor a romance!
      <i>All is true</i>,&mdash;so true, that every one can discern the elements
      of the tragedy in his own house, perhaps in his own heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lodging-house is Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s own property. It is still standing in
      the lower end of the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, just where the road
      slopes so sharply down to the Rue de l&rsquo;Arbalete, that wheeled traffic
      seldom passes that way, because it is so stony and steep. This position is
      sufficient to account for the silence prevalent in the streets shut in
      between the dome of the Pantheon and the dome of the Val-de-Grace, two
      conspicuous public buildings which give a yellowish tone to the landscape
      and darken the whole district that lies beneath the shadow of their
      leaden-hued cupolas.
    </p>
    <p>
      In that district the pavements are clean and dry, there is neither mud nor
      water in the gutters, grass grows in the chinks of the walls. The most
      heedless passer-by feels the depressing influences of a place where the
      sound of wheels creates a sensation; there is a grim look about the
      houses, a suggestion of a jail about those high garden walls. A Parisian
      straying into a suburb apparently composed of lodging-houses and public
      institutions would see poverty and dullness, old age lying down to die,
      and joyous youth condemned to drudgery. It is the ugliest quarter of
      Paris, and, it may be added, the least known. But, before all things, the
      Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve is like a bronze frame for a picture for which
      the mind cannot be too well prepared by the contemplation of sad hues and
      sober images. Even so, step by step the daylight decreases, and the
      cicerone&rsquo;s droning voice grows hollower as the traveler descends into the
      Catacombs. The comparison holds good! Who shall say which is more ghastly,
      the sight of the bleached skulls or of dried-up human hearts?
    </p>
    <p>
      The front of the lodging-house is at right angles to the road, and looks
      out upon a little garden, so that you see the side of the house in
      section, as it were, from the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve. Beneath the wall
      of the house front there lies a channel, a fathom wide, paved with
      cobble-stones, and beside it runs a graveled walk bordered by geraniums
      and oleanders and pomegranates set in great blue and white glazed
      earthenware pots. Access into the graveled walk is afforded by a door,
      above which the words MAISON VAUQUER may be read, and beneath, in rather
      smaller letters, &ldquo;<i>Lodgings for both sexes, etc.</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During the day a glimpse into the garden is easily obtained through a
      wicket to which a bell is attached. On the opposite wall, at the further
      end of the graveled walk, a green marble arch was painted once upon a time
      by a local artist, and in this semblance of a shrine a statue representing
      Cupid is installed; a Parisian Cupid, so blistered and disfigured that he
      looks like a candidate for one of the adjacent hospitals, and might
      suggest an allegory to lovers of symbolism. The half-obliterated
      inscription on the pedestal beneath determines the date of this work of
      art, for it bears witness to the widespread enthusiasm felt for Voltaire
      on his return to Paris in 1777:
    </p>
<pre>
              &ldquo;Whoe&rsquo;er thou art, thy master see;
               He is, or was, or ought to be.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      At night the wicket gate is replaced by a solid door. The little garden is
      no wider than the front of the house; it is shut in between the wall of
      the street and the partition wall of the neighboring house. A mantle of
      ivy conceals the bricks and attracts the eyes of passers-by to an effect
      which is picturesque in Paris, for each of the walls is covered with
      trellised vines that yield a scanty dusty crop of fruit, and furnish
      besides a subject of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and her lodgers; every
      year the widow trembles for her vintage.
    </p>
    <p>
      A straight path beneath the walls on either side of the garden leads to a
      clump of lime-trees at the further end of it; <i>line</i>-trees, as Mme.
      Vauquer persists in calling them, in spite of the fact that she was a de
      Conflans, and regardless of repeated corrections from her lodgers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The central space between the walls is filled with artichokes and rows of
      pyramid fruit-trees, and surrounded by a border of lettuce, pot-herbs, and
      parsley. Under the lime-trees there are a few green-painted garden seats
      and a wooden table, and hither, during the dog-days, such of the lodgers
      as are rich enough to indulge in a cup of coffee come to take their
      pleasure, though it is hot enough to roast eggs even in the shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house itself is three stories high, without counting the attics under
      the roof. It is built of rough stone, and covered with the yellowish
      stucco that gives a mean appearance to almost every house in Paris. There
      are five windows in each story in the front of the house; all the blinds
      visible through the small square panes are drawn up awry, so that the
      lines are all at cross purposes. At the side of the house there are but
      two windows on each floor, and the lowest of all are adorned with a heavy
      iron grating.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behind the house a yard extends for some twenty feet, a space inhabited by
      a happy family of pigs, poultry, and rabbits; the wood-shed is situated on
      the further side, and on the wall between the wood-shed and the kitchen
      window hangs the meat-safe, just above the place where the sink discharges
      its greasy streams. The cook sweeps all the refuse out through a little
      door into the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, and frequently cleanses the yard
      with copious supplies of water, under pain of pestilence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The house might have been built on purpose for its present uses. Access is
      given by a French window to the first room on the ground floor, a
      sitting-room which looks out upon the street through the two barred
      windows already mentioned. Another door opens out of it into the
      dining-room, which is separated from the kitchen by the well of the
      staircase, the steps being constructed partly of wood, partly of tiles,
      which are colored and beeswaxed. Nothing can be more depressing than the
      sight of that sitting-room. The furniture is covered with horse hair woven
      in alternate dull and glossy stripes. There is a round table in the
      middle, with a purplish-red marble top, on which there stands, by way of
      ornament, the inevitable white china tea-service, covered with a
      half-effaced gilt network. The floor is sufficiently uneven, the wainscot
      rises to elbow height, and the rest of the wall space is decorated with a
      varnished paper, on which the principal scenes from <i>Telemaque</i> are
      depicted, the various classical personages being colored. The subject
      between the two windows is the banquet given by Calypso to the son of
      Ulysses, displayed thereon for the admiration of the boarders, and has
      furnished jokes these forty years to the young men who show themselves
      superior to their position by making fun of the dinners to which poverty
      condemns them. The hearth is always so clean and neat that it is evident
      that a fire is only kindled there on great occasions; the stone
      chimney-piece is adorned by a couple of vases filled with faded artificial
      flowers imprisoned under glass shades, on either side of a bluish marble
      clock in the very worst taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first room exhales an odor for which there is no name in the language,
      and which should be called the <i>odeur de pension</i>. The damp
      atmosphere sends a chill through you as you breathe it; it has a stuffy,
      musty, and rancid quality; it permeates your clothing; after-dinner scents
      seem to be mingled in it with smells from the kitchen and scullery and the
      reek of a hospital. It might be possible to describe it if some one should
      discover a process by which to distil from the atmosphere all the
      nauseating elements with which it is charged by the catarrhal exhalations
      of every individual lodger, young or old. Yet, in spite of these stale
      horrors, the sitting-room is as charming and as delicately perfumed as a
      boudoir, when compared with the adjoining dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The paneled walls of that apartment were once painted some color, now a
      matter of conjecture, for the surface is incrusted with accumulated layers
      of grimy deposit, which cover it with fantastic outlines. A collection of
      dim-ribbed glass decanters, metal discs with a satin sheen on them, and
      piles of blue-edged earthenware plates of Touraine ware cover the sticky
      surfaces of the sideboards that line the room. In a corner stands a box
      containing a set of numbered pigeon-holes, in which the lodgers&rsquo; table
      napkins, more or less soiled and stained with wine, are kept. Here you see
      that indestructible furniture never met with elsewhere, which finds its
      way into lodging-houses much as the wrecks of our civilization drift into
      hospitals for incurables. You expect in such places as these to find the
      weather-house whence a Capuchin issues on wet days; you look to find the
      execrable engravings which spoil your appetite, framed every one in a
      black varnished frame, with a gilt beading round it; you know the sort of
      tortoise-shell clock-case, inlaid with brass; the green stove, the Argand
      lamps, covered with oil and dust, have met your eyes before. The oilcloth
      which covers the long table is so greasy that a waggish <i>externe</i>
      will write his name on the surface, using his thumb-nail as a style. The
      chairs are broken-down invalids; the wretched little hempen mats slip away
      from under your feet without slipping away for good; and finally, the
      foot-warmers are miserable wrecks, hingeless, charred, broken away about
      the holes. It would be impossible to give an idea of the old, rotten,
      shaky, cranky, worm-eaten, halt, maimed, one-eyed, rickety, and ramshackle
      condition of the furniture without an exhaustive description, which would
      delay the progress of the story to an extent that impatient people would
      not pardon. The red tiles of the floor are full of depressions brought
      about by scouring and periodical renewings of color. In short, there is no
      illusory grace left to the poverty that reigns here; it is dire,
      parsimonious, concentrated, threadbare poverty; as yet it has not sunk
      into the mire, it is only splashed by it, and though not in rags as yet,
      its clothing is ready to drop to pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      This apartment is in all its glory at seven o&rsquo;clock in the morning, when
      Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s cat appears, announcing the near approach of his mistress,
      and jumps upon the sideboards to sniff at the milk in the bowls, each
      protected by a plate, while he purrs his morning greeting to the world. A
      moment later the widow shows her face; she is tricked out in a net cap
      attached to a false front set on awry, and shuffles into the room in her
      slipshod fashion. She is an oldish woman, with a bloated countenance, and
      a nose like a parrot&rsquo;s beak set in the middle of it; her fat little hands
      (she is as sleek as a church rat) and her shapeless, slouching figure are
      in keeping with the room that reeks of misfortune, where hope is reduced
      to speculate for the meanest stakes. Mme. Vauquer alone can breathe that
      tainted air without being disheartened by it. Her face is as fresh as a
      frosty morning in autumn; there are wrinkles about the eyes that vary in
      their expression from the set smile of a ballet-dancer to the dark,
      suspicious scowl of a discounter of bills; in short, she is at once the
      embodiment and interpretation of her lodging-house, as surely as her
      lodging-house implies the existence of its mistress. You can no more
      imagine the one without the other, than you can think of a jail without a
      turnkey. The unwholesome corpulence of the little woman is produced by the
      life she leads, just as typhus fever is bred in the tainted air of a
      hospital. The very knitted woolen petticoat that she wears beneath a skirt
      made of an old gown, with the wadding protruding through the rents in the
      material, is a sort of epitome of the sitting-room, the dining-room, and
      the little garden; it discovers the cook, it foreshadows the lodgers&mdash;the
      picture of the house is completed by the portrait of its mistress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Vauquer at the age of fifty is like all women who &ldquo;have seen a deal
      of trouble.&rdquo; She has the glassy eyes and innocent air of a trafficker in
      flesh and blood, who will wax virtuously indignant to obtain a higher
      price for her services, but who is quite ready to betray a Georges or a
      Pichegru, if a Georges or a Pichegru were in hiding and still to be
      betrayed, or for any other expedient that may alleviate her lot. Still,
      &ldquo;she is a good woman at bottom,&rdquo; said the lodgers who believed that the
      widow was wholly dependent upon the money that they paid her, and
      sympathized when they heard her cough and groan like one of themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      What had M. Vauquer been? The lady was never very explicit on this head.
      How had she lost her money? &ldquo;Through trouble,&rdquo; was her answer. He had
      treated her badly, had left her nothing but her eyes to cry over his
      cruelty, the house she lived in, and the privilege of pitying nobody,
      because, so she was wont to say, she herself had been through every
      possible misfortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sylvie, the stout cook, hearing her mistress&rsquo; shuffling footsteps,
      hastened to serve the lodgers&rsquo; breakfasts. Beside those who lived in the
      house, Mme. Vauquer took boarders who came for their meals; but these <i>externes</i>
      usually only came to dinner, for which they paid thirty francs a month.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the time when this story begins, the lodging-house contained seven
      inmates. The best rooms in the house were on the first story, Mme. Vauquer
      herself occupying the least important, while the rest were let to a Mme.
      Couture, the widow of a commissary-general in the service of the Republic.
      With her lived Victorine Taillefer, a schoolgirl, to whom she filled the
      place of mother. These two ladies paid eighteen hundred francs a year.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two sets of rooms on the second floor were respectively occupied by an
      old man named Poiret and a man of forty or thereabouts, the wearer of a
      black wig and dyed whiskers, who gave out that he was a retired merchant,
      and was addressed as M. Vautrin. Two of the four rooms on the third floor
      were also let&mdash;one to an elderly spinster, a Mlle. Michonneau, and
      the other to a retired manufacturer of vermicelli, Italian paste and
      starch, who allowed the others to address him as &ldquo;Father Goriot.&rdquo; The
      remaining rooms were allotted to various birds of passage, to impecunious
      students, who like &ldquo;Father Goriot&rdquo; and Mlle. Michonneau, could only muster
      forty-five francs a month to pay for their board and lodging. Mme. Vauquer
      had little desire for lodgers of this sort; they ate too much bread, and
      she only took them in default of better.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that time one of the rooms was tenanted by a law student, a young man
      from the neighborhood of Angouleme, one of a large family who pinched and
      starved themselves to spare twelve hundred francs a year for him.
      Misfortune had accustomed Eugene de Rastignac, for that was his name, to
      work. He belonged to the number of young men who know as children that
      their parents&rsquo; hopes are centered on them, and deliberately prepare
      themselves for a great career, subordinating their studies from the first
      to this end, carefully watching the indications of the course of events,
      calculating the probable turn that affairs will take, that they may be the
      first to profit by them. But for his observant curiosity, and the skill
      with which he managed to introduce himself into the salons of Paris, this
      story would not have been colored by the tones of truth which it certainly
      owes to him, for they are entirely due to his penetrating sagacity and
      desire to fathom the mysteries of an appalling condition of things, which
      was concealed as carefully by the victim as by those who had brought it to
      pass.
    </p>
    <p>
      Above the third story there was a garret where the linen was hung to dry,
      and a couple of attics. Christophe, the man-of-all-work, slept in one, and
      Sylvie, the stout cook, in the other. Beside the seven inmates thus
      enumerated, taking one year with another, some eight law or medical
      students dined in the house, as well as two or three regular comers who
      lived in the neighborhood. There were usually eighteen people at dinner,
      and there was room, if need be, for twenty at Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s table; at
      breakfast, however, only the seven lodgers appeared. It was almost like a
      family party. Every one came down in dressing-gown and slippers, and the
      conversation usually turned on anything that had happened the evening
      before; comments on the dress or appearance of the dinner contingent were
      exchanged in friendly confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      These seven lodgers were Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s spoiled children. Among them she
      distributed, with astronomical precision, the exact proportion of respect
      and attention due to the varying amounts they paid for their board. One
      single consideration influenced all these human beings thrown together by
      chance. The two second-floor lodgers only paid seventy-two francs a month.
      Such prices as these are confined to the Faubourg Saint-Marcel and the
      district between La Bourbe and the Salpetriere; and, as might be expected,
      poverty, more or less apparent, weighed upon them all, Mme. Couture being
      the sole exception to the rule.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dreary surroundings were reflected in the costumes of the inmates of
      the house; all were alike threadbare. The color of the men&rsquo;s coats were
      problematical; such shoes, in more fashionable quarters, are only to be
      seen lying in the gutter; the cuffs and collars were worn and frayed at
      the edges; every limp article of clothing looked like the ghost of its
      former self. The women&rsquo;s dresses were faded, old-fashioned, dyed and
      re-dyed; they wore gloves that were glazed with hard wear, much-mended
      lace, dingy ruffles, crumpled muslin fichus. So much for their clothing;
      but, for the most part, their frames were solid enough; their
      constitutions had weathered the storms of life; their cold, hard faces
      were worn like coins that have been withdrawn from circulation, but there
      were greedy teeth behind the withered lips. Dramas brought to a close or
      still in progress are foreshadowed by the sight of such actors as these,
      not the dramas that are played before the footlights and against a
      background of painted canvas, but dumb dramas of life, frost-bound dramas
      that sere hearts like fire, dramas that do not end with the actors&rsquo; lives.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau, that elderly young lady, screened her weak eyes from the
      daylight by a soiled green silk shade with a rim of brass, an object fit
      to scare away the Angel of Pity himself. Her shawl, with its scanty,
      draggled fringe, might have covered a skeleton, so meagre and angular was
      the form beneath it. Yet she must have been pretty and shapely once. What
      corrosive had destroyed the feminine outlines? Was it trouble, or vice, or
      greed? Had she loved too well? Had she been a second-hand clothes dealer,
      a frequenter of the backstairs of great houses, or had she been merely a
      courtesan? Was she expiating the flaunting triumphs of a youth overcrowded
      with pleasures by an old age in which she was shunned by every passer-by?
      Her vacant gaze sent a chill through you; her shriveled face seemed like a
      menace. Her voice was like the shrill, thin note of the grasshopper
      sounding from the thicket when winter is at hand. She said that she had
      nursed an old gentleman, ill of catarrh of the bladder, and left to die by
      his children, who thought that he had nothing left. His bequest to her, a
      life annuity of a thousand francs, was periodically disputed by his heirs,
      who mingled slander with their persecutions. In spite of the ravages of
      conflicting passions, her face retained some traces of its former fairness
      and fineness of tissue, some vestiges of the physical charms of her youth
      still survived.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. Poiret was a sort of automaton. He might be seen any day sailing like a
      gray shadow along the walks of the Jardin des Plantes, on his head a
      shabby cap, a cane with an old yellow ivory handle in the tips of his thin
      fingers; the outspread skirts of his threadbare overcoat failed to conceal
      his meagre figure; his breeches hung loosely on his shrunken limbs; the
      thin, blue-stockinged legs trembled like those of a drunken man; there was
      a notable breach of continuity between the dingy white waistcoat and
      crumpled shirt frills and the cravat twisted about a throat like a turkey
      gobbler&rsquo;s; altogether, his appearance set people wondering whether this
      outlandish ghost belonged to the audacious race of the sons of Japhet who
      flutter about on the Boulevard Italien. What devouring kind of toil could
      have so shriveled him? What devouring passions had darkened that bulbous
      countenance, which would have seemed outrageous as a caricature? What had
      he been? Well, perhaps he had been part of the machinery of justice, a
      clerk in the office to which the executioner sends in his accounts,&mdash;so
      much for providing black veils for parricides, so much for sawdust, so
      much for pulleys and cord for the knife. Or he might have been a receiver
      at the door of a public slaughter-house, or a sub-inspector of nuisances.
      Indeed, the man appeared to have been one of the beasts of burden in our
      great social mill; one of those Parisian Ratons whom their Bertrands do
      not even know by sight; a pivot in the obscure machinery that disposes of
      misery and things unclean; one of those men, in short, at sight of whom we
      are prompted to remark that, &ldquo;After all, we cannot do without them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Stately Paris ignores the existence of these faces bleached by moral or
      physical suffering; but, then, Paris is in truth an ocean that no line can
      plumb. You may survey its surface and describe it; but no matter how
      numerous and painstaking the toilers in this sea, there will always be
      lonely and unexplored regions in its depths, caverns unknown, flowers and
      pearls and monsters of the deep overlooked or forgotten by the divers of
      literature. The Maison Vauquer is one of these curious monstrosities.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two, however, of Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s boarders formed a striking contrast to the
      rest. There was a sickly pallor, such as is often seen in anaemic girls,
      in Mlle. Victorine Taillefer&rsquo;s face; and her unvarying expression of
      sadness, like her embarrassed manner and pinched look, was in keeping with
      the general wretchedness of the establishment in the Rue
      Nueve-Saint-Genevieve, which forms a background to this picture; but her
      face was young, there was youthfulness in her voice and elasticity in her
      movements. This young misfortune was not unlike a shrub, newly planted in
      an uncongenial soil, where its leaves have already begun to wither. The
      outlines of her figure, revealed by her dress of the simplest and cheapest
      materials, were also youthful. There was the same kind of charm about her
      too slender form, her faintly colored face and light-brown hair, that
      modern poets find in mediaeval statuettes; and a sweet expression, a look
      of Christian resignation in the dark gray eyes. She was pretty by force of
      contrast; if she had been happy, she would have been charming. Happiness
      is the poetry of woman, as the toilette is her tinsel. If the delightful
      excitement of a ball had made the pale face glow with color; if the
      delights of a luxurious life had brought the color to the wan cheeks that
      were slightly hollowed already; if love had put light into the sad eyes,
      then Victorine might have ranked among the fairest; but she lacked the two
      things which create woman a second time&mdash;pretty dresses and
      love-letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      A book might have been made of her story. Her father was persuaded that he
      had sufficient reason for declining to acknowledge her, and allowed her a
      bare six hundred francs a year; he had further taken measures to
      disinherit his daughter, and had converted all his real estate into
      personalty, that he might leave it undivided to his son. Victorine&rsquo;s
      mother had died broken-hearted in Mme. Couture&rsquo;s house; and the latter,
      who was a near relation, had taken charge of the little orphan. Unluckily,
      the widow of the commissary-general to the armies of the Republic had
      nothing in the world but her jointure and her widow&rsquo;s pension, and some
      day she might be obliged to leave the helpless, inexperienced girl to the
      mercy of the world. The good soul, therefore, took Victorine to mass every
      Sunday, and to confession once a fortnight, thinking that, in any case,
      she would bring up her ward to be devout. She was right; religion offered
      a solution of the problem of the young girl&rsquo;s future. The poor child loved
      the father who refused to acknowledge her. Once every year she tried to
      see him to deliver her mother&rsquo;s message of forgiveness, but every year
      hitherto she had knocked at that door in vain; her father was inexorable.
      Her brother, her only means of communication, had not come to see her for
      four years, and had sent her no assistance; yet she prayed to God to
      unseal her father&rsquo;s eyes and to soften her brother&rsquo;s heart, and no
      accusations mingled with her prayers. Mme. Couture and Mme. Vauquer
      exhausted the vocabulary of abuse, and failed to find words that did
      justice to the banker&rsquo;s iniquitous conduct; but while they heaped
      execrations on the millionaire, Victorine&rsquo;s words were as gentle as the
      moan of the wounded dove, and affection found expression even in the cry
      drawn from her by pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene de Rastignac was a thoroughly southern type; he had a fair
      complexion, blue eyes, black hair. In his figure, manner, and his whole
      bearing it was easy to see that he had either come of a noble family, or
      that, from his earliest childhood, he had been gently bred. If he was
      careful of his wardrobe, only taking last year&rsquo;s clothes into daily wear,
      still upon occasion he could issue forth as a young man of fashion.
      Ordinarily he wore a shabby coat and waistcoat, the limp black cravat,
      untidily knotted, that students affect, trousers that matched the rest of
      his costume, and boots that had been resoled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin (the man of forty with the dyed whiskers) marked a transition
      stage between these two young people and the others. He was the kind of
      man that calls forth the remark: &ldquo;He looks a jovial sort!&rdquo; He had broad
      shoulders, a well-developed chest, muscular arms, and strong square-fisted
      hands; the joints of his fingers were covered with tufts of fiery red
      hair. His face was furrowed by premature wrinkles; there was a certain
      hardness about it in spite of his bland and insinuating manner. His bass
      voice was by no means unpleasant, and was in keeping with his boisterous
      laughter. He was always obliging, always in good spirits; if anything went
      wrong with one of the locks, he would soon unscrew it, take it to pieces,
      file it, oil and clean and set it in order, and put it back in its place
      again; &ldquo;I am an old hand at it,&rdquo; he used to say. Not only so, he knew all
      about ships, the sea, France, foreign countries, men, business, law, great
      houses and prisons,&mdash;there was nothing that he did not know. If any
      one complained rather more than usual, he would offer his services at
      once. He had several times lent money to Mme. Vauquer, or to the boarders;
      but, somehow, those whom he obliged felt that they would sooner face death
      than fail to repay him; a certain resolute look, sometimes seen on his
      face, inspired fear of him, for all his appearance of easy good-nature. In
      the way he spat there was an imperturbable coolness which seemed to
      indicate that this was a man who would not stick at a crime to extricate
      himself from a false position. His eyes, like those of a pitiless judge,
      seemed to go to the very bottom of all questions, to read all natures, all
      feelings and thoughts. His habit of life was very regular; he usually went
      out after breakfast, returning in time for dinner, and disappeared for the
      rest of the evening, letting himself in about midnight with a latch key, a
      privilege that Mme. Vauquer accorded to no other boarder. But then he was
      on very good terms with the widow; he used to call her &ldquo;mamma,&rdquo; and put
      his arm round her waist, a piece of flattery perhaps not appreciated to
      the full! The worthy woman might imagine this to be an easy feat; but, as
      a matter of fact, no arm but Vautrin&rsquo;s was long enough to encircle her.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a characteristic trait of his generously to pay fifteen francs a
      month for the cup of coffee with a dash of brandy in it, which he took
      after dinner. Less superficial observers than young men engulfed by the
      whirlpool of Parisian life, or old men, who took no interest in anything
      that did not directly concern them, would not have stopped short at the
      vaguely unsatisfactory impression that Vautrin made upon them. He knew or
      guessed the concerns of every one about him; but none of them had been
      able to penetrate his thoughts, or to discover his occupation. He had
      deliberately made his apparent good-nature, his unfailing readiness to
      oblige, and his high spirits into a barrier between himself and the rest
      of them, but not seldom he gave glimpses of appalling depths of character.
      He seemed to delight in scourging the upper classes of society with the
      lash of his tongue, to take pleasure in convicting it of inconsistency, in
      mocking at law and order with some grim jest worthy of Juvenal, as if some
      grudge against the social system rankled in him, as if there were some
      mystery carefully hidden away in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Taillefer felt attracted, perhaps unconsciously, by the strength of
      the one man, and the good looks of the other; her stolen glances and
      secret thoughts were divided between them; but neither of them seemed to
      take any notice of her, although some day a chance might alter her
      position, and she would be a wealthy heiress. For that matter, there was
      not a soul in the house who took any trouble to investigate the various
      chronicles of misfortunes, real or imaginary, related by the rest. Each
      one regarded the others with indifference, tempered by suspicion; it was a
      natural result of their relative positions. Practical assistance not one
      could give, this they all knew, and they had long since exhausted their
      stock of condolence over previous discussions of their grievances. They
      were in something the same position as an elderly couple who have nothing
      left to say to each other. The routine of existence kept them in contact,
      but they were parts of a mechanism which wanted oil. There was not one of
      them but would have passed a blind man begging in the street, not one that
      felt moved to pity by a tale of misfortune, not one who did not see in
      death the solution of the all-absorbing problem of misery which left them
      cold to the most terrible anguish in others.
    </p>
    <p>
      The happiest of these hapless beings was certainly Mme. Vauquer, who
      reigned supreme over this hospital supported by voluntary contributions.
      For her, the little garden, which silence, and cold, and rain, and drought
      combined to make as dreary as an Asian <i>steppe</i>, was a pleasant
      shaded nook; the gaunt yellow house, the musty odors of a back shop had
      charms for her, and for her alone. Those cells belonged to her. She fed
      those convicts condemned to penal servitude for life, and her authority
      was recognized among them. Where else in Paris would they have found
      wholesome food in sufficient quantity at the prices she charged them, and
      rooms which they were at liberty to make, if not exactly elegant or
      comfortable, at any rate clean and healthy? If she had committed some
      flagrant act of injustice, the victim would have borne it in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a gathering contained, as might have been expected, the elements out
      of which a complete society might be constructed. And, as in a school, as
      in the world itself, there was among the eighteen men and women who met
      round the dinner table a poor creature, despised by all the others,
      condemned to be the butt of all their jokes. At the beginning of Eugene de
      Rastignac&rsquo;s second twelvemonth, this figure suddenly started out into bold
      relief against the background of human forms and faces among which the law
      student was yet to live for another two years to come. This laughing-stock
      was the retired vermicelli-merchant, Father Goriot, upon whose face a
      painter, like the historian, would have concentrated all the light in his
      picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      How had it come about that the boarders regarded him with a half-malignant
      contempt? Why did they subject the oldest among their number to a kind of
      persecution, in which there was mingled some pity, but no respect for his
      misfortunes? Had he brought it on himself by some eccentricity or
      absurdity, which is less easily forgiven or forgotten than more serious
      defects? The question strikes at the root of many a social injustice.
      Perhaps it is only human nature to inflict suffering on anything that will
      endure suffering, whether by reason of its genuine humility, or
      indifference, or sheer helplessness. Do we not, one and all, like to feel
      our strength even at the expense of some one or of something? The poorest
      sample of humanity, the street arab, will pull the bell handle at every
      street door in bitter weather, and scramble up to write his name on the
      unsullied marble of a monument.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the year 1813, at the age of sixty-nine or thereabouts, &ldquo;Father Goriot&rdquo;
       had sold his business and retired&mdash;to Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s boarding house.
      When he first came there he had taken the rooms now occupied by Mme.
      Couture; he had paid twelve hundred francs a year like a man to whom five
      louis more or less was a mere trifle. For him Mme. Vauquer had made
      various improvements in the three rooms destined for his use, in
      consideration of a certain sum paid in advance, so it was said, for the
      miserable furniture, that is to say, for some yellow cotton curtains, a
      few chairs of stained wood covered with Utrecht velvet, several wretched
      colored prints in frames, and wall papers that a little suburban tavern
      would have disdained. Possibly it was the careless generosity with which
      Father Goriot allowed himself to be overreached at this period of his life
      (they called him Monsieur Goriot very respectfully then) that gave Mme.
      Vauquer the meanest opinion of his business abilities; she looked on him
      as an imbecile where money was concerned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Goriot had brought with him a considerable wardrobe, the gorgeous outfit
      of a retired tradesman who denies himself nothing. Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s
      astonished eyes beheld no less than eighteen cambric-fronted shirts, the
      splendor of their fineness being enhanced by a pair of pins each bearing a
      large diamond, and connected by a short chain, an ornament which adorned
      the vermicelli-maker&rsquo;s shirt front. He usually wore a coat of corn-flower
      blue; his rotund and portly person was still further set off by a clean
      white waistcoat, and a gold chain and seals which dangled over that broad
      expanse. When his hostess accused him of being &ldquo;a bit of a beau,&rdquo; he
      smiled with the vanity of a citizen whose foible is gratified. His
      cupboards (<i>ormoires</i>, as he called them in the popular dialect) were
      filled with a quantity of plate that he brought with him. The widow&rsquo;s eyes
      gleamed as she obligingly helped him to unpack the soup ladles,
      table-spoons, forks, cruet-stands, tureens, dishes, and breakfast services&mdash;all
      of silver, which were duly arranged upon shelves, besides a few more or
      less handsome pieces of plate, all weighing no inconsiderable number of
      ounces; he could not bring himself to part with these gifts that reminded
      him of past domestic festivals.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This was my wife&rsquo;s present to me on the first anniversary of our wedding
      day,&rdquo; he said to Mme. Vauquer, as he put away a little silver posset dish,
      with two turtle-doves billing on the cover. &ldquo;Poor dear! she spent on it
      all the money she had saved before we were married. Do you know, I would
      sooner scratch the earth with my nails for a living, madame, than part
      with that. But I shall be able to take my coffee out of it every morning
      for the rest of my days, thank the Lord! I am not to be pitied. There&rsquo;s
      not much fear of my starving for some time to come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Finally, Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s magpie&rsquo;s eye had discovered and read certain
      entries in the list of shareholders in the funds, and, after a rough
      calculation, was disposed to credit Goriot (worthy man) with something
      like ten thousand francs a year. From that day forward Mme. Vauquer (<i>nee</i>
      de Conflans), who, as a matter of fact, had seen forty-eight summers,
      though she would only own to thirty-nine of them&mdash;Mme. Vauquer had
      her own ideas. Though Goriot&rsquo;s eyes seemed to have shrunk in their
      sockets, though they were weak and watery, owing to some glandular
      affection which compelled him to wipe them continually, she considered him
      to be a very gentlemanly and pleasant-looking man. Moreover, the widow saw
      favorable indications of character in the well-developed calves of his
      legs and in his square-shaped nose, indications still further borne out by
      the worthy man&rsquo;s full-moon countenance and look of stupid good-nature.
      This, in all probability, was a strongly-build animal, whose brains mostly
      consisted in a capacity for affection. His hair, worn in <i>ailes de
      pigeon</i>, and duly powdered every morning by the barber from the Ecole
      Polytechnique, described five points on his low forehead, and made an
      elegant setting to his face. Though his manners were somewhat boorish, he
      was always as neat as a new pin and he took his snuff in a lordly way,
      like a man who knows that his snuff-box is always likely to be filled with
      maccaboy, so that when Mme. Vauquer lay down to rest on the day of M.
      Goriot&rsquo;s installation, her heart, like a larded partridge, sweltered
      before the fire of a burning desire to shake off the shroud of Vauquer and
      rise again as Goriot. She would marry again, sell her boarding-house, give
      her hand to this fine flower of citizenship, become a lady of consequence
      in the quarter, and ask for subscriptions for charitable purposes; she
      would make little Sunday excursions to Choisy, Soissy, Gentilly; she would
      have a box at the theatre when she liked, instead of waiting for the
      author&rsquo;s tickets that one of her boarders sometimes gave her, in July; the
      whole Eldorado of a little Parisian household rose up before Mme. Vauquer
      in her dreams. Nobody knew that she herself possessed forty thousand
      francs, accumulated <i>sou by sou</i>, that was her secret; surely as far
      as money was concerned she was a very tolerable match. &ldquo;And in other
      respects, I am quite his equal,&rdquo; she said to herself, turning as if to
      assure herself of the charms of a form that the portly Sylvie found
      moulded in down feathers every morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      For three months from that day Mme. Veuve Vauquer availed herself of the
      services of M. Goriot&rsquo;s coiffeur, and went to some expense over her
      toilette, expense justifiable on the ground that she owed it to herself
      and her establishment to pay some attention to appearances when such
      highly-respectable persons honored her house with their presence. She
      expended no small amount of ingenuity in a sort of weeding process of her
      lodgers, announcing her intention of receiving henceforward none but
      people who were in every way select. If a stranger presented himself, she
      let him know that M. Goriot, one of the best known and most
      highly-respected merchants in Paris, had singled out her boarding-house
      for a residence. She drew up a prospectus headed MAISON VAUQUER, in which
      it was asserted that hers was &ldquo;<i>one of the oldest and most highly
      recommended boarding-houses in the Latin Quarter</i>.&rdquo; &ldquo;From the windows
      of the house,&rdquo; thus ran the prospectus, &ldquo;there is a charming view of the
      Vallee des Gobelins (so there is&mdash;from the third floor), and a <i>beautiful</i>
      garden, <i>extending</i> down to <i>an avenue of lindens</i> at the
      further end.&rdquo; Mention was made of the bracing air of the place and its
      quiet situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was this prospectus that attracted Mme. la Comtesse de l&rsquo;Ambermesnil, a
      widow of six and thirty, who was awaiting the final settlement of her
      husband&rsquo;s affairs, and of another matter regarding a pension due to her as
      the wife of a general who had died &ldquo;on the field of battle.&rdquo; On this Mme.
      Vauquer saw to her table, lighted a fire daily in the sitting-room for
      nearly six months, and kept the promise of her prospectus, even going to
      some expense to do so. And the Countess, on her side, addressed Mme.
      Vauquer as &ldquo;my dear,&rdquo; and promised her two more boarders, the Baronne de
      Vaumerland and the widow of a colonel, the late Comte de Picquoisie, who
      were about to leave a boarding-house in the Marais, where the terms were
      higher than at the Maison Vauquer. Both these ladies, moreover, would be
      very well to do when the people at the War Office had come to an end of
      their formalities. &ldquo;But Government departments are always so dilatory,&rdquo;
       the lady added.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner the two widows went together up to Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s room, and
      had a snug little chat over some cordial and various delicacies reserved
      for the mistress of the house. Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s ideas as to Goriot were
      cordially approved by Mme. de l&rsquo;Ambermesnil; it was a capital notion,
      which for that matter she had guessed from the very first; in her opinion
      the vermicelli maker was an excellent man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my dear lady, such a well-preserved man of his age, as sound as my
      eyesight&mdash;a man who might make a woman happy!&rdquo; said the widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good-natured Countess turned to the subject of Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s dress,
      which was not in harmony with her projects. &ldquo;You must put yourself on a
      war footing,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      After much serious consideration the two widows went shopping together&mdash;they
      purchased a hat adorned with ostrich feathers and a cap at the Palais
      Royal, and the Countess took her friend to the Magasin de la Petite
      Jeannette, where they chose a dress and a scarf. Thus equipped for the
      campaign, the widow looked exactly like the prize animal hung out for a
      sign above an a la mode beef shop; but she herself was so much pleased
      with the improvement, as she considered it, in her appearance, that she
      felt that she lay under some obligation to the Countess; and, though by no
      means open-handed, she begged that lady to accept a hat that cost twenty
      francs. The fact was that she needed the Countess&rsquo; services on the
      delicate mission of sounding Goriot; the countess must sing her praises in
      his ears. Mme. de l&rsquo;Ambermesnil lent herself very good-naturedly to this
      manoeuvre, began her operations, and succeeded in obtaining a private
      interview; but the overtures that she made, with a view to securing him
      for herself, were received with embarrassment, not to say a repulse. She
      left him, revolted by his coarseness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My angel,&rdquo; said she to her dear friend, &ldquo;you will make nothing of that
      man yonder. He is absurdly suspicious, and he is a mean curmudgeon, an
      idiot, a fool; you would never be happy with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After what had passed between M. Goriot and Mme. de l&rsquo;Ambermesnil, the
      Countess would no longer live under the same roof. She left the next day,
      forgot to pay for six months&rsquo; board, and left behind her wardrobe,
      cast-off clothing to the value of five francs. Eagerly and persistently as
      Mme. Vauquer sought her quondam lodger, the Comtesse de l&rsquo;Ambermesnil was
      never heard of again in Paris. The widow often talked of this deplorable
      business, and regretted her own too confiding disposition. As a matter of
      fact, she was as suspicious as a cat; but she was like many other people,
      who cannot trust their own kin and put themselves at the mercy of the next
      chance comer&mdash;an odd but common phenomenon, whose causes may readily
      be traced to the depths of the human heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps there are people who know that they have nothing more to look for
      from those with whom they live; they have shown the emptiness of their
      hearts to their housemates, and in their secret selves they are conscious
      that they are severely judged, and that they deserve to be judged
      severely; but still they feel an unconquerable craving for praises that
      they do not hear, or they are consumed by a desire to appear to possess,
      in the eyes of a new audience, the qualities which they have not, hoping
      to win the admiration or affection of strangers at the risk of forfeiting
      it again some day. Or, once more, there are other mercenary natures who
      never do a kindness to a friend or a relation simply because these have a
      claim upon them, while a service done to a stranger brings its reward to
      self-love. Such natures feel but little affection for those who are
      nearest to them; they keep their kindness for remoter circles of
      acquaintance, and show most to those who dwell on its utmost limits. Mme.
      Vauquer belonged to both these essentially mean, false, and execrable
      classes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had been there at the time,&rdquo; Vautrin would say at the end of the
      story, &ldquo;I would have shown her up, and that misfortune would not have
      befallen you. I know that kind of phiz!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Like all narrow natures, Mme. Vauquer was wont to confine her attention to
      events, and did not go very deeply into the causes that brought them
      about; she likewise preferred to throw the blame of her own mistakes on
      other people, so she chose to consider that the honest vermicelli maker
      was responsible for her misfortune. It had opened her eyes, so she said,
      with regard to him. As soon as she saw that her blandishments were in
      vain, and that her outlay on her toilette was money thrown away, she was
      not slow to discover the reason of his indifference. It became plain to
      her at once that there was <i>some other attraction</i>, to use her own
      expression. In short, it was evident that the hope she had so fondly
      cherished was a baseless delusion, and that she would &ldquo;never make anything
      out of that man yonder,&rdquo; in the Countess&rsquo; forcible phrase. The Countess
      seemed to have been a judge of character. Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s aversion was
      naturally more energetic than her friendship, for her hatred was not in
      proportion to her love, but to her disappointed expectations. The human
      heart may find here and there a resting-place short of the highest height
      of affection, but we seldom stop in the steep, downward slope of hatred.
      Still, M. Goriot was a lodger, and the widow&rsquo;s wounded self-love could not
      vent itself in an explosion of wrath; like a monk harassed by the prior of
      his convent, she was forced to stifle her sighs of disappointment, and to
      gulp down her craving for revenge. Little minds find gratification for
      their feelings, benevolent or otherwise, by a constant exercise of petty
      ingenuity. The widow employed her woman&rsquo;s malice to devise a system of
      covert persecution. She began by a course of retrenchment&mdash;various
      luxuries which had found their way to the table appeared there no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No more gherkins, no more anchovies; they have made a fool of me!&rdquo; she
      said to Sylvie one morning, and they returned to the old bill of fare.
    </p>
    <p>
      The thrifty frugality necessary to those who mean to make their way in the
      world had become an inveterate habit of life with M. Goriot. Soup, boiled
      beef, and a dish of vegetables had been, and always would be, the dinner
      he liked best, so Mme. Vauquer found it very difficult to annoy a boarder
      whose tastes were so simple. He was proof against her malice, and in
      desperation she spoke to him and of him slightingly before the other
      lodgers, who began to amuse themselves at his expense, and so gratified
      her desire for revenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards the end of the first year the widow&rsquo;s suspicions had reached such
      a pitch that she began to wonder how it was that a retired merchant with a
      secure income of seven or eight thousand livres, the owner of such
      magnificent plate and jewelry handsome enough for a kept mistress, should
      be living in her house. Why should he devote so small a proportion of his
      money to his expenses? Until the first year was nearly at an end, Goriot
      had dined out once or twice every week, but these occasions came less
      frequently, and at last he was scarcely absent from the dinner-table twice
      a month. It was hardly expected that Mme. Vauquer should regard the
      increased regularity of her boarder&rsquo;s habits with complacency, when those
      little excursions of his had been so much to her interest. She attributed
      the change not so much to a gradual diminution of fortune as to a spiteful
      wish to annoy his hostess. It is one of the most detestable habits of a
      Liliputian mind to credit other people with its own malignant pettiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unluckily, towards the end of the second year, M. Goriot&rsquo;s conduct gave
      some color to the idle talk about him. He asked Mme. Vauquer to give him a
      room on the second floor, and to make a corresponding reduction in her
      charges. Apparently, such strict economy was called for, that he did
      without a fire all through the winter. Mme. Vauquer asked to be paid in
      advance, an arrangement to which M. Goriot consented, and thenceforward
      she spoke of him as &ldquo;Father Goriot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What had brought about this decline and fall? Conjecture was keen, but
      investigation was difficult. Father Goriot was not communicative; in the
      sham countess&rsquo; phrase he was &ldquo;a curmudgeon.&rdquo; Empty-headed people who
      babble about their own affairs because they have nothing else to occupy
      them, naturally conclude that if people say nothing of their doings it is
      because their doings will not bear being talked about; so the highly
      respectable merchant became a scoundrel, and the late beau was an old
      rogue. Opinion fluctuated. Sometimes, according to Vautrin, who came about
      this time to live in the Maison Vauquer, Father Goriot was a man who went
      on &lsquo;Change and <i>dabbled</i> (to use the sufficiently expressive language
      of the Stock Exchange) in stocks and shares after he had ruined himself by
      heavy speculation. Sometimes it was held that he was one of those petty
      gamblers who nightly play for small stakes until they win a few francs. A
      theory that he was a detective in the employ of the Home Office found
      favor at one time, but Vautrin urged that &ldquo;Goriot was not sharp enough for
      one of that sort.&rdquo; There were yet other solutions; Father Goriot was a
      skinflint, a shark of a money-lender, a man who lived by selling lottery
      tickets. He was by turns all the most mysterious brood of vice and shame
      and misery; yet, however vile his life might be, the feeling of repulsion
      which he aroused in others was not so strong that he must be banished from
      their society&mdash;he paid his way. Besides, Goriot had his uses, every
      one vented his spleen or sharpened his wit on him; he was pelted with
      jokes and belabored with hard words. The general consensus of opinion was
      in favor of a theory which seemed the most likely; this was Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s
      view. According to her, the man so well preserved at his time of life, as
      sound as her eyesight, with whom a woman might be very happy, was a
      libertine who had strange tastes. These are the facts upon which Mme.
      Vauquer&rsquo;s slanders were based.
    </p>
    <p>
      Early one morning, some few months after the departure of the unlucky
      Countess who had managed to live for six months at the widow&rsquo;s expense,
      Mme. Vauquer (not yet dressed) heard the rustle of a silk dress and a
      young woman&rsquo;s light footstep on the stair; some one was going to Goriot&rsquo;s
      room. He seemed to expect the visit, for his door stood ajar. The portly
      Sylvie presently came up to tell her mistress that a girl too pretty to be
      honest, &ldquo;dressed like a goddess,&rdquo; and not a speck of mud on her laced
      cashmere boots, had glided in from the street like a snake, had found the
      kitchen, and asked for M. Goriot&rsquo;s room. Mme. Vauquer and the cook,
      listening, overheard several words affectionately spoken during the visit,
      which lasted for some time. When M. Goriot went downstairs with the lady,
      the stout Sylvie forthwith took her basket and followed the lover-like
      couple, under pretext of going to do her marketing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. Goriot must be awfully rich, all the same, madame,&rdquo; she reported on
      her return, &ldquo;to keep her in such style. Just imagine it! There was a
      splendid carriage waiting at the corner of the Place de l&rsquo;Estrapade, and
      <i>she</i> got into it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While they were at dinner that evening, Mme. Vauquer went to the window
      and drew the curtain, as the sun was shining into Goriot&rsquo;s eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are beloved of fair ladies, M. Goriot&mdash;the sun seeks you out,&rdquo;
       she said, alluding to his visitor. &ldquo;<i>Peste!</i> you have good taste; she
      was very pretty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was my daughter,&rdquo; he said, with a kind of pride in his voice, and
      the rest chose to consider this as the fatuity of an old man who wishes to
      save appearances.
    </p>
    <p>
      A month after this visit M. Goriot received another. The same daughter who
      had come to see him that morning came again after dinner, this time in
      evening dress. The boarders, in deep discussion in the dining-room, caught
      a glimpse of a lovely, fair-haired woman, slender, graceful, and much too
      distinguished-looking to be a daughter of Father Goriot&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two of them!&rdquo; cried the portly Sylvie, who did not recognize the lady of
      the first visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days later, and another young lady&mdash;a tall, well-moulded
      brunette, with dark hair and bright eyes&mdash;came to ask for M. Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three of them!&rdquo; said Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the second daughter, who had first come in the morning to see her
      father, came shortly afterwards in the evening. She wore a ball dress, and
      came in a carriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Four of them!&rdquo; commented Mme. Vauquer and her plump handmaid. Sylvie saw
      not a trace of resemblance between this great lady and the girl in her
      simple morning dress who had entered her kitchen on the occasion of her
      first visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that time Goriot was paying twelve hundred francs a year to his
      landlady, and Mme. Vauquer saw nothing out of the common in the fact that
      a rich man had four or five mistresses; nay, she thought it very knowing
      of him to pass them off as his daughters. She was not at all inclined to
      draw a hard-and-fast line, or to take umbrage at his sending for them to
      the Maison Vauquer; yet, inasmuch as these visits explained her boarder&rsquo;s
      indifference to her, she went so far (at the end of the second year) as to
      speak of him as an &ldquo;ugly old wretch.&rdquo; When at length her boarder declined
      to nine hundred francs a year, she asked him very insolently what he took
      her house to be, after meeting one of these ladies on the stairs. Father
      Goriot answered that the lady was his eldest daughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you have two or three dozen daughters, have you?&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer
      sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have only two,&rdquo; her boarder answered meekly, like a ruined man who is
      broken in to all the cruel usage of misfortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards the end of the third year Father Goriot reduced his expenses still
      further; he went up to the third story, and now paid forty-five francs a
      month. He did without snuff, told his hairdresser that he no longer
      required his services, and gave up wearing powder. When Goriot appeared
      for the first time in this condition, an exclamation of astonishment broke
      from his hostess at the color of his hair&mdash;a dingy olive gray. He had
      grown sadder day by day under the influence of some hidden trouble; among
      all the faces round the table, his was the most woe-begone. There was no
      longer any doubt. Goriot was an elderly libertine, whose eyes had only
      been preserved by the skill of the physician from the malign influence of
      the remedies necessitated by the state of his health. The disgusting color
      of his hair was a result of his excesses and of the drugs which he had
      taken that he might continue his career. The poor old man&rsquo;s mental and
      physical condition afforded some grounds for the absurd rubbish talked
      about him. When his outfit was worn out, he replaced the fine linen by
      calico at fourteen <i>sous</i> the ell. His diamonds, his gold snuff-box,
      watch-chain and trinkets, disappeared one by one. He had left off wearing
      the corn-flower blue coat, and was sumptuously arrayed, summer as well as
      winter, in a coarse chestnut-brown coat, a plush waistcoat, and doeskin
      breeches. He grew thinner and thinner; his legs were shrunken, his cheeks,
      once so puffed out by contented bourgeois prosperity, were covered with
      wrinkles, and the outlines of the jawbones were distinctly visible; there
      were deep furrows in his forehead. In the fourth year of his residence in
      the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve he was no longer like his former self. The
      hale vermicelli manufacturer, sixty-two years of age, who had looked
      scarce forty, the stout, comfortable, prosperous tradesman, with an almost
      bucolic air, and such a brisk demeanor that it did you good to look at
      him; the man with something boyish in his smile, had suddenly sunk into
      his dotage, and had become a feeble, vacillating septuagenarian.
    </p>
    <p>
      The keen, bright blue eyes had grown dull, and faded to a steel-gray
      color; the red inflamed rims looked as though they had shed tears of
      blood. He excited feelings of repulsion in some, and of pity in others.
      The young medical students who came to the house noticed the drooping of
      his lower lip and the conformation of the facial angle; and, after teasing
      him for some time to no purpose, they declared that cretinism was setting
      in.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening after dinner Mme. Vauquer said half banteringly to him, &ldquo;So
      those daughters of yours don&rsquo;t come to see you any more, eh?&rdquo; meaning to
      imply her doubts as to his paternity; but Father Goriot shrank as if his
      hostess had touched him with a sword-point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They come sometimes,&rdquo; he said in a tremulous voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! you still see them sometimes?&rdquo; cried the students. &ldquo;Bravo, Father
      Goriot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man scarcely seemed to hear the witticisms at his expense that
      followed on the words; he had relapsed into the dreamy state of mind that
      these superficial observers took for senile torpor, due to his lack of
      intelligence. If they had only known, they might have been deeply
      interested by the problem of his condition; but few problems were more
      obscure. It was easy, of course, to find out whether Goriot had really
      been a vermicelli manufacturer; the amount of his fortune was readily
      discoverable; but the old people, who were most inquisitive as to his
      concerns, never went beyond the limits of the Quarter, and lived in the
      lodging-house much as oysters cling to a rock. As for the rest, the
      current of life in Paris daily awaited them, and swept them away with it;
      so soon as they left the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, they forgot the
      existence of the old man, their butt at dinner. For those narrow souls, or
      for careless youth, the misery in Father Goriot&rsquo;s withered face and its
      dull apathy were quite incompatible with wealth or any sort of
      intelligence. As for the creatures whom he called his daughters, all Mme.
      Vauquer&rsquo;s boarders were of her opinion. With the faculty for severe logic
      sedulously cultivated by elderly women during long evenings of gossip till
      they can always find an hypothesis to fit all circumstances, she was wont
      to reason thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Father Goriot had daughters of his own as rich as those ladies who
      came here seemed to be, he would not be lodging in my house, on the third
      floor, at forty-five francs a month; and he would not go about dressed
      like a poor man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      No objection could be raised to these inferences. So by the end of the
      month of November 1819, at the time when the curtain rises on this drama,
      every one in the house had come to have a very decided opinion as to the
      poor old man. He had never had either wife or daughter; excesses had
      reduced him to this sluggish condition; he was a sort of human mollusk who
      should be classed among the capulidoe, so one of the dinner contingent, an
      <i>employe</i> at the Museum, who had a pretty wit of his own. Poiret was
      an eagle, a gentleman, compared with Goriot. Poiret would join the talk,
      argue, answer when he was spoken to; as a matter of fact, his talk,
      arguments, and responses contributed nothing to the conversation, for
      Poiret had a habit of repeating what the others said in different words;
      still, he did join in the talk; he was alive, and seemed capable of
      feeling; while Father Goriot (to quote the Museum official again) was
      invariably at zero degrees&mdash;Reaumur.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene de Rastignac had just returned to Paris in a state of mind not
      unknown to young men who are conscious of unusual powers, and to those
      whose faculties are so stimulated by a difficult position, that for the
      time being they rise above the ordinary level.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac&rsquo;s first year of study for the preliminary examinations in law
      had left him free to see the sights of Paris and to enjoy some of its
      amusements. A student has not much time on his hands if he sets himself to
      learn the repertory of every theatre, and to study the ins and outs of the
      labyrinth of Paris. To know its customs; to learn the language, and become
      familiar with the amusements of the capital, he must explore its recesses,
      good and bad, follow the studies that please him best, and form some idea
      of the treasures contained in galleries and museums.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this stage of his career a student grows eager and excited about all
      sorts of follies that seem to him to be of immense importance. He has his
      hero, his great man, a professor at the College de France, paid to talk
      down to the level of his audience. He adjusts his cravat, and strikes
      various attitudes for the benefit of the women in the first galleries at
      the Opera-Comique. As he passes through all these successive initiations,
      and breaks out of his sheath, the horizons of life widen around him, and
      at length he grasps the plan of society with the different human strata of
      which it is composed.
    </p>
    <p>
      If he begins by admiring the procession of carriages on sunny afternoons
      in the Champs-Elysees, he soon reaches the further stage of envying their
      owners. Unconsciously, Eugene had served his apprenticeship before he went
      back to Angouleme for the long vacation after taking his degrees as
      bachelor of arts and bachelor of law. The illusions of childhood had
      vanished, so also had the ideas he brought with him from the provinces; he
      had returned thither with an intelligence developed, with loftier
      ambitions, and saw things as they were at home in the old manor house. His
      father and mother, his two brothers and two sisters, with an aged aunt,
      whose whole fortune consisted in annuities, lived on the little estate of
      Rastignac. The whole property brought in about three thousand francs; and
      though the amount varied with the season (as must always be the case in a
      vine-growing district), they were obliged to spare an unvarying twelve
      hundred francs out of their income for him. He saw how constantly the
      poverty, which they had generously hidden from him, weighed upon them; he
      could not help comparing the sisters, who had seemed so beautiful to his
      boyish eyes, with women in Paris, who had realized the beauty of his
      dreams. The uncertain future of the whole family depended upon him. It did
      not escape his eyes that not a crumb was wasted in the house, nor that the
      wine they drank was made from the second pressing; a multitude of small
      things, which it is useless to speak of in detail here, made him burn to
      distinguish himself, and his ambition to succeed increased tenfold.
    </p>
    <p>
      He meant, like all great souls, that his success should be owing entirely
      to his merits; but his was pre-eminently a southern temperament, the
      execution of his plans was sure to be marred by the vertigo that seizes on
      youth when youth sees itself alone in a wide sea, uncertain how to spend
      its energies, whither to steer its course, how to adapt its sails to the
      winds. At first he determined to fling himself heart and soul into his
      work, but he was diverted from this purpose by the need of society and
      connections; then he saw how great an influence women exert in social
      life, and suddenly made up his mind to go out into this world to seek a
      protectress there. Surely a clever and high-spirited young man, whose wit
      and courage were set off to advantage by a graceful figure and the
      vigorous kind of beauty that readily strikes a woman&rsquo;s imagination, need
      not despair of finding a protectress. These ideas occurred to him in his
      country walks with his sisters, whom he had once joined so gaily. The
      girls thought him very much changed.
    </p>
    <p>
      His aunt, Mme. de Marcillac, had been presented at court, and had moved
      among the brightest heights of that lofty region. Suddenly the young man&rsquo;s
      ambition discerned in those recollections of hers, which had been like
      nursery fairy tales to her nephews and nieces, the elements of a social
      success at least as important as the success which he had achieved at the
      Ecole de Droit. He began to ask his aunt about those relations; some of
      the old ties might still hold good. After much shaking of the branches of
      the family tree, the old lady came to the conclusion that of all persons
      who could be useful to her nephew among the selfish genus of rich
      relations, the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was the least likely to refuse. To
      this lady, therefore, she wrote in the old-fashioned style, recommending
      Eugene to her; pointing out to her nephew that if he succeeded in pleasing
      Mme. de Beauseant, the Vicomtesse would introduce him to other relations.
      A few days after his return to Paris, therefore, Rastignac sent his aunt&rsquo;s
      letter to Mme. de Beauseant. The Vicomtesse replied by an invitation to a
      ball for the following evening. This was the position of affairs at the
      Maison Vauquer at the end of November 1819.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days later, after Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s ball, Eugene came in at two
      o&rsquo;clock in the morning. The persevering student meant to make up for the
      lost time by working until daylight. It was the first time that he had
      attempted to spend the night in this way in that silent quarter. The spell
      of a factitious energy was upon him; he had beheld the pomp and splendor
      of the world. He had not dined at the Maison Vauquer; the boarders
      probably would think that he would walk home at daybreak from the dance,
      as he had done sometimes on former occasions, after a fete at the Prado,
      or a ball at the Odeon, splashing his silk stockings thereby, and ruining
      his pumps.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened that Christophe took a look into the street before drawing
      the bolts of the door; and Rastignac, coming in at that moment, could go
      up to his room without making any noise, followed by Christophe, who made
      a great deal. Eugene exchanged his dress suit for a shabby overcoat and
      slippers, kindled a fire with some blocks of patent fuel, and prepared for
      his night&rsquo;s work in such a sort that the faint sounds he made were drowned
      by Christophe&rsquo;s heavy tramp on the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene sat absorbed in thought for a few moments before plunging into his
      law books. He had just become aware of the fact that the Vicomtesse de
      Beauseant was one of the queens of fashion, that her house was thought to
      be the pleasantest in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. And not only so, she
      was, by right of her fortune, and the name she bore, one of the most
      conspicuous figures in that aristocratic world. Thanks to the aunt, thanks
      to Mme. de Marcillac&rsquo;s letter of introduction, the poor student had been
      kindly received in that house before he knew the extent of the favor thus
      shown to him. It was almost like a patent of nobility to be admitted to
      those gilded salons; he had appeared in the most exclusive circle in
      Paris, and now all doors were open for him. Eugene had been dazzled at
      first by the brilliant assembly, and had scarcely exchanged a few words
      with the Vicomtesse; he had been content to single out a goddess among
      this throng of Parisian divinities, one of those women who are sure to
      attract a young man&rsquo;s fancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud was tall and gracefully made; she had
      one of the prettiest figures in Paris. Imagine a pair of great dark eyes,
      a magnificently moulded hand, a shapely foot. There was a fiery energy in
      her movements; the Marquis de Ronquerolles had called her &ldquo;a
      thoroughbred,&rdquo; &ldquo;a pure pedigree,&rdquo; these figures of speech have replaced
      the &ldquo;heavenly angel&rdquo; and Ossianic nomenclature; the old mythology of love
      is extinct, doomed to perish by modern dandyism. But for Rastignac, Mme.
      Anastasie de Restaud was the woman for whom he had sighed. He had
      contrived to write his name twice upon the list of partners upon her fan,
      and had snatched a few words with her during the first quadrille.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where shall I meet you again, Madame?&rdquo; he asked abruptly, and the tones
      of his voice were full of the vehement energy that women like so well.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, everywhere!&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;in the Bois, at the Bouffons, in my own
      house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With the impetuosity of his adventurous southern temper, he did all he
      could to cultivate an acquaintance with this lovely countess, making the
      best of his opportunities in the quadrille and during a waltz that she
      gave him. When he told her that he was a cousin of Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s,
      the Countess, whom he took for a great lady, asked him to call at her
      house, and after her parting smile, Rastignac felt convinced that he must
      make this visit. He was so lucky as to light upon some one who did not
      laugh at his ignorance, a fatal defect among the gilded and insolent youth
      of that period; the coterie of Maulincourts, Maximes de Trailles, de
      Marsays, Ronquerolles, Ajuda-Pintos, and Vandenesses who shone there in
      all the glory of coxcombry among the best-dressed women of fashion in
      Paris&mdash;Lady Brandon, the Duchesse de Langeais, the Comtesse de
      Kergarouet, Mme. de Serizy, the Duchesse de Carigliano, the Comtesse
      Ferraud, Mme. de Lanty, the Marquise d&rsquo;Aiglemont, Mme. Firmiani, the
      Marquise de Listomere and the Marquise d&rsquo;Espard, the Duchesse de
      Maufrigneuse and the Grandlieus. Luckily, therefore, for him, the novice
      happened upon the Marquis de Montriveau, the lover of the Duchesse de
      Langeais, a general as simple as a child; from him Rastignac learned that
      the Comtesse lived in the Rue du Helder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ah, what it is to be young, eager to see the world, greedily on the watch
      for any chance that brings you nearer the woman of your dreams, and behold
      two houses open their doors to you! To set foot in the Vicomtesse de
      Beauseant&rsquo;s house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; to fall on your knees
      before a Comtesse de Restaud in the Chaussee d&rsquo;Antin; to look at one
      glance across a vista of Paris drawing-rooms, conscious that, possessing
      sufficient good looks, you may hope to find aid and protection there in a
      feminine heart! To feel ambitious enough to spurn the tight-rope on which
      you must walk with the steady head of an acrobat for whom a fall is
      impossible, and to find in a charming woman the best of all balancing
      poles.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat there with his thoughts for a while, Law on the one hand, and
      Poverty on the other, beholding a radiant vision of a woman rise above the
      dull, smouldering fire. Who would not have paused and questioned the
      future as Eugene was doing? who would not have pictured it full of
      success? His wondering thoughts took wings; he was transported out of the
      present into that blissful future; he was sitting by Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s
      side, when a sort of sigh, like the grunt of an overburdened St. Joseph,
      broke the silence of the night. It vibrated through the student, who took
      the sound for a death groan. He opened his door noiselessly, went out upon
      the landing, and saw a thin streak of light under Father Goriot&rsquo;s door.
      Eugene feared that his neighbor had been taken ill; he went over and
      looked through the keyhole; the old man was busily engaged in an
      occupation so singular and so suspicious that Rastignac thought he was
      only doing a piece of necessary service to society to watch the
      self-styled vermicelli maker&rsquo;s nocturnal industries.
    </p>
    <p>
      The table was upturned, and Goriot had doubtless in some way secured a
      silver plate and cup to the bar before knotting a thick rope round them;
      he was pulling at this rope with such enormous force that they were being
      crushed and twisted out of shape; to all appearance he meant to convert
      the richly wrought metal into ingots.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Peste!</i> what a man!&rdquo; said Rastignac, as he watched Goriot&rsquo;s
      muscular arms; there was not a sound in the room while the old man, with
      the aid of the rope, was kneading the silver like dough. &ldquo;Was he then,
      indeed, a thief, or a receiver of stolen goods, who affected imbecility
      and decrepitude, and lived like a beggar that he might carry on his
      pursuits the more securely?&rdquo; Eugene stood for a moment revolving these
      questions, then he looked again through the keyhole.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot had unwound his coil of rope; he had covered the table with
      a blanket, and was now employed in rolling the flattened mass of silver
      into a bar, an operation which he performed with marvelous dexterity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he must be as strong as Augustus, King of Poland!&rdquo; said Eugene to
      himself when the bar was nearly finished.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot looked sadly at his handiwork, tears fell from his eyes, he
      blew out the dip which had served him for a light while he manipulated the
      silver, and Eugene heard him sigh as he lay down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is mad,&rdquo; thought the student.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Poor child!</i>&rdquo; Father Goriot said aloud. Rastignac, hearing those
      words, concluded to keep silence; he would not hastily condemn his
      neighbor. He was just in the doorway of his room when a strange sound from
      the staircase below reached his ears; it might have been made by two men
      coming up in list slippers. Eugene listened; two men there certainly were,
      he could hear their breathing. Yet there had been no sound of opening the
      street door, no footsteps in the passage. Suddenly, too, he saw a faint
      gleam of light on the second story; it came from M. Vautrin&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are a good many mysteries here for a lodging-house!&rdquo; he said to
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went part of the way downstairs and listened again. The rattle of gold
      reached his ears. In another moment the light was put out, and again he
      distinctly heard the breathing of two men, but no sound of a door being
      opened or shut. The two men went downstairs, the faint sounds growing
      fainter as they went.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is there?&rdquo; cried Mme. Vauquer out of her bedroom window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, Mme. Vauquer,&rdquo; answered Vautrin&rsquo;s deep bass voice. &ldquo;I am coming in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is odd! Christophe drew the bolts,&rdquo; said Eugene, going back to his
      room. &ldquo;You have to sit up at night, it seems, if you really mean to know
      all that is going on about you in Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These incidents turned his thought from his ambitious dreams; he betook
      himself to his work, but his thought wandered back to Father Goriot&rsquo;s
      suspicious occupation; Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s face swam again and again before
      his eyes like a vision of a brilliant future; and at last he lay down and
      slept with clenched fists. When a young man makes up his mind that he will
      work all night, the chances are that seven times out of ten he will sleep
      till morning. Such vigils do not begin before we are turned twenty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning Paris was wrapped in one of the dense fogs that throw the
      most punctual people out in their calculations as to the time; even the
      most business-like folk fail to keep their appointments in such weather,
      and ordinary mortals wake up at noon and fancy it is eight o&rsquo;clock. On
      this morning it was half-past nine, and Mme. Vauquer still lay abed.
      Christophe was late, Sylvie was late, but the two sat comfortably taking
      their coffee as usual. It was Sylvie&rsquo;s custom to take the cream off the
      milk destined for the boarders&rsquo; breakfast for her own, and to boil the
      remainder for some time, so that madame should not discover this illegal
      exaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sylvie,&rdquo; said Christophe, as he dipped a piece of toast into the coffee,
      &ldquo;M. Vautrin, who is not such a bad sort, all the same, had two people come
      to see him again last night. If madame says anything, mind you say nothing
      about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has he given you something?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He gave me a five-franc piece this month, which is as good as saying,
      &lsquo;Hold your tongue.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Except him and Mme. Couture, who doesn&rsquo;t look twice at every penny,
      there&rsquo;s no one in the house that doesn&rsquo;t try to get back with the left
      hand all that they give with the right at New Year,&rdquo; said Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, after all,&rdquo; said Christophe, &ldquo;what do they give you? A miserable
      five-franc piece. There is Father Goriot, who has cleaned his shoes
      himself these two years past. There is that old beggar Poiret, who goes
      without blacking altogether; he would sooner drink it than put it on his
      boots. Then there is that whipper-snapper of a student, who gives me a
      couple of francs. Two francs will not pay for my brushes, and he sells his
      old clothes, and gets more for them than they are worth. Oh! they&rsquo;re a
      shabby lot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh!&rdquo; said Sylvie, sipping her coffee, &ldquo;our places are the best in the
      Quarter, that I know. But about that great big chap Vautrin, Christophe;
      has any one told you anything about him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I met a gentleman in the street a few days ago; he said to me,
      &lsquo;There&rsquo;s a gentleman in your place, isn&rsquo;t there? a tall man that dyes his
      whiskers?&rsquo; I told him, &lsquo;No, sir; they aren&rsquo;t dyed. A gay fellow like him
      hasn&rsquo;t the time to do it.&rsquo; And when I told M. Vautrin about it afterwards,
      he said, &lsquo;Quite right, my boy. That is the way to answer them. There is
      nothing more unpleasant than to have your little weaknesses known; it
      might spoil many a match.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and for my part,&rdquo; said Sylvie, &ldquo;a man tried to humbug me at the
      market wanting to know if I had seen him put on his shirt. Such bosh!
      There,&rdquo; she cried, interrupting herself, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s a quarter to ten striking
      at the Val-de-Grace, and not a soul stirring!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh! they are all gone out. Mme. Couture and the girl went out at eight
      o&rsquo;clock to take the wafer at Saint-Etienne. Father Goriot started off
      somewhere with a parcel, and the student won&rsquo;t be back from his lecture
      till ten o&rsquo;clock. I saw them go while I was sweeping the stairs; Father
      Goriot knocked up against me, and his parcel was as hard as iron. What is
      the old fellow up to, I wonder? He is as good as a plaything for the rest
      of them; they can never let him alone; but he is a good man, all the same,
      and worth more than all of them put together. He doesn&rsquo;t give you much
      himself, but he sometimes sends you with a message to ladies who fork out
      famous tips; they are dressed grandly, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His daughters, as he calls them, eh? There are a dozen of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have never been to more than two&mdash;the two who came here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is madame moving overhead; I shall have to go, or she will raise a
      fine racket. Just keep an eye on the milk, Christophe; don&rsquo;t let the cat
      get at it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sylvie went up to her mistress&rsquo; room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sylvie! How is this? It&rsquo;s nearly ten o&rsquo;clock, and you let me sleep like a
      dormouse! Such a thing has never happened before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the fog; it is that thick, you could cut it with a knife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how about breakfast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! the boarders are possessed, I&rsquo;m sure. They all cleared out before
      there was a wink of daylight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do speak properly, Sylvie,&rdquo; Mme. Vauquer retorted; &ldquo;say a blink of
      daylight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well, madame, whichever you please. Anyhow, you can have breakfast at
      ten o&rsquo;clock. La Michonnette and Poiret have neither of them stirred. There
      are only those two upstairs, and they are sleeping like the logs they
      are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Sylvie, you put their names together as if&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As if what?&rdquo; said Sylvie, bursting into a guffaw. &ldquo;The two of them make a
      pair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a strange thing, isn&rsquo;t it, Sylvie, how M. Vautrin got in last night
      after Christophe had bolted the door?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, madame. Christophe heard M. Vautrin, and went down and undid
      the door. And here are you imagining that&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me my bodice, and be quick and get breakfast ready. Dish up the rest
      of the mutton with the potatoes, and you can put the stewed pears on the
      table, those at five a penny.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A few moments later Mme. Vauquer came down, just in time to see the cat
      knock down a plate that covered a bowl of milk, and begin to lap in all
      haste.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mistigris!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cat fled, but promptly returned to rub against her ankles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! yes, you can wheedle, you old hypocrite!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Sylvie! Sylvie!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, madame; what is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just see what the cat has done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all that stupid Christophe&rsquo;s fault. I told him to stop and lay the
      table. What has become of him? Don&rsquo;t you worry, madame; Father Goriot
      shall have it. I will fill it up with water, and he won&rsquo;t know the
      difference; he never notices anything, not even what he eats.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder where the old heathen can have gone?&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, setting
      the plates round the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who knows? He is up to all sorts of tricks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have overslept myself,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But madame looks as fresh as a rose, all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door bell rang at that moment, and Vautrin came through the
      sitting-room, singing loudly:
    </p>
<pre>
  &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis the same old story everywhere,
   A roving heart and a roving glance..
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Mamma Vauquer! good-morning!&rdquo; he cried at the sight of his hostess,
      and he put his arm gaily round her waist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! have done&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Impertinence!&rsquo; Say it!&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;Come, say it! Now, isn&rsquo;t that what
      you really mean? Stop a bit, I will help you to set the table. Ah! I am a
      nice man, am I not?
    </p>
<pre>
  &ldquo;For the locks of brown and the golden hair
     A sighing lover...
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I have just seen something so funny&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
                  .... led by chance.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked the widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father Goriot in the goldsmith&rsquo;s shop in the Rue Dauphine at half-past
      eight this morning. They buy old spoons and forks and gold lace there, and
      Goriot sold a piece of silver plate for a good round sum. It had been
      twisted out of shape very neatly for a man that&rsquo;s not used to the trade.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? You don&rsquo;t say so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. One of my friends is expatriating himself; I had been to see him off
      on board the Royal Mail steamer, and was coming back here. I waited after
      that to see what Father Goriot would do; it is a comical affair. He came
      back to this quarter of the world, to the Rue des Gres, and went into a
      money-lender&rsquo;s house; everybody knows him, Gobseck, a stuck-up rascal,
      that would make dominoes out of his father&rsquo;s bones, a Turk, a heathen, an
      old Jew, a Greek; it would be a difficult matter to rob <i>him</i>, for he
      puts all his coin into the Bank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what was Father Goriot doing there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doing?&rdquo; said Vautrin. &ldquo;Nothing; he was bent on his own undoing. He is a
      simpleton, stupid enough to ruin himself by running after&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There he is!&rdquo; cried Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christophe,&rdquo; cried Father Goriot&rsquo;s voice, &ldquo;come upstairs with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christophe went up, and shortly afterwards came down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; Mme. Vauquer asked of her servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out on an errand for M. Goriot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What may that be?&rdquo; said Vautrin, pouncing on a letter in Christophe&rsquo;s
      hand. &ldquo;<i>Mme. la Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud</i>,&rdquo; he read. &ldquo;Where are
      you going with it?&rdquo; he added, as he gave the letter back to Christophe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the Rue du Helder. I have orders to give this into her hands myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is there inside it?&rdquo; said Vautrin, holding the letter up to the
      light. &ldquo;A banknote? No.&rdquo; He peered into the envelope. &ldquo;A receipted
      account!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;My word! &lsquo;tis a gallant old dotard. Off with you, old
      chap,&rdquo; he said, bringing down a hand on Christophe&rsquo;s head, and spinning
      the man round like a thimble; &ldquo;you will have a famous tip.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By this time the table was set. Sylvie was boiling the milk, Mme. Vauquer
      was lighting a fire in the stove with some assistance from Vautrin, who
      kept humming to himself:
    </p>
<pre>
  &ldquo;The same old story everywhere,
   A roving heart and a roving glance.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      When everything was ready, Mme. Couture and Mlle. Taillefer came in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where have you been this morning, fair lady?&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, turning
      to Mme. Couture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have just been to say our prayers at Saint-Etienne du Mont. To-day is
      the day when we must go to see M. Taillefer. Poor little thing! She is
      trembling like a leaf,&rdquo; Mme. Couture went on, as she seated herself before
      the fire and held the steaming soles of her boots to the blaze.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Warm yourself, Victorine,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is quite right and proper, mademoiselle, to pray to Heaven to soften
      your father&rsquo;s heart,&rdquo; said Vautrin, as he drew a chair nearer to the
      orphan girl; &ldquo;but that is not enough. What you want is a friend who will
      give the monster a piece of his mind; a barbarian that has three millions
      (so they say), and will not give you a dowry; and a pretty girl needs a
      dowry nowadays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child!&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;Never mind, my pet, your wretch of a
      father is going just the way to bring trouble upon himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Victorine&rsquo;s eyes filled with tears at the words, and the widow checked
      herself at a sign from Mme. Couture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If we could only see him!&rdquo; said the Commissary-General&rsquo;s widow; &ldquo;if I
      could speak to him myself and give him his wife&rsquo;s last letter! I have
      never dared to run the risk of sending it by post; he knew my handwriting&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Oh woman, persecuted and injured innocent!&rsquo;&rdquo; exclaimed Vautrin, breaking
      in upon her. &ldquo;So that is how you are, is it? In a few days&rsquo; time I will
      look into your affairs, and it will be all right, you shall see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! sir,&rdquo; said Victorine, with a tearful but eager glance at Vautrin, who
      showed no sign of being touched by it, &ldquo;if you know of any way of
      communicating with my father, please be sure and tell him that his
      affection and my mother&rsquo;s honor are more to me than all the money in the
      world. If you can induce him to relent a little towards me, I will pray to
      God for you. You may be sure of my gratitude&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>The same old story everywhere</i>,&rdquo; sang Vautrin, with a satirical
      intonation. At this juncture, Goriot, Mlle. Michonneau, and Poiret came
      downstairs together; possibly the scent of the gravy which Sylvie was
      making to serve with the mutton had announced breakfast. The seven people
      thus assembled bade each other good-morning, and took their places at the
      table; the clock struck ten, and the student&rsquo;s footstep was heard outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! here you are, M. Eugene,&rdquo; said Sylvie; &ldquo;every one is breakfasting at
      home to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The student exchanged greetings with the lodgers, and sat down beside
      Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have just met with a queer adventure,&rdquo; he said, as he helped himself
      abundantly to the mutton, and cut a slice of bread, which Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s
      eyes gauged as usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An adventure?&rdquo; queried Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and what is there to astonish you in that, old boy?&rdquo; Vautrin asked
      of Poiret. &ldquo;M. Eugene is cut out for that kind of thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Taillefer stole a timid glance at the young student.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell us about your adventure!&rdquo; demanded M. Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yesterday evening I went to a ball given by a cousin of mine, the
      Vicomtesse de Beauseant. She has a magnificent house; the rooms are hung
      with silk&mdash;in short, it was a splendid affair, and I was as happy as
      a king&mdash;-&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fisher,&rdquo; put in Vautrin, interrupting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean, sir?&rdquo; said Eugene sharply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said &lsquo;fisher,&rsquo; because kingfishers see a good deal more fun than
      kings.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite true; I would much rather be the little careless bird than a king,&rdquo;
       said Poiret the ditto-ist, &ldquo;because&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In fact&rdquo;&mdash;the law-student cut him short&mdash;&ldquo;I danced with one of
      the handsomest women in the room, a charming countess, the most exquisite
      creature I have ever seen. There was peach blossom in her hair, and she
      had the loveliest bouquet of flowers&mdash;real flowers, that scented the
      air&mdash;&mdash;but there! it is no use trying to describe a woman
      glowing with the dance. You ought to have seen her! Well, and this morning
      I met this divine countess about nine o&rsquo;clock, on foot in the Rue de Gres.
      Oh! how my heart beat! I began to think&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That she was coming here,&rdquo; said Vautrin, with a keen look at the student.
      &ldquo;I expect that she was going to call on old Gobseck, a money-lender. If
      ever you explore a Parisian woman&rsquo;s heart, you will find the money-lender
      first, and the lover afterwards. Your countess is called Anastasie de
      Restaud, and she lives in the Rue du Helder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The student stared hard at Vautrin. Father Goriot raised his head at the
      words, and gave the two speakers a glance so full of intelligence and
      uneasiness that the lodgers beheld him with astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then Christophe was too late, and she must have gone to him!&rdquo; cried
      Goriot, with anguish in his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is just as I guessed,&rdquo; said Vautrin, leaning over to whisper in Mme.
      Vauquer&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Goriot went on with his breakfast, but seemed unconscious of what he was
      doing. He had never looked more stupid nor more taken up with his own
      thoughts than he did at that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who the devil could have told you her name, M. Vautrin?&rdquo; asked Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! there you are!&rdquo; answered Vautrin. &ldquo;Old Father Goriot there knew it
      quite well! and why should I not know it too?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. Goriot?&rdquo; the student cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked the old man. &ldquo;So she was very beautiful, was she,
      yesterday night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mme. de Restaud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at the old wretch,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, speaking to Vautrin; &ldquo;how his
      eyes light up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then does he really keep her?&rdquo; said Mlle. Michonneau, in a whisper to the
      student.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! yes, she was tremendously pretty,&rdquo; Eugene answered. Father Goriot
      watched him with eager eyes. &ldquo;If Mme. de Beauseant had not been there, my
      divine countess would have been the queen of the ball; none of the younger
      men had eyes for any one else. I was the twelfth on her list, and she
      danced every quadrille. The other women were furious. She must have
      enjoyed herself, if ever creature did! It is a true saying that there is
      no more beautiful sight than a frigate in full sail, a galloping horse, or
      a woman dancing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So the wheel turns,&rdquo; said Vautrin; &ldquo;yesterday night at a duchess&rsquo; ball,
      this morning in a money-lender&rsquo;s office, on the lowest rung of the ladder&mdash;just
      like a Parisienne! If their husbands cannot afford to pay for their
      frantic extravagance, they will sell themselves. Or if they cannot do
      that, they will tear out their mothers&rsquo; hearts to find something to pay
      for their splendor. They will turn the world upside down. Just a
      Parisienne through and through!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot&rsquo;s face, which had shone at the student&rsquo;s words like the sun
      on a bright day, clouded over all at once at this cruel speech of
      Vautrin&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;but where is your adventure? Did you speak to
      her? Did you ask her if she wanted to study law?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She did not see me,&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;But only think of meeting one of the
      prettiest women in Paris in the Rue des Gres at nine o&rsquo;clock! She could
      not have reached home after the ball till two o&rsquo;clock this morning. Wasn&rsquo;t
      it queer? There is no place like Paris for this sort of adventures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! much funnier things than <i>that</i> happen here!&rdquo; exclaimed
      Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Taillefer had scarcely heeded the talk, she was so absorbed by the
      thought of the new attempt that she was about to make. Mme. Couture made a
      sign that it was time to go upstairs and dress; the two ladies went out,
      and Father Goriot followed their example.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, did you see?&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, addressing Vautrin and the rest of
      the circle. &ldquo;He is ruining himself for those women, that is plain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing will ever make me believe that that beautiful Comtesse de Restaud
      is anything to Father Goriot,&rdquo; cried the student.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and if you don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; broke in Vautrin, &ldquo;we are not set on convincing
      you. You are too young to know Paris thoroughly yet; later on you will
      find out that there are what we call men with a passion&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau gave Vautrin a quick glance at these words. They seemed
      to be like the sound of a trumpet to a trooper&rsquo;s horse. &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; said
      Vautrin, stopping in his speech to give her a searching glance, &ldquo;so we
      have had our little experiences, have we?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old maid lowered her eyes like a nun who sees a statue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;when folk of that kind get a notion into their heads,
      they cannot drop it. They must drink the water from some particular spring&mdash;it
      is stagnant as often as not; but they will sell their wives and families,
      they will sell their own souls to the devil to get it. For some this
      spring is play, or the stock-exchange, or music, or a collection of
      pictures or insects; for others it is some woman who can give them the
      dainties they like. You might offer these last all the women on earth&mdash;they
      would turn up their noses; they will have the only one who can gratify
      their passion. It often happens that the woman does not care for them at
      all, and treats them cruelly; they buy their morsels of satisfaction very
      dear; but no matter, the fools are never tired of it; they will take their
      last blanket to the pawnbroker&rsquo;s to give their last five-franc piece to
      her. Father Goriot here is one of that sort. He is discreet, so the
      Countess exploits him&mdash;just the way of the gay world. The poor old
      fellow thinks of her and of nothing else. In all other respects you see he
      is a stupid animal; but get him on that subject, and his eyes sparkle like
      diamonds. That secret is not difficult to guess. He took some plate
      himself this morning to the melting-pot, and I saw him at Daddy Gobseck&rsquo;s
      in the Rue des Gres. And now, mark what follows&mdash;he came back here,
      and gave a letter for the Comtesse de Restaud to that noodle of a
      Christophe, who showed us the address; there was a receipted bill inside
      it. It is clear that it was an urgent matter if the Countess also went
      herself to the old money lender. Father Goriot has financed her
      handsomely. There is no need to tack a tale together; the thing is
      self-evident. So that shows you, sir student, that all the time your
      Countess was smiling, dancing, flirting, swaying her peach-flower crowned
      head, with her gown gathered into her hand, her slippers were pinching
      her, as they say; she was thinking of her protested bills, or her lover&rsquo;s
      protested bills.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have made me wild to know the truth,&rdquo; cried Eugene; &ldquo;I will go to
      call on Mme. de Restaud to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; echoed Poiret; &ldquo;you must go and call on Mme. de Restaud.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And perhaps you will find Father Goriot there, who will take payment for
      the assistance he politely rendered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene looked disgusted. &ldquo;Why, then, this Paris of yours is a slough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And an uncommonly queer slough, too,&rdquo; replied Vautrin. &ldquo;The mud splashes
      you as you drive through it in your carriage&mdash;you are a respectable
      person; you go afoot and are splashed&mdash;you are a scoundrel. You are
      so unlucky as to walk off with something or other belonging to somebody
      else, and they exhibit you as a curiosity in the Place du
      Palais-de-Justice; you steal a million, and you are pointed out in every
      salon as a model of virtue. And you pay thirty millions for the police and
      the courts of justice, for the maintenance of law and order! A pretty
      slate of things it is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What,&rdquo; cried Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;has Father Goriot really melted down his
      silver posset-dish?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There were two turtle-doves on the lid, were there not?&rdquo; asked Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that there were.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, was he fond of it?&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;He cried while he was breaking up
      the cup and plate. I happened to see him by accident.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was dear to him as his own life,&rdquo; answered the widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! you see how infatuated the old fellow is!&rdquo; cried Vautrin. &ldquo;The
      woman yonder can coax the soul out of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The student went up to his room. Vautrin went out, and a few moments later
      Mme. Couture and Victorine drove away in a cab which Sylvie had called for
      them. Poiret gave his arm to Mlle. Michonneau, and they went together to
      spend the two sunniest hours of the day in the Jardin des Plantes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, those two are as good as married,&rdquo; was the portly Sylvie&rsquo;s comment.
      &ldquo;They are going out together to-day for the first time. They are such a
      couple of dry sticks that if they happen to strike against each other they
      will draw sparks like flint and steel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep clear of Mlle. Michonneau&rsquo;s shawl, then,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer,
      laughing; &ldquo;it would flare up like tinder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At four o&rsquo;clock that evening, when Goriot came in, he saw, by the light of
      two smoky lamps, that Victorine&rsquo;s eyes were red. Mme. Vauquer was
      listening to the history of the visit made that morning to M. Taillefer;
      it had been made in vain. Taillefer was tired of the annual application
      made by his daughter and her elderly friend; he gave them a personal
      interview in order to arrive at an understanding with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear lady,&rdquo; said Mme. Couture, addressing Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;just imagine
      it; he did not even ask Victorine to sit down, she was standing the whole
      time. He said to me quite coolly, without putting himself in a passion,
      that we might spare ourselves the trouble of going there; that the young
      lady (he would not call her his daughter) was injuring her cause by
      importuning him (<i>importuning!</i> once a year, the wretch!); that as
      Victorine&rsquo;s mother had nothing when he married her, Victorine ought not to
      expect anything from him; in fact, he said the most cruel things, that
      made the poor child burst out crying. The little thing threw herself at
      her father&rsquo;s feet and spoke up bravely; she said that she only persevered
      in her visits for her mother&rsquo;s sake; that she would obey him without a
      murmur, but that she begged him to read her poor dead mother&rsquo;s farewell
      letter. She took it up and gave it to him, saying the most beautiful
      things in the world, most beautifully expressed; I do not know where she
      learned them; God must have put them into her head, for the poor child was
      inspired to speak so nicely that it made me cry like a fool to hear her
      talk. And what do you think the monster was doing all the time? Cutting
      his nails! He took the letter that poor Mme. Taillefer had soaked with
      tears, and flung it on to the chimney-piece. &lsquo;That is all right,&rsquo; he said.
      He held out his hands to raise his daughter, but she covered them with
      kisses, and he drew them away again. Scandalous, isn&rsquo;t it? And his great
      booby of a son came in and took no notice of his sister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What inhuman wretches they must be!&rdquo; said Father Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then they both went out of the room,&rdquo; Mme. Couture went on, without
      heeding the worthy vermicelli maker&rsquo;s exclamation; &ldquo;father and son bowed
      to me, and asked me to excuse them on account of urgent business! That is
      the history of our call. Well, he has seen his daughter at any rate. How
      he can refuse to acknowledge her I cannot think, for they are as alike as
      two peas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boarders dropped in one after another, interchanging greetings and
      empty jokes that certain classes of Parisians regard as humorous and
      witty. Dulness is their prevailing ingredient, and the whole point
      consists in mispronouncing a word or a gesture. This kind of argot is
      always changing. The essence of the jest consists in some catchword
      suggested by a political event, an incident in the police courts, a street
      song, or a bit of burlesque at some theatre, and forgotten in a month.
      Anything and everything serves to keep up a game of battledore and
      shuttlecock with words and ideas. The diorama, a recent invention, which
      carried an optical illusion a degree further than panoramas, had given
      rise to a mania among art students for ending every word with <i>rama</i>.
      The Maison Vauquer had caught the infection from a young artist among the
      boarders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Monsieur-r-r Poiret,&rdquo; said the <i>employe</i> from the Museum, &ldquo;how
      is your health-orama?&rdquo; Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to
      Mme. Couture and Victorine with a &ldquo;Ladies, you seem melancholy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is dinner ready?&rdquo; cried Horace Bianchon, a medical student, and a friend
      of Rastignac&rsquo;s; &ldquo;my stomach is sinking <i>usque ad talones</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is an uncommon <i>frozerama</i> outside,&rdquo; said Vautrin. &ldquo;Make room
      there, Father Goriot! Confound it, your foot covers the whole front of the
      stove.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Illustrious M. Vautrin,&rdquo; put in Bianchon, &ldquo;why do you say <i>frozerama</i>?
      It is incorrect; it should be <i>frozenrama</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, it shouldn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said the official from the Museum; &ldquo;<i>frozerama</i>
      is right by the same rule that you say &lsquo;My feet are <i>froze</i>.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is his Excellency the Marquis de Rastignac, Doctor of the Law of
      Contraries,&rdquo; cried Bianchon, seizing Eugene by the throat, and almost
      throttling him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo there! hallo!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau came noiselessly in, bowed to the rest of the party, and
      took her place beside the three women without saying a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That old bat always makes me shudder,&rdquo; said Bianchon in a low voice,
      indicating Mlle. Michonneau to Vautrin. &ldquo;I have studied Gall&rsquo;s system, and
      I am sure she has the bump of Judas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you have seen a case before?&rdquo; said Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who has not?&rdquo; answered Bianchon. &ldquo;Upon my word, that ghastly old maid
      looks just like one of the long worms that will gnaw a beam through, give
      them time enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the way, young man,&rdquo; returned he of the forty years and the dyed
      whiskers:
    </p>
<pre>
  &ldquo;The rose has lived the life of a rose&mdash;
   A morning&rsquo;s space.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! here is a magnificent <i>soupe-au-rama</i>,&rdquo; cried Poiret as
      Christophe came in bearing the soup with cautious heed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, sir,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer; &ldquo;it is <i>soupe aux choux</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the young men roared with laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had you there, Poiret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poir-r-r-rette! she had you there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Score two points to Mamma Vauquer,&rdquo; said Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did any of you notice the fog this morning?&rdquo; asked the official.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a frantic fog,&rdquo; said Bianchon, &ldquo;a fog unparalleled, doleful,
      melancholy, sea-green, asthmatical&mdash;a Goriot of a fog!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A Goriorama,&rdquo; said the art student, &ldquo;because you couldn&rsquo;t see a thing in
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey! Milord Gaoriotte, they air talking about yoo-o-ou!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot, seated at the lower end of the table, close to the door
      through which the servant entered, raised his face; he had smelt at a
      scrap of bread that lay under his table napkin, an old trick acquired in
      his commercial capacity, that still showed itself at times.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; Madame Vauquer cried in sharp tones, that rang above the rattle of
      spoons and plates and the sound of other voices, &ldquo;and is there anything
      the matter with the bread?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing whatever, madame,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;on the contrary, it is made of
      the best quality of corn; flour from Etampes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could you tell?&rdquo; asked Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the color, by the flavor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knew the flavor by the smell, I suppose,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;You
      have grown so economical, you will find out how to live on the smell of
      cooking at last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take out a patent for it, then,&rdquo; cried the Museum official; &ldquo;you would
      make a handsome fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind him,&rdquo; said the artist; &ldquo;he does that sort of thing to delude
      us into thinking that he was a vermicelli maker.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your nose is a corn-sampler, it appears?&rdquo; inquired the official.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn <i>what</i>?&rdquo; asked Bianchon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-el.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-et.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-elian.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-ice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-ucopia.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-crake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-cockle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn-orama.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn?...&rdquo; he said, turning to Vautrin, his next neighbor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corn on your foot, old man!&rdquo; said Vautrin, and he drove Father Goriot&rsquo;s
      cap down over his eyes by a blow on the crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      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. &ldquo;You
      are a disagreeable joker, sir,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;and if you take any
      further liberties with me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what then, old boy?&rdquo; Vautrin interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, you shall pay dearly for it some day&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Down below, eh?&rdquo; said the artist, &ldquo;in the little dark corner where they
      put naughty boys.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, mademoiselle,&rdquo; Vautrin said, turning to Victorine, &ldquo;you are eating
      nothing. So papa was refractory, was he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A monster!&rdquo; said Mme. Couture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man had forgotten his dinner, he was so absorbed in gazing at the
      poor girl; the sorrow in her face was unmistakable,&mdash;the slighted
      love of a child whose father would not recognize her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are mistaken about Father Goriot, my dear boy,&rdquo; said Eugene in a low
      voice. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The man is a subject, is he?&rdquo; said Bianchon; &ldquo;all right! I will dissect
      him, if he will give me the chance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; feel his bumps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hm!&mdash;his stupidity might perhaps be contagious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next day Rastignac dressed himself very elegantly, and about three
      o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon went to call on Mme. de Restaud. On the way
      thither he indulged in the wild intoxicating dreams which fill a young
      head so full of delicious excitement. Young men at his age take no account
      of obstacles nor of dangers; they see success in every direction;
      imagination has free play, and turns their lives into a romance; they are
      saddened or discouraged by the collapse of one of the visionary schemes
      that have no existence save in their heated fancy. If youth were not
      ignorant and timid, civilization would be impossible.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene took unheard-of pains to keep himself in a spotless condition, but
      on his way through the streets he began to think about Mme. de Restaud and
      what he should say to her. He equipped himself with wit, rehearsed
      repartees in the course of an imaginary conversation, and prepared certain
      neat speeches a la Talleyrand, conjuring up a series of small events which
      should prepare the way for the declaration on which he had based his
      future; and during these musings the law student was bespattered with mud,
      and by the time he reached the Palais Royal he was obliged to have his
      boots blacked and his trousers brushed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I were rich,&rdquo; he said, as he changed the five-franc piece he had
      brought with him in case anything might happen, &ldquo;I would take a cab, then
      I could think at my ease.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last he reached the Rue du Helder, and asked for the Comtesse de
      Restaud. He bore the contemptuous glances of the servants, who had seen
      him cross the court on foot, with the cold fury of a man who knows that he
      will succeed some day. He understood the meaning of their glances at once,
      for he had felt his inferiority as soon as he entered the court, where a
      smart cab was waiting. All the delights of life in Paris seemed to be
      implied by this visible and manifest sign of luxury and extravagance. A
      fine horse, in magnificent harness, was pawing the ground, and all at once
      the law student felt out of humor with himself. Every compartment in his
      brain which he had thought to find so full of wit was bolted fast; he grew
      positively stupid. He sent up his name to the Countess, and waited in the
      ante-chamber, standing on one foot before a window that looked out upon
      the court; mechanically he leaned his elbow against the sash, and stared
      before him. The time seemed long; he would have left the house but for the
      southern tenacity of purpose which works miracles when it is
      single-minded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame is in her boudoir, and cannot see any one at present, sir,&rdquo; said
      the servant. &ldquo;She gave me no answer; but if you will go into the
      dining-room, there is some one already there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac was impressed with a sense of the formidable power of the lackey
      who can accuse or condemn his masters by a word; he coolly opened the door
      by which the man had just entered the ante-chamber, meaning, no doubt, to
      show these insolent flunkeys that he was familiar with the house; but he
      found that he had thoughtlessly precipitated himself into a small room
      full of dressers, where lamps were standing, and hot-water pipes, on which
      towels were being dried; a dark passage and a back staircase lay beyond
      it. Stifled laughter from the ante-chamber added to his confusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This way to the drawing-room, sir,&rdquo; said the servant, with the
      exaggerated respect which seemed to be one more jest at his expense.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene turned so quickly that he stumbled against a bath. By good luck, he
      managed to keep his hat on his head, and saved it from immersion in the
      water; but just as he turned, a door opened at the further end of the dark
      passage, dimly lighted by a small lamp. Rastignac heard voices and the
      sound of a kiss; one of the speakers was Mme. de Restaud, the other was
      Father Goriot. Eugene followed the servant through the dining-room into
      the drawing-room; he went to a window that looked out into the courtyard,
      and stood there for a while. He meant to know whether this Goriot was
      really the Goriot that he knew. His heart beat unwontedly fast; he
      remembered Vautrin&rsquo;s hideous insinuations. A well-dressed young man
      suddenly emerged from the room almost as Eugene entered it, saying
      impatiently to the servant who stood at the door: &ldquo;I am going, Maurice.
      Tell Madame la Comtesse that I waited more than half an hour for her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Whereupon this insolent being, who, doubtless, had a right to be insolent,
      sang an Italian trill, and went towards the window where Eugene was
      standing, moved thereto quite as much by a desire to see the student&rsquo;s
      face as by a wish to look out into the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But M. le Comte had better wait a moment longer; madame is disengaged,&rdquo;
       said Maurice, as he returned to the ante-chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment Father Goriot appeared close to the gate; he had
      emerged from a door at the foot of the back staircase. The worthy soul was
      preparing to open his umbrella regardless of the fact that the great gate
      had opened to admit a tilbury, in which a young man with a ribbon at his
      button-hole was seated. Father Goriot had scarcely time to start back and
      save himself. The horse took fright at the umbrella, swerved, and dashed
      forward towards the flight of steps. The young man looked round in
      annoyance, saw Father Goriot, and greeted him as he went out with
      constrained courtesy, such as people usually show to a money-lender so
      long as they require his services, or the sort of respect they feel it
      necessary to show for some one whose reputation has been blown upon, so
      that they blush to acknowledge his acquaintance. Father Goriot gave him a
      little friendly nod and a good-natured smile. All this happened with
      lightning speed. Eugene was so deeply interested that he forgot that he
      was not alone till he suddenly heard the Countess&rsquo; voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Maxime, were you going away?&rdquo; she said reproachfully, with a shade of
      pique in her manner. The Countess had not seen the incident nor the
      entrance of the tilbury. Rastignac turned abruptly and saw her standing
      before him, coquettishly dressed in a loose white cashmere gown with knots
      of rose-colored ribbon here and there; her hair was carelessly coiled
      about her head, as is the wont of Parisian women in the morning; there was
      a soft fragrance about her&mdash;doubtless she was fresh from a bath;&mdash;her
      graceful form seemed more flexible, her beauty more luxuriant. Her eyes
      glistened. A young man can see everything at a glance; he feels the
      radiant influence of woman as a plant discerns and absorbs its nutriment
      from the air; he did not need to touch her hands to feel their cool
      freshness. He saw faint rose tints through the cashmere of the dressing
      gown; it had fallen slightly open, giving glimpses of a bare throat, on
      which the student&rsquo;s eyes rested. The Countess had no need of the
      adventitious aid of corsets; her girdle defined the outlines of her
      slender waist; her throat was a challenge to love; her feet, thrust into
      slippers, were daintily small. As Maxime took her hand and kissed it,
      Eugene became aware of Maxime&rsquo;s existence, and the Countess saw Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! is that you M. de Rastignac? I am very glad to see you,&rdquo; she said,
      but there was something in her manner that a shrewd observer would have
      taken as a hint to depart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Maxime, as the Countess Anastasie had called the young man with the
      haughty insolence of bearing, looked from Eugene to the lady, and from the
      lady to Eugene; it was sufficiently evident that he wished to be rid of
      the latter. An exact and faithful rendering of the glance might be given
      in the words: &ldquo;Look here, my dear; I hope you intend to send this little
      whipper-snapper about his business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Countess consulted the young man&rsquo;s face with an intent submissiveness
      that betrays all the secrets of a woman&rsquo;s heart, and Rastignac all at once
      began to hate him violently. To begin with, the sight of the fair
      carefully arranged curls on the other&rsquo;s comely head had convinced him that
      his own crop was hideous; Maxime&rsquo;s boots, moreover, were elegant and
      spotless, while his own, in spite of all his care, bore some traces of his
      recent walk; and, finally, Maxime&rsquo;s overcoat fitted the outline of his
      figure gracefully, he looked like a pretty woman, while Eugene was wearing
      a black coat at half-past two. The quick-witted child of the Charente felt
      the disadvantage at which he was placed beside this tall, slender dandy,
      with the clear gaze and the pale face, one of those men who would ruin
      orphan children without scruple. Mme. de Restaud fled into the next room
      without waiting for Eugene to speak; shaking out the skirts of her
      dressing-gown in her flight, so that she looked like a white butterfly,
      and Maxime hurried after her. Eugene, in a fury, followed Maxime and the
      Countess, and the three stood once more face to face by the hearth in the
      large drawing-room. The law student felt quite sure that the odious Maxime
      found him in the way, and even at the risk of displeasing Mme. de Restaud,
      he meant to annoy the dandy. It had struck him all at once that he had
      seen the young man before at Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s ball; he guessed the
      relation between Maxime and Mme. de Restaud; and with the youthful
      audacity that commits prodigious blunders or achieves signal success, he
      said to himself, &ldquo;This is my rival; I mean to cut him out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rash resolve! He did not know that M. le Comte Maxime de Trailles would
      wait till he was insulted, so as to fire first and kill his man. Eugene
      was a sportsman and a good shot, but he had not yet hit the bulls&rsquo;s eye
      twenty times out of twenty-two. The young Count dropped into a low chair
      by the hearth, took up the tongs, and made up the fire so violently and so
      sulkily, that Anastasie&rsquo;s fair face suddenly clouded over. She turned to
      Eugene, with a cool, questioning glance that asked plainly, &ldquo;Why do you
      not go?&rdquo; a glance which well-bred people regard as a cue to make their
      exit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene assumed an amiable expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;I hastened to call upon you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped short. The door opened, and the owner of the tilbury suddenly
      appeared. He had left his hat outside, and did not greet the Countess; he
      looked meditatively at Rastignac, and held out his hand to Maxime with a
      cordial &ldquo;Good morning,&rdquo; that astonished Eugene not a little. The young
      provincial did not understand the amenities of a triple alliance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. de Restaud,&rdquo; said the Countess, introducing her husband to the law
      student.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene bowed profoundly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This gentleman,&rdquo; she continued, presenting Eugene to her husband, &ldquo;is M.
      de Rastignac; he is related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseant through the
      Marcillacs; I had the pleasure of meeting him at her last ball.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <i>Related to Mme. la Vicomtesse de Beauseant through the Marcillacs!</i>
      These words, on which the countess threw ever so slight an emphasis, by
      reason of the pride that the mistress of a house takes in showing that she
      only receives people of distinction as visitors in her house, produced a
      magical effect. The Count&rsquo;s stiff manner relaxed at once as he returned
      the student&rsquo;s bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delighted to have an opportunity of making your acquaintance,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Maxime de Trailles himself gave Eugene an uneasy glance, and suddenly
      dropped his insolent manner. The mighty name had all the power of a
      fairy&rsquo;s wand; those closed compartments in the southern brain flew open
      again; Rastignac&rsquo;s carefully drilled faculties returned. It was as if a
      sudden light had pierced the obscurity of this upper world of Paris, and
      he began to see, though everything was indistinct as yet. Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s
      lodging-house and Father Goriot were very far remote from his thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought that the Marcillacs were extinct,&rdquo; the Comte de Restaud said,
      addressing Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, they are extinct,&rdquo; answered the law student. &ldquo;My great-uncle, the
      Chevalier de Rastignac, married the heiress of the Marcillac family. They
      had only one daughter, who married the Marechal de Clarimbault, Mme. de
      Beauseant&rsquo;s grandfather on the mother&rsquo;s side. We are the younger branch of
      the family, and the younger branch is all the poorer because my
      great-uncle, the Vice-Admiral, lost all that he had in the King&rsquo;s service.
      The Government during the Revolution refused to admit our claims when the
      Compagnie des Indes was liquidated.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was not your great-uncle in command of the <i>Vengeur</i> before 1789?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he would be acquainted with my grandfather, who commanded the <i>Warwick</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Maxime looked at Mme. de Restaud and shrugged his shoulders, as who should
      say, &ldquo;If he is going to discuss nautical matters with that fellow, it is
      all over with us.&rdquo; Anastasie understood the glance that M. de Trailles
      gave her. With a woman&rsquo;s admirable tact, she began to smile and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come with me, Maxime; I have something to say to you. We will leave you
      two gentlemen to sail in company on board the <i>Warwick</i> and the <i>Vengeur</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rose to her feet and signed to Maxime to follow her, mirth and
      mischief in her whole attitude, and the two went in the direction of the
      boudoir. The <i>morganatic</i> couple (to use a convenient German
      expression which has no exact equivalent) had reached the door, when the
      Count interrupted himself in his talk with Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anastasie!&rdquo; he cried pettishly, &ldquo;just stay a moment, dear; you know very
      well that&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am coming back in a minute,&rdquo; she interrupted; &ldquo;I have a commission for
      Maxime to execute, and I want to tell him about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She came back almost immediately. She had noticed the inflection in her
      husband&rsquo;s voice, and knew that it would not be safe to retire to the
      boudoir; like all women who are compelled to study their husbands&rsquo;
      characters in order to have their own way, and whose business it is to
      know exactly how far they can go without endangering a good understanding,
      she was very careful to avoid petty collisions in domestic life. It was
      Eugene who had brought about this untoward incident; so the Countess
      looked at Maxime and indicated the law student with an air of
      exasperation. M. de Trailles addressed the Count, the Countess, and Eugene
      with the pointed remark, &ldquo;You are busy, I do not want to interrupt you;
      good-day,&rdquo; and he went.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just wait a moment, Maxime!&rdquo; the Count called after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come and dine with us,&rdquo; said the Countess, leaving Eugene and her husband
      together once more. She followed Maxime into the little drawing-room,
      where they sat together sufficiently long to feel sure that Rastignac had
      taken his leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      The law student heard their laughter, and their voices, and the pauses in
      their talk; he grew malicious, exerted his conversational powers for M. de
      Restaud, flattered him, and drew him into discussions, to the end that he
      might see the Countess again and discover the nature of her relations with
      Father Goriot. This Countess with a husband and a lover, for Maxime
      clearly was her lover, was a mystery. What was the secret tie that bound
      her to the old tradesman? This mystery he meant to penetrate, hoping by
      its means to gain a sovereign ascendency over this fair typical Parisian.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anastasie!&rdquo; the Count called again to his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Maxime!&rdquo; she said, addressing the young man. &ldquo;Come, we must resign
      ourselves. This evening&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope, Nasie,&rdquo; he said in her ear, &ldquo;that you will give orders not to
      admit that youngster, whose eyes light up like live coals when he looks at
      you. He will make you a declaration, and compromise you, and then you will
      compel me to kill him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you mad, Maxime?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;A young lad of a student is, on the
      contrary, a capital lightning-conductor; is not that so? Of course, I mean
      to make Restaud furiously jealous of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Maxime burst out laughing, and went out, followed by the Countess, who
      stood at the window to watch him into his carriage; he shook his whip, and
      made his horse prance. She only returned when the great gate had been
      closed after him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think, dear?&rdquo; cried the Count, her husband, &ldquo;this gentleman&rsquo;s
      family estate is not far from Verteuil, on the Charente; his great-uncle
      and my grandfather were acquainted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delighted to find that we have acquaintances in common,&rdquo; said the
      Countess, with a preoccupied manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More than you think,&rdquo; said Eugene, in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo; she asked quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, only just now,&rdquo; said the student, &ldquo;I saw a gentleman go out at the
      gate, Father Goriot, my next door neighbor in the house where I am
      lodging.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the sound of this name, and the prefix that embellished it, the Count,
      who was stirring the fire, let the tongs fall as though they had burned
      his fingers, and rose to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;you might have called him &lsquo;Monsieur Goriot&rsquo;!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Countess turned pale at first at the sight of her husband&rsquo;s vexation,
      then she reddened; clearly she was embarrassed, her answer was made in a
      tone that she tried to make natural, and with an air of assumed
      carelessness:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could not know any one who is dearer to us both...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She broke off, glanced at the piano as if some fancy had crossed her mind,
      and asked, &ldquo;Are you fond of music, M. de Rastignac?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exceedingly,&rdquo; answered Eugene, flushing, and disconcerted by a dim
      suspicion that he had somehow been guilty of a clumsy piece of folly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you sing?&rdquo; she cried, going to the piano, and, sitting down before it,
      she swept her fingers over the keyboard from end to end. R-r-r-rah!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Comte de Restaud walked to and fro.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is a pity; you are without one great means of success.&mdash;<i>Ca-ro,
      ca-a-ro, ca-a-a-ro, non du-bi-ta-re</i>,&rdquo; sang the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene had a second time waved a magic wand when he uttered Goriot&rsquo;s name,
      but the effect seemed to be entirely opposite to that produced by the
      formula &ldquo;related to Mme. de Beauseant.&rdquo; His position was not unlike that
      of some visitor permitted as a favor to inspect a private collection of
      curiosities, when by inadvertence he comes into collision with a glass
      case full of sculptured figures, and three or four heads, imperfectly
      secured, fall at the shock. He wished the earth would open and swallow
      him. Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s expression was reserved and chilly, her eyes had
      grown indifferent, and sedulously avoided meeting those of the unlucky
      student of law.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you wish to talk with M. de Restaud; permit me to wish
      you good-day&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Countess interrupted him by a gesture, saying hastily, &ldquo;Whenever you
      come to see us, both M. de Restaud and I shall be delighted to see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene made a profound bow and took his leave, followed by M. de Restaud,
      who insisted, in spite of his remonstrances, on accompanying him into the
      hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither your mistress nor I are at home to that gentleman when he calls,&rdquo;
       the Count said to Maurice.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Eugene set foot on the steps, he saw that it was raining.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said he to himself, &ldquo;somehow I have just made a mess of it, I do
      not know how. And now I am going to spoil my hat and coat into the
      bargain. I ought to stop in my corner, grind away at law, and never look
      to be anything but a boorish country magistrate. How can I go into
      society, when to manage properly you want a lot of cabs, varnished boots,
      gold watch chains, and all sorts of things; you have to wear white doeskin
      gloves that cost six francs in the morning, and primrose kid gloves every
      evening? A fig for that old humbug of a Goriot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he reached the street door, the driver of a hackney coach, who had
      probably just deposited a wedding party at their door, and asked nothing
      better than a chance of making a little money for himself without his
      employer&rsquo;s knowledge, saw that Eugene had no umbrella, remarked his black
      coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, and varnished boots, and stopped and
      looked at him inquiringly. Eugene, in the blind desperation that drives a
      young man to plunge deeper and deeper into an abyss, as if he might hope
      to find a fortunate issue in its lowest depths, nodded in reply to the
      driver&rsquo;s signal, and stepped into the cab; a few stray petals of orange
      blossom and scraps of wire bore witness to its recent occupation by a
      wedding party.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where am I to drive, sir?&rdquo; demanded the man, who, by this time, had taken
      off his white gloves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confound it!&rdquo; Eugene said to himself, &ldquo;I am in for it now, and at least I
      will not spend cab-hire for nothing!&mdash;Drive to the Hotel Beauseant,&rdquo;
       he said aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which?&rdquo; asked the man, a portentous word that reduced Eugene to
      confusion. This young man of fashion, species incerta, did not know that
      there were two Hotels Beauseant; he was not aware how rich he was in
      relations who did not care about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Vicomte de Beauseant, Rue&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;De Grenelle,&rdquo; interrupted the driver, with a jerk of his head. &ldquo;You see,
      there are the hotels of the Marquis and Comte de Beauseant in the Rue
      Saint-Dominique,&rdquo; he added, drawing up the step.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know all about that,&rdquo; said Eugene, severely.&mdash;&ldquo;Everybody is
      laughing at me to-day, it seems!&rdquo; he said to himself, as he deposited his
      hat on the opposite seat. &ldquo;This escapade will cost me a king&rsquo;s ransom,
      but, at any rate, I shall call on my so-called cousin in a thoroughly
      aristocratic fashion. Goriot has cost me ten francs already, the old
      scoundrel. My word! I will tell Mme. de Beauseant about my adventure;
      perhaps it may amuse her. Doubtless she will know the secret of the
      criminal relation between that handsome woman and the old rat without a
      tail. It would be better to find favor in my cousin&rsquo;s eyes than to come in
      contact with that shameless woman, who seems to me to have very expensive
      tastes. Surely the beautiful Vicomtesse&rsquo;s personal interest would turn the
      scale for me, when the mere mention of her name produces such an effect.
      Let us look higher. If you set yourself to carry the heights of heaven,
      you must face God.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The innumerable thoughts that surged through his brain might be summed up
      in these phrases. He grew calmer, and recovered something of his assurance
      as he watched the falling rain. He told himself that though he was about
      to squander two of the precious five-franc pieces that remained to him,
      the money was well laid out in preserving his coat, boots, and hat; and
      his cabman&rsquo;s cry of &ldquo;Gate, if you please,&rdquo; almost put him in spirits. A
      Swiss, in scarlet and gold, appeared, the great door groaned on its
      hinges, and Rastignac, with sweet satisfaction, beheld his equipage pass
      under the archway and stop before the flight of steps beneath the awning.
      The driver, in a blue-and-red greatcoat, dismounted and let down the step.
      As Eugene stepped out of the cab, he heard smothered laughter from the
      peristyle. Three or four lackeys were making merry over the festal
      appearance of the vehicle. In another moment the law student was
      enlightened as to the cause of their hilarity; he felt the full force of
      the contrast between his equipage and one of the smartest broughams in
      Paris; a coachman, with powdered hair, seemed to find it difficult to hold
      a pair of spirited horses, who stood chafing the bit. In Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s
      courtyard, in the Chaussee d&rsquo;Antin, he had seen the neat turnout of a
      young man of six-and-twenty; in the Faubourg Saint-Germain he found the
      luxurious equipage of a man of rank; thirty thousand francs would not have
      purchased it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who can be here?&rdquo; said Eugene to himself. He began to understand, though
      somewhat tardily, that he must not expect to find many women in Paris who
      were not already appropriated, and that the capture of one of these queens
      would be likely to cost something more than bloodshed. &ldquo;Confound it all! I
      expect my cousin also has her Maxime.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went up the steps, feeling that he was a blighted being. The glass door
      was opened for him; the servants were as solemn as jackasses under the
      curry comb. So far, Eugene had only been in the ballroom on the ground
      floor of the Hotel Beauseant; the fete had followed so closely on the
      invitation, that he had not had time to call on his cousin, and had
      therefore never seen Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s apartments; he was about to
      behold for the first time a great lady among the wonderful and elegant
      surroundings that reveal her character and reflect her daily life. He was
      the more curious, because Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s drawing-room had provided him
      with a standard of comparison.
    </p>
    <p>
      At half-past four the Vicomtesse de Beauseant was visible. Five minutes
      earlier she would not have received her cousin, but Eugene knew nothing of
      the recognized routine of various houses in Paris. He was conducted up the
      wide, white-painted, crimson-carpeted staircase, between the gilded
      balusters and masses of flowering plants, to Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s
      apartments. He did not know the rumor current about Mme. de Beauseant, one
      of the biographies told, with variations, in whispers, every evening in
      the salons of Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      For three years past her name had been spoken of in connection with that
      of one of the most wealthy and distinguished Portuguese nobles, the
      Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto. It was one of those innocent <i>liaisons</i> which
      possess so much charm for the two thus attached to each other that they
      find the presence of a third person intolerable. The Vicomte de Beauseant,
      therefore, had himself set an example to the rest of the world by
      respecting, with as good a grace as might be, this morganatic union. Any
      one who came to call on the Vicomtesse in the early days of this
      friendship was sure to find the Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto there. As, under the
      circumstances, Mme. de Beauseant could not very well shut her door against
      these visitors, she gave them such a cold reception, and showed so much
      interest in the study of the ceiling, that no one could fail to understand
      how much he bored her; and when it became known in Paris that Mme. de
      Beauseant was bored by callers between two and four o&rsquo;clock, she was left
      in perfect solitude during that interval. She went to the Bouffons or to
      the Opera with M. de Beauseant and M. d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto; and M. de Beauseant,
      like a well-bred man of the world, always left his wife and the Portuguese
      as soon as he had installed them. But M. d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto must marry, and a
      Mlle. de Rochefide was the young lady. In the whole fashionable world
      there was but one person who as yet knew nothing of the arrangement, and
      that was Mme. de Beauseant. Some of her friends had hinted at the
      possibility, and she had laughed at them, believing that envy had prompted
      those ladies to try to make mischief. And now, though the bans were about
      to be published, and although the handsome Portuguese had come that day to
      break the news to the Vicomtesse, he had not found courage as yet to say
      one word about his treachery. How was it? Nothing is doubtless more
      difficult than the notification of an ultimatum of this kind. There are
      men who feel more at their ease when they stand up before another man who
      threatens their lives with sword or pistol than in the presence of a woman
      who, after two hours of lamentations and reproaches, falls into a dead
      swoon and requires salts. At this moment, therefore, M. d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto was
      on thorns, and anxious to take his leave. He told himself that in some way
      or other the news would reach Mme. de Beauseant; he would write, it would
      be much better to do it by letter, and not to utter the words that should
      stab her to the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      So when the servant announced M. Eugene de Rastignac, the Marquis
      d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto trembled with joy. To be sure, a loving woman shows even
      more ingenuity in inventing doubts of her lover than in varying the
      monotony of his happiness; and when she is about to be forsaken, she
      instinctively interprets every gesture as rapidly as Virgil&rsquo;s courser
      detected the presence of his companion by snuffing the breeze. It was
      impossible, therefore, that Mme. de Beauseant should not detect that
      involuntary thrill of satisfaction; slight though it was, it was appalling
      in its artlessness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene had yet to learn that no one in Paris should present himself in any
      house without first making himself acquainted with the whole history of
      its owner, and of its owner&rsquo;s wife and family, so that he may avoid making
      any of the terrible blunders which in Poland draw forth the picturesque
      exclamation, &ldquo;Harness five bullocks to your cart!&rdquo; probably because you
      will need them all to pull you out of the quagmire into which a false step
      has plunged you. If, down to the present day, our language has no name for
      these conversational disasters, it is probably because they are believed
      to be impossible, the publicity given in Paris to every scandal is so
      prodigious. After the awkward incident at Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s, no one but
      Eugene could have reappeared in his character of bullock-driver in Mme. de
      Beauseant&rsquo;s drawing-room. But if Mme. de Restaud and M. de Trailles had
      found him horribly in the way, M. d&rsquo;Ajuda hailed his coming with relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye,&rdquo; said the Portuguese, hurrying to the door, as Eugene made his
      entrance into a dainty little pink-and-gray drawing-room, where luxury
      seemed nothing more than good taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Until this evening,&rdquo; said Mme. de Beauseant, turning her head to give the
      Marquis a glance. &ldquo;We are going to the Bouffons, are we not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot go,&rdquo; he said, with his fingers on the door handle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant rose and beckoned to him to return. She did not pay the
      slightest attention to Eugene, who stood there dazzled by the sparkling
      marvels around him; he began to think that this was some story out of the
      Arabian Nights made real, and did not know where to hide himself, when the
      woman before him seemed to be unconscious of his existence. The Vicomtesse
      had raised the forefinger of her right hand, and gracefully signed to the
      Marquis to seat himself beside her. The Marquis felt the imperious sway of
      passion in her gesture; he came back towards her. Eugene watched him, not
      without a feeling of envy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the owner of the brougham!&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;But is it
      necessary to have a pair of spirited horses, servants in livery, and
      torrents of gold to draw a glance from a woman here in Paris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The demon of luxury gnawed at his heart, greed burned in his veins, his
      throat was parched with the thirst of gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had a hundred and thirty francs every quarter. His father, mother,
      brothers, sisters, and aunt did not spend two hundred francs a month among
      them. This swift comparison between his present condition and the aims he
      had in view helped to benumb his faculties.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; the Vicomtesse was saying, as she smiled at the Portuguese.
      &ldquo;Why cannot you come to the Italiens?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Affairs! I am to dine with the English Ambassador.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Throw him over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When a man once enters on a course of deception, he is compelled to add
      lie to lie. M. d&rsquo;Ajuda therefore said, smiling, &ldquo;Do you lay your commands
      on me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, certainly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was what I wanted to have you say to me,&rdquo; he answered, dissembling
      his feelings in a glance which would have reassured any other woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took the Vicomtesse&rsquo;s hand, kissed it, and went.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene ran his fingers through his hair, and constrained himself to bow.
      He thought that now Mme. de Beauseant would give him her attention; but
      suddenly she sprang forward, rushed to a window in the gallery, and
      watched M. d&rsquo;Ajuda step into his carriage; she listened to the order that
      he gave, and heard the Swiss repeat it to the coachman:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To M. de Rochefide&rsquo;s house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Those words, and the way in which M. d&rsquo;Ajuda flung himself back in the
      carriage, were like a lightning flash and a thunderbolt for her; she
      walked back again with a deadly fear gnawing at her heart. The most
      terrible catastrophes only happen among the heights. The Vicomtesse went
      to her own room, sat down at a table, and took up a sheet of dainty
      notepaper.
    </p>
<pre>
  &ldquo;When, instead of dining with the English Ambassador,&rdquo;
    she wrote, &ldquo;you go to the Rochefides, you owe me an
   explanation, which I am waiting to hear.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      She retraced several of the letters, for her hand was trembling so that
      they were indistinct; then she signed the note with an initial C for
      &ldquo;Claire de Bourgogne,&rdquo; and rang the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jacques,&rdquo; she said to the servant, who appeared immediately, &ldquo;take this
      note to M. de Rochefide&rsquo;s house at half-past seven and ask for the Marquis
      d&rsquo;Ajuda. If M. d&rsquo;Ajuda is there, leave the note without waiting for an
      answer; if he is not there, bring the note back to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame la Vicomtess, there is a visitor in the drawing-room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! yes, of course,&rdquo; she said, opening the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, but at last the
      Vicomtesse appeared; she spoke to him, and the tremulous tones of her
      voice vibrated through his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, monsieur,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I had a letter to write. Now I am quite
      at liberty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She scarcely knew what she was saying, for even as she spoke she thought,
      &ldquo;Ah! he means to marry Mlle. de Rochefide? But is he still free? This
      evening the marriage shall be broken off, or else... But before to-morrow
      I shall know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cousin...&rdquo; the student replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh?&rdquo; said the Countess, with an insolent glance that sent a cold shudder
      through Eugene; he understood what that &ldquo;Eh?&rdquo; meant; he had learned a
      great deal in three hours, and his wits were on the alert. He reddened:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame...&rdquo; he began; he hesitated a moment, and then went on. &ldquo;Pardon me;
      I am in such need of protection that the nearest scrap of relationship
      could do me no harm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant smiled but there was sadness in her smile; even now she
      felt forebodings of the coming pain, the air she breathed was heavy with
      the storm that was about to burst.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you knew how my family are situated,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;you would love to
      play the part of a beneficent fairy godmother who graciously clears the
      obstacles from the path of her protege.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, cousin,&rdquo; she said, laughing, &ldquo;and how can I be of service to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But do I know even that? I am distantly related to you, and this obscure
      and remote relationship is even now a perfect godsend to me. You have
      confused my ideas; I cannot remember the things that I meant to say to
      you. I know no one else here in Paris.... Ah! if I could only ask you to
      counsel me, ask you to look upon me as a poor child who would fain cling
      to the hem of your dress, who would lay down his life for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you kill a man for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, child. Yes, you are a child,&rdquo; she said, keeping back the tears that
      came to her eyes; &ldquo;you would love sincerely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; he cried, flinging up his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The audacity of the student&rsquo;s answer interested the Vicomtesse in him. The
      southern brain was beginning to scheme for the first time. Between Mme. de
      Restaud&rsquo;s blue boudoir and Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s rose-colored drawing-room
      he had made a three years&rsquo; advance in a kind of law which is not a
      recognized study in Paris, although it is a sort of higher jurisprudence,
      and, when well understood, is a highroad to success of every kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is what I meant to say!&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;I met Mme. de Restaud at
      your ball, and this morning I went to see her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have been very much in the way,&rdquo; said Mme. de Beauseant, smiling
      as she spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed. I am a novice, and my blunders will set every one against
      me, if you do not give me your counsel. I believe that in Paris it is very
      difficult to meet with a young, beautiful, and wealthy woman of fashion
      who would be willing to teach me, what you women can explain so well&mdash;life.
      I shall find a M. de Trailles everywhere. So I have come to you to ask you
      to give me a key to a puzzle, to entreat you to tell me what sort of
      blunder I made this morning. I mentioned an old man&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame la Duchess de Langeais,&rdquo; Jacques cut the student short; Eugene
      gave expression to his intense annoyance by a gesture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you mean to succeed,&rdquo; said the Vicomtesse in a low voice, &ldquo;in the
      first place you must not be so demonstrative.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! good morning, dear,&rdquo; she continued, and rising and crossing the room,
      she grasped the Duchess&rsquo; hands as affectionately as if they had been
      sisters; the Duchess responded in the prettiest and most gracious way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two intimate friends!&rdquo; said Rastignac to himself. &ldquo;Henceforward I shall
      have two protectresses; those two women are great friends, no doubt, and
      this newcomer will doubtless interest herself in her friend&rsquo;s cousin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To what happy inspiration do I owe this piece of good fortune, dear
      Antoinette?&rdquo; asked Mme. de Beauseant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I saw M. d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto at M. de Rochefide&rsquo;s door, so I thought that
      if I came I should find you alone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s mouth did not tighten, her color did not rise, her
      expression did not alter, or rather, her brow seemed to clear as the
      Duchess uttered those deadly words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had known that you were engaged&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; the speaker added,
      glancing at Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This gentleman is M. Eugene de Rastignac, one of my cousins,&rdquo; said the
      Vicomtesse. &ldquo;Have you any news of General de Montriveau?&rdquo; she continued.
      &ldquo;Serizy told me yesterday that he never goes anywhere now; has he been to
      see you to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was believed that the Duchess was desperately in love with M. de
      Montriveau, and that he was a faithless lover; she felt the question in
      her very heart, and her face flushed as she answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was at the Elysee yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In attendance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Claire,&rdquo; returned the Duchess, and hatred overflowed in the glances she
      threw at Mme. de Beauseant; &ldquo;of course you know that M. d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto is
      going to marry Mlle. de Rochefide; the bans will be published to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This thrust was too cruel; the Vicomtesse&rsquo;s face grew white, but she
      answered, laughing, &ldquo;One of those rumors that fools amuse themselves with.
      What should induce M. d&rsquo;Ajuda to take one of the noblest names in Portugal
      to the Rochefides? The Rochefides were only ennobled yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Bertha will have two hundred thousand livres a year, they say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. d&rsquo;Ajuda is too wealthy to marry for money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my dear, Mlle. de Rochefide is a charming girl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, as a matter of fact, he is dining with them to-day; the thing is
      settled. It is very surprising to me that you should know so little about
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant turned to Rastignac. &ldquo;What was the blunder that you
      made, monsieur?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;The poor boy is only just launched into the
      world, Antoinette, so that he understands nothing of all this that we are
      speaking of. Be merciful to him, and let us finish our talk to-morrow.
      Everything will be announced to-morrow, you know, and your kind informal
      communication can be accompanied by official confirmation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Duchess gave Eugene one of those insolent glances that measure a man
      from head to foot, and leave him crushed and annihilated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, I have unwittingly plunged a dagger into Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s heart;
      unwittingly&mdash;therein lies my offence,&rdquo; said the student of law, whose
      keen brain had served him sufficiently well, for he had detected the
      biting epigrams that lurked beneath this friendly talk. &ldquo;You continue to
      receive, possibly you fear, those who know the amount of pain that they
      deliberately inflict; but a clumsy blunderer who has no idea how deeply he
      wounds is looked upon as a fool who does not know how to make use of his
      opportunities, and every one despises him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant gave the student a glance, one of those glances in which
      a great soul can mingle dignity and gratitude. It was like balm to the law
      student, who was still smarting under the Duchess&rsquo; insolent scrutiny; she
      had looked at him as an auctioneer might look at some article to appraise
      its value.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Imagine, too, that I had just made some progress with the Comte de
      Restaud; for I should tell you, madame,&rdquo; he went on, turning to the
      Duchess with a mixture of humility and malice in his manner, &ldquo;that as yet
      I am only a poor devil of a student, very much alone in the world, and
      very poor&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should not tell us that, M. de Rastignac. We women never care about
      anything that no one else will take.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;I am only two-and-twenty, and I must make up my mind
      to the drawbacks of my time of life. Besides, I am confessing my sins, and
      it would be impossible to kneel in a more charming confessional; you
      commit your sins in one drawing-room, and receive absolution for them in
      another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Duchess&rsquo; expression grew colder, she did not like the flippant tone of
      these remarks, and showed that she considered them to be in bad taste by
      turning to the Vicomtesse with&mdash;&ldquo;This gentleman has only just come&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant began to laugh outright at her cousin and at the Duchess
      both.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has only just come to Paris, dear, and is in search of some one who
      will give him lessons in good taste.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mme. la Duchesse,&rdquo; said Eugene, &ldquo;is it not natural to wish to be
      initiated into the mysteries which charm us?&rdquo; (&ldquo;Come, now,&rdquo; he said to
      himself, &ldquo;my language is superfinely elegant, I&rsquo;m sure.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Mme. de Restaud is herself, I believe, M. de Trailles&rsquo; pupil,&rdquo; said
      the Duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of that I had no idea, madame,&rdquo; answered the law student, &ldquo;so I rashly
      came between them. In fact, I got on very well with the lady&rsquo;s husband,
      and his wife tolerated me for a time until I took it into my head to tell
      them that I knew some one of whom I had just caught a glimpse as he went
      out by a back staircase, a man who had given the Countess a kiss at the
      end of a passage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was it?&rdquo; both women asked together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An old man who lives at the rate of two louis a month in the Faubourg
      Saint-Marceau, where I, a poor student, lodge likewise. He is a truly
      unfortunate creature, everybody laughs at him&mdash;we all call him
      &lsquo;Father Goriot.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, child that you are,&rdquo; cried the Vicomtesse, &ldquo;Mme. de Restaud was a
      Mlle. Goriot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The daughter of a vermicelli manufacturer,&rdquo; the Duchess added; &ldquo;and when
      the little creature went to Court, the daughter of a pastry-cook was
      presented on the same day. Do you remember, Claire? The King began to
      laugh, and made some joke in Latin about flour. People&mdash;what was it?&mdash;people&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Ejusdem farinoe</i>,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that was it,&rdquo; said the Duchess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! is that her father?&rdquo; the law student continued, aghast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, certainly; the old man had two daughters; he dotes on them, so to
      speak, though they will scarcely acknowledge him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t the second daughter marry a banker with a German name?&rdquo; the
      Vicomtesse asked, turning to Mme. de Langeais, &ldquo;a Baron de Nucingen? And
      her name is Delphine, is it not? Isn&rsquo;t she a fair-haired woman who has a
      side-box at the Opera? She comes sometimes to the Bouffons, and laughs
      loudly to attract attention.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Duchess smiled and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder at you, dear. Why do you take so much interest in people of that
      kind? One must have been as madly in love as Restaud was, to be infatuated
      with Mlle. Anastasie and her flour sacks. Oh! he will not find her a good
      bargain! She is in M. de Trailles&rsquo; hands, and he will ruin her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And they do not acknowledge their father!&rdquo; Eugene repeated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! well, yes, their father, the father, a father,&rdquo; replied the
      Vicomtesse, &ldquo;a kind father who gave them each five or six hundred thousand
      francs, it is said, to secure their happiness by marrying them well; while
      he only kept eight or ten thousand livres a year for himself, thinking
      that his daughters would always be his daughters, thinking that in them he
      would live his life twice over again, that in their houses he should find
      two homes, where he would be loved and looked up to, and made much of. And
      in two years&rsquo; time both his sons-in-law had turned him out of their houses
      as if he were one of the lowest outcasts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Tears came into Eugene&rsquo;s eyes. He was still under the spell of youthful
      beliefs, he had just left home, pure and sacred feelings had been stirred
      within him, and this was his first day on the battlefield of civilization
      in Paris. Genuine feeling is so infectious that for a moment the three
      looked at each other in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Eh, mon Dieu!</i>&rdquo; said Mme. de Langeais; &ldquo;yes, it seems very
      horrible, and yet we see such things every day. Is there not a reason for
      it? Tell me, dear, have you ever really thought what a son-in-law is? A
      son-in-law is the man for whom we bring up, you and I, a dear little one,
      bound to us very closely in innumerable ways; for seventeen years she will
      be the joy of her family, its &lsquo;white soul,&rsquo; as Lamartine says, and
      suddenly she will become its scourge. When HE comes and takes her from us,
      his love from the very beginning is like an axe laid to the root of all
      the old affection in our darling&rsquo;s heart, and all the ties that bound her
      to her family are severed. But yesterday our little daughter thought of no
      one but her mother and father, as we had no thought that was not for her;
      by to-morrow she will have become a hostile stranger. The tragedy is
      always going on under our eyes. On the one hand you see a father who has
      sacrificed himself to his son, and his daughter-in-law shows him the last
      degree of insolence. On the other hand, it is the son-in-law who turns his
      wife&rsquo;s mother out of the house. I sometimes hear it said that there is
      nothing dramatic about society in these days; but the Drama of the
      Son-in-law is appalling, to say nothing of our marriages, which have come
      to be very poor farces. I can explain how it all came about in the old
      vermicelli maker&rsquo;s case. I think I recollect that Foriot&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Goriot, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, that Moriot was once President of his Section during the Revolution.
      He was in the secret of the famous scarcity of grain, and laid the
      foundation of his fortune in those days by selling flour for ten times its
      cost. He had as much flour as he wanted. My grandmother&rsquo;s steward sold him
      immense quantities. No doubt Noriot shared the plunder with the Committee
      of Public Salvation, as that sort of person always did. I recollect the
      steward telling my grandmother that she might live at Grandvilliers in
      complete security, because her corn was as good as a certificate of
      civism. Well, then, this Loriot, who sold corn to those butchers, has
      never had but one passion, they say&mdash;he idolizes his daughters. He
      settled one of them under Restaud&rsquo;s roof, and grafted the other into the
      Nucingen family tree, the Baron de Nucingen being a rich banker who had
      turned Royalist. You can quite understand that so long as Bonaparte was
      Emperor, the two sons-in-law could manage to put up with the old
      Ninety-three; but after the restoration of the Bourbons, M. de Restaud
      felt bored by the old man&rsquo;s society, and the banker was still more tired
      of it. His daughters were still fond of him; they wanted &lsquo;to keep the goat
      and the cabbage,&rsquo; so they used to see Joriot whenever there was no one
      there, under pretence of affection. &lsquo;Come to-day, papa, we shall have you
      all to ourselves, and that will be much nicer!&rsquo; and all that sort of
      thing. As for me, dear, I believe that love has second-sight: poor
      Ninety-three; his heart must have bled. He saw that his daughters were
      ashamed of him, that if they loved their husbands his visits must make
      mischief. So he immolated himself. He made the sacrifice because he was a
      father; he went into voluntary exile. His daughters were satisfied, so he
      thought that he had done the best thing he could; but it was a family
      crime, and father and daughters were accomplices. You see this sort of
      thing everywhere. What could this old Doriot have been but a splash of mud
      in his daughters&rsquo; drawing-rooms? He would only have been in the way, and
      bored other people, besides being bored himself. And this that happened
      between father and daughters may happen to the prettiest woman in Paris
      and the man she loves the best; if her love grows tiresome, he will go; he
      will descend to the basest trickery to leave her. It is the same with all
      love and friendship. Our heart is a treasury; if you pour out all its
      wealth at once, you are bankrupt. We show no more mercy to the affection
      that reveals its utmost extent than we do to another kind of prodigal who
      has not a penny left. Their father had given them all he had. For twenty
      years he had given his whole heart to them; then, one day, he gave them
      all his fortune too. The lemon was squeezed; the girls left the rest in
      the gutter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The world is very base,&rdquo; said the Vicomtesse, plucking at the threads of
      her shawl. She did not raise her head as she spoke; the words that Mme. de
      Langeais had meant for her in the course of her story had cut her to the
      quick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Base? Oh, no,&rdquo; answered the Duchess; &ldquo;the world goes its own way, that is
      all. If I speak in this way, it is only to show that I am not duped by it.
      I think as you do,&rdquo; she said, pressing the Vicomtesse&rsquo;s hand. &ldquo;The world
      is a slough; let us try to live on the heights above it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rose to her feet and kissed Mme. de Beauseant on the forehead as she
      said: &ldquo;You look very charming to-day, dear. I have never seen such a
      lovely color in your cheeks before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then she went out with a slight inclination of the head to the cousin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father Goriot is sublime!&rdquo; said Eugene to himself, as he remembered how
      he had watched his neighbor work the silver vessel into a shapeless mass
      that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant did not hear him; she was absorbed in her own thoughts.
      For several minutes the silence remained unbroken till the law student
      became almost paralyzed with embarrassment, and was equally afraid to go
      or stay or speak a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The world is basely ungrateful and ill-natured,&rdquo; said the Vicomtesse at
      last. &ldquo;No sooner does a trouble befall you than a friend is ready to bring
      the tidings and to probe your heart with the point of a dagger while
      calling on you to admire the handle. Epigrams and sarcasms already! Ah! I
      will defend myself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She raised her head like the great lady that she was, and lightnings
      flashed from her proud eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she said, as she saw Eugene, &ldquo;are you there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still,&rdquo; he said piteously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, M. de Rastignac, deal with the world as it deserves. You are
      determined to succeed? I will help you. You shall sound the depths of
      corruption in woman; you shall measure the extent of man&rsquo;s pitiful vanity.
      Deeply as I am versed in such learning, there were pages in the book of
      life that I had not read. Now I know all. The more cold-blooded your
      calculations, the further you will go. Strike ruthlessly; you will be
      feared. Men and women for you must be nothing more than post-horses; take
      a fresh relay, and leave the last to drop by the roadside; in this way you
      will reach the goal of your ambition. You will be nothing here, you see,
      unless a woman interests herself in you; and she must be young and
      wealthy, and a woman of the world. Yet, if you have a heart, lock it
      carefully away like a treasure; do not let any one suspect it, or you will
      be lost; you would cease to be the executioner, you would take the
      victim&rsquo;s place. And if ever you should love, never let your secret escape
      you! Trust no one until you are very sure of the heart to which you open
      your heart. Learn to mistrust every one; take every precaution for the
      sake of the love which does not exist as yet. Listen, Miguel&rdquo;&mdash;the
      name slipped from her so naturally that she did not notice her mistake&mdash;&ldquo;there
      is something still more appalling than the ingratitude of daughters who
      have cast off their old father and wish that he were dead, and that is a
      rivalry between two sisters. Restaud comes of a good family, his wife has
      been received into their circle; she has been presented at court; and her
      sister, her wealthy sister, Mme. Delphine de Nucingen, the wife of a great
      capitalist, is consumed with envy, and ready to die of spleen. There is
      gulf set between the sisters&mdash;indeed, they are sisters no longer&mdash;the
      two women who refuse to acknowledge their father do not acknowledge each
      other. So Mme. de Nucingen would lap up all the mud that lies between the
      Rue Saint-Lazare and the Rue de Grenelle to gain admittance to my salon.
      She fancied that she should gain her end through de Marsay; she has made
      herself de Marsay&rsquo;s slave, and she bores him. De Marsay cares very little
      about her. If you will introduce her to me, you will be her darling, her
      Benjamin; she will idolize you. If, after that, you can love her, do so;
      if not, make her useful. I will ask her to come once or twice to one of my
      great crushes, but I will never receive her here in the morning. I will
      bow to her when I see her, and that will be quite sufficient. You have
      shut the Comtesse de Restaud&rsquo;s door against you by mentioning Father
      Goriot&rsquo;s name. Yes, my good friend, you may call at her house twenty
      times, and every time out of the twenty you will find that she is not at
      home. The servants have their orders, and will not admit you. Very well,
      then, now let Father Goriot gain the right of entry into her sister&rsquo;s
      house for you. The beautiful Mme. de Nucingen will give the signal for a
      battle. As soon as she singles you out, other women will begin to lose
      their heads about you, and her enemies and rivals and intimate friends
      will all try to take you from her. There are women who will fall in love
      with a man because another woman has chosen him; like the city madams,
      poor things, who copy our millinery, and hope thereby to acquire our
      manners. You will have a success, and in Paris success is everything; it
      is the key of power. If the women credit you with wit and talent, the men
      will follow suit so long as you do not undeceive them yourself. There will
      be nothing you may not aspire to; you will go everywhere, and you will
      find out what the world is&mdash;an assemblage of fools and knaves. But
      you must be neither the one nor the other. I am giving you my name like
      Ariadne&rsquo;s clue of thread to take with you into the labyrinth; make no
      unworthy use of it,&rdquo; she said, with a queenly glance and curve of her
      throat; &ldquo;give it back to me unsullied. And now, go; leave me. We women
      also have our battles to fight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if you should ever need some one who would gladly set a match to a
      train for you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      He tapped his heart, smiled in answer to his cousin&rsquo;s smile, and went.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was five o&rsquo;clock, and Eugene was hungry; he was afraid lest he should
      not be in time for dinner, a misgiving which made him feel that it was
      pleasant to be borne so quickly across Paris. This sensation of physical
      comfort left his mind free to grapple with the thoughts that assailed him.
      A mortification usually sends a young man of his age into a furious rage;
      he shakes his fist at society, and vows vengeance when his belief in
      himself is shaken. Just then Rastignac was overwhelmed by the words, &ldquo;You
      have shut the Countess&rsquo; door against you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall call!&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;and if Mme. de Beauseant is right, if
      I never find her at home&mdash;I... well, Mme. de Restaud shall meet me in
      every salon in Paris. I will learn to fence and have some pistol practice,
      and kill that Maxime of hers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And money?&rdquo; cried an inward monitor. &ldquo;How about money, where is that to
      come from?&rdquo; And all at once the wealth displayed in the Countess de
      Restaud&rsquo;s drawing-room rose before his eyes. That was the luxury which
      Goriot&rsquo;s daughter had loved too well, the gilding, the ostentatious
      splendor, the unintelligent luxury of the parvenu, the riotous
      extravagance of a courtesan. Then the attractive vision suddenly went
      under an eclipse as he remembered the stately grandeur of the Hotel de
      Beauseant. As his fancy wandered among these lofty regions in the great
      world of Paris, innumerable dark thoughts gathered in his heart; his ideas
      widened, and his conscience grew more elastic. He saw the world as it is;
      saw how the rich lived beyond the jurisdiction of law and public opinion,
      and found in success the <i>ultima ratio mundi</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vautrin is right, success is virtue!&rdquo; he said to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arrived in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, he rushed up to his room for
      ten francs wherewith to satisfy the demands of the cabman, and went in to
      dinner. He glanced round the squalid room, saw the eighteen
      poverty-stricken creatures about to feed like cattle in their stalls, and
      the sight filled him with loathing. The transition was too sudden, and the
      contrast was so violent that it could not but act as a powerful stimulant;
      his ambition developed and grew beyond all social bounds. On the one hand,
      he beheld a vision of social life in its most charming and refined forms,
      of quick-pulsed youth, of fair, impassioned faces invested with all the
      charm of poetry, framed in a marvelous setting of luxury or art; and, on
      the other hand, he saw a sombre picture, the miry verge beyond these
      faces, in which passion was extinct and nothing was left of the drama but
      the cords and pulleys and bare mechanism. Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s counsels,
      the words uttered in anger by the forsaken lady, her petulant offer, came
      to his mind, and poverty was a ready expositor. Rastignac determined to
      open two parallel trenches so as to insure success; he would be a learned
      doctor of law and a man of fashion. Clearly he was still a child! Those
      two lines are asymptotes, and will never meet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very dull, my lord Marquis,&rdquo; said Vautrin, with one of the shrewd
      glances that seem to read the innermost secrets of another mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not in the humor to stand jokes from people who call me &lsquo;my lord
      Marquis,&rsquo;&rdquo; answered Eugene. &ldquo;A marquis here in Paris, if he is not the
      veriest sham, ought to have a hundred thousand livres a year at least; and
      a lodger in the Maison Vauquer is not exactly Fortune&rsquo;s favorite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin&rsquo;s glance at Rastignac was half-paternal, half-contemptuous.
      &ldquo;Puppy!&rdquo; it seemed to say; &ldquo;I should make one mouthful of him!&rdquo; Then he
      answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are in a bad humor; perhaps your visit to the beautiful Comtesse de
      Restaud was not a success.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has shut her door against me because I told her that her father dined
      at our table,&rdquo; cried Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      Glances were exchanged all round the room; Father Goriot looked down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have sent some snuff into my eye,&rdquo; he said to his neighbor, turning a
      little aside to rub his hand over his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any one who molests Father Goriot will have henceforward to reckon with
      me,&rdquo; said Eugene, looking at the old man&rsquo;s neighbor; &ldquo;he is worth all the
      rest of us put together.&mdash;I am not speaking of the ladies,&rdquo; he added,
      turning in the direction of Mlle. Taillefer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene&rsquo;s remarks produced a sensation, and his tone silenced the
      dinner-table. Vautrin alone spoke. &ldquo;If you are going to champion Father
      Goriot, and set up for his responsible editor into the bargain, you had
      need be a crack shot and know how to handle the foils,&rdquo; he said,
      banteringly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I intend,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you are taking the field to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; Rastignac answered. &ldquo;But I owe no account of myself to any one,
      especially as I do not try to find out what other people do of a night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin looked askance at Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you do not mean to be deceived by the puppets, my boy, you must go
      behind and see the whole show, and not peep through holes in the curtain.
      That is enough,&rdquo; he added, seeing that Eugene was about to fly into a
      passion. &ldquo;We can have a little talk whenever you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a general feeling of gloom and constraint. Father Goriot was so
      deeply dejected by the student&rsquo;s remark that he did not notice the change
      in the disposition of his fellow-lodgers, nor know that he had met with a
      champion capable of putting an end to the persecution.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, M. Goriot sitting there is the father of a countess,&rdquo; said Mme.
      Vauquer in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And of a baroness,&rdquo; answered Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is about all he is capable of,&rdquo; said Bianchon to Rastignac; &ldquo;I have
      taken a look at his head; there is only one bump&mdash;the bump of
      Paternity; he must be an <i>eternal father</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was too intent on his thoughts to laugh at Bianchon&rsquo;s joke. He
      determined to profit by Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s counsels, and was asking
      himself how he could obtain the necessary money. He grew grave. The wide
      savannas of the world stretched before his eyes; all things lay before
      him, nothing was his. Dinner came to an end, the others went, and he was
      left in the dining-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So you have seen my daughter?&rdquo; Goriot spoke tremulously, and the sound of
      his voice broke in upon Eugene&rsquo;s dreams. The young man took the elder&rsquo;s
      hand, and looked at him with something like kindness in his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a good and noble man,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;We will have some talk about
      your daughters by and by.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose without waiting for Goriot&rsquo;s answer, and went to his room. There
      he wrote the following letter to his mother:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;My Dear Mother,&mdash;Can you nourish your child from your breast
  again? I am in a position to make a rapid fortune, but I want
  twelve hundred francs&mdash;I must have them at all costs. Say nothing
  about this to my father; perhaps he might make objections, and
  unless I have the money, I may be led to put an end to myself, and
  so escape the clutches of despair. I will tell you everything when
  I see you. I will not begin to try to describe my present
  situation; it would take volumes to put the whole story clearly
  and fully. I have not been gambling, my kind mother, I owe no one
  a penny; but if you would preserve the life that you gave me, you
  must send me the sum I mention. As a matter of fact, I go to see
  the Vicomtesse de Beauseant; she is using her influence for me; I
  am obliged to go into society, and I have not a penny to lay out
  on clean gloves. I can manage to exist on bread and water, or go
  without food, if need be, but I cannot do without the tools with
  which they cultivate the vineyards in this country. I must
  resolutely make up my mind at once to make my way, or stick in the
  mire for the rest of my days. I know that all your hopes are set
  on me, and I want to realize them quickly. Sell some of your old
  jewelry, my kind mother; I will give you other jewels very soon. I
  know enough of our affairs at home to know all that such a
  sacrifice means, and you must not think that I would lightly ask
  you to make it; I should be a monster if I could. You must think
  of my entreaty as a cry forced from me by imperative necessity.
  Our whole future lies in the subsidy with which I must begin my
  first campaign, for life in Paris is one continual battle. If you
  cannot otherwise procure the whole of the money, and are forced to
  sell our aunt&rsquo;s lace, tell her that I will send her some still
  handsomer,&rdquo; and so forth.
</pre>
    <p>
      He wrote to ask each of his sisters for their savings&mdash;would they
      despoil themselves for him, and keep the sacrifice a secret from the
      family? To his request he knew that they would not fail to respond gladly,
      and he added to it an appeal to their delicacy by touching the chord of
      honor that vibrates so loudly in young and high-strung natures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet when he had written the letters, he could not help feeling misgivings
      in spite of his youthful ambition; his heart beat fast, and he trembled.
      He knew the spotless nobleness of the lives buried away in the lonely
      manor house; he knew what trouble and what joy his request would cause his
      sisters, and how happy they would be as they talked at the bottom of the
      orchard of that dear brother of theirs in Paris. Visions rose before his
      eyes; a sudden strong light revealed his sisters secretly counting over
      their little store, devising some girlish stratagem by which the money
      could be sent to him <i>incognito</i>, essaying, for the first time in
      their lives, a piece of deceit that reached the sublime in its
      unselfishness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sister&rsquo;s heart is a diamond for purity, a deep sea of tenderness!&rdquo; he
      said to himself. He felt ashamed of those letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      What power there must be in the petitions put up by such hearts; how pure
      the fervor that bears their souls to Heaven in prayer! What exquisite joy
      they would find in self-sacrifice! What a pang for his mother&rsquo;s heart if
      she could not send him all that he asked for! And this noble affection,
      these sacrifices made at such terrible cost, were to serve as the ladder
      by which he meant to climb to Delphine de Nucingen. A few tears, like the
      last grains of incense flung upon the sacred alter fire of the hearth,
      fell from his eyes. He walked up and down, and despair mingled with his
      emotion. Father Goriot saw him through the half-open door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter, sir?&rdquo; he asked from the threshold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my good neighbor, I am as much a son and brother as you are a father.
      You do well to fear for the Comtesse Anastasie; there is one M. Maxime de
      Trailles, who will be her ruin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot withdrew, stammering some words, but Eugene failed to catch
      their meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning Rastignac went out to post his letters. Up to the last
      moment he wavered and doubted, but he ended by flinging them into the box.
      &ldquo;I shall succeed!&rdquo; he said to himself. So says the gambler; so says the
      great captain; but the three words that have been the salvation of some
      few, have been the ruin of many more.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few days after this Eugene called at Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s house; she was
      not at home. Three times he tried the experiment, and three times he found
      her doors closed against him, though he was careful to choose an hour when
      M. de Trailles was not there. The Vicomtesse was right.
    </p>
    <p>
      The student studied no longer. He put in an appearance at lectures simply
      to answer to his name, and after thus attesting his presence, departed
      forthwith. He had been through a reasoning process familiar to most
      students. He had seen the advisability of deferring his studies to the
      last moment before going up for his examinations; he made up his mind to
      cram his second and third years&rsquo; work into the third year, when he meant
      to begin to work in earnest, and to complete his studies in law with one
      great effort. In the meantime he had fifteen months in which to navigate
      the ocean of Paris, to spread the nets and set the lines that would bring
      him a protectress and a fortune. Twice during that week he saw Mme. de
      Beauseant; he did not go to her house until he had seen the Marquis
      d&rsquo;Ajuda drive away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Victory for yet a few more days was with the great lady, the most poetic
      figure in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; and the marriage of the Marquis
      d&rsquo;Ajuda-Pinto with Mlle. de Rochefide was postponed. The dread of losing
      her happiness filled those days with a fever of joy unknown before, but
      the end was only so much the nearer. The Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda and the
      Rochefides agreed that this quarrel and reconciliation was a very
      fortunate thing; Mme. de Beauseant (so they hoped) would gradually become
      reconciled to the idea of the marriage, and in the end would be brought to
      sacrifice d&rsquo;Ajuda&rsquo;s morning visits to the exigencies of a man&rsquo;s career,
      exigencies which she must have foreseen. In spite of the most solemn
      promises, daily renewed, M. d&rsquo;Ajuda was playing a part, and the Vicomtesse
      was eager to be deceived. &ldquo;Instead of taking a leap heroically from the
      window, she is falling headlong down the staircase,&rdquo; said her most
      intimate friend, the Duchesse de Langeais. Yet this after-glow of
      happiness lasted long enough for the Vicomtesse to be of service to her
      young cousin. She had a half-superstitious affection for him. Eugene had
      shown her sympathy and devotion at a crisis when a woman sees no pity, no
      real comfort in any eyes; when if a man is ready with soothing flatteries,
      it is because he has an interested motive.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac made up his mind that he must learn the whole of Goriot&rsquo;s
      previous history; he would come to his bearings before attempting to board
      the Maison de Nucingen. The results of his inquiries may be given briefly
      as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      In the days before the Revolution, Jean-Joachim Goriot was simply a
      workman in the employ of a vermicelli maker. He was a skilful, thrifty
      workman, sufficiently enterprising to buy his master&rsquo;s business when the
      latter fell a chance victim to the disturbances of 1789. Goriot
      established himself in the Rue de la Jussienne, close to the Corn
      Exchange. His plain good sense led him to accept the position of President
      of the Section, so as to secure for his business the protection of those
      in power at that dangerous epoch. This prudent step had led to success;
      the foundations of his fortune were laid in the time of the Scarcity (real
      or artificial), when the price of grain of all kinds rose enormously in
      Paris. People used to fight for bread at the bakers&rsquo; doors; while other
      persons went to the grocers&rsquo; shops and bought Italian paste foods without
      brawling over it. It was during this year that Goriot made the money,
      which, at a later time, was to give him all the advantage of the great
      capitalist over the small buyer; he had, moreover, the usual luck of
      average ability; his mediocrity was the salvation of him. He excited no
      one&rsquo;s envy, it was not even suspected that he was rich till the peril of
      being rich was over, and all his intelligence was concentrated, not on
      political, but on commercial speculations. Goriot was an authority second
      to none on all questions relating to corn, flour, and &ldquo;middlings&rdquo;; and the
      production, storage, and quality of grain. He could estimate the yield of
      the harvest, and foresee market prices; he bought his cereals in Sicily,
      and imported Ukrainian wheat. Any one who had heard him hold forth on the
      regulations that control the importation and exportation of grain, who had
      seen his grasp of the subject, his clear insight into the principles
      involved, his appreciation of weak points in the way that the system
      worked, would have thought that here was the stuff of which a minister is
      made. Patient, active, and persevering, energetic and prompt in action, he
      surveyed his business horizon with an eagle eye. Nothing there took him by
      surprise; he foresaw all things, knew all that was happening, and kept his
      own counsel; he was a diplomatist in his quick comprehension of a
      situation; and in the routine of business he was as patient and plodding
      as a soldier on the march. But beyond this business horizon he could not
      see. He used to spend his hours of leisure on the threshold of his shop,
      leaning against the framework of the door. Take him from his dark little
      counting-house, and he became once more the rough, slow-witted workman, a
      man who cannot understand a piece of reasoning, who is indifferent to all
      intellectual pleasures, and falls asleep at the play, a Parisian Dolibom
      in short, against whose stupidity other minds are powerless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Natures of this kind are nearly all alike; in almost all of them you will
      find some hidden depth of sublime affection. Two all-absorbing affections
      filled the vermicelli maker&rsquo;s heart to the exclusion of every other
      feeling; into them he seemed to put all the forces of his nature, as he
      put the whole power of his brain into the corn trade. He had regarded his
      wife, the only daughter of a rich farmer of La Brie, with a devout
      admiration; his love for her had been boundless. Goriot had felt the charm
      of a lovely and sensitive nature, which, in its delicate strength, was the
      very opposite of his own. Is there any instinct more deeply implanted in
      the heart of man than the pride of protection, a protection which is
      constantly exerted for a fragile and defenceless creature? Join love
      thereto, the warmth of gratitude that all generous souls feel for the
      source of their pleasures, and you have the explanation of many strange
      incongruities in human nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      After seven years of unclouded happiness, Goriot lost his wife. It was
      very unfortunate for him. She was beginning to gain an ascendency over him
      in other ways; possibly she might have brought that barren soil under
      cultivation, she might have widened his ideas and given other directions
      to his thoughts. But when she was dead, the instinct of fatherhood
      developed in him till it almost became a mania. All the affection balked
      by death seemed to turn to his daughters, and he found full satisfaction
      for his heart in loving them. More or less brilliant proposals were made
      to him from time to time; wealthy merchants or farmers with daughters vied
      with each other in offering inducements to him to marry again; but he
      determined to remain a widower. His father-in-law, the only man for whom
      he felt a decided friendship, gave out that Goriot had made a vow to be
      faithful to his wife&rsquo;s memory. The frequenters of the Corn Exchange, who
      could not comprehend this sublime piece of folly, joked about it among
      themselves, and found a ridiculous nickname for him. One of them ventured
      (after a glass over a bargain) to call him by it, and a blow from the
      vermicelli maker&rsquo;s fist sent him headlong into a gutter in the Rue Oblin.
      He could think of nothing else when his children were concerned; his love
      for them made him fidgety and anxious; and this was so well known, that
      one day a competitor, who wished to get rid of him to secure the field to
      himself, told Goriot that Delphine had just been knocked down by a cab.
      The vermicelli maker turned ghastly pale, left the Exchange at once, and
      did not return for several days afterwards; he was ill in consequence of
      the shock and the subsequent relief on discovering that it was a false
      alarm. This time, however, the offender did not escape with a bruised
      shoulder; at a critical moment in the man&rsquo;s affairs, Goriot drove him into
      bankruptcy, and forced him to disappear from the Corn Exchange.
    </p>
    <p>
      As might have been expected, the two girls were spoiled. With an income of
      sixty thousand francs, Goriot scarcely spent twelve hundred on himself,
      and found all his happiness in satisfying the whims of the two girls. The
      best masters were engaged, that Anastasie and Delphine might be endowed
      with all the accomplishments which distinguish a good education. They had
      a chaperon&mdash;luckily for them, she was a woman who had good sense and
      good taste;&mdash;they learned to ride; they had a carriage for their use;
      they lived as the mistress of a rich old lord might live; they had only to
      express a wish, their father would hasten to give them their most
      extravagant desires, and asked nothing of them in return but a kiss.
      Goriot had raised the two girls to the level of the angels; and, quite
      naturally, he himself was left beneath them. Poor man! he loved them even
      for the pain that they gave him.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the girls were old enough to be married, they were left free to
      choose for themselves. Each had half her father&rsquo;s fortune as her dowry;
      and when the Comte de Restaud came to woo Anastasie for her beauty, her
      social aspirations led her to leave her father&rsquo;s house for a more exalted
      sphere. Delphine wished for money; she married Nucingen, a banker of
      German extraction, who became a Baron of the Holy Roman Empire. Goriot
      remained a vermicelli maker as before. His daughters and his sons-in-law
      began to demur; they did not like to see him still engaged in trade,
      though his whole life was bound up with his business. For five years he
      stood out against their entreaties, then he yielded, and consented to
      retire on the amount realized by the sale of his business and the savings
      of the last few years. It was this capital that Mme. Vauquer, in the early
      days of his residence with her, had calculated would bring in eight or ten
      thousand livres in a year. He had taken refuge in her lodging-house,
      driven there by despair when he knew that his daughters were compelled by
      their husbands not only to refuse to receive him as an inmate in their
      houses, but even to see him no more except in private.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was all the information which Rastignac gained from a M. Muret who
      had purchased Goriot&rsquo;s business, information which confirmed the Duchesse
      de Langeais&rsquo; suppositions, and herewith the preliminary explanation of
      this obscure but terrible Parisian tragedy comes to an end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards the end of the first week in December Rastignac received two
      letters&mdash;one from his mother, and one from his eldest sister. His
      heart beat fast, half with happiness, half with fear, at the sight of the
      familiar handwriting. Those two little scraps of paper contained life or
      death for his hopes. But while he felt a shiver of dread as he remembered
      their dire poverty at home, he knew their love for him so well that he
      could not help fearing that he was draining their very life-blood. His
      mother&rsquo;s letter ran as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;MY DEAR CHILD,&mdash;I am sending you the money that you asked for.
  Make a good use of it. Even to save your life I could not raise so
  large a sum a second time without your father&rsquo;s knowledge, and
  there would be trouble about it. We should be obliged to mortgage
  the land. It is impossible to judge of the merits of schemes of
  which I am ignorant; but what sort of schemes can they be, that
  you should fear to tell me about them? Volumes of explanation
  would not have been needed; we mothers can understand at a word,
  and that word would have spared me the anguish of uncertainty. I
  do not know how to hide the painful impression that your letter
  has made upon me, my dear son. What can you have felt when you
  were moved to send this chill of dread through my heart? It must
  have been very painful to you to write the letter that gave me so
  much pain as I read it. To what courses are you committed? You are
  going to appear to be something that you are not, and your whole
  life and success depends upon this? You are about to see a society
  into which you cannot enter without rushing into expense that you
  cannot afford, without losing precious time that is needed for
  your studies. Ah! my dear Eugene, believe your mother, crooked
  ways cannot lead to great ends. Patience and endurance are the two
  qualities most needed in your position. I am not scolding you; I
  do not want any tinge of bitterness to spoil our offering. I am
  only talking like a mother whose trust in you is as great as her
  foresight for you. You know the steps that you must take, and I,
  for my part, know the purity of heart, and how good your
  intentions are; so I can say to you without a doubt, &lsquo;Go forward,
  beloved!&rsquo; If I tremble, it is because I am a mother, but my
  prayers and blessings will be with you at every step. Be very
  careful, dear boy. You must have a man&rsquo;s prudence, for it lies
  with you to shape the destinies of five others who are dear to
  you, and must look to you. Yes, our fortunes depend upon you, and
  your success is ours. We all pray to God to be with you in all
  that you do. Your aunt Marcillac has been most generous beyond
  words in this matter; she saw at once how it was, even down to
  your gloves. &lsquo;But I have a weakness for the eldest!&rsquo; she said
  gaily. You must love your aunt very much, dear Eugene. I shall
  wait till you have succeeded before telling you all that she has
  done for you, or her money would burn your fingers. You, who are
  young, do not know what it is to part with something that is a
  piece of your past! But what would we not sacrifice for your
  sakes? Your aunt says that I am to send you a kiss on the forehead
  from her, and that kiss is to bring you luck again and again, she
  says. She would have written you herself, the dear kind-hearted
  woman, but she is troubled with the gout in her fingers just now.
  Your father is very well. The vintage of 1819 has turned out
  better than we expected. Good-bye, dear boy; I will say nothing
  about your sisters, because Laure is writing to you, and I must
  let her have the pleasure of giving you all the home news. Heaven
  send that you may succeed! Oh! yes, dear Eugene, you must succeed.
  I have come, through you, to a knowledge of a pain so sharp that I
  do not think I could endure it a second time. I have come to know
  what it is to be poor, and to long for money for my children&rsquo;s
  sake. There, good-bye! Do not leave us for long without news of
  you; and here, at the last, take a kiss from your mother.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      By the time Eugene had finished the letter he was in tears. He thought of
      Father Goriot crushing his silver keepsake into a shapeless mass before he
      sold it to meet his daughter&rsquo;s bill of exchange.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your mother has broken up her jewels for you,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;your
      aunt shed tears over those relics of hers before she sold them for your
      sake. What right have you to heap execrations on Anastasie? You have
      followed her example; you have selfishly sacrificed others to your own
      future, and she sacrifices her father to her lover; and of you two, which
      is the worse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was ready to renounce his attempts; he could not bear to take that
      money. The fires of remorse burned in his heart, and gave him intolerable
      pain, the generous secret remorse which men seldom take into account when
      they sit in judgment upon their fellow-men; but perhaps the angels in
      heaven, beholding it, pardon the criminal whom our justice condemns.
      Rastignac opened his sister&rsquo;s letter; its simplicity and kindness revived
      his heart.
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;Your letter came just at the right time, dear brother. Agathe and
  I had thought of so many different ways of spending our money,
  that we did not know what to buy with it; and now you have come
  in, and, like the servant who upset all the watches that belonged
  to the King of Spain, you have restored harmony; for, really and
  truly, we did not know which of all the things we wanted we wanted
  most, and we were always quarreling about it, never thinking, dear
  Eugene, of a way of spending our money which would satisfy us
  completely. Agathe jumped for you. Indeed, we have been like two
  mad things all day, &lsquo;to such a prodigious degree&rsquo; (as aunt would
  say), that mother said, with her severe expression, &lsquo;Whatever can
  be the matter with you, mesdemoiselles?&rsquo; I think if we had been
  scolded a little, we should have been still better pleased. A
  woman ought to be very glad to suffer for one she loves! I,
  however, in my inmost soul, was doleful and cross in the midst of
  all my joy. I shall make a bad wife, I am afraid, I am too fond of
  spending. I had bought two sashes and a nice little stiletto for
  piercing eyelet-holes in my stays, trifles that I really did not
  want, so that I have less than that slow-coach Agathe, who is so
  economical, and hoards her money like a magpie. She had two
  hundred francs! And I have only one hundred and fifty! I am nicely
  punished; I could throw my sash down the well; it will be painful
  to me to wear it now. Poor dear, I have robbed you. And Agathe was
  so nice about it. She said, &lsquo;Let us send the three hundred and
  fifty francs in our two names!&rsquo; But I could not help telling you
  everything just as it happened.

 &ldquo;Do you know how we managed to keep your commandments? We took our
  glittering hoard, we went out for a walk, and when once fairly on
  the highway we ran all the way to Ruffec, where we handed over the
  coin, without more ado, to M. Grimbert of the Messageries Royales.
  We came back again like swallows on the wing. &lsquo;Don&rsquo;t you think
  that happiness has made us lighter?&rsquo; Agathe said. We said all
  sorts of things, which I shall not tell you, Monsieur le Parisien,
  because they were all about you. Oh, we love you dearly, dear
  brother; it was all summed up in those few words. As for keeping
  the secret, little masqueraders like us are capable of anything
  (according to our aunt), even of holding our tongues. Our mother
  has been on a mysterious journey to Angouleme, and the aunt went
  with her, not without solemn councils, from which we were shut
  out, and M. le Baron likewise. They are silent as to the weighty
  political considerations that prompted their mission, and
  conjectures are rife in the State of Rastignac. The Infantas are
  embroidering a muslin robe with open-work sprigs for her Majesty
  the Queen; the work progresses in the most profound secrecy. There
  be but two more breadths to finish. A decree has gone forth that
  no wall shall be built on the side of Verteuil, but that a hedge
  shall be planted instead thereof. Our subjects may sustain some
  disappointment of fruit and espaliers, but strangers will enjoy
  a fair prospect. Should the heir-presumptive lack
  pocket-handkerchiefs, be it known unto him that the dowager Lady
  of Marcillac, exploring the recesses of her drawers and boxes
  (known respectively as Pompeii and Herculaneum), having brought to
  light a fair piece of cambric whereof she wotted not, the Princesses
  Agathe and Laure place at their brother&rsquo;s disposal their thread,
  their needles, and hands somewhat of the reddest. The two young
  Princes, Don Henri and Don Gabriel, retain their fatal habits of
  stuffing themselves with grape-jelly, of teasing their sisters, of
  taking their pleasure by going a-bird-nesting, and of cutting
  switches for themselves from the osier-beds, maugre the laws of
  the realm. Moreover, they list not to learn naught, wherefore the
  Papal Nuncio (called of the commonalty, M. le Cure) threateneth
  them with excommunication, since that they neglect the sacred
  canons of grammatical construction for the construction of other
  canon, deadly engines made of the stems of elder.

 &ldquo;Farewell, dear brother, never did letter carry so many wishes for
  your success, so much love fully satisfied. You will have a great
  deal to tell us when you come home! You will tell me everything,
  won&rsquo;t you? I am the oldest. From something the aunt let fall, we
  think you must have had some success.

 &ldquo;Something was said of a lady, but nothing more was said...

 &ldquo;Of course not, in our family! Oh, by-the-by, Eugene, would you
  rather that we made that piece of cambric into shirts for you
  instead of pocket-handkerchiefs? If you want some really nice
  shirts at once, we ought to lose no time in beginning upon them;
  and if the fashion is different now in Paris, send us one for a
  pattern; we want more particularly to know about the cuffs. Good-
  bye! Good-bye! Take my kiss on the left side of your forehead, on
  the temple that belongs to me, and to no one else in the world. I
  am leaving the other side of the sheet for Agathe, who has
  solemnly promised not to read a word that I have written; but, all
  the same, I mean to sit by her side while she writes, so as to be
  quite sure that she keeps her word.&mdash;Your loving sister,

                                           &ldquo;LAURE DE RASTIGNAC.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; said Eugene to himself. &ldquo;Yes! Success at all costs now! Riches
      could not repay such devotion as this. I wish I could give them every sort
      of happiness! Fifteen hundred and fifty francs,&rdquo; he went on after a pause.
      &ldquo;Every shot must go to the mark! Laure is right. Trust a woman! I have
      only calico shirts. Where some one else&rsquo;s welfare is concerned, a young
      girl becomes as ingenious as a thief. Guileless where she herself is in
      question, and full of foresight for me,&mdash;she is like a heavenly angel
      forgiving the strange incomprehensible sins of earth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The world lay before him. His tailor had been summoned and sounded, and
      had finally surrendered. When Rastignac met M. de Trailles, he had seen at
      once how great a part the tailor plays in a young man&rsquo;s career; a tailor
      is either a deadly enemy or a staunch friend, with an invoice for a bond
      of friendship; between these two extremes there is, alack! no middle term.
      In this representative of his craft Eugene discovered a man who understood
      that his was a sort of paternal function for young men at their entrance
      into life, who regarded himself as a stepping-stone between a young man&rsquo;s
      present and future. And Rastignac in gratitude made the man&rsquo;s fortune by
      an epigram of a kind in which he excelled at a later period of his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have twice known a pair of trousers turned out by him make a match of
      twenty thousand livres a year!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Fifteen hundred francs, and as many suits of clothes as he chose to order!
      At that moment the poor child of the South felt no more doubts of any
      kind. The young man went down to breakfast with the indefinable air which
      the consciousness of the possession of money gives to youth. No sooner are
      the coins slipped into a student&rsquo;s pocket than his wealth, in imagination
      at least, is piled into a fantastic column, which affords him a moral
      support. He begins to hold up his head as he walks; he is conscious that
      he has a means of bringing his powers to bear on a given point; he looks
      you straight in the face; his gestures are quick and decided; only
      yesterday he was diffident and shy, any one might have pushed him aside;
      to-morrow, he will take the wall of a prime minister. A miracle has been
      wrought in him. Nothing is beyond the reach of his ambition, and his
      ambition soars at random; he is light-hearted, generous, and enthusiastic;
      in short, the fledgling bird has discovered that he has wings. A poor
      student snatches at every chance pleasure much as a dog runs all sorts of
      risks to steal a bone, cracking it and sucking the marrow as he flies from
      pursuit; but a young man who can rattle a few runaway gold coins in his
      pocket can take his pleasure deliberately, can taste the whole of the
      sweets of secure possession; he soars far above earth; he has forgotten
      what the word <i>poverty</i> means; all Paris is his. Those are days when
      the whole world shines radiant with light, when everything glows and
      sparkles before the eyes of youth, days that bring joyous energy that is
      never brought into harness, days of debts and of painful fears that go
      hand in hand with every delight. Those who do not know the left bank of
      the Seine between the Rue Saint-Jacques and the Rue des Saints-Peres know
      nothing of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! if the women of Paris but knew,&rdquo; said Rastignac, as he devoured Mme.
      Vauquer&rsquo;s stewed pears (at five for a penny), &ldquo;they would come here in
      search of a lover.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just then a porter from the Messageries Royales appeared at the door of
      the room; they had previously heard the bell ring as the wicket opened to
      admit him. The man asked for M. Eugene de Rastignac, holding out two bags
      for him to take, and a form of receipt for his signature. Vautrin&rsquo;s keen
      glance cut Eugene like a lash.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you will be able to pay for those fencing lessons and go to the
      shooting gallery,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your ship has come in,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, eyeing the bags.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau did not dare to look at the money, for fear her eyes
      should betray her cupidity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a kind mother,&rdquo; said Mme. Couture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a kind mother, sir,&rdquo; echoed Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, mamma has been drained dry,&rdquo; said Vautrin, &ldquo;and now you can have
      your fling, go into society, and fish for heiresses, and dance with
      countesses who have peach blossom in their hair. But take my advice, young
      man, and don&rsquo;t neglect your pistol practice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin struck an attitude, as if he were facing an antagonist. Rastignac,
      meaning to give the porter a tip, felt in his pockets and found nothing.
      Vautrin flung down a franc piece on the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your credit is good,&rdquo; he remarked, eyeing the student, and Rastignac was
      forced to thank him, though, since the sharp encounter of wits at dinner
      that day, after Eugene came in from calling on Mme. de Beauseant, he had
      made up his mind that Vautrin was insufferable. For a week, in fact, they
      had both kept silence in each other&rsquo;s presence, and watched each other.
      The student tried in vain to account to himself for this attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      An idea, of course, gains in force by the energy with which it is
      expressed; it strikes where the brain sends it, by a law as mathematically
      exact as the law that determines the course of a shell from a mortar. The
      amount of impression it makes is not to be determined so exactly.
      Sometimes, in an impressible nature, the idea works havoc, but there are,
      no less, natures so robustly protected, that this sort of projectile falls
      flat and harmless on skulls of triple brass, as cannon-shot against solid
      masonry; then there are flaccid and spongy-fibred natures into which ideas
      from without sink like spent bullets into the earthworks of a redoubt.
      Rastignac&rsquo;s head was something of the powder-magazine order; the least
      shock sufficed to bring about an explosion. He was too quick, too young,
      not to be readily accessible to ideas; and open to that subtle influence
      of thought and feeling in others which causes so many strange phenomena
      that make an impression upon us of which we are all unconscious at the
      time. Nothing escaped his mental vision; he was lynx-eyed; in him the
      mental powers of perception, which seem like duplicates of the senses, had
      the mysterious power of swift projection that astonishes us in intellects
      of a high order&mdash;slingers who are quick to detect the weak spot in
      any armor.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the past month Eugene&rsquo;s good qualities and defects had rapidly
      developed with his character. Intercourse with the world and the endeavor
      to satisfy his growing desires had brought out his defects. But Rastignac
      came from the South side of the Loire, and had the good qualities of his
      countrymen. He had the impetuous courage of the South, that rushes to the
      attack of a difficulty, as well as the southern impatience of delay or
      suspense. These traits are held to be defects in the North; they made the
      fortune of Murat, but they likewise cut short his career. The moral would
      appear to be that when the dash and boldness of the South side of the
      Loire meets, in a southern temperament, with the guile of the North, the
      character is complete, and such a man will gain (and keep) the crown of
      Sweden.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac, therefore, could not stand the fire from Vautrin&rsquo;s batteries
      for long without discovering whether this was a friend or a foe. He felt
      as if this strange being was reading his inmost soul, and dissecting his
      feelings, while Vautrin himself was so close and secretive that he seemed
      to have something of the profound and unmoved serenity of a sphinx, seeing
      and hearing all things and saying nothing. Eugene, conscious of that money
      in his pocket, grew rebellious.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be so good as to wait a moment,&rdquo; he said to Vautrin, as the latter rose,
      after slowly emptying his coffee-cup, sip by sip.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What for?&rdquo; inquired the older man, as he put on his large-brimmed hat and
      took up the sword-cane that he was wont to twirl like a man who will face
      three or four footpads without flinching.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will repay you in a minute,&rdquo; returned Eugene. He unsealed one of the
      bags as he spoke, counted out a hundred and forty francs, and pushed them
      towards Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;Short reckonings make good friends&rdquo; he added,
      turning to the widow; &ldquo;that clears our accounts till the end of the year.
      Can you give me change for a five-franc piece?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good friends make short reckonings,&rdquo; echoed Poiret, with a glance at
      Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is your franc,&rdquo; said Rastignac, holding out the coin to the sphinx
      in the black wig.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any one might think that you were afraid to owe me a trifle,&rdquo; exclaimed
      this latter, with a searching glance that seemed to read the young man&rsquo;s
      inmost thoughts; there was a satirical and cynical smile on Vautrin&rsquo;s face
      such as Eugene had seen scores of times already; every time he saw it, it
      exasperated him almost beyond endurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well... so I am,&rdquo; he answered. He held both the bags in his hand, and had
      risen to go up to his room.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Monsieur le Marquis de Rastignacorama, that what you were
      saying just now was not exactly polite?&rdquo; Vautrin remarked, as he rattled
      his sword-cane across the panels of the sitting-room door, and came up to
      the student.
    </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Monsieur</i> Vautrin, I am not a marquis, and my name is not
      Rastignacorama.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will fight,&rdquo; said Mlle. Michonneau, in an indifferent tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fight!&rdquo; echoed Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not they,&rdquo; replied Mme. Vauquer, lovingly fingering her pile of coins.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there they are under the lime-trees,&rdquo; cried Mlle. Victorine, who had
      risen so that she might see out into the garden. &ldquo;Poor young man! he was
      in the right, after all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must go upstairs, my pet,&rdquo; said Mme. Couture; &ldquo;it is no business of
      ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the door, however, Mme. Couture and Victorine found their progress
      barred by the portly form of Sylvie the cook.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What ever can have happened?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;M. Vautrin said to M. Eugene,
      &lsquo;Let us have an explanation!&rsquo; then he took him by the arm, and there they
      are, out among the artichokes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin came in while she was speaking. &ldquo;Mamma Vauquer,&rdquo; he said smiling,
      &ldquo;don&rsquo;t frighten yourself at all. I am only going to try my pistols under
      the lime-trees.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! monsieur,&rdquo; cried Victorine, clasping her hands as she spoke, &ldquo;why do
      you want to kill M. Eugene?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin stepped back a pace or two, and gazed at Victorine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! this is something fresh!&rdquo; he exclaimed in a bantering tone, that
      brought the color into the poor girl&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;That young fellow yonder is
      very nice, isn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;You have given me a notion, my pretty
      child; I will make you both happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Couture laid her hand on the arm of her ward, and drew the girl away,
      as she said in her ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Victorine, I cannot imagine what has come over you this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want any shots fired in my garden,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;You will
      frighten the neighborhood and bring the police up here all in a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, keep cool, Mamma Vauquer,&rdquo; answered Vautrin. &ldquo;There, there; it&rsquo;s
      all right; we will go to the shooting-gallery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went back to Rastignac, laying his hand familiarly on the young man&rsquo;s
      arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo;
       he said, &ldquo;that won&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you draw back?&rdquo; asked Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t try to raise my temperature,&rdquo; answered Vautrin, &ldquo;it is not cold
      this morning. Let us go and sit over there,&rdquo; he added, pointing to the
      green-painted garden seats; &ldquo;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&mdash;(confound it!)&mdash;take Vautrin&rsquo;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,&rdquo; he continued, pointing to
      the round table.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would like to know who I really am, what I was, and what I do now,&rdquo;
       Vautrin went on. &ldquo;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 &lsquo;mind what they are
      about&rsquo;; but, <i>nom d&rsquo;une pipe</i>, the devil himself is not an uglier
      customer than I can be if people annoy me, or if I don&rsquo;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,&rdquo; and he spat before him as he spoke. &ldquo;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&rsquo;s <i>Memoirs</i>,
      such as you see me; and, what is more, in Italian: A fine-spirited fellow
      he was! From him I learned to follow the example set us by Providence, who
      strikes us down at random, and to admire the beautiful whenever and
      wherever it is found. And, setting other questions aside, is it not a
      glorious part to play, when you pit yourself against mankind, and the luck
      is on your side? I have thought a good deal about the constitution of your
      present social Dis-order. A duel is downright childish, my boy! utter
      nonsense and folly! When one of two living men must be got out of the way,
      none but an idiot would leave chance to decide which it is to be; and in a
      duel it is a toss-up&mdash;heads or tails&mdash;and there you are! Now I,
      for instance, can hit the ace in the middle of a card five times running,
      send one bullet after another through the same hole, and at thirty-five
      paces, moreover! With that little accomplishment you might think yourself
      certain of killing your man, mightn&rsquo;t you. Well, I have fired, at twenty
      paces, and missed, and the rogue who had never handled a pistol in his
      life&mdash;look here!&rdquo;&mdash;(he unbuttoned his waistcoat and exposed his
      chest, covered, like a bear&rsquo;s back, with a shaggy fell; the student gave a
      startled shudder)&mdash;&ldquo;he was a raw lad, but he made his mark on me,&rdquo;
       the extraordinary man went on, drawing Rastignac&rsquo;s fingers over a deep
      scar on his breast. &ldquo;But that happened when I myself was a mere boy; I was
      one-and-twenty then (your age), and I had some beliefs left&mdash;in a
      woman&rsquo;s love, and in a pack of rubbish that you will be over head and ears
      in directly. You and I were to have fought just now, weren&rsquo;t we? You might
      have killed me. Suppose that I were put under the earth, where would you
      be? You would have to clear out of this, go to Switzerland, draw on papa&rsquo;s
      purse&mdash;and he has none too much in it as it is. I mean to open your
      eyes to your real position, that is what I am going to do: but I shall do
      it from the point of view of a man who, after studying the world very
      closely, sees that there are but two alternatives&mdash;stupid obedience
      or revolt. I obey nobody; is that clear? Now, do you know how much you
      will want at the pace you are going? A million; and promptly, too, or that
      little head of ours will be swaying to and fro in the drag-nets at
      Saint-Cloud, while we are gone to find out whether or no there is a
      Supreme Being. I will put you in the way of that million.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped for a moment and looked at Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha! you do not look so sourly at papa Vautrin now! At the mention of the
      million you look like a young girl when somebody has said, &lsquo;I will come
      for you this evening!&rsquo; and she betakes herself to her toilette as a cat
      licks its whiskers over a saucer of milk. All right. Come, now, let us go
      into the question, young man; all between ourselves, you know. We have a
      papa and mamma down yonder, a great-aunt, two sisters (aged eighteen and
      seventeen), two young brothers (one fifteen, and the other ten), that is
      about the roll-call of the crew. The aunt brings up the two sisters; the
      cure comes and teaches the boys Latin. Boiled chestnuts are oftener on the
      table than white bread. Papa makes a suit of clothes last a long while; if
      mamma has a different dress winter and summer, it is about as much as she
      has; the sisters manage as best they can. I know all about it; I have
      lived in the south.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is how things are at home. They send you twelve hundred francs a
      year, and the whole property only brings in three thousand francs all
      told. We have a cook and a manservant; papa is a baron, and we must keep
      up appearances. Then we have our ambitions; we are connected with the
      Beauseants, and we go afoot through the streets; we want to be rich, and
      we have not a penny; we eat Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s messes, and we like grand
      dinners in the Faubourg Saint-Germain; we sleep on a truckle-bed, and
      dream of a mansion! I do not blame you for wanting these things. What sort
      of men do the women run after? Men of ambition. Men of ambition have
      stronger frames, their blood is richer in iron, their hearts are warmer
      than those of ordinary men. Women feel that when their power is greatest,
      they look their best, and that those are their happiest hours; they like
      power in men, and prefer the strongest even if it is a power that may be
      their own destruction. I am going to make an inventory of your desires in
      order to put the question at issue before you. Here it is:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are as hungry as a wolf, and those newly-cut teeth of ours are sharp;
      what are we to do to keep the pot boiling? In the first place, we have the
      Code to browse upon; it is not amusing, and we are none the wiser for it,
      but that cannot be helped. So far so good. We mean to make an advocate of
      ourselves with a prospect of one day being made President of a Court of
      Assize, when we shall send poor devils, our betters, to the galleys with a
      T.F.[*] on their shoulders, so that the rich may be convinced that they
      can sleep in peace. There is no fun in that; and you are a long while
      coming to it; for, to begin with, there are two years of nauseous drudgery
      in Paris, we see all the lollipops that we long for out of our reach. It
      is tiresome to want things and never to have them. If you were a pallid
      creature of the mollusk order, you would have nothing to fear, but it is
      different when you have the hot blood of a lion and are ready to get into
      a score of scrapes every day of your life. This is the ghastliest form of
      torture known in this inferno of God&rsquo;s making, and you will give in to it.
      Or suppose that you are a good boy, drink nothing stronger than milk, and
      bemoan your hard lot; you, with your generous nature, will endure
      hardships that would drive a dog mad, and make a start, after long
      waiting, as deputy to some rascal or other in a hole of a place where the
      Government will fling you a thousand francs a year like the scraps that
      are thrown to the butcher&rsquo;s dog. Bark at thieves, plead the cause of the
      rich, send men of heart to the guillotine, that is your work! Many thanks!
      If you have no influence, you may rot in your provincial tribunal. At
      thirty you will be a Justice with twelve hundred francs a year (if you
      have not flung off the gown for good before then). By the time you are
      forty you may look to marry a miller&rsquo;s daughter, an heiress with some six
      thousand livres a year. Much obliged! If you have influence, you may
      possibly be a Public Prosecutor by the time you are thirty; with a salary
      of a thousand crowns, you could look to marry the mayor&rsquo;s daughter. Some
      petty piece of political trickery, such as mistaking Villele for Manuel in
      a bulletin (the names rhyme, and that quiets your conscience), and you
      will probably be a Procureur General by the time you are forty, with a
      chance of becoming a deputy. Please to observe, my dear boy, that our
      conscience will have been a little damaged in the process, and that we
      shall endure twenty years of drudgery and hidden poverty, and that our
      sisters are wearing Dian&rsquo;s livery. I have the honor to call your attention
      to another fact: to wit, that there are but twenty Procureurs Generaux at
      a time in all France, while there are some twenty thousand of you young
      men who aspire to that elevated position; that there are some mountebanks
      among you who would sell their family to screw their fortunes a peg
      higher. If this sort of thing sickens you, try another course. The Baron
      de Rastignac thinks of becoming an advocate, does he? There&rsquo;s a nice
      prospect for you! Ten years of drudgery straight away. You are obliged to
      live at the rate of a thousand francs a month; you must have a library of
      law books, live in chambers, go into society, go down on your knees to ask
      a solicitor for briefs, lick the dust off the floor of the Palais de
      Justice. If this kind of business led to anything, I should not say no;
      but just give me the names of five advocates here in Paris who by the time
      that they are fifty are making fifty thousand francs a year! Bah! I would
      sooner turn pirate on the high seas than have my soul shrivel up inside me
      like that. How will you find the capital? There is but one way, marry a
      woman who has money. There is no fun in it. Have you a mind to marry? You
      hang a stone around your neck; for if you marry for money, what becomes of
      our exalted notions of honor and so forth? You might as well fly in the
      face of social conventions at once. Is it nothing to crawl like a serpent
      before your wife, to lick her mother&rsquo;s feet, to descend to dirty actions
      that would sicken swine&mdash;faugh!&mdash;never mind if you at least make
      your fortune. But you will be as doleful as a dripstone if you marry for
      money. It is better to wrestle with men than to wrangle at home with your
      wife. You are at the crossway of the roads of life, my boy; choose your
      way.
    </p>
    <p>
      [*] Travaux forces, forced labour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have chosen already. You have gone to see your cousin of
      Beauseant, and you have had an inkling of luxury; you have been to Mme. de
      Restaud&rsquo;s house, and in Father Goriot&rsquo;s daughter you have seen a glimpse
      of the Parisienne for the first time. That day you came back with a word
      written on your forehead. I knew it, I could read it&mdash;&lsquo;<i>Success</i>!&rsquo;
      Yes, success at any price. &lsquo;Bravo,&rsquo; said I to myself, &lsquo;here is the sort of
      fellow for me.&rsquo; You wanted money. Where was it all to come from? You have
      drained your sisters&rsquo; little hoard (all brothers sponge more or less on
      their sisters). Those fifteen hundred francs of yours (got together, God
      knows how! in a country where there are more chestnuts than five-franc
      pieces) will slip away like soldiers after pillage. And, then, what will
      you do? Shall you begin to work? Work, or what you understand by work at
      this moment, means, for a man of Poiret&rsquo;s calibre, an old age in Mamma
      Vauquer&rsquo;s lodging-house. There are fifty thousand young men in your
      position at this moment, all bent as you are on solving one and the same
      problem&mdash;how to acquire a fortune rapidly. You are but a unit in that
      aggregate. You can guess, therefore, what efforts you must make, how
      desperate the struggle is. There are not fifty thousand good positions for
      you; you must fight and devour one another like spiders in a pot. Do you
      know how a man makes his way here? By brilliant genius or by skilful
      corruption. You must either cut your way through these masses of men like
      a cannon ball, or steal among them like a plague. Honesty is nothing to
      the purpose. Men bow before the power of genius; they hate it, and try to
      slander it, because genius does not divide the spoil; but if genius
      persists, they bow before it. To sum it all up in a phrase, if they fail
      to smother genius in the mud, they fall on their knees and worship it.
      Corruption is a great power in the world, and talent is scarce. So
      corruption is the weapon of superfluous mediocrity; you will be made to
      feel the point of it everywhere. You will see women who spend more than
      ten thousand francs a year on dress, while their husband&rsquo;s salary (his
      whole income) is six thousand francs. You will see officials buying
      estates on twelve thousand francs a year. You will see women who sell
      themselves body and soul to drive in a carriage belonging to the son of a
      peer of France, who has a right to drive in the middle rank at Longchamp.
      You have seen that poor simpleton of a Goriot obliged to meet a bill with
      his daughter&rsquo;s name at the back of it, though her husband has fifty
      thousand francs a year. I defy you to walk a couple of yards anywhere in
      Paris without stumbling on some infernal complication. I&rsquo;ll bet my head to
      a head of that salad that you will stir up a hornet&rsquo;s nest by taking a
      fancy to the first young, rich, and pretty woman you meet. They are all
      dodging the law, all at loggerheads with their husbands. If I were to
      begin to tell you all that vanity or necessity (virtue is not often mixed
      up in it, you may be sure), all that vanity and necessity drive them to do
      for lovers, finery, housekeeping, or children, I should never come to an
      end. So an honest man is the common enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But do you know what an honest man is? Here, in Paris, an honest man is
      the man who keeps his own counsel, and will not divide the plunder. I am
      not speaking now of those poor bond-slaves who do the work of the world
      without a reward for their toil&mdash;God Almighty&rsquo;s outcasts, I call
      them. Among them, I grant you, is virtue in all the flower of its
      stupidity, but poverty is no less their portion. At this moment, I think I
      see the long faces those good folk would pull if God played a practical
      joke on them and stayed away at the Last Judgment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, if you mean to make a fortune quickly, you must either be
      rich to begin with, or make people believe that you are rich. It is no use
      playing here except for high stakes; once take to low play, it is all up
      with you. If in the scores of professions that are open to you, there are
      ten men who rise very rapidly, people are sure to call them thieves. You
      can draw your own conclusions. Such is life. It is no cleaner than a
      kitchen; it reeks like a kitchen; and if you mean to cook your dinner, you
      must expect to soil your hands; the real art is in getting them clean
      again, and therein lies the whole morality of our epoch. If I take this
      tone in speaking of the world to you, I have the right to do so; I know it
      well. Do you think that I am blaming it? Far from it; the world has always
      been as it is now. Moralists&rsquo; strictures will never change it. Mankind are
      not perfect, but one age is more or less hypocritical than another, and
      then simpletons say that its morality is high or low. I do not think that
      the rich are any worse than the poor; man is much the same, high or low,
      or wherever he is. In a million of these human cattle there may be half a
      score of bold spirits who rise above the rest, above the laws; I am one of
      them. And you, if you are cleverer than your fellows, make straight to
      your end, and hold your head high. But you must lay your account with envy
      and slander and mediocrity, and every man&rsquo;s hand will be against you.
      Napoleon met with a Minister of War, Aubry by name, who all but sent him
      to the colonies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Feel your pulse. Think whether you can get up morning after morning,
      strengthened in yesterday&rsquo;s purpose. In that case I will make you an offer
      that no one would decline. Listen attentively. You see, I have an idea of
      my own. My idea is to live a patriarchal life on a vast estate, say a
      hundred thousand acres, somewhere in the Southern States of America. I
      mean to be a planter, to have slaves, to make a few snug millions by
      selling my cattle, timber, and tobacco; I want to live an absolute
      monarch, and to do just as I please; to lead such a life as no one here in
      these squalid dens of lath and plaster ever imagines. I am a great poet; I
      do not write my poems, I feel them, and act them. At this moment I have
      fifty thousand francs, which might possibly buy forty negroes. I want two
      hundred thousand francs, because I want to have two hundred negroes to
      carry out my notions of the patriarachal life properly. Negroes, you see,
      are like a sort of family ready grown, and there are no inquisitive public
      prosecutors out there to interfere with you. That investment in ebony
      ought to mean three or four million francs in ten years&rsquo; time. If I am
      successful, no one will ask me who I am. I shall be Mr. Four Millions, an
      American citizen. I shall be fifty years old by then, and sound and hearty
      still; I shall enjoy life after my own fashion. In two words, if I find
      you an heiress with a million, will you give me two hundred thousand
      francs? Twenty per cent commission, eh? Is that too much? Your little wife
      will be very much in love with you. Once married, you will show signs of
      uneasiness and remorse; for a couple of weeks you will be depressed. Then,
      some night after sundry grimacings, comes the confession, between two
      kisses, &lsquo;Two hundred thousand francs of debts, my darling!&rsquo; This sort of
      farce is played every day in Paris, and by young men of the highest
      fashion. When a young wife has given her heart, she will not refuse her
      purse. Perhaps you are thinking that you will lose the money for good? Not
      you. You will make two hundred thousand francs again by some stroke of
      business. With your capital and your brains you should be able to
      accumulate as large a fortune as you could wish. <i>Ergo</i>, in six
      months you will have made your own fortune, and our old friend Vautrin&rsquo;s,
      and made an amiable woman very happy, to say nothing of your people at
      home, who must blow on their fingers to warm them, in the winter, for lack
      of firewood. You need not be surprised at my proposal, nor at the demand I
      make. Forty-seven out of every sixty great matches here in Paris are made
      after just such a bargain as this. The Chamber of Notaries compels my
      gentleman to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What must I do?&rdquo; said Rastignac, eagerly interrupting Vautrin&rsquo;s speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Next to nothing,&rdquo; returned the other, with a slight involuntary movement,
      the suppressed exultation of the angler when he feels a bite at the end of
      his line. &ldquo;Follow me carefully! The heart of a girl whose life is wretched
      and unhappy is a sponge that will thirstily absorb love; a dry sponge that
      swells at the first drop of sentiment. If you pay court to a young girl
      whose existence is a compound of loneliness, despair, and poverty, and who
      has no suspicion that she will come into a fortune, good Lord! it is quint
      and quatorze at piquet; it is knowing the numbers of the lottery
      before-hand; it is speculating in the funds when you have news from a sure
      source; it is building up a marriage on an indestructible foundation. The
      girl may come in for millions, and she will fling them, as if they were so
      many pebbles, at your feet. &lsquo;Take it, my beloved! Take it, Alfred,
      Adolphe, Eugene!&rsquo; or whoever it was that showed his sense by sacrificing
      himself for her. And as for sacrificing himself, this is how I understand
      it. You sell a coat that is getting shabby, so that you can take her to
      the <i>Cadran bleu</i>, treat her to mushrooms on toast, and then go to
      the Ambigu-Comique in the evening; you pawn your watch to buy her a shawl.
      I need not remind you of the fiddle-faddle sentimentality that goes down
      so well with all women; you spill a few drops of water on your stationery,
      for instance; those are the tears you shed while far away from her. You
      look to me as if you were perfectly acquainted with the argot of the
      heart. Paris, you see, is like a forest in the New World, where you have
      to deal with a score of varieties of savages&mdash;Illinois and Hurons,
      who live on the proceed of their social hunting. You are a hunter of
      millions; you set your snares; you use lures and nets; there are many ways
      of hunting. Some hunt heiresses, others a legacy; some fish for souls, yet
      others sell their clients, bound hand and foot. Every one who comes back
      from the chase with his game-bag well filled meets with a warm welcome in
      good society. In justice to this hospitable part of the world, it must be
      said that you have to do with the most easy and good-natured of great
      cities. If the proud aristocracies of the rest of Europe refuse admittance
      among their ranks to a disreputable millionaire, Paris stretches out a
      hand to him, goes to his banquets, eats his dinners, and hobnobs with his
      infamy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where is such a girl to be found?&rdquo; asked Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Under your eyes; she is yours already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mlle. Victorine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Precisely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what was that you said?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is in love with you already, your little Baronne de Rastignac!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has not a penny,&rdquo; Eugene continued, much mystified.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now we are coming to it! Just another word or two, and it will all be
      clear enough. Her father, Taillefer, is an old scoundrel; it is said that
      he murdered one of his friends at the time of the Revolution. He is one of
      your comedians that sets up to have opinions of his own. He is a banker&mdash;senior
      partner in the house of Frederic Taillefer and Company. He has one son,
      and means to leave all he has to the boy, to the prejudice of Victorine.
      For my part, I don&rsquo;t like to see injustice of this sort. I am like Don
      Quixote, I have a fancy for defending the weak against the strong. If it
      should please God to take that youth away from him, Taillefer would have
      only his daughter left; he would want to leave his money to some one or
      other; an absurd notion, but it is only human nature, and he is not likely
      to have any more children, as I know. Victorine is gentle and amiable; she
      will soon twist her father round her fingers, and set his head spinning
      like a German top by plying him with sentiment! She will be too much
      touched by your devotion to forget you; you will marry her. I mean to play
      Providence for you, and Providence is to do my will. I have a friend whom
      I have attached closely to myself, a colonel in the Army of the Loire, who
      has just been transferred into the <i>garde royale</i>. He has taken my
      advice and turned ultra-royalist; he is not one of those fools who never
      change their opinions. Of all pieces of advice, my cherub, I would give
      you this&mdash;don&rsquo;t stick to your opinions any more than to your words.
      If any one asks you for them, let him have them&mdash;at a price. A man
      who prides himself on going in a straight line through life is an idiot
      who believes in infallibility. There are no such things as principles;
      there are only events, and there are no laws but those of expediency: a
      man of talent accepts events and the circumstances in which he finds
      himself, and turns everything to his own ends. If laws and principles were
      fixed and invariable, nations would not change them as readily as we
      change our shirts. The individual is not obliged to be more particular
      than the nation. A man whose services to France have been of the very
      slightest is a fetich looked on with superstitious awe because he has
      always seen everything in red; but he is good, at the most, to be put into
      the Museum of Arts and Crafts, among the automatic machines, and labeled
      La Fayette; while the prince at whom everybody flings a stone, the man who
      despises humanity so much that he spits as many oaths as he is asked for
      in the face of humanity, saved France from being torn in pieces at the
      Congress of Vienna; and they who should have given him laurels fling mud
      at him. Oh! I know something of affairs, I can tell you; I have the
      secrets of many men! Enough. When I find three minds in agreement as to
      the application of a principle, I shall have a fixed and immovable opinion&mdash;I
      shall have to wait a long while first. In the Tribunals you will not find
      three judges of the same opinion on a single point of law. To return to
      the man I was telling you of. He would crucify Jesus Christ again, if I
      bade him. At a word from his old chum Vautrin he will pick a quarrel with
      a scamp that will not send so much as five francs to his sister, poor
      girl, and&rdquo; (here Vautrin rose to his feet and stood like a fencing-master
      about to lunge)&mdash;&ldquo;turn him off into the dark!&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How frightful!&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;You do not really mean it? M. Vautrin, you
      are joking!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! there! Keep cool!&rdquo; said the other. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t behave like a baby. But
      if you find any amusement in it, be indignant, flare up! Say that I am a
      scoundrel, a rascal, a rogue, a bandit; but do not call me a blackleg nor
      a spy! There, out with it, fire away! I forgive you; it is quite natural
      at your age. I was like that myself once. Only remember this, you will do
      worse things yourself some day. You will flirt with some pretty woman and
      take her money. You have thought of that, of course,&rdquo; said Vautrin, &ldquo;for
      how are you to succeed unless love is laid under contribution? There are
      no two ways about virtue, my dear student; it either is, or it is not.
      Talk of doing penance for your sins! It is a nice system of business, when
      you pay for your crime by an act of contrition! You seduce a woman that
      you may set your foot on such and such a rung of the social ladder; you
      sow dissension among the children of a family; you descend, in short, to
      every base action that can be committed at home or abroad, to gain your
      own ends for your own pleasure or your profit; and can you imagine that
      these are acts of faith, hope, or charity? How is it that a dandy, who in
      a night has robbed a boy of half his fortune, gets only a couple of months
      in prison; while a poor devil who steals a banknote for a thousand francs,
      with aggravating circumstances, is condemned to penal servitude? Those are
      your laws. Not a single provision but lands you in some absurdity. That
      man with yellow gloves and a golden tongue commits many a murder; he sheds
      no blood, but he drains his victim&rsquo;s veins as surely; a desperado forces
      open a door with a crowbar, dark deeds both of them! You yourself will do
      every one of those things that I suggest to you to-day, bar the bloodshed.
      Do you believe that there is any absolute standard in this world? Despise
      mankind and find out the meshes that you can slip through in the net of
      the Code. The secret of a great success for which you are at a loss to
      account is a crime that has never been found out, because it was properly
      executed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence, sir! I will not hear any more; you make me doubt myself. At this
      moment my sentiments are all my science.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just as you please, my fine fellow; I did think you were so weak-minded,&rdquo;
       said Vautrin, &ldquo;I shall say no more about it. One last word, however,&rdquo; and
      he looked hard at the student&mdash;&ldquo;you have my secret,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A young man who refuses your offer knows that he must forget it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite right, quite right; I am glad to hear you say so. Somebody else
      might not be so scrupulous, you see. Keep in mind what I want to do for
      you. I will give you a fortnight. The offer is still open.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a head of iron the man has!&rdquo; said Eugene to himself, as he watched
      Vautrin walk unconcernedly away with his cane under his arm. &ldquo;Yet Mme. de
      Beauseant said as much more gracefully; he has only stated the case in
      cruder language. He would tear my heart with claws of steel. What made me
      think of going to Mme. de Nucingen? He guessed my motives before I knew
      them myself. To sum it up, that outlaw has told me more about virtue than
      all I have learned from men and books. If virtue admits of no compromises,
      I have certainly robbed my sisters,&rdquo; he said, throwing down the bags on
      the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      He sat down again and fell, unconscious of his surroundings, into deep
      thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be faithful to an ideal of virtue! A heroic martyrdom! Pshaw! every
      one believes in virtue, but who is virtuous? Nations have made an idol of
      Liberty, but what nation on the face of the earth is free? My youth is
      still like a blue and cloudless sky. If I set myself to obtain wealth or
      power, does it mean that I must make up my mind to lie, and fawn, and
      cringe, and swagger, and flatter, and dissemble? To consent to be the
      servant of others who have likewise fawned, and lied, and flattered? Must
      I cringe to them before I can hope to be their accomplice? Well, then, I
      decline. I mean to work nobly and with a single heart. I will work day and
      night; I will owe my fortune to nothing but my own exertions. It may be
      the slowest of all roads to success, but I shall lay my head on the pillow
      at night untroubled by evil thoughts. Is there a greater thing than this&mdash;to
      look back over your life and know that it is stainless as a lily? I and my
      life are like a young man and his betrothed. Vautrin has put before me all
      that comes after ten years of marriage. The devil! my head is swimming. I
      do not want to think at all; the heart is a sure guide.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was roused from his musings by the voice of the stout Sylvie, who
      announced that the tailor had come, and Eugene therefore made his
      appearance before the man with the two money bags, and was not ill pleased
      that it should be so. When he had tried on his dress suit, he put on his
      new morning costume, which completely metamorphosed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am quite equal to M. de Trailles,&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;In short, I
      look like a gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You asked me, sir, if I knew the houses where Mme. de Nucingen goes,&rdquo;
       Father Goriot&rsquo;s voice spoke from the doorway of Eugene&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well then, she is going to the Marechale Carigliano&rsquo;s ball on
      Monday. If you can manage to be there, I shall hear from you whether my
      two girls enjoyed themselves, and how they were dressed, and all about it
      in fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you find that out, my good Goriot?&rdquo; said Eugene, putting a chair
      by the fire for his visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her maid told me. I hear all about their doings from Therese and
      Constance,&rdquo; he added gleefully.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man looked like a lover who is still young enough to be made happy
      by the discovery of some little stratagem which brings him information of
      his lady-love without her knowledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> will see them both!&rdquo; he said, giving artless expression to a
      pang of jealousy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know,&rdquo; answered Eugene. &ldquo;I will go to Mme. de Beauseant and ask
      her for an introduction to the Marechale.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene felt a thrill of pleasure at the thought of appearing before the
      Vicomtesse, dressed as henceforward he always meant to be. The &ldquo;abysses of
      the human heart,&rdquo; in the moralists&rsquo; phrase, are only insidious thoughts,
      involuntary promptings of personal interest. The instinct of enjoyment
      turns the scale; those rapid changes of purpose which have furnished the
      text for so much rhetoric are calculations prompted by the hope of
      pleasure. Rastignac beholding himself well dressed and impeccable as to
      gloves and boots, forgot his virtuous resolutions. Youth, moreover, when
      bent upon wrongdoing does not dare to behold himself in the mirror of
      consciousness; mature age has seen itself; and therein lies the whole
      difference between these two phases of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      A friendship between Eugene and his neighbor, Father Goriot, had been
      growing up for several days past. This secret friendship and the antipathy
      that the student had begun to entertain for Vautrin arose from the same
      psychological causes. The bold philosopher who shall investigate the
      effects of mental action upon the physical world will doubtless find more
      than one proof of the material nature of our sentiments in other animals.
      What physiognomist is as quick to discern character as a dog is to
      discover from a stranger&rsquo;s face whether this is a friend or no? Those
      by-words&mdash;&ldquo;atoms,&rdquo; &ldquo;affinities&rdquo;&mdash;are facts surviving in modern
      languages for the confusion of philosophic wiseacres who amuse themselves
      by winnowing the chaff of language to find its grammatical roots. We <i>feel</i>
      that we are loved. Our sentiments make themselves felt in everything, even
      at a great distance. A letter is a living soul, and so faithful an echo of
      the voice that speaks in it, that finer natures look upon a letter as one
      of love&rsquo;s most precious treasures. Father Goriot&rsquo;s affection was of the
      instinctive order, a canine affection raised to a sublime pitch; he had
      scented compassion in the air, and the kindly respect and youthful
      sympathy in the student&rsquo;s heart. This friendship had, however, scarcely
      reached the stage at which confidences are made. Though Eugene had spoken
      of his wish to meet Mme. de Nucingen, it was not because he counted on the
      old man to introduce him to her house, for he hoped that his own audacity
      might stand him in good stead. All that Father Goriot had said as yet
      about his daughters had referred to the remarks that the student had made
      so freely in public on that day of the two visits.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could you think that Mme. de Restaud bore you a grudge for mentioning
      my name?&rdquo; he had said on the day following that scene at dinner. &ldquo;My
      daughters are very fond of me; I am a happy father; but my sons-in-law
      have behaved badly to me, and rather than make trouble between my darlings
      and their husbands, I choose to see my daughters secretly. Fathers who can
      see their daughters at any time have no idea of all the pleasure that all
      this mystery gives me; I cannot always see mine when I wish, do you
      understand? So when it is fine I walk out in the Champs-Elysees, after
      finding out from their waiting-maids whether my daughters mean to go out.
      I wait near the entrance; my heart beats fast when the carriages begin to
      come; I admire them in their dresses, and as they pass they give me a
      little smile, and it seems as if everything was lighted up for me by a ray
      of bright sunlight. I wait, for they always go back the same way, and then
      I see them again; the fresh air has done them good and brought color into
      their cheeks; all about me people say, &lsquo;What a beautiful woman that is!&rsquo;
      and it does my heart good to hear them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are they not my own flesh and blood? I love the very horses that draw
      them; I envy the little lap-dog on their knees. Their happiness is my
      life. Every one loves after his own fashion, and mine does no one any
      harm; why should people trouble their heads about me? I am happy in my own
      way. Is there any law against going to see my girls in the evening when
      they are going out to a ball? And what a disappointment it is when I get
      there too late, and am told that &lsquo;Madame has gone out!&rsquo; Once I waited till
      three o&rsquo;clock in the morning for Nasie; I had not seen her for two whole
      days. I was so pleased, that it was almost too much for me! Please do not
      speak of me unless it is to say how good my daughters are to me. They are
      always wanting to heap presents upon me, but I will not have it. &lsquo;Just
      keep your money,&rsquo; I tell them. &lsquo;What should I do with it? I want nothing.&rsquo;
      And what am I, sir, after all? An old carcase, whose soul is always where
      my daughters are. When you have seen Mme. de Nucingen, tell me which you
      like the most,&rdquo; said the old man after a moment&rsquo;s pause, while Eugene put
      the last touches to his toilette. The student was about to go out to walk
      in the Garden of the Tuileries until the hour when he could venture to
      appear in Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s drawing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      That walk was a turning-point in Eugene&rsquo;s career. Several women noticed
      him; he looked so handsome, so young, and so well dressed. This almost
      admiring attention gave a new turn to his thoughts. He forgot his sisters
      and the aunt who had robbed herself for him; he no longer remembered his
      own virtuous scruples. He had seen hovering above his head the fiend so
      easy to mistake for an angel, the Devil with rainbow wings, who scatters
      rubies, and aims his golden shafts at palace fronts, who invests women
      with purple, and thrones with a glory that dazzles the eyes of fools till
      they forget the simple origins of royal dominion; he had heard the rustle
      of that Vanity whose tinsel seems to us to be the symbol of power. However
      cynical Vautrin&rsquo;s words had been, they had made an impression on his mind,
      as the sordid features of the old crone who whispers, &ldquo;A lover, and gold
      in torrents,&rdquo; remain engraven on a young girl&rsquo;s memory.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene lounged about the walks till it was nearly five o&rsquo;clock, then he
      went to Mme. de Beauseant, and received one of the terrible blows against
      which young hearts are defenceless. Hitherto the Vicomtesse had received
      him with the kindly urbanity, the bland grace of manner that is the result
      of fine breeding, but is only complete when it comes from the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      To-day Mme. de Beauseant bowed constrainedly, and spoke curtly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. de Rastignac, I cannot possibly see you, at least not at this moment.
      I am engaged...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      An observer, and Rastignac instantly became an observer, could read the
      whole history, the character and customs of caste, in the phrase, in the
      tones of her voice, in her glance and bearing. He caught a glimpse of the
      iron hand beneath the velvet glove&mdash;the personality, the egoism
      beneath the manner, the wood beneath the varnish. In short, he heard that
      unmistakable I THE KING that issues from the plumed canopy of the throne,
      and finds its last echo under the crest of the simplest gentleman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene had trusted too implicitly to the generosity of a woman; he could
      not believe in her haughtiness. Like all the unfortunate, he had
      subscribed, in all good faith, the generous compact which should bind the
      benefactor to the recipient, and the first article in that bond, between
      two large-hearted natures, is a perfect equality. The kindness which knits
      two souls together is as rare, as divine, and as little understood as the
      passion of love, for both love and kindness are the lavish generosity of
      noble natures. Rastignac was set upon going to the Duchesse de
      Carigliano&rsquo;s ball, so he swallowed down this rebuff.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; he faltered out, &ldquo;I would not have come to trouble you about a
      trifling matter; be so kind as to permit me to see you later, I can wait.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, come and dine with me,&rdquo; she said, a little confused by the
      harsh way in which she had spoken, for this lady was as genuinely
      kind-hearted as she was high-born.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was touched by this sudden relenting, but none the less he said to
      himself as he went away, &ldquo;Crawl in the dust, put up with every kind of
      treatment. What must the rest of the world be like when one of the kindest
      of women forgets all her promises of befriending me in a moment, and
      tosses me aside like an old shoe? So it is every one for himself? It is
      true that her house is not a shop, and I have put myself in the wrong by
      needing her help. You should cut your way through the world like a cannon
      ball, as Vautrin said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the student&rsquo;s bitter thoughts were soon dissipated by the pleasure
      which he promised himself in this dinner with the Vicomtesse. Fate seemed
      to determine that the smallest accidents in his life should combine to
      urge him into a career, which the terrible sphinx of the Maison Vauquer
      had described as a field of battle where you must either slay or be slain,
      and cheat to avoid being cheated. You leave your conscience and your heart
      at the barriers, and wear a mask on entering into this game of grim
      earnest, where, as in ancient Sparta, you must snatch your prize without
      being detected if you would deserve the crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his return he found the Vicomtesse gracious and kindly, as she had
      always been to him. They went together to the dining-room, where the
      Vicomte was waiting for his wife. In the time of the Restoration the
      luxury of the table was carried, as is well known, to the highest degree,
      and M. de Beauseant, like many jaded men of the world, had few pleasures
      left but those of good cheer; in this matter, in fact, he was a gourmand
      of the schools of Louis XVIII. and of the Duc d&rsquo;Escars, and luxury was
      supplemented by splendor. Eugene, dining for the first time in a house
      where the traditions of grandeur had descended through many generations,
      had never seen any spectacle like this that now met his eyes. In the time
      of the Empire, balls had always ended with a supper, because the officers
      who took part in them must be fortified for immediate service, and even in
      Paris might be called upon to leave the ballroom for the battlefield. This
      arrangement had gone out of fashion under the Monarchy, and Eugene had so
      far only been asked to dances. The self-possession which pre-eminently
      distinguished him in later life already stood him in good stead, and he
      did not betray his amazement. Yet as he saw for the first time the finely
      wrought silver plate, the completeness of every detail, the sumptuous
      dinner, noiselessly served, it was difficult for such an ardent
      imagination not to prefer this life of studied and refined luxury to the
      hardships of the life which he had chosen only that morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      His thoughts went back for a moment to the lodging-house, and with a
      feeling of profound loathing, he vowed to himself that at New Year he
      would go; prompted at least as much by a desire to live among cleaner
      surroundings as by a wish to shake off Vautrin, whose huge hand he seemed
      to feel on his shoulder at that moment. When you consider the numberless
      forms, clamorous or mute, that corruption takes in Paris, common-sense
      begins to wonder what mental aberration prompted the State to establish
      great colleges and schools there, and assemble young men in the capital;
      how it is that pretty women are respected, or that the gold coin displayed
      in the money-changer&rsquo;s wooden saucers does not take to itself wings in the
      twinkling of an eye; and when you come to think further, how comparatively
      few cases of crime there are, and to count up the misdemeanors committed
      by youth, is there not a certain amount of respect due to these patient
      Tantaluses who wrestle with themselves and nearly always come off
      victorious? The struggles of the poor student in Paris, if skilfully
      drawn, would furnish a most dramatic picture of modern civilization.
    </p>
    <p>
      In vain Mme. de Beauseant looked at Eugene as if asking him to speak; the
      student was tongue-tied in the Vicomte&rsquo;s presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to take me to the Italiens this evening?&rdquo; the Vicomtesse
      asked her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You cannot doubt that I should obey you with pleasure,&rdquo; he answered, and
      there was a sarcastic tinge in his politeness which Eugene did not detect,
      &ldquo;but I ought to go to meet some one at the Varietes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His mistress,&rdquo; said she to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, is not Ajuda coming for you this evening?&rdquo; inquired the Vicomte.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she answered, petulantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then, if you really must have an arm, take that of M. de
      Rastignac.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Vicomtess turned to Eugene with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That would be a very compromising step for you,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;A Frenchman loves danger, because in danger there is glory,&rsquo; to quote M.
      de Chateaubriand,&rdquo; said Rastignac, with a bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      A few moments later he was sitting beside Mme. de Beauseant in a brougham,
      that whirled them through the streets of Paris to a fashionable theatre.
      It seemed to him that some fairy magic had suddenly transported him into a
      box facing the stage. All the lorgnettes of the house were pointed at him
      as he entered, and at the Vicomtesse in her charming toilette. He went
      from enchantment to enchantment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must talk to me, you know,&rdquo; said Mme. de Beauseant. &ldquo;Ah! look! There
      is Mme. de Nucingen in the third box from ours. Her sister and M. de
      Trailles are on the other side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Vicomtesse glanced as she spoke at the box where Mlle. de Rochefide
      should have been; M. d&rsquo;Ajuda was not there, and Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s face
      lighted up in a marvelous way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is charming,&rdquo; said Eugene, after looking at Mme. de Nucingen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has white eyelashes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but she has such a pretty slender figure!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her hands are large.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such beautiful eyes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her face is long.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but length gives distinction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is lucky for her that she has some distinction in her face. Just see
      how she fidgets with her opera-glass! The Goriot blood shows itself in
      every movement,&rdquo; said the Vicomtesse, much to Eugene&rsquo;s astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, Mme. de Beauseant seemed to be engaged in making a survey of the
      house, and to be unconscious of Mme. Nucingen&rsquo;s existence; but no movement
      made by the latter was lost upon the Vicomtesse. The house was full of the
      loveliest women in Paris, so that Delphine de Nucingen was not a little
      flattered to receive the undivided attention of Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s young,
      handsome, and well-dressed cousin, who seemed to have no eyes for any one
      else.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you look at her so persistently, you will make people talk, M. de
      Rastignac. You will never succeed if you fling yourself at any one&rsquo;s head
      like that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear cousin,&rdquo; said Eugene, &ldquo;you have protected me indeed so far, and
      now if you would complete your work, I only ask of you a favor which will
      cost you but little, and be of very great service to me. I have lost my
      heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Already!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to that woman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How could I aspire to find any one else to listen to me?&rdquo; he asked, with
      a keen glance at his cousin. &ldquo;Her Grace the Duchesse de Carigliano is a
      friend of the Duchesse de Berri,&rdquo; he went on, after a pause; &ldquo;you are sure
      to see her, will you be so kind as to present me to her, and to take me to
      her ball on Monday? I shall meet Mme. de Nucingen there, and enter into my
      first skirmish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Willingly,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;If you have a liking for her already, your affairs
      of the heart are like to prosper. That is de Marsay over there in the
      Princesse Galathionne&rsquo;s box. Mme. de Nucingen is racked with jealousy.
      There is no better time for approaching a woman, especially if she happens
      to be a banker&rsquo;s wife. All those ladies of the Chaussee-d&rsquo;Antin love
      revenge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, what would you do yourself in such a case?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should suffer in silence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this point the Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda appeared in Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have made a muddle of my affairs to come to you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and I am
      telling you about it, so that it may not be a sacrifice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene saw the glow of joy on the Vicomtesse&rsquo;s face, and knew that this
      was love, and learned the difference between love and the affectations of
      Parisian coquetry. He admired his cousin, grew mute, and yielded his place
      to M. d&rsquo;Ajuda with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How noble, how sublime a woman is when she loves like that!&rdquo; he said to
      himself. &ldquo;And <i>he</i> could forsake her for a doll! Oh! how could any
      one forsake her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a boy&rsquo;s passionate indignation in his heart. He could have flung
      himself at Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s feet; he longed for the power of the devil
      if he could snatch her away and hide her in his heart, as an eagle
      snatches up some white yearling from the plains and bears it to its eyrie.
      It was humiliating to him to think that in all this gallery of fair
      pictures he had not one picture of his own. &ldquo;To have a mistress and an
      almost royal position is a sign of power,&rdquo; he said to himself. And he
      looked at Mme. de Nucingen as a man measures another who has insulted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Vicomtesse turned to him, and the expression of her eyes thanked him a
      thousand times for his discretion. The first act came to an end just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know Mme. de Nucingen well enough to present M. de Rastignac to
      her?&rdquo; she asked of the Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will be delighted,&rdquo; said the Marquis. The handsome Portuguese rose as
      he spoke and took the student&rsquo;s arm, and in another moment Eugene found
      himself in Mme. de Nucingen&rsquo;s box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; said the Marquis, &ldquo;I have the honor of presenting to you the
      Chevalier Eugene de Rastignac; he is a cousin of Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s. You
      have made so deep an impression upon him, that I thought I would fill up
      the measure of his happiness by bringing him nearer to his divinity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Words spoken half jestingly to cover their somewhat disrespectful import;
      but such an implication, if carefully disguised, never gives offence to a
      woman. Mme. de Nucingen smiled, and offered Eugene the place which her
      husband had just left.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not venture to suggest that you should stay with me, monsieur,&rdquo; she
      said. &ldquo;Those who are so fortunate as to be in Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s company
      do not desire to leave it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; Eugene said, lowering his voice, &ldquo;I think that to please my
      cousin I should remain with you. Before my lord Marquis came we were
      speaking of you and of your exceedingly distinguished appearance,&rdquo; he
      added aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. d&rsquo;Ajuda turned and left them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you really going to stay with me, monsieur?&rdquo; asked the Baroness.
      &ldquo;Then we shall make each other&rsquo;s acquaintance. Mme. de Restaud told me
      about you, and has made me anxious to meet you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She must be very insincere, then, for she has shut her door on me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, I will tell you honestly the reason why; but I must crave your
      indulgence before confiding such a secret to you. I am your father&rsquo;s
      neighbor; I had no idea that Mme. de Restaud was his daughter. I was rash
      enough to mention his name; I meant no harm, but I annoyed your sister and
      her husband very much. You cannot think how severely the Duchesse de
      Langeais and my cousin blamed this apostasy on a daughter&rsquo;s part, as a
      piece of bad taste. I told them all about it, and they both burst out
      laughing. Then Mme. de Beauseant made some comparison between you and your
      sister, speaking in high terms of you, and saying how very fond you were
      of my neighbor, M. Goriot. And, indeed, how could you help loving him? He
      adores you so passionately that I am jealous already. We talked about you
      this morning for two hours. So this evening I was quite full of all that
      your father had told me, and while I was dining with my cousin I said that
      you could not be as beautiful as affectionate. Mme. de Beauseant meant to
      gratify such warm admiration, I think, when she brought me here, telling
      me, in her gracious way, that I should see you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, even now, I owe you a debt of gratitude, monsieur,&rdquo; said the
      banker&rsquo;s wife. &ldquo;We shall be quite old friends in a little while.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Although a friendship with you could not be like an ordinary friendship,&rdquo;
       said Rastignac; &ldquo;I should never wish to be your friend.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Such stereotyped phrases as these, in the mouths of beginners, possess an
      unfailing charm for women, and are insipid only when read coldly; for a
      young man&rsquo;s tone, glance and attitude give a surpassing eloquence to the
      banal phrases. Mme. de Nucingen thought that Rastignac was adorable. Then,
      woman-like, being at a loss how to reply to the student&rsquo;s outspoken
      admiration, she answered a previous remark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it is very wrong of my sister to treat our poor father as she does,&rdquo;
       she said; &ldquo;he has been a Providence to us. It was not until M. de Nucingen
      positively ordered me only to receive him in the mornings that I yielded
      the point. But I have been unhappy about it for a long while; I have shed
      many tears over it. This violence to my feelings, with my husband&rsquo;s brutal
      treatment, have been two causes of my unhappy married life. There is
      certainly no woman in Paris whose lot seems more enviable than mine, and
      yet, in reality, there is not one so much to be pitied. You will think I
      must be out of my senses to talk to you like this; but you know my father,
      and I cannot regard you as a stranger.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will find no one,&rdquo; said Eugene, &ldquo;who longs as eagerly as I do to be
      yours. What do all women seek? Happiness.&rdquo; (He answered his own question
      in low, vibrating tones.) &ldquo;And if happiness for a woman means that she is
      to be loved and adored, to have a friend to whom she can pour out her
      wishes, her fancies, her sorrows and joys; to whom she can lay bare her
      heart and soul, and all her fair defects and her gracious virtues, without
      fear of a betrayal; believe me, the devotion and the warmth that never
      fails can only be found in the heart of a young man who, at a bare sign
      from you, would go to his death, who neither knows nor cares to know
      anything as yet of the world, because you will be all the world to him. I
      myself, you see (you will laugh at my simplicity), have just come from a
      remote country district; I am quite new to this world of Paris; I have
      only known true and loving hearts; and I made up my mind that here I
      should find no love. Then I chanced to meet my cousin, and to see my
      cousin&rsquo;s heart from very near; I have divined the inexhaustible treasures
      of passion, and, like Cherubino, I am the lover of all women, until the
      day comes when I find <i>the</i> woman to whom I may devote myself. As
      soon as I saw you, as soon as I came into the theatre this evening, I felt
      myself borne towards you as if by the current of a stream. I had so often
      thought of you already, but I had never dreamed that you would be so
      beautiful! Mme. de Beauseant told me that I must not look so much at you.
      She does not know the charm of your red lips, your fair face, nor see how
      soft your eyes are.... I also am beginning to talk nonsense; but let me
      talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing pleases a woman better than to listen to such whispered words as
      these; the most puritanical among them listens even when she ought not to
      reply to them; and Rastignac, having once begun, continued to pour out his
      story, dropping his voice, that she might lean and listen; and Mme. de
      Nucingen, smiling, glanced from time to time at de Marsay, who still sat
      in the Princesse Galathionne&rsquo;s box.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac did not leave Mme. de Nucingen till her husband came to take her
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; Eugene said, &ldquo;I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you
      before the Duchesse de Carigliano&rsquo;s ball.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Matame infites you to come,&rdquo; said the Baron, a thickset Alsatian, with
      indications of a sinister cunning in his full-moon countenance, &ldquo;you are
      quide sure of being well receifed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My affairs seem to be in a promising way,&rdquo; said Eugene to himself.&mdash;
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Can you love me?&rsquo; I asked her, and she did not resent it. &ldquo;The bit is in
      the horse&rsquo;s mouth, and I have only to mount and ride;&rdquo; and with that he
      went to pay his respects to Mme. de Beauseant, who was leaving the theatre
      on d&rsquo;Ajuda&rsquo;s arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      The student did not know that the Baroness&rsquo; thoughts had been wandering;
      that she was even then expecting a letter from de Marsay, one of those
      letters that bring about a rupture that rends the soul; so, happy in his
      delusion, Eugene went with the Vicomtesse to the peristyle, where people
      were waiting till their carriages were announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That cousin of yours is hardly recognizable for the same man,&rdquo; said the
      Portuguese laughingly to the Vicomtesse, when Eugene had taken leave of
      them. &ldquo;He will break the bank. He is as supple as an eel; he will go a
      long way, of that I am sure. Who else could have picked out a woman for
      him, as you did, just when she needed consolation?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is not certain that she does not still love the faithless lover,&rdquo;
       said Mme. de Beauseant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The student meanwhile walked back from the Theatre-Italien to the Rue
      Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, making the most delightful plans as he went. He
      had noticed how closely Mme. de Restaud had scrutinized him when he sat
      beside Mme. de Nucingen, and inferred that the Countess&rsquo; doors would not
      be closed in the future. Four important houses were now open to him&mdash;for
      he meant to stand well with the Marechale; he had four supporters in the
      inmost circle of society in Paris. Even now it was clear to him that, once
      involved in this intricate social machinery, he must attach himself to a
      spoke of the wheel that was to turn and raise his fortunes; he would not
      examine himself too curiously as to the methods, but he was certain of the
      end, and conscious of the power to gain and keep his hold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Mme. de Nucingen takes an interest in me, I will teach her how to
      manage her husband. That husband of hers is a great speculator; he might
      put me in the way of making a fortune by a single stroke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not say this bluntly in so many words; as yet, indeed, he was not
      sufficient of a diplomatist to sum up a situation, to see its
      possibilities at a glance, and calculate the chances in his favor. These
      were nothing but hazy ideas that floated over his mental horizon; they
      were less cynical than Vautrin&rsquo;s notions; but if they had been tried in
      the crucible of conscience, no very pure result would have issued from the
      test. It is by a succession of such like transactions that men sink at
      last to the level of the relaxed morality of this epoch, when there have
      never been so few of those who square their courses with their theories,
      so few of those noble characters who do not yield to temptation, for whom
      the slightest deviation from the line of rectitude is a crime. To these
      magnificent types of uncompromising Right we owe two masterpieces&mdash;the
      Alceste of Moliere, and, in our own day, the characters of Jeanie Deans
      and her father in Sir Walter Scott&rsquo;s novel. Perhaps a work which should
      chronicle the opposite course, which should trace out all the devious
      courses through which a man of the world, a man of ambitions, drags his
      conscience, just steering clear of crime that he may gain his end and yet
      save appearances, such a chronicle would be no less edifying and no less
      dramatic.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac went home. He was fascinated by Mme. de Nucingen; he seemed to
      see her before him, slender and graceful as a swallow. He recalled the
      intoxicating sweetness of her eyes, her fair hair, the delicate silken
      tissue of the skin, beneath which it almost seemed to him that he could
      see the blood coursing; the tones of her voice still exerted a spell over
      him; he had forgotten nothing; his walk perhaps heated his imagination by
      sending a glow of warmth through his veins. He knocked unceremoniously at
      Goriot&rsquo;s door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen Mme. Delphine, neighbor,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At the Italiens.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did she enjoy it?.... Just come inside,&rdquo; and the old man left his bed,
      unlocked the door, and promptly returned again.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time that Eugene had been in Father Goriot&rsquo;s room, and he
      could not control his feeling of amazement at the contrast between the den
      in which the father lived and the costume of the daughter whom he had just
      beheld. The window was curtainless, the walls were damp, in places the
      varnished wall-paper had come away and gave glimpses of the grimy yellow
      plaster beneath. The wretched bed on which the old man lay boasted but one
      thin blanket, and a wadded quilt made out of large pieces of Mme.
      Vauquer&rsquo;s old dresses. The floor was damp and gritty. Opposite the window
      stood a chest of drawers made of rosewood, one of the old-fashioned kind
      with a curving front and brass handles, shaped like rings of twisted vine
      stems covered with flowers and leaves. On a venerable piece of furniture
      with a wooden shelf stood a ewer and basin and shaving apparatus. A pair
      of shoes stood in one corner; a night-table by the bed had neither a door
      nor marble slab. There was not a trace of a fire in the empty grate; the
      square walnut table with the crossbar against which Father Goriot had
      crushed and twisted his posset-dish stood near the hearth. The old man&rsquo;s
      hat was lying on a broken-down bureau. An armchair stuffed with straw and
      a couple of chairs completed the list of ramshackle furniture. From the
      tester of the bed, tied to the ceiling by a piece of rag, hung a strip of
      some cheap material in large red and black checks. No poor drudge in a
      garret could be worse lodged than Father Goriot in Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s
      lodging-house. The mere sight of the room sent a chill through you and a
      sense of oppression; it was like the worst cell in a prison. Luckily,
      Goriot could not see the effect that his surroundings produced on Eugene
      as the latter deposited his candle on the night-table. The old man turned
      round, keeping the bedclothes huddled up to his chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and which do you like the best, Mme. de Restaud or Mme.
      de Nucingen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like Mme. Delphine the best,&rdquo; said the law student, &ldquo;because she loves
      you the best.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the words so heartily spoken the old man&rsquo;s hand slipped out from under
      the bedclothes and grasped Eugene&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, thank you,&rdquo; he said, gratefully. &ldquo;Then what did she say about
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The student repeated the Baroness&rsquo; remarks with some embellishments of his
      own, the old man listening the while as though he heard a voice from
      Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear child!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Yes, yes, she is very fond of me. But you must not
      believe all that she tells you about Anastasie. The two sisters are
      jealous of each other, you see, another proof of their affection. Mme. de
      Restaud is very fond of me too. I know she is. A father sees his children
      as God sees all of us; he looks into the very depths of their hearts; he
      knows their intentions; and both of them are so loving. Oh! if I only had
      good sons-in-law, I should be too happy, and I dare say there is no
      perfect happiness here below. If I might live with them&mdash;simply hear
      their voices, know that they are there, see them go and come as I used to
      do at home when they were still with me; why, my heart bounds at the
      thought.... Were they nicely dressed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;But, M. Goriot, how is it that your daughters have
      such fine houses, while you live in such a den as this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me, why should I want anything better?&rdquo; he replied, with seeming
      carelessness. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t quite explain to you how it is; I am not used to
      stringing words together properly, but it all lies there&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he
      said, tapping his heart. &ldquo;My real life is in my two girls, you see; and so
      long as they are happy, and smartly dressed, and have soft carpets under
      their feet, what does it matter what clothes I wear or where I lie down of
      a night? I shall never feel cold so long as they are warm; I shall never
      feel dull if they are laughing. I have no troubles but theirs. When you,
      too, are a father, and you hear your children&rsquo;s little voices, you will
      say to yourself, &lsquo;That has all come from me.&rsquo; You will feel that those
      little ones are akin to every drop in your veins, that they are the very
      flower of your life (and what else are they?); you will cleave so closely
      to them that you seem to feel every movement that they make. Everywhere I
      hear their voices sounding in my ears. If they are sad, the look in their
      eyes freezes my blood. Some day you will find out that there is far more
      happiness in another&rsquo;s happiness than in your own. It is something that I
      cannot explain, something within that sends a glow of warmth all through
      you. In short, I live my life three times over. Shall I tell you something
      funny? Well, then, since I have been a father, I have come to understand
      God. He is everywhere in the world, because the whole world comes from
      Him. And it is just the same with my children, monsieur. Only, I love my
      daughters better than God loves the world, for the world is not so
      beautiful as God Himself is, but my children are more beautiful than I am.
      Their lives are so bound up with mine that I felt somehow that you would
      see them this evening. Great Heaven! If any man would make my little
      Delphine as happy as a wife is when she is loved, I would black his boots
      and run on his errands. That miserable M. de Marsay is a cur; I know all
      about him from her maid. A longing to wring his neck comes over me now and
      then. He does not love her! does not love a pearl of a woman, with a voice
      like a nightingale and shaped like a model. Where can her eyes have been
      when she married that great lump of an Alsatian? They ought both of them
      to have married young men, good-looking and good-tempered&mdash;but, after
      all, they had their own way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot was sublime. Eugene had never yet seen his face light up as
      it did now with the passionate fervor of a father&rsquo;s love. It is worthy of
      remark that strong feeling has a very subtle and pervasive power; the
      roughest nature, in the endeavor to express a deep and sincere affection,
      communicates to others the influence that has put resonance into the
      voice, and eloquence into every gesture, wrought a change in the very
      features of the speaker; for under the inspiration of passion the
      stupidest human being attains to the highest eloquence of ideas, if not of
      language, and seems to move in some sphere of light. In the old man&rsquo;s
      tones and gesture there was something just then of the same spell that a
      great actor exerts over his audience. But does not the poet in us find
      expression in our affections?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Eugene, &ldquo;perhaps you will not be sorry to hear that she is
      pretty sure to break with de Marsay before long. That sprig of fashion has
      left her for the Princesse Galathionne. For my part, I fell in love with
      Mme. Delphine this evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stuff!&rdquo; said Father Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did indeed, and she did not regard me with aversion. For a whole hour
      we talked of love, and I am to go to call on her on Saturday, the day
      after to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! how I should love you, if she should like you. You are kind-hearted;
      you would never make her miserable. If you were to forsake her, I would
      cut your throat at once. A woman does not love twice, you see! Good
      heavens! what nonsense I am talking, M. Eugene! It is cold; you ought not
      to stay here. <i>Mon Dieu!</i> so you have heard her speak? What message
      did she give you for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None at all,&rdquo; said Eugene to himself; aloud he answered, &ldquo;She told me to
      tell you that your daughter sends you a good kiss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-night, neighbor! Sleep well, and pleasant dreams to you! I have mine
      already made for me by that message from her. May God grant you all your
      desires! You have come in like a good angel on me to-night, and brought
      with you the air that my daughter breathes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor old fellow!&rdquo; said Eugene as he lay down. &ldquo;It is enough to melt a
      heart of stone. His daughter no more thought of him than of the Grand
      Turk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ever after this conference Goriot looked upon his neighbor as a friend, a
      confidant such as he had never hoped to find; and there was established
      between the two the only relationship that could attach this old man to
      another man. The passions never miscalculate. Father Goriot felt that this
      friendship brought him closer to his daughter Delphine; he thought that he
      should find a warmer welcome for himself if the Baroness should care for
      Eugene. Moreover, he had confided one of his troubles to the younger man.
      Mme. de Nucingen, for whose happiness he prayed a thousand times daily,
      had never known the joys of love. Eugene was certainly (to make use of his
      own expression) one of the nicest young men that he had ever seen, and
      some prophetic instinct seemed to tell him that Eugene was to give her the
      happiness which had not been hers. These were the beginnings of a
      friendship that grew up between the old man and his neighbor; but for this
      friendship the catastrophe of the drama must have remained a mystery.
    </p>
    <p>
      The affection with which Father Goriot regarded Eugene, by whom he seated
      himself at breakfast, the change in Goriot&rsquo;s face, which as a rule, looked
      as expressionless as a plaster cast, and a few words that passed between
      the two, surprised the other lodgers. Vautrin, who saw Eugene for the
      first time since their interview, seemed as if he would fain read the
      student&rsquo;s very soul. During the night Eugene had had some time in which to
      scan the vast field which lay before him; and now, as he remembered
      yesterday&rsquo;s proposal, the thought of Mlle. Taillefer&rsquo;s dowry came, of
      course, to his mind, and he could not help thinking of Victorine as the
      most exemplary youth may think of an heiress. It chanced that their eyes
      met. The poor girl did not fail to see that Eugene looked very handsome in
      his new clothes. So much was said in the glance, thus exchanged, that
      Eugene could not doubt but that he was associated in her mind with the
      vague hopes that lie dormant in a girl&rsquo;s heart and gather round the first
      attractive newcomer. &ldquo;Eight hundred thousand francs!&rdquo; a voice cried in his
      ears, but suddenly he took refuge in the memories of yesterday evening,
      thinking that his extemporized passion for Mme. de Nucingen was a talisman
      that would preserve him from this temptation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They gave Rossini&rsquo;s <i>Barber of Seville</i> at the Italiens yesterday
      evening,&rdquo; he remarked. &ldquo;I never heard such delicious music. Good gracious!
      how lucky people are to have a box at the Italiens!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot drank in every word that Eugene let fall, and watched him as
      a dog watches his master&rsquo;s slightest movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You men are like fighting cocks,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer; &ldquo;you do what you
      like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did you get back?&rdquo; inquired Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I walked,&rdquo; answered Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my own part,&rdquo; remarked the tempter, &ldquo;I do not care about doing things
      by halves. If I want to enjoy myself that way, I should prefer to go in my
      carriage, sit in my own box, and do the thing comfortably. Everything or
      nothing; that is my motto.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And a good one, too,&rdquo; commented Mme. Vauquer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps you will see Mme. de Nucingen to-day,&rdquo; said Eugene, addressing
      Goriot in an undertone. &ldquo;She will welcome you with open arms, I am sure;
      she would want to ask you for all sorts of little details about me. I have
      found out that she will do anything in the world to be known by my cousin
      Mme. de Beauseant; don&rsquo;t forget to tell her that I love her too well not
      to think of trying to arrange this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac went at once to the Ecole de Droit. He had no mind to stay a
      moment longer than was necessary in that odious house. He wasted his time
      that day; he had fallen a victim to that fever of the brain that
      accompanies the too vivid hopes of youth. Vautrin&rsquo;s arguments had set him
      meditating on social life, and he was deep in these reflections when he
      happened on his friend Bianchon in the Jardin du Luxembourg.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What makes you look so solemn?&rdquo; said the medical student, putting an arm
      through Eugene&rsquo;s as they went towards the Palais.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am tormented by temptations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kind? There is a cure for temptation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yielding to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You laugh, but you don&rsquo;t know what it is all about. Have you read
      Rousseau?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you remember that he asks the reader somewhere what he would do if he
      could make a fortune by killing an old mandarin somewhere in China by mere
      force of wishing it, and without stirring from Paris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! I am at my thirty-third mandarin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seriously, though. Look here, suppose you were sure that you could do it,
      and had only to give a nod. Would you do it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he well stricken in years, this mandarin of yours? Pshaw! after all,
      young or old, paralytic, or well and sound, my word for it. ... Well,
      then. Hang it, no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a good fellow, Bianchon. But suppose you loved a woman well
      enough to lose your soul in hell for her, and that she wanted money for
      dresses and a carriage, and all her whims, in fact?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, here you are taking away my reason, and want me to reason!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Bianchon, I am mad; bring me to my senses. I have two sisters
      as beautiful and innocent as angels, and I want them to be happy. How am I
      to find two hundred thousand francs apiece for them in the next five
      years? Now and then in life, you see, you must play for heavy stakes, and
      it is no use wasting your luck on low play.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are only stating the problem that lies before every one at the
      outset of his life, and you want to cut the Gordian knot with a sword. If
      that is the way of it, dear boy, you must be an Alexander, or to the hulks
      you go. For my own part, I am quite contented with the little lot I mean
      to make for myself somewhere in the country, when I mean to step into my
      father&rsquo;s shoes and plod along. A man&rsquo;s affections are just as fully
      satisfied by the smallest circle as they can be by a vast circumference.
      Napoleon himself could only dine once, and he could not have more
      mistresses than a house student at the Capuchins. Happiness, old man,
      depends on what lies between the sole of your foot and the crown of your
      head; and whether it costs a million or a hundred louis, the actual amount
      of pleasure that you receive rests entirely with you, and is just exactly
      the same in any case. I am for letting that Chinaman live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, Bianchon; you have done me good. We will always be friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say,&rdquo; remarked the medical student, as they came to the end of a broad
      walk in the Jardin des Plantes, &ldquo;I saw the Michonneau and Poiret a few
      minutes ago on a bench chatting with a gentleman whom I used to see in
      last year&rsquo;s troubles hanging about the Chamber of Deputies; he seems to
      me, in fact, to be a detective dressed up like a decent retired tradesman.
      Let us keep an eye on that couple; I will tell you why some time.
      Good-bye; it is nearly four o&rsquo;clock, and I must be in to answer to my
      name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Eugene reached the lodging-house, he found Father Goriot waiting for
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; cried the old man, &ldquo;here is a letter from her. Pretty handwriting,
      eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene broke the seal and read:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;Sir,&mdash;I have heard from my father that you are fond of Italian
  music. I shall be delighted if you will do me the pleasure of
  accepting a seat in my box. La Fodor and Pellegrini will sing on
  Saturday, so I am sure that you will not refuse me. M. de Nucingen
  and I shall be pleased if you will dine with us; we shall be quite
  by ourselves. If you will come and be my escort, my husband will
  be glad to be relieved from his conjugal duties. Do not answer,
  but simply come.&mdash;Yours sincerely, D. DE N.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me see it,&rdquo; said Father Goriot, when Eugene had read the letter. &ldquo;You
      are going, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; he added, when he had smelled the writing-paper.
      &ldquo;How nice it smells! Her fingers have touched it, that is certain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A woman does not fling herself at a man&rsquo;s head in this way,&rdquo; the student
      was thinking. &ldquo;She wants to use me to bring back de Marsay; nothing but
      pique makes a woman do a thing like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Father Goriot, &ldquo;what are you thinking about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene did not know the fever or vanity that possessed some women in those
      days; how should he imagine that to open a door in the Faubourg
      Saint-Germain a banker&rsquo;s wife would go to almost any length. For the
      coterie of the Faubourg Saint-Germain was a charmed circle, and the women
      who moved in it were at that time the queens of society; and among the
      greatest of these <i>Dames du Petit-Chateau</i>, as they were called, were
      Mme. de Beauseant and her friends the Duchesse de Langeais and the
      Duchesse de Maufrigneause. Rastignac was alone in his ignorance of the
      frantic efforts made by women who lived in the Chausee-d&rsquo;Antin to enter
      this seventh heaven and shine among the brightest constellations of their
      sex. But his cautious disposition stood him in good stead, and kept his
      judgment cool, and the not altogether enviable power of imposing instead
      of accepting conditions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am going,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      So it was curiosity that drew him to Mme. de Nucingen; while, if she had
      treated him disdainfully, passion perhaps might have brought him to her
      feet. Still he waited almost impatiently for to-morrow, and the hour when
      he could go to her. There is almost as much charm for a young man in a
      first flirtation as there is in first love. The certainty of success is a
      source of happiness to which men do not confess, and all the charm of
      certain women lies in this. The desire of conquest springs no less from
      the easiness than from the difficulty of triumph, and every passion is
      excited or sustained by one or the other of these two motives which divide
      the empire of love. Perhaps this division is one result of the great
      question of temperaments; which, after all, dominates social life. The
      melancholic temperament may stand in need of the tonic of coquetry, while
      those of nervous or sanguine complexion withdraw if they meet with a too
      stubborn resistance. In other words, the lymphatic temperament is
      essentially despondent, and the rhapsodic is bilious.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene lingered over his toilette with an enjoyment of all its little
      details that is grateful to a young man&rsquo;s self-love, though he will not
      own to it for fear of being laughed at. He thought, as he arranged his
      hair, that a pretty woman&rsquo;s glances would wander through the dark curls.
      He indulged in childish tricks like any young girl dressing for a dance,
      and gazed complacently at his graceful figure while he smoothed out the
      creases of his coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are worse figures, that is certain,&rdquo; he said to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he went downstairs, just as the rest of the household were sitting
      down to dinner, and took with good humor the boisterous applause excited
      by his elegant appearance. The amazement with which any attention to dress
      is regarded in a lodging-house is a very characteristic trait. No one can
      put on a new coat but every one else must say his say about it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clk! clk! clk!&rdquo; cried Bianchon, making the sound with his tongue against
      the roof of his mouth, like a driver urging on a horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He holds himself like a duke and a peer of France,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going a-courting?&rdquo; inquired Mlle. Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cock-a-doodle-doo!&rdquo; cried the artist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My compliments to my lady your wife,&rdquo; from the <i>employe</i> at the
      Museum.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your wife; have you a wife?&rdquo; asked Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, in compartments, water-tight and floats, guaranteed fast color, all
      prices from twenty-five to forty sous, neat check patterns in the latest
      fashion and best taste, will wash, half-linen, half-cotton, half-wool; a
      certain cure for toothache and other complaints under the patronage of the
      Royal College of Physicians! children like it! a remedy for headache,
      indigestion, and all other diseases affecting the throat, eyes, and ears!&rdquo;
       cried Vautrin, with a comical imitation of the volubility of a quack at a
      fair. &ldquo;And how much shall we say for this marvel, gentlemen? Twopence? No.
      Nothing of the sort. All that is left in stock after supplying the Great
      Mogul. All the crowned heads of Europe, including the Gr-r-rand Duke of
      Baden, have been anxious to get a sight of it. Walk up! walk up!
      gentlemen! Pay at the desk as you go in! Strike up the music there!
      Brooum, la, la, trinn! la, la, boum! boum! Mister Clarinette, there you
      are out of tune!&rdquo; he added gruffly; &ldquo;I will rap your knuckles for you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Goodness! what an amusing man!&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer to Mme. Couture; &ldquo;I
      should never feel dull with him in the house.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This burlesque of Vautrin&rsquo;s was the signal for an outburst of merriment,
      and under cover of jokes and laughter Eugene caught a glance from Mlle.
      Taillefer; she had leaned over to say a few words in Mme. Couture&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The cab is at the door,&rdquo; announced Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where is he going to dine?&rdquo; asked Bianchon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With Madame la Baronne de Nucingen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. Goriot&rsquo;s daughter,&rdquo; said the law student.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this, all eyes turned to the old vermicelli maker; he was gazing at
      Eugene with something like envy in his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac reached the house in the Rue Saint-Lazare, one of those
      many-windowed houses with a mean-looking portico and slender columns,
      which are considered the thing in Paris, a typical banker&rsquo;s house,
      decorated in the most ostentatious fashion; the walls lined with stucco,
      the landings of marble mosaic. Mme. de Nucingen was sitting in a little
      drawing-room; the room was painted in the Italian fashion, and decorated
      like a restaurant. The Baroness seemed depressed. The effort that she made
      to hide her feelings aroused Eugene&rsquo;s interest; it was plain that she was
      not playing a part. He had expected a little flutter of excitement at his
      coming, and he found her dispirited and sad. The disappointment piqued his
      vanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My claim to your confidence is very small, madame,&rdquo; he said, after
      rallying her on her abstracted mood; &ldquo;but if I am in the way, please tell
      me so frankly; I count on your good faith.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, stay with me,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I shall be all alone if you go. Nucingen is
      dining in town, and I do not want to be alone; I want to be taken out of
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what is the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are the very last person whom I should tell,&rdquo; she exclaimed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I am connected in some way in this secret. I wonder what it is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps. Yet, no,&rdquo; she went on; &ldquo;it is a domestic quarrel, which ought to
      be buried in the depths of the heart. I am very unhappy; did I not tell
      you so the day before yesterday? Golden chains are the heaviest of all
      fetters.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When a woman tells a young man that she is very unhappy, and when the
      young man is clever, and well dressed, and has fifteen hundred francs
      lying idle in his pocket, he is sure to think as Eugene said, and he
      becomes a coxcomb.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can you have left to wish for?&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;You are young,
      beautiful, beloved, and rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not let us talk of my affairs,&rdquo; she said shaking her head mournfully.
      &ldquo;We will dine together <i>tete-a-tete</i>, and afterwards we will go to
      hear the most exquisite music. Am I to your taste?&rdquo; she went on, rising
      and displaying her gown of white cashmere, covered with Persian designs in
      the most superb taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish that you were altogether mine,&rdquo; said Eugene; &ldquo;you are charming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would have a forlorn piece of property,&rdquo; she said, smiling bitterly.
      &ldquo;There is nothing about me that betrays my wretchedness; and yet, in spite
      of appearances, I am in despair. I cannot sleep; my troubles have broken
      my night&rsquo;s rest; I shall grow ugly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! that is impossible,&rdquo; cried the law student; &ldquo;but I am curious to know
      what these troubles can be that a devoted love cannot efface.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! if I were to tell you about them, you would shun me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Your
      love for me is as yet only the conventional gallantry that men use to
      masquerade in; and, if you really loved me, you would be driven to
      despair. I must keep silence, you see. Let us talk of something else, for
      pity&rsquo;s sake,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Let me show you my rooms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; let us stay here,&rdquo; answered Eugene; he sat down on the sofa before
      the fire, and boldly took Mme. de Nucingen&rsquo;s hand in his. She surrendered
      it to him; he even felt the pressure of her fingers in one of the
      spasmodic clutches that betray terrible agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said Rastignac; &ldquo;if you are in trouble, you ought to tell me
      about it. I want to prove to you that I love you for yourself alone. You
      must speak to me frankly about your troubles, so that I can put an end to
      them, even if I have to kill half-a-dozen men; or I shall go, never to
      return.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; she cried, putting her hand to her forehead in an agony of
      despair, &ldquo;I will put you to the proof, and this very moment. Yes,&rdquo; she
      said to herself, &ldquo;I have no other resource left.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rang the bell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are the horses put in for the master?&rdquo; she asked of the servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall take his carriage myself. He can have mine and my horses. Serve
      dinner at seven o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, come with me,&rdquo; she said to Eugene, who thought as he sat in the
      banker&rsquo;s carriage beside Mme. de Nucingen that he must surely be dreaming.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the Palais-Royal,&rdquo; she said to the coachman; &ldquo;stop near the
      Theatre-Francais.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She seemed to be too troubled and excited to answer the innumerable
      questions that Eugene put to her. He was at a loss what to think of her
      mute resistance, her obstinate silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another moment and she will escape me,&rdquo; he said to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the carriage stopped at last, the Baroness gave the law student a
      glance that silenced his wild words, for he was almost beside himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it true that you love me?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he answered, and in his manner and tone there was no trace of the
      uneasiness that he felt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not think ill of me, will you, whatever I may ask of you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you ready to do my bidding?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blindly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you ever been to a gaming-house?&rdquo; she asked in a tremulous voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now I can breathe. You will have luck. Here is my purse,&rdquo; she said.
      &ldquo;Take it! there are a hundred francs in it, all that such a fortunate
      woman as I can call her own. Go up into one of the gaming-houses&mdash;I
      do not know where they are, but there are some near the Palais-Royal. Try
      your luck with the hundred francs at a game they call roulette; lose it
      all or bring me back six thousand francs. I will tell you about my
      troubles when you come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Devil take me, I&rsquo;m sure, if I have a glimmer of a notion of what I am
      about, but I will obey you,&rdquo; he added, with inward exultation, as he
      thought, &ldquo;She has gone too far to draw back&mdash;she can refuse me
      nothing now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene took the dainty little purse, inquired the way of a second-hand
      clothes-dealer, and hurried to number 9, which happened to be the nearest
      gaming-house. He mounted the staircase, surrendered his hat, and asked the
      way to the roulette-table, whither the attendant took him, not a little to
      the astonishment of the regular comers. All eyes were fixed on Eugene as
      he asked, without bashfulness, where he was to deposit his stakes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you put a louis on one only of those thirty-six numbers, and it turns
      up, you will win thirty-six louis,&rdquo; said a respectable-looking,
      white-haired old man in answer to his inquiry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene staked the whole of his money on the number 21 (his own age). There
      was a cry of surprise; before he knew what he had done, he had won.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take your money off, sir,&rdquo; said the old gentleman; &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t often win
      twice running by that system.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene took the rake that the old man handed to him, and drew in his three
      thousand six hundred francs, and, still perfectly ignorant of what he was
      about, staked again on the red. The bystanders watched him enviously as
      they saw him continue to play. The disc turned, and again he won; the
      banker threw him three thousand six hundred francs once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have seven thousand, two hundred francs of your own,&rdquo; the old
      gentleman said in his ear. &ldquo;Take my advice and go away with your winnings;
      red has turned up eight times already. If you are charitable, you will
      show your gratitude for sound counsel by giving a trifle to an old prefect
      of Napoleon who is down on his luck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac&rsquo;s head was swimming; he saw ten of his louis pass into the
      white-haired man&rsquo;s possession, and went down-stairs with his seven
      thousand francs; he was still ignorant of the game, and stupefied by his
      luck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, that is over; and now where will you take me?&rdquo; he asked, as soon as
      the door was closed, and he showed the seven thousand francs to Mme. de
      Nucingen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Delphine flung her arms about him, but there was no passion in that wild
      embrace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have saved me!&rdquo; she cried, and tears of joy flowed fast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you everything, my friend. For you will be my friend, will
      you not? I am rich, you think, very rich; I have everything I want, or I
      seem as if I had everything. Very well, you must know that M. de Nucingen
      does not allow me the control of a single penny; he pays all the bills for
      the house expenses; he pays for my carriages and opera box; he does not
      give me enough to pay for my dress, and he reduces me to poverty in secret
      on purpose. I am too proud to beg from him. I should be the vilest of
      women if I could take his money at the price at which he offers it. Do you
      ask how I, with seven hundred thousand francs of my own, could let myself
      be robbed? It is because I was proud, and scorned to speak. We are so
      young, so artless when our married life begins! I never could bring myself
      to ask my husband for money; the words would have made my lips bleed, I
      did not dare to ask; I spent my savings first, and then the money that my
      poor father gave me, then I ran into debt. Marriage for me is a hideous
      farce; I cannot talk about it, let it suffice to say that Nucingen and I
      have separate rooms, and that I would fling myself out of the window
      sooner than consent to any other manner of life. I suffered agonies when I
      had to confess to my girlish extravagance, my debts for jewelry and
      trifles (for our poor father had never refused us anything, and spoiled
      us), but at last I found courage to tell him about them. After all, I had
      a fortune of my own. Nucingen flew into a rage; he said that I should be
      the ruin of him, and used frightful language! I wished myself a hundred
      feet down in the earth. He had my dowry, so he paid my debts, but he
      stipulated at the same time that my expenses in future must not exceed a
      certain fixed sum, and I gave way for the sake of peace. And then,&rdquo; she
      went on, &ldquo;I wanted to gratify the self-love of some one whom you know. He
      may have deceived me, but I should do him the justice to say that there
      was nothing petty in his character. But, after all, he threw me over
      disgracefully. If, at a woman&rsquo;s utmost need, <i>somebody</i> heaps gold
      upon her, he ought never to forsake her; that love should last for ever!
      But you, at one-and-twenty, you, the soul of honor, with the unsullied
      conscience of youth, will ask me how a woman can bring herself to accept
      money in such a way? <i>Mon Dieu</i>! is it not natural to share
      everything with the one to whom we owe our happiness? When all has been
      given, why should we pause and hesitate over a part? Money is as nothing
      between us until the moment when the sentiment that bound us together
      ceases to exist. Were we not bound to each other for life? Who that
      believes in love foresees such an end to love? You swear to love us
      eternally; how, then, can our interests be separate?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not know how I suffered to-day when Nucingen refused to give me
      six thousand francs; he spends as much as that every month on his
      mistress, an opera dancer! I thought of killing myself. The wildest
      thoughts came into my head. There have been moments in my life when I have
      envied my servants, and would have changed places with my maid. It was
      madness to think of going to our father, Anastasie and I have bled him
      dry; our poor father would have sold himself if he could have raised six
      thousand francs that way. I should have driven him frantic to no purpose.
      You have saved me from shame and death; I was beside myself with anguish.
      Ah! monsieur, I owed you this explanation after my mad ravings. When you
      left me just now, as soon as you were out of sight, I longed to escape, to
      run away... where, I did not know. Half the women in Paris lead such lives
      as mine; they live in apparent luxury, and in their souls are tormented by
      anxiety. I know of poor creatures even more miserable than I; there are
      women who are driven to ask their tradespeople to make out false bills,
      women who rob their husbands. Some men believe that an Indian shawl worth
      a thousand louis only cost five hundred francs, others that a shawl
      costing five hundred francs is worth a hundred louis. There are women,
      too, with narrow incomes, who scrape and save and starve their children to
      pay for a dress. I am innocent of these base meannesses. But this is the
      last extremity of my torture. Some women will sell themselves to their
      husbands, and so obtain their way, but I, at any rate, am free. If I
      chose, Nucingen would cover me with gold, but I would rather weep on the
      breast of a man whom I can respect. Ah! tonight, M. de Marsay will no
      longer have a right to think of me as a woman whom he has paid.&rdquo; She tried
      to conceal her tears from him, hiding her face in her hands; Eugene drew
      them away and looked at her; she seemed to him sublime at that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is hideous, is it not,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;to speak in a breath of money and
      affection. You cannot love me after this,&rdquo; she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      The incongruity between the ideas of honor which make women so great, and
      the errors in conduct which are forced upon them by the constitution of
      society, had thrown Eugene&rsquo;s thoughts into confusion; he uttered soothing
      and consoling words, and wondered at the beautiful woman before him, and
      at the artless imprudence of her cry of pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not remember this against me?&rdquo; she asked; &ldquo;promise me that you
      will not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! madame, I am incapable of doing so,&rdquo; he said. She took his hand and
      held it to her heart, a movement full of grace that expressed her deep
      gratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am free and happy once more, thanks to you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Oh! I have felt
      lately as if I were in the grasp of an iron hand. But after this I mean to
      live simply and to spend nothing. You will think me just as pretty, will
      you not, my friend? Keep this,&rdquo; she went on, as she took only six of the
      banknotes. &ldquo;In conscience I owe you a thousand crowns, for I really ought
      to go halves with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene&rsquo;s maiden conscience resisted; but when the Baroness said, &ldquo;I am
      bound to look on you as an accomplice or as an enemy,&rdquo; he took the money.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall be a last stake in reserve,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in case of misfortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was what I was dreading to hear,&rdquo; she cried, turning pale. &ldquo;Oh, if
      you would that I should be anything to you, swear to me that you will
      never re-enter a gaming-house. Great Heaven! that I should corrupt you! I
      should die of sorrow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had reached the Rue Saint-Lazare by this time. The contrast between
      the ostentation of wealth in the house, and the wretched condition of its
      mistress, dazed the student; and Vautrin&rsquo;s cynical words began to ring in
      his ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seat yourself there,&rdquo; said the Baroness, pointing to a low chair beside
      the fire. &ldquo;I have a difficult letter to write,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Tell me what
      to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say nothing,&rdquo; Eugene answered her. &ldquo;Put the bills in an envelope, direct
      it, and send it by your maid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you are a love of a man,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Ah! see what it is to have been
      well brought up. That is the Beauseant through and through,&rdquo; she went on,
      smiling at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is charming,&rdquo; thought Eugene, more and more in love. He looked round
      him at the room; there was an ostentatious character about the luxury, a
      meretricious taste in the splendor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like it?&rdquo; she asked, as she rang for the maid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Therese, take this to M. de Marsay, and give it into his hands yourself.
      If he is not at home, bring the letter back to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Therese went, but not before she had given Eugene a spiteful glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner was announced. Rastignac gave his arm to Mme. de Nucingen, she led
      the way into a pretty dining-room, and again he saw the luxury of the
      table which he had admired in his cousin&rsquo;s house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come and dine with me on opera evenings, and we will go to the Italiens
      afterwards,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should soon grow used to the pleasant life if it could last, but I am a
      poor student, and I have my way to make.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! you will succeed,&rdquo; she said laughing. &ldquo;You will see. All that you
      wish will come to pass. <i>I</i> did not expect to be so happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is the wont of women to prove the impossible by the possible, and to
      annihilate facts by presentiments. When Mme. de Nucingen and Rastignac
      took their places in her box at the Bouffons, her face wore a look of
      happiness that made her so lovely that every one indulged in those small
      slanders against which women are defenceless; for the scandal that is
      uttered lightly is often seriously believed. Those who know Paris, believe
      nothing that is said, and say nothing of what is done there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene took the Baroness&rsquo; hand in his, and by some light pressure of the
      fingers, or a closer grasp of the hand, they found a language in which to
      express the sensations which the music gave them. It was an evening of
      intoxicating delight for both; and when it ended, and they went out
      together, Mme. de Nucingen insisted on taking Eugene with her as far as
      the Pont Neuf, he disputing with her the whole of the way for a single
      kiss after all those that she had showered upon him so passionately at the
      Palais-Royal; Eugene reproached her with inconsistency.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was gratitude,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;for devotion that I did not dare to hope
      for, but now it would be a promise.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And will you give me no promise, ingrate?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He grew vexed. Then, with one of those impatient gestures that fill a
      lover with ecstasy, she gave him her hand to kiss, and he took it with a
      discontented air that delighted her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall see you at the ball on Monday,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Eugene went home in the moonlight, he fell to serious reflections. He
      was satisfied, and yet dissatisfied. He was pleased with an adventure
      which would probably give him his desire, for in the end one of the
      prettiest and best-dressed women in Paris would be his; but, as a set-off,
      he saw his hopes of fortune brought to nothing; and as soon as he realized
      this fact, the vague thoughts of yesterday evening began to take a more
      decided shape in his mind. A check is sure to reveal to us the strength of
      our hopes. The more Eugene learned of the pleasures of life in Paris, the
      more impatient he felt of poverty and obscurity. He crumpled the banknote
      in his pocket, and found any quantity of plausible excuses for
      appropriating it.
    </p>
    <p>
      He reached the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve at last, and from the stairhead
      he saw a light in Goriot&rsquo;s room; the old man had lighted a candle, and set
      the door ajar, lest the student should pass him by, and go to his room
      without &ldquo;telling him all about his daughter,&rdquo; to use his own expression.
      Eugene, accordingly, told him everything without reserve.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then they think that I am ruined!&rdquo; cried Father Goriot, in an agony of
      jealousy and desperation. &ldquo;Why, I have still thirteen hundred livres a
      year! <i>Mon Dieu!</i> Poor little girl! why did she not come to me? I
      would have sold my rentes; she should have had some of the principal, and
      I would have bought a life-annuity with the rest. My good neighbor, why
      did not <i>you</i> come to tell me of her difficulty? How had you the
      heart to go and risk her poor little hundred francs at play? This is
      heart-breaking work. You see what it is to have sons-in-law. Oh! if I had
      hold of them, I would wring their necks. <i>Mon Dieu! crying!</i> Did you
      say she was crying?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With her head on my waistcoat,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! give it to me,&rdquo; said Father Goriot. &ldquo;What! my daughter&rsquo;s tears have
      fallen there&mdash;my darling Delphine, who never used to cry when she was
      a little girl! Oh! I will buy you another; do not wear it again; let me
      have it. By the terms of her marriage-contract, she ought to have the use
      of her property. To-morrow morning I will go and see Derville; he is an
      attorney. I will demand that her money should be invested in her own name.
      I know the law. I am an old wolf, I will show my teeth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, father; this is a banknote for a thousand francs that she wanted me
      to keep out of our winnings. Keep them for her, in the pocket of the
      waistcoat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Goriot looked hard at Eugene, reached out and took the law student&rsquo;s hand,
      and Eugene felt a tear fall on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will succeed,&rdquo; the old man said. &ldquo;God is just, you see. I know an
      honest man when I see him, and I can tell you, there are not many men like
      you. I am to have another dear child in you, am I? There, go to sleep; you
      can sleep; you are not yet a father. She was crying! and I have to be told
      about it!&mdash;and I was quietly eating my dinner, like an idiot, all the
      time&mdash;I, who would sell the Father, Son and Holy Ghost to save one
      tear to either of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An honest man!&rdquo; said Eugene to himself as he lay down. &ldquo;Upon my word, I
      think I will be an honest man all my life; it is so pleasant to obey the
      voice of conscience.&rdquo; Perhaps none but believers in God do good in secret;
      and Eugene believed in a God.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day Rastignac went at the appointed time to Mme. de Beauseant,
      who took him with her to the Duchesse de Carigliano&rsquo;s ball. The Marechale
      received Eugene most graciously. Mme. de Nucingen was there. Delphine&rsquo;s
      dress seemed to suggest that she wished for the admiration of others, so
      that she might shine the more in Eugene&rsquo;s eyes; she was eagerly expecting
      a glance from him, hiding, as she thought, this eagerness from all
      beholders. This moment is full of charm for one who can guess all that
      passes in a woman&rsquo;s mind. Who has not refrained from giving his opinion,
      to prolong her suspense, concealing his pleasure from a desire to
      tantalize, seeking a confession of love in her uneasiness, enjoying the
      fears that he can dissipate by a smile? In the course of the evening the
      law student suddenly comprehended his position; he saw that, as the cousin
      of Mme. de Beauseant, he was a personage in this world. He was already
      credited with the conquest of Mme. de Nucingen, and for this reason was a
      conspicuous figure; he caught the envious glances of other young men, and
      experienced the earliest pleasures of coxcombry. People wondered at his
      luck, and scraps of these conversations came to his ears as he went from
      room to room; all the women prophesied his success; and Delphine, in her
      dread of losing him, promised that this evening she would not refuse the
      kiss that all his entreaties could scarcely win yesterday.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac received several invitations. His cousin presented him to other
      women who were present; women who could claim to be of the highest
      fashion; whose houses were looked upon as pleasant; and this was the
      loftiest and most fashionable society in Paris into which he was launched.
      So this evening had all the charm of a brilliant debut; it was an evening
      that he was to remember even in old age, as a woman looks back upon her
      first ball and the memories of her girlish triumphs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning, at breakfast, he related the story of his success for
      the benefit of Father Goriot and the lodgers. Vautrin began to smile in a
      diabolical fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you suppose,&rdquo; cried that cold-blooded logician, &ldquo;that a young man
      of fashion can live here in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, in the Maison
      Vauquer&mdash;an exceedingly respectable boarding-house in every way, I
      grant you, but an establishment that, none the less, falls short of being
      fashionable? The house is comfortable, it is lordly in its abundance; it
      is proud to be the temporary abode of a Rastignac; but, after all, it is
      in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, and luxury would be out of place here,
      where we only aim at the purely <i>patriarchalorama</i>. If you mean to
      cut a figure in Paris, my young friend,&rdquo; Vautrin continued, with
      half-paternal jocularity, &ldquo;you must have three horses, a tilbury for the
      mornings, and a closed carriage for the evening; you should spend
      altogether about nine thousand francs on your stables. You would show
      yourself unworthy of your destiny if you spent no more than three thousand
      francs with your tailor, six hundred in perfumery, a hundred crowns to
      your shoemaker, and a hundred more to your hatter. As for your laundress,
      there goes another thousand francs; a young man of fashion must of
      necessity make a great point of his linen; if your linen comes up to the
      required standard, people often do not look any further. Love and the
      Church demand a fair altar-cloth. That is fourteen thousand francs. I am
      saying nothing of losses at play, bets, and presents; it is impossible to
      allow less than two thousand francs for pocket money. I have led that sort
      of life, and I know all about these expenses. Add the cost of necessaries
      next; three hundred louis for provender, a thousand francs for a place to
      roost in. Well, my boy, for all these little wants of ours we had need to
      have twenty-five thousand francs every year in our purse, or we shall find
      ourselves in the kennel, and people laughing at us, and our career is cut
      short, good-bye to success, and good-bye to your mistress! I am forgetting
      your valet and your groom! Is Christophe going to carry your <i>billets-doux</i>
      for you? Do you mean to employ the stationery you use at present? Suicidal
      policy! Hearken to the wisdom of your elders!&rdquo; he went on, his bass voice
      growing louder at each syllable. &ldquo;Either take up your quarters in a
      garret, live virtuously, and wed your work, or set about the thing in a
      different way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin winked and leered in the direction of Mlle. Taillefer to enforce
      his remarks by a look which recalled the late tempting proposals by which
      he had sought to corrupt the student&rsquo;s mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Several days went by, and Rastignac lived in a whirl of gaiety. He dined
      almost every day with Mme. de Nucingen, and went wherever she went, only
      returning to the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve in the small hours. He rose at
      mid-day, and dressed to go into the Bois with Delphine if the day was
      fine, squandering in this way time that was worth far more than he knew.
      He turned as eagerly to learn the lessons of luxury, and was as quick to
      feel its fascination, as the flowers of the date palm to receive the
      fertilizing pollen. He played high, lost and won large sums of money, and
      at last became accustomed to the extravagant life that young men lead in
      Paris. He sent fifteen hundred francs out of his first winnings to his
      mother and sisters, sending handsome presents as well as the money. He had
      given out that he meant to leave the Maison Vauquer; but January came and
      went, and he was still there, still unprepared to go.
    </p>
    <p>
      One rule holds good of most young men&mdash;whether rich or poor. They
      never have money for the necessaries of life, but they have always money
      to spare for their caprices&mdash;an anomaly which finds its explanation
      in their youth and in the almost frantic eagerness with which youth grasps
      at pleasure. They are reckless with anything obtained on credit, while
      everything for which they must pay in ready money is made to last as long
      as possible; if they cannot have all that they want, they make up for it,
      it would seem, by squandering what they have. To state the matter simply&mdash;a
      student is far more careful of his hat than of his coat, because the
      latter being a comparatively costly article of dress, it is in the nature
      of things that a tailor should be a creditor; but it is otherwise with the
      hatter; the sums of money spent with him are so modest, that he is the
      most independent and unmanageable of his tribe, and it is almost
      impossible to bring him to terms. The young man in the balcony of a
      theatre who displays a gorgeous waistcoat for the benefit of the fair
      owners of opera glasses, has very probably no socks in his wardrobe, for
      the hosier is another of the genus of weevils that nibble at the purse.
      This was Rastignac&rsquo;s condition. His purse was always empty for Mme.
      Vauquer, always full at the demand of vanity; there was a periodical ebb
      and flow in his fortunes, which was seldom favorable to the payment of
      just debts. If he was to leave that unsavory and mean abode, where from
      time to time his pretensions met with humiliation, the first step was to
      pay his hostess for a month&rsquo;s board and lodging, and the second to
      purchase furniture worthy of the new lodgings he must take in his quality
      of dandy, a course that remained impossible. Rastignac, out of his
      winnings at cards, would pay his jeweler exorbitant prices for gold
      watches and chains, and then, to meet the exigencies of play, would carry
      them to the pawnbroker, that discreet and forbidding-looking friend of
      youth; but when it was a question of paying for board or lodging, or for
      the necessary implements for the cultivation of his Elysian fields, his
      imagination and pluck alike deserted him. There was no inspiration to be
      found in vulgar necessity, in debts contracted for past requirements. Like
      most of those who trust to their luck, he put off till the last moment the
      payment of debts that among the bourgeoisie are regarded as sacred
      engagements, acting on the plan of Mirabeau, who never settled his baker&rsquo;s
      bill until it underwent a formidable transformation into a bill of
      exchange.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about this time when Rastignac was down on his luck and fell into
      debt, that it became clear to the law student&rsquo;s mind that he must have
      some more certain source of income if he meant to live as he had been
      doing. But while he groaned over the thorny problems of his precarious
      situation, he felt that he could not bring himself to renounce the
      pleasures of this extravagant life, and decided that he must continue it
      at all costs. His dreams of obtaining a fortune appeared more and more
      chimerical, and the real obstacles grew more formidable. His initiation
      into the secrets of the Nucingen household had revealed to him that if he
      were to attempt to use this love affair as a means of mending his
      fortunes, he must swallow down all sense of decency, and renounce all the
      generous ideas which redeem the sins of youth. He had chosen this life of
      apparent splendor, but secretly gnawed by the canker worm of remorse, a
      life of fleeting pleasure dearly paid for by persistent pain; like <i>Le
      Distrait</i> of La Bruyere, he had descended so far as to make his bed in
      a ditch; but (also like <i>Le Distrait</i>) he himself was uncontaminated
      as yet by the mire that stained his garments.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So we have killed our mandarin, have we?&rdquo; said Bianchon one day as they
      left the dinner table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not yet,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;but he is at his last gasp.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The medical student took this for a joke, but it was not a jest. Eugene
      had dined in the house that night for the first time for a long while, and
      had looked thoughtful during the meal. He had taken his place beside Mlle.
      Taillefer, and stayed through the dessert, giving his neighbor an
      expressive glance from time to time. A few of the boarders discussed the
      walnuts at the table, and others walked about the room, still taking part
      in the conversation which had begun among them. People usually went when
      they chose; the amount of time that they lingered being determined by the
      amount of interest that the conversation possessed for them, or by the
      difficulty of the process of digestion. In winter-time the room was seldom
      empty before eight o&rsquo;clock, when the four women had it all to themselves,
      and made up for the silence previously imposed upon them by the
      preponderating masculine element. This evening Vautrin had noticed
      Eugene&rsquo;s abstractedness, and stayed in the room, though he had seemed to
      be in a hurry to finish his dinner and go. All through the talk afterwards
      he had kept out of the sight of the law student, who quite believed that
      Vautrin had left the room. He now took up his position cunningly in the
      sitting-room instead of going when the last boarders went. He had fathomed
      the young man&rsquo;s thoughts, and felt that a crisis was at hand. Rastignac
      was, in fact, in a dilemma, which many another young man must have known.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Nucingen might love him, or might merely be playing with him, but
      in either case Rastignac had been made to experience all the alternations
      of hope and despair of genuine passion, and all the diplomatic arts of a
      Parisienne had been employed on him. After compromising herself by
      continually appearing in public with Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s cousin she still
      hesitated, and would not give him the lover&rsquo;s privileges which he appeared
      to enjoy. For a whole month she had so wrought on his senses, that at last
      she had made an impression on his heart. If in the earliest days the
      student had fancied himself to be master, Mme. de Nucingen had since
      become the stronger of the two, for she had skilfully roused and played
      upon every instinct, good or bad, in the two or three men comprised in a
      young student in Paris. This was not the result of deep design on her
      part, nor was she playing a part, for women are in a manner true to
      themselves even through their grossest deceit, because their actions are
      prompted by a natural impulse. It may have been that Delphine, who had
      allowed this young man to gain such an ascendency over her, conscious that
      she had been too demonstrative, was obeying a sentiment of dignity, and
      either repented of her concessions, or it pleased her to suspend them. It
      is so natural to a Parisienne, even when passion has almost mastered her,
      to hesitate and pause before taking the plunge; to probe the heart of him
      to whom she intrusts her future. And once already Mme. de Nucingen&rsquo;s hopes
      had been betrayed, and her loyalty to a selfish young lover had been
      despised. She had good reason to be suspicious. Or it may have been that
      something in Eugene&rsquo;s manner (for his rapid success was making a coxcomb
      of him) had warned her that the grotesque nature of their position had
      lowered her somewhat in his eyes. She doubtless wished to assert her
      dignity; he was young, and she would be great in his eyes; for the lover
      who had forsaken her had held her so cheap that she was determined that
      Eugene should not think her an easy conquest, and for this very reason&mdash;he
      knew that de Marsay had been his predecessor. Finally, after the
      degradation of submission to the pleasure of a heartless young rake, it
      was so sweet to her to wander in the flower-strewn realms of love, that it
      was not wonderful that she should wish to dwell a while on the prospect,
      to tremble with the vibrations of love, to feel the freshness of the
      breath of its dawn. The true lover was suffering for the sins of the
      false. This inconsistency is unfortunately only to be expected so long as
      men do not know how many flowers are mown down in a young woman&rsquo;s soul by
      the first stroke of treachery.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever her reasons may have been, Delphine was playing with Rastignac,
      and took pleasure in playing with him, doubtless because she felt sure of
      his love, and confident that she could put an end to the torture as soon
      as it was her royal pleasure to do so. Eugene&rsquo;s self-love was engaged; he
      could not suffer his first passage of love to end in a defeat, and
      persisted in his suit like a sportsman determined to bring down at least
      one partridge to celebrate his first Feast of Saint-Hubert. The pressure
      of anxiety, his wounded self-love, his despair, real or feigned, drew him
      nearer and nearer to this woman. All Paris credited him with this
      conquest, and yet he was conscious that he had made no progress since the
      day when he saw Mme. de Nucingen for the first time. He did not know as
      yet that a woman&rsquo;s coquetry is sometimes more delightful than the pleasure
      of secure possession of her love, and was possessed with helpless rage.
      If, at this time, while she denied herself to love, Eugene gathered the
      springtide spoils of his life, the fruit, somewhat sharp and green, and
      dearly bought, was no less delicious to the taste. There were moments when
      he had not a sou in his pockets, and at such times he thought in spite of
      his conscience of Vautrin&rsquo;s offer and the possibility of fortune by a
      marriage with Mlle. Taillefer. Poverty would clamor so loudly that more
      than once he was on the point of yielding to the cunning temptations of
      the terrible sphinx, whose glance had so often exerted a strange spell
      over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Poiret and Mlle. Michonneau went up to their rooms; and Rastignac,
      thinking that he was alone with the women in the dining-room, sat between
      Mme. Vauquer and Mme. Couture, who was nodding over the woolen cuffs that
      she was knitting by the stove, and looked at Mlle. Taillefer so tenderly
      that she lowered her eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you be in trouble, M. Eugene?&rdquo; Victorine said after a pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who has not his troubles?&rdquo; answered Rastignac. &ldquo;If we men were sure of
      being loved, sure of a devotion which would be our reward for the
      sacrifices which we are always ready to make, then perhaps we should have
      no troubles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For answer Mlle. Taillefer only gave him a glance but it was impossible to
      mistake its meaning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, for instance, mademoiselle; you feel sure of your heart to-day, but
      are you sure that it will never change?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A smile flitted over the poor girl&rsquo;s lips; it seemed as if a ray of light
      from her soul had lighted up her face. Eugene was dismayed at the sudden
      explosion of feeling caused by his words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! but suppose,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that you should be rich and happy to-morrow,
      suppose that a vast fortune dropped down from the clouds for you, would
      you still love the man whom you loved in your days of poverty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A charming movement of the head was her only answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Even if he were very poor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again the same mute answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What nonsense are you talking, you two?&rdquo; exclaimed Mme. Vauquer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; answered Eugene; &ldquo;we understand each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So there is to be an engagement of marriage between M. le Chevalier
      Eugene de Rastignac and Mlle. Victorine Taillefer, is there?&rdquo; The words
      were uttered in Vautrin&rsquo;s deep voice, and Vautrin appeared at the door as
      he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! how you startled me!&rdquo; Mme. Couture and Mme. Vauquer exclaimed
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I might make a worse choice,&rdquo; said Rastignac, laughing. Vautrin&rsquo;s voice
      had thrown him into the most painful agitation that he had yet known.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No bad jokes, gentlemen!&rdquo; said Mme. Couture. &ldquo;My dear, let us go
      upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Vauquer followed the two ladies, meaning to pass the evening in their
      room, an arrangement that economized fire and candlelight. Eugene and
      Vautrin were left alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I felt sure you would come round to it,&rdquo; said the elder man with the
      coolness that nothing seemed to shake. &ldquo;But stay a moment! I have as much
      delicacy as anybody else. Don&rsquo;t make up your mind on the spur of the
      moment; you are a little thrown off your balance just now. You are in
      debt, and I want you to come over to my way of thinking after sober
      reflection, and not in a fit of passion or desperation. Perhaps you want a
      thousand crowns. There, you can have them if you like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tempter took out a pocketbook, and drew thence three banknotes, which
      he fluttered before the student&rsquo;s eyes. Eugene was in a most painful
      dilemma. He had debts, debts of honor. He owed a hundred louis to the
      Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda and to the Count de Trailles; he had not the money, and
      for this reason had not dared to go to Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s house, where he
      was expected that evening. It was one of those informal gatherings where
      tea and little cakes are handed round, but where it is possible to lose
      six thousand francs at whist in the course of a night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must see,&rdquo; said Eugene, struggling to hide a convulsive tremor, &ldquo;that
      after what has passed between us, I cannot possibly lay myself under any
      obligation to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite right; I should be sorry to hear you speak otherwise,&rdquo; answered the
      tempter. &ldquo;You are a fine young fellow, honorable, brave as a lion, and as
      gentle as a young girl. You would be a fine haul for the devil! I like
      youngsters of your sort. Get rid of one or two more prejudices, and you
      will see the world as it is. Make a little scene now and then, and act a
      virtuous part in it, and a man with a head on his shoulders can do exactly
      as he likes amid deafening applause from the fools in the gallery. Ah! a
      few days yet, and you will be with us; and if you would only be tutored by
      me, I would put you in the way of achieving all your ambitions. You should
      no sooner form a wish than it should be realized to the full; you should
      have all your desires&mdash;honors, wealth, or women. Civilization should
      flow with milk and honey for you. You should be our pet and favorite, our
      Benjamin. We would all work ourselves to death for you with pleasure;
      every obstacle should be removed from your path. You have a few prejudices
      left; so you think that I am a scoundrel, do you? Well, M. de Turenne,
      quite as honorable a man as you take yourself to be, had some little
      private transactions with bandits, and did not feel that his honor was
      tarnished. You would rather not lie under any obligation to me, eh? You
      need not draw back on that account,&rdquo; Vautrin went on, and a smile stole
      over his lips. &ldquo;Take these bits of paper and write across this,&rdquo; he added,
      producing a piece of stamped paper, &ldquo;<i>Accepted the sum of three thousand
      five hundred francs due this day twelvemonth</i>, and fill in the date.
      The rate of interest is stiff enough to silence any scruples on your part;
      it gives you the right to call me a Jew. You can call quits with me on the
      score of gratitude. I am quite willing that you should despise me to-day,
      because I am sure that you will have a kindlier feeling towards me later
      on. You will find out fathomless depths in my nature, enormous and
      concentrated forces that weaklings call vices, but you will never find me
      base or ungrateful. In short, I am neither a pawn nor a bishop, but a
      castle, a tower of strength, my boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What manner of man are you?&rdquo; cried Eugene. &ldquo;Were you created to torment
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why no; I am a good-natured fellow, who is willing to do a dirty piece of
      work to put you high and dry above the mire for the rest of your days. Do
      you ask the reason of this devotion? All right; I will tell you that some
      of these days. A word or two in your ear will explain it. I have begun by
      shocking you, by showing you the way to ring the changes, and giving you a
      sight of the mechanism of the social machine; but your first fright will
      go off like a conscript&rsquo;s terror on the battlefield. You will grow used to
      regarding men as common soldiers who have made up their minds to lose
      their lives for some self-constituted king. Times have altered strangely.
      Once you could say to a bravo, &lsquo;Here are a hundred crowns; go and kill
      Monsieur So-and-so for me,&rsquo; and you could sup quietly after turning some
      one off into the dark for the least thing in the world. But nowadays I
      propose to put you in the way of a handsome fortune; you have only to nod
      your head, it won&rsquo;t compromise you in any way, and you hesitate. &lsquo;Tis an
      effeminate age.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene accepted the draft, and received the banknotes in exchange for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well. Come, now, let us talk rationally,&rdquo; Vautrin continued. &ldquo;I
      mean to leave this country in a few months&rsquo; time for America, and set
      about planting tobacco. I will send you the cigars of friendship. If I
      make money at it, I will help you in your career. If I have no children&mdash;which
      will probably be the case, for I have no anxiety to raise slips of myself
      here&mdash;you shall inherit my fortune. That is what you may call
      standing by a man; but I myself have a liking for you. I have a mania,
      too, for devoting myself to some one else. I have done it before. You see,
      my boy, I live in a loftier sphere than other men do; I look on all
      actions as means to an end, and the end is all that I look at. What is a
      man&rsquo;s life to me? Not <i>that</i>,&rdquo; he said, and he snapped his thumb-nail
      against his teeth. &ldquo;A man, in short, is everything to me, or just nothing
      at all. Less than nothing if his name happens to be Poiret; you can crush
      him like a bug, he is flat and he is offensive. But a man is a god when he
      is like you; he is not a machine covered with a skin, but a theatre in
      which the greatest sentiments are displayed&mdash;great thoughts and
      feelings&mdash;and for these, and these only, I live. A sentiment&mdash;what
      is that but the whole world in a thought? Look at Father Goriot. For him,
      his two girls are the whole universe; they are the clue by which he finds
      his way through creation. Well, for my own part, I have fathomed the
      depths of life, there is only one real sentiment&mdash;comradeship between
      man and man. Pierre and Jaffier, that is my passion. I knew <i>Venice
      Preserved</i> by heart. Have you met many men plucky enough when a comrade
      says, &lsquo;Let us bury a dead body!&rsquo; to go and do it without a word or
      plaguing him by taking a high moral tone? I have done it myself. I should
      not talk like this to just everybody, but you are not like an ordinary
      man; one can talk to you, you can understand things. You will not dabble
      about much longer among the tadpoles in these swamps. Well, then, it is
      all settled. You will marry. Both of us carry our point. Mine is made of
      iron, and will never soften, he! he!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin went out. He would not wait to hear the student&rsquo;s repudiation, he
      wished to put Eugene at his ease. He seemed to understand the secret
      springs of the faint resistance still made by the younger man; the
      struggles in which men seek to preserve their self-respect by justifying
      their blameworthy actions to themselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He may do as he likes; I shall not marry Mlle. Taillefer, that is
      certain,&rdquo; said Eugene to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He regarded this man with abhorrence, and yet the very cynicism of
      Vautrin&rsquo;s ideas, and the audacious way in which he used other men for his
      own ends, raised him in the student&rsquo;s eyes; but the thought of a compact
      threw Eugene into a fever of apprehension, and not until he had recovered
      somewhat did he dress, call for a cab, and go to Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some days the Countess had paid more and more attention to a young man
      whose every step seemed a triumphal progress in the great world; it seemed
      to her that he might be a formidable power before long. He paid Messieurs
      de Trailles and d&rsquo;Ajuda, played at whist for part of the evening, and made
      good his losses. Most men who have their way to make are more or less of
      fatalists, and Eugene was superstitious; he chose to consider that his
      luck was heaven&rsquo;s reward for his perseverance in the right way. As soon as
      possible on the following morning he asked Vautrin whether the bill he had
      given was still in the other&rsquo;s possession; and on receiving a reply in the
      affirmative, he repaid the three thousand francs with a not unnatural
      relief.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything is going on well,&rdquo; said Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I am not your accomplice,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, I know,&rdquo; Vautrin broke in. &ldquo;You are still acting like a child.
      You are making mountains out of molehills at the outset.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two days later, Poiret and Mlle. Michonneau were sitting together on a
      bench in the sun. They had chosen a little frequented alley in the Jardin
      des Plantes, and a gentleman was chatting with them, the same person, as a
      matter of fact, about whom the medical student had, not without good
      reason, his own suspicions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle,&rdquo; this M. Gondureau was saying, &ldquo;I do not see any cause for
      your scruples. His Excellency, Monseigneur the Minister of Police&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, his Excellency is taking a personal interest in the matter,&rdquo; said
      Gondureau.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who would think it probable that Poiret, a retired clerk, doubtless
      possessed of some notions of civic virtue, though there might be nothing
      else in his head&mdash;who would think it likely that such a man would
      continue to lend an ear to this supposed independent gentleman of the Rue
      de Buffon, when the latter dropped the mask of a decent citizen by that
      word &ldquo;police,&rdquo; and gave a glimpse of the features of a detective from the
      Rue de Jerusalem? And yet nothing was more natural. Perhaps the following
      remarks from the hitherto unpublished records made by certain observers
      will throw a light on the particular species to which Poiret belonged in
      the great family of fools. There is a race of quill-drivers, confined in
      the columns of the budget between the first degree of latitude (a kind of
      administrative Greenland where the salaries begin at twelve hundred
      francs) to the third degree, a more temperate zone, where incomes grow
      from three to six thousand francs, a climate where the <i>bonus</i>
      flourishes like a half-hardy annual in spite of some difficulties of
      culture. A characteristic trait that best reveals the feeble
      narrow-mindedness of these inhabitants of petty officialdom is a kind of
      involuntary, mechanical, and instinctive reverence for the Grand Lama of
      every Ministry, known to the rank and file only by his signature (an
      illegible scrawl) and by his title&mdash;&ldquo;His Excellency Monseigneur le
      Ministre,&rdquo; five words which produce as much effect as the <i>il Bondo Cani</i>
      of the <i>Calife de Bagdad</i>, five words which in the eyes of this low
      order of intelligence represent a sacred power from which there is no
      appeal. The Minister is administratively infallible for the clerks in the
      employ of the Government, as the Pope is infallible for good Catholics.
      Something of this peculiar radiance invests everything he does or says, or
      that is said or done in his name; the robe of office covers everything and
      legalizes everything done by his orders; does not his very title&mdash;His
      Excellency&mdash;vouch for the purity of his intentions and the
      righteousness of his will, and serve as a sort of passport and
      introduction to ideas that otherwise would not be entertained for a
      moment? Pronounce the words &ldquo;His Excellency,&rdquo; and these poor folk will
      forthwith proceed to do what they would not do for their own interests.
      Passive obedience is as well known in a Government department as in the
      army itself; and the administrative system silences consciences,
      annihilates the individual, and ends (give it time enough) by fashioning a
      man into a vise or a thumbscrew, and he becomes part of the machinery of
      Government. Wherefore, M. Gondureau, who seemed to know something of human
      nature, recognized Poiret at once as one of those dupes of officialdom,
      and brought out for his benefit, at the proper moment, the <i>deus ex
      machina</i>, the magical words &ldquo;His Excellency,&rdquo; so as to dazzle Poiret
      just as he himself unmasked his batteries, for he took Poiret and the
      Michonneau for the male and female of the same species.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If his Excellency himself, his Excellency the Minister... Ah! that is
      quite another thing,&rdquo; said Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to be guided by this gentleman&rsquo;s opinion, and you hear what he
      says,&rdquo; said the man of independent means, addressing Mlle. Michonneau.
      &ldquo;Very well, his Excellency is at this moment absolutely certain that the
      so-called Vautrin, who lodges at the Maison Vauquer, is a convict who
      escaped from penal servitude at Toulon, where he is known by the nickname
      <i>Trompe-la-Mort</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trompe-la-Mort?&rdquo; said Pioret. &ldquo;Dear me, he is very lucky if he deserves
      that nickname.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes,&rdquo; said the detective. &ldquo;They call him so because he has been so
      lucky as not to lose his life in the very risky businesses that he has
      carried through. He is a dangerous man, you see! He has qualities that are
      out of the common; the thing he is wanted for, in fact, was a matter which
      gained him no end of credit with his own set&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then is he a man of honor?&rdquo; asked Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, according to his notions. He agreed to take another man&rsquo;s crime upon
      himself&mdash;a forgery committed by a very handsome young fellow that he
      had taken a great fancy to, a young Italian, a bit of a gambler, who has
      since gone into the army, where his conduct has been unexceptionable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But if his Excellency the Minister of Police is certain that M. Vautrin
      is this <i>Trompe-la-Mort</i>, why should he want me?&rdquo; asked Mlle.
      Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; said Poiret, &ldquo;if the Minister, as you have been so obliging as
      to tell us, really knows for a certainty&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainty is not the word; he only suspects. You will soon understand how
      things are. Jacques Collin, nicknamed <i>Trompe-la-Mort</i>, is in the
      confidence of every convict in the three prisons; he is their man of
      business and their banker. He makes a very good thing out of managing
      their affairs, which want a <i>man of mark</i> to see about them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! do you see the pun, mademoiselle?&rdquo; asked Poiret. &ldquo;This gentleman
      calls himself a <i>man of mark</i> because he is a <i>marked man</i>&mdash;branded,
      you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This so-called Vautrin,&rdquo; said the detective, &ldquo;receives the money
      belonging to my lords the convicts, invests it for them, and holds it at
      the disposal of those who escape, or hands it over to their families if
      they leave a will, or to their mistresses when they draw upon him for
      their benefit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their mistresses! You mean their wives,&rdquo; remarked Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir. A convict&rsquo;s wife is usually an illegitimate connection. We call
      them concubines.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then they all live in a state of concubinage?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, these are abominations that his Excellency ought not to allow. Since
      you have the honor of seeing his Excellency, you, who seem to have
      philanthropic ideas, ought really to enlighten him as to their immoral
      conduct&mdash;they are setting a shocking example to the rest of society.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the Government does not hold them up as models of all the virtues, my
      dear sir&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course not, sir; but still&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just let the gentleman say what he has to say, dearie,&rdquo; said Mlle.
      Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see how it is, mademoiselle,&rdquo; Gondureau continued. &ldquo;The Government
      may have the strongest reasons for getting this illicit hoard into its
      hands; it mounts up to something considerable, by all that we can make
      out. Trompe-la-Mort not only holds large sums for his friends the
      convicts, but he has other amounts which are paid over to him by the
      Society of the Ten Thousand&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten Thousand Thieves!&rdquo; cried Pioret in alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. The Society of the Ten Thousand is not an association of petty
      offenders, but of people who set about their work on a large scale&mdash;they
      won&rsquo;t touch a matter unless there are ten thousand francs in it. It is
      composed of the most distinguished of the men who are sent straight to the
      Assize Courts when they come up for trial. They know the Code too well to
      risk their necks when they are nabbed. Collin is their confidential agent
      and legal adviser. By means of the large sums of money at his disposal he
      has established a sort of detective system of his own; it is widespread
      and mysterious in its workings. We have had spies all about him for a
      twelvemonth, and yet we could not manage to fathom his games. His capital
      and his cleverness are at the service of vice and crime; this money
      furnishes the necessary funds for a regular army of blackguards in his pay
      who wage incessant war against society. If we can catch Trompe-la-Mort,
      and take possession of his funds, we should strike at the root of this
      evil. So this job is a kind of Government affair&mdash;a State secret&mdash;and
      likely to redound to the honor of those who bring the thing to a
      successful conclusion. You, sir, for instance, might very well be taken
      into a Government department again; they might make you secretary to a
      Commissary of Police; you could accept that post without prejudice to your
      retiring pension.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau interposed at this point with, &ldquo;What is there to hinder
      Trompe-la-Mort from making off with the money?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said the detective, &ldquo;a man is told off to follow him everywhere he
      goes, with orders to kill him if he were to rob the convicts. Then it is
      not quite as easy to make off with a lot of money as it is to run away
      with a young lady of family. Besides, Collin is not the sort of fellow to
      play such a trick; he would be disgraced, according to his notions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are quite right, sir,&rdquo; said Poiret, &ldquo;utterly disgraced he would be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But none of all this explains why you do not come and take him without
      more ado,&rdquo; remarked Mlle. Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, mademoiselle, I will explain&mdash;but,&rdquo; he added in her ear,
      &ldquo;keep your companion quiet, or I shall never have done. The old boy ought
      to pay people handsomely for listening to him.&mdash;Trompe-la-Mort, when
      he came back here,&rdquo; he went on aloud &ldquo;slipped into the skin of an honest
      man; he turned up disguised as a decent Parisian citizen, and took up his
      quarters in an unpretending lodging-house. He is cunning, that he is! You
      don&rsquo;t catch him napping. Then M. Vautrin is a man of consequence, who
      transacts a good deal of business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally,&rdquo; said Poiret to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And suppose that the Minister were to make a mistake and get hold of the
      real Vautrin, he would put every one&rsquo;s back up among the business men in
      Paris, and public opinion would be against him. M. le Prefet de Police is
      on slippery ground; he has enemies. They would take advantage of any
      mistake. There would be a fine outcry and fuss made by the Opposition, and
      he would be sent packing. We must set about this just as we did about the
      Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-Helene; if he had been the real
      Comte de Sainte-Helene, we should have been in the wrong box. We want to
      be quite sure what we are about.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman,&rdquo; said Mlle. Michonneau briskly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him,&rdquo; said the detective.
      &ldquo;I will tell you a secret&mdash;he does not like them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did agree to identify
      him for two thousand francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing simpler,&rdquo; said the stranger. &ldquo;I will send you a little bottle
      containing a dose that will send a rush of blood to the head; it will do
      him no harm whatever, but he will fall down as if he were in a fit. The
      drug can be put into wine or coffee; either will do equally well. You
      carry your man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not
      dying. As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the shoulder, and
      <i>presto!</i> the letters will appear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, that is just nothing at all,&rdquo; said Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, do you agree?&rdquo; said Gondureau, addressing the old maid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all,&rdquo; said Mlle.
      Michonneau; &ldquo;am I to have the two thousand francs all the same?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What will you give me then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five hundred francs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is such a thing to do for so little! It lies on your conscience just
      the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you,&rdquo; said Poiret, &ldquo;that mademoiselle has a great deal of
      conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable person, and very
      intelligent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now,&rdquo; Mlle. Michonneau went on, &ldquo;make it three thousand francs if
      he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at all if he is an ordinary man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Done!&rdquo; said Gondureau, &ldquo;but on the condition that the thing is settled
      to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a sly one,&rdquo; said the detective as he rose to his feet. &ldquo;Good-bye
      till to-morrow, then. And if you should want to see me in a hurry, go to
      the Petite Rue Saint-Anne at the bottom of the Cour de la Sainte-Chapelle.
      There is one door under the archway. Ask there for M. Gondureau.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bianchon, on his way back from Cuvier&rsquo;s lecture, overheard the
      sufficiently striking nickname of <i>Trompe-la-Mort</i>, and caught the
      celebrated chief detective&rsquo;s &ldquo;<i>Done!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t you close with him? It would be three hundred francs a year,&rdquo;
       said Poiret to Mlle. Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why didn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Why, it wants thinking over. Suppose that M.
      Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, perhaps we might do better for ourselves
      with him. Still, on the other hand, if you ask him for money, it would put
      him on his guard, and he is just the man to clear out without paying, and
      that would be an abominable sell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And suppose you did warn him,&rdquo; Poiret went on, &ldquo;didn&rsquo;t that gentleman say
      that he was closely watched? You would spoil everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anyhow,&rdquo; thought Mlle. Michonneau, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t abide him. He says nothing
      but disagreeable things to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you can do better than that,&rdquo; Poiret resumed. &ldquo;As that gentleman said
      (and he seemed to me to be a very good sort of man, besides being very
      well got up), it is an act of obedience to the laws to rid society of a
      criminal, however virtuous he may be. Once a thief, always a thief.
      Suppose he were to take it into his head to murder us all? The deuce! We
      should be guilty of manslaughter, and be the first to fall victims into
      the bargain!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau&rsquo;s musings did not permit her to listen very closely to
      the remarks that fell one by one from Poiret&rsquo;s lips like water dripping
      from a leaky tap. When once this elderly babbler began to talk, he would
      go on like clockwork unless Mlle. Michonneau stopped him. He started on
      some subject or other, and wandered on through parenthesis after
      parenthesis, till he came to regions as remote as possible from his
      premises without coming to any conclusions by the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the time they reached the Maison Vauquer he had tacked together a whole
      string of examples and quotations more or less irrelevant to the subject
      in hand, which led him to give a full account of his own deposition in the
      case of the Sieur Ragoulleau <i>versus</i> Dame Morin, when he had been
      summoned as a witness for the defence.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they entered the dining-room, Eugene de Rastignac was talking apart
      with Mlle. Taillefer; the conversation appeared to be of such thrilling
      interest that the pair never noticed the two older lodgers as they passed
      through the room. None of this was thrown away on Mlle. Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew how it would end,&rdquo; remarked that lady, addressing Poiret. &ldquo;They
      have been making eyes at each other in a heartrending way for a week
      past.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;So she was found guilty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mme. Morin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am talking about Mlle. Victorine,&rdquo; said Mlle, Michonneau, as she
      entered Poiret&rsquo;s room with an absent air, &ldquo;and you answer, &lsquo;Mme. Morin.&rsquo;
      Who may Mme. Morin be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can Mlle. Victorine be guilty of?&rdquo; demanded Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guilty of falling in love with M. Eugene de Rastignac and going further
      and further without knowing exactly where she is going, poor innocent!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That morning Mme. de Nucingen had driven Eugene to despair. In his own
      mind he had completely surrendered himself to Vautrin, and deliberately
      shut his eyes to the motive for the friendship which that extraordinary
      man professed for him, nor would he look to the consequences of such an
      alliance. Nothing short of a miracle could extricate him now out of the
      gulf into which he had walked an hour ago, when he exchanged vows in the
      softest whispers with Mlle. Taillefer. To Victorine it seemed as if she
      heard an angel&rsquo;s voice, that heaven was opening above her; the Maison
      Vauquer took strange and wonderful hues, like a stage fairy-palace. She
      loved and she was loved; at any rate, she believed that she was loved; and
      what woman would not likewise have believed after seeing Rastignac&rsquo;s face
      and listening to the tones of his voice during that hour snatched under
      the Argus eyes of the Maison Vauquer? He had trampled on his conscience;
      he knew that he was doing wrong, and did it deliberately; he had said to
      himself that a woman&rsquo;s happiness should atone for this venial sin. The
      energy of desperation had lent new beauty to his face; the lurid fire that
      burned in his heart shone from his eyes. Luckily for him, the miracle took
      place. Vautrin came in in high spirits, and at once read the hearts of
      these two young creatures whom he had brought together by the combinations
      of his infernal genius, but his deep voice broke in upon their bliss.
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;A charming girl is my Fanchette
      In her simplicity,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      he sang mockingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Victorine fled. Her heart was more full than it had ever been, but it was
      full of joy, and not of sorrow. Poor child! A pressure of the hand, the
      light touch of Rastignac&rsquo;s hair against her cheek, a word whispered in her
      ear so closely that she felt the student&rsquo;s warm breath on her, the
      pressure of a trembling arm about her waist, a kiss upon her throat&mdash;such
      had been her betrothal. The near neighborhood of the stout Sylvie, who
      might invade that glorified room at any moment, only made these first
      tokens of love more ardent, more eloquent, more entrancing than the
      noblest deeds done for love&rsquo;s sake in the most famous romances. This <i>plain-song</i>
      of love, to use the pretty expression of our forefathers, seemed almost
      criminal to the devout young girl who went to confession every fortnight.
      In that one hour she had poured out more of the treasures of her soul than
      she could give in later days of wealth and happiness, when her whole self
      followed the gift.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The thing is arranged,&rdquo; Vautrin said to Eugene, who remained. &ldquo;Our two
      dandies have fallen out. Everything was done in proper form. It is a
      matter of opinion. Our pigeon has insulted my hawk. They will meet
      to-morrow in the redoubt at Clignancourt. By half-past eight in the
      morning Mlle. Taillefer, calmly dipping her bread and butter in her coffee
      cup, will be sole heiress of her father&rsquo;s fortune and affections. A funny
      way of putting it, isn&rsquo;t it? Taillefer&rsquo;s youngster is an expert swordsman,
      and quite cocksure about it, but he will be bled; I have just invented a
      thrust for his benefit, a way of raising your sword point and driving it
      at the forehead. I must show you that thrust; it is an uncommonly handy
      thing to know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac heard him in dazed bewilderment; he could not find a word in
      reply. Just then Goriot came in, and Bianchon and a few of the boarders
      likewise appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is just as I intended.&rdquo; Vautrin said. &ldquo;You know quite well what you
      are about. Good, my little eaglet! You are born to command, you are
      strong, you stand firm on your feet, you are game! I respect you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made as though he would take Eugene&rsquo;s hand, but Rastignac hastily
      withdrew it, sank into a chair, and turned ghastly pale; it seemed to him
      that there was a sea of blood before his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! so we still have a few dubious tatters of the swaddling clothes of
      virtue about us!&rdquo; murmured Vautrin. &ldquo;But Papa Doliban has three millions;
      I know the amount of his fortune. Once have her dowry in your hands, and
      your character will be as white as the bride&rsquo;s white dress, even in your
      own eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac hesitated no longer. He made up his mind that he would go that
      evening to warn the Taillefers, father and son. But just as Vautrin left
      him, Father Goriot came up and said in his ear, &ldquo;You look melancholy, my
      boy; I will cheer you up. Come with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old vermicelli dealer lighted his dip at one of the lamps as he spoke.
      Eugene went with him, his curiosity had been aroused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go up to your room,&rdquo; the worthy soul remarked, when he had asked
      Sylvie for the law student&rsquo;s key. &ldquo;This morning,&rdquo; he resumed, &ldquo;you thought
      that <i>she</i> did not care about you, did you not? Eh? She would have
      nothing to say to you, and you went away out of humor and out of heart.
      Stuff and rubbish! She wanted you to go because she was expecting <i>me</i>!
      Now do you understand? We were to complete the arrangements for taking
      some chambers for you, a jewel of a place, you are to move into it in
      three days&rsquo; time. Don&rsquo;t split upon me. She wants it to be a surprise; but
      I couldn&rsquo;t bear to keep the secret from you. You will be in the Rue
      d&rsquo;Artois, only a step or two from the Rue Saint-Lazare, and you are to be
      housed like a prince! Any one might have thought we were furnishing the
      house for a bride. Oh! we have done a lot of things in the last month, and
      you knew nothing about it. My attorney has appeared on the scene, and my
      daughter is to have thirty-six thousand francs a year, the interest on her
      money, and I shall insist on having her eight hundred thousand invested in
      sound securities, landed property that won&rsquo;t run away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was dumb. He folded his arms and paced up and down in his
      cheerless, untidy room. Father Goriot waited till the student&rsquo;s back was
      turned, and seized the opportunity to go to the chimney-piece and set upon
      it a little red morocco case with Rastignac&rsquo;s arms stamped in gold on the
      leather.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear boy,&rdquo; said the kind soul, &ldquo;I have been up to the eyes in this
      business. You see, there was plenty of selfishness on my part; I have an
      interested motive in helping you to change lodgings. You will not refuse
      me if I ask you something; will you, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a room on the fifth floor, up above your rooms, that is to let
      along with them; that is where I am going to live, isn&rsquo;t that so? I am
      getting old: I am too far from my girls. I shall not be in the way, but I
      shall be there, that is all. You will come and talk to me about her every
      evening. It will not put you about, will it? I shall have gone to bed
      before you come in, but I shall hear you come up, and I shall say to
      myself, &lsquo;He has just seen my little Delphine. He has been to a dance with
      her, and she is happy, thanks to him.&rsquo; If I were ill, it would do my heart
      good to hear you moving about below, to know when you leave the house and
      when you come in. It is only a step to the Champs-Elysees, where they go
      every day, so I shall be sure of seeing them, whereas now I am sometimes
      too late. And then&mdash;perhaps she may come to see you! I shall hear
      her, I shall see her in her soft quilted pelisse tripping about as
      daintily as a kitten. In this one month she has become my little girl
      again, so light-hearted and gay. Her soul is recovering, and her happiness
      is owing to you! Oh! I would do impossibilities for you. Only just now she
      said to me, &lsquo;I am very happy, papa!&rsquo; When they say &lsquo;father&rsquo; stiffly, it
      sends a chill through me; but when they call me &lsquo;papa,&rsquo; it brings all the
      old memories back. I feel most their father then; I even believe that they
      belong to me, and to no one else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good man wiped his eyes, he was crying.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a long while since I have heard them talk like that, a long, long
      time since she took my arm as she did to-day. Yes, indeed, it must be
      quite ten years since I walked side by side with one of my girls. How
      pleasant it was to keep step with her, to feel the touch of her gown, the
      warmth of her arm! Well, I took Delphine everywhere this morning; I went
      shopping with her, and I brought her home again. Oh! you must let me live
      near you. You may want some one to do you a service some of these days,
      and I shall be on the spot to do it. Oh! if only that great dolt of an
      Alsatian would die, if his gout would have the sense to attack his
      stomach, how happy my poor child would be! You would be my son-in-law; you
      would be her husband in the eyes of the world. Bah! she has known no
      happiness, that excuses everything. Our Father in heaven is surely on the
      side of fathers on earth who love their children. How fond of you she is!&rdquo;
       he said, raising his head after a pause. &ldquo;All the time we were going about
      together she chatted away about you. &lsquo;He is so nice-looking, papa; isn&rsquo;t
      he? He is kind-hearted! Does he talk to you about me?&rsquo; Pshaw! she said
      enough about you to fill whole volumes; between the Rue d&rsquo;Artois and the
      Passage des Panoramas she poured her heart out into mine. I did not feel
      old once during that delightful morning; I felt as light as a feather. I
      told her how you had given the banknote to me; it moved my darling to
      tears. But what can this be on your chimney-piece?&rdquo; said Father Goriot at
      last. Rastignac had showed no sign, and he was dying of impatience.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene stared at his neighbor in dumb and dazed bewilderment. He thought
      of Vautrin, of that duel to be fought to-morrow morning, and of this
      realization of his dearest hopes, and the violent contrast between the two
      sets of ideas gave him all the sensations of nightmare. He went to the
      chimney-piece, saw the little square case, opened it, and found a watch of
      Breguet&rsquo;s make wrapped in paper, on which these words were written:
    </p>
<pre>
  &ldquo;I want you to think of me every hour, <i>because</i>...

                                          &ldquo;DELPHINE.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      That last word doubtless contained an allusion to some scene that had
      taken place between them. Eugene felt touched. Inside the gold watch-case
      his arms had been wrought in enamel. The chain, the key, the workmanship
      and design of the trinket were all such as he had imagined, for he had
      long coveted such a possession. Father Goriot was radiant. Of course he
      had promised to tell his daughter every little detail of the scene and of
      the effect produced upon Eugene by her present; he shared in the pleasure
      and excitement of the young people, and seemed to be not the least happy
      of the three. He loved Rastignac already for his own as well as for his
      daughter&rsquo;s sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must go and see her; she is expecting you this evening. That great
      lout of an Alsatian is going to have supper with his opera-dancer. Aha! he
      looked very foolish when my attorney let him know where he was. He says he
      idolizes my daughter, does he? He had better let her alone, or I will kill
      him. To think that my Delphine is his&rdquo;&mdash;he heaved a sigh&mdash;&ldquo;it is
      enough to make me murder him, but it would not be manslaughter to kill
      that animal; he is a pig with a calf&rsquo;s brains.&mdash;You will take me with
      you, will you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear Father Goriot; you know very well how fond I am of you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do know very well. You are not ashamed of me, are you? Not you!
      Let me embrace you,&rdquo; and he flung his arms around the student&rsquo;s neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will make her very happy; promise me that you will! You will go to
      her this evening, will you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! yes. I must go out; I have some urgent business on hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I be of any use?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My word, yes! Will you go to old Taillefer&rsquo;s while I go to Mme. de
      Nucingen? Ask him to make an appointment with me some time this evening;
      it is a matter of life and death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, young man!&rdquo; cried Father Goriot, with a change of countenance;
      &ldquo;are you really paying court to his daughter, as those simpletons were
      saying down below?... <i>Tonnerre de dieu!</i> you have no notion what a
      tap <i>a la Goriot</i> is like, and if you are playing a double game, I
      shall put a stop to it by one blow of the fist... Oh! the thing is
      impossible!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear to you that I love but one woman in the world,&rdquo; said the student.
      &ldquo;I only knew it a moment ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! what happiness!&rdquo; cried Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But young Taillefer has been called out; the duel comes off to-morrow
      morning, and I have heard it said that he may lose his life in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what business is it of yours?&rdquo; said Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I ought to tell him so, that he may prevent his son from putting in
      an appearance&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just at that moment Vautrin&rsquo;s voice broke in upon them; he was standing at
      the threshold of his door and singing:
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen!&rdquo; shouted Christophe, &ldquo;the soup is ready, and every one is
      waiting for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here,&rdquo; Vautrin called down to him, &ldquo;come and take a bottle of my
      Bordeaux.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think your watch is pretty?&rdquo; asked Goriot. &ldquo;She has good taste,
      hasn&rsquo;t she? Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin, Father Goriot, and Rastignac came downstairs in company, and, all
      three of them being late, were obliged to sit together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was as distant as possible in his manner to Vautrin during dinner;
      but the other, so charming in Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, what has come to you to-day?&rdquo; inquired Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;You are as
      merry as a skylark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am always in spirits after I have made a good bargain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bargain?&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, bargain. I have just delivered a lot of goods, and I shall be
      paid a handsome commission on them&mdash;Mlle. Michonneau,&rdquo; he went on,
      seeing that the elderly spinster was scrutinizing him intently, &ldquo;have you
      any objection to some feature in my face, that you are making 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?&rdquo; he added, winking at
      the superannuated clerk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless my soul, you ought to stand as model for a burlesque Hercules,&rdquo;
       said the young painter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, upon my word! if Mlle. Michonneau will consent to sit as the
      Venus of Pere-Lachaise,&rdquo; replied Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Poiret,&rdquo; suggested Bianchon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Poiret shall pose as Poiret. He can be a garden god!&rdquo; cried Vautrin;
      &ldquo;his name means a pear&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A sleepy pear!&rdquo; Bianchon put in. &ldquo;You will come in between the pear and
      the cheese.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What stuff are you all talking!&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Vautrin, &ldquo;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.&mdash;Come, you Turk!&rdquo; he added, looking at
      Christophe, who did not offer to stir. &ldquo;Christophe! Here! What, you don&rsquo;t
      answer to your own name? Bring us some liquor, Turk!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here it is, sir,&rdquo; said Christophe, holding out the bottle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin filled Eugene&rsquo;s glass and Goriot&rsquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corked!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are going to stand treat,&rdquo; said the painter, &ldquo;I will pay for a
      hundred chestnuts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! oh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Booououh!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prrr!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These exclamations came from all parts of the table like squibs from a set
      firework.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, now, Mama Vauquer, a couple of bottles of champagne,&rdquo; called
      Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Quien!</i> 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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That currant cordial of hers is as bad as a black draught,&rdquo; muttered the
      medical student.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut up, Bianchon,&rdquo; exclaimed Rastignac; &ldquo;the very mention of black
      draught makes me feel&mdash;&mdash;. Yes, champagne, by all means; I will
      pay for it,&rdquo; he added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sylvie,&rdquo; called Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;bring in some biscuits, and the little
      cakes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those little cakes are mouldy graybeards,&rdquo; said Vautrin. &ldquo;But trot out
      the biscuits.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Scissors to grind!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chick-weeds for singing bir-ds!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brandy-snaps, ladies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;China to mend!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boat ahoy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sticks to beat your wives or your clothes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old clo&rsquo;!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cherries all ripe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the palm was awarded to Bianchon for the nasal accent with which he
      rendered the cry of &ldquo;Umbrellas to me-end!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A few seconds later, and there was a head-splitting racket in the room, a
      storm of tomfoolery, a sort of cats&rsquo; concert, with Vautrin as conductor of
      the orchestra, the latter keeping an eye the while on Eugene and Father
      Goriot. The wine seemed to have gone to their heads already. They leaned
      back in their chairs, looking at the general confusion with an air of
      gravity, and drank but little; both of them were absorbed in the thought
      of what lay before them to do that evening, and yet neither of them felt
      able to rise and go. Vautrin gave a side glance at them from time to time,
      and watched the change that came over their faces, choosing the moment
      when their eyes drooped and seemed about to close, to bend over Rastignac
      and to say in his ear:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My little lad, you are not quite shrewd enough to outwit Papa Vautrin
      yet, and he is too fond of you to let you make a mess of your affairs.
      When I have made up my mind to do a thing, no one short of Providence can
      put me off. Aha! we were for going round to warn old Taillefer, telling
      tales out of school! The oven is hot, the dough is kneaded, the bread is
      ready for the oven; to-morrow we will eat it up and whisk away the crumbs;
      and we are not going to spoil the baking? ... No, no, it is all as good as
      done! We may suffer from a few conscientious scruples, but they will be
      digested along with the bread. While we are having our forty winks,
      Colonel Count Franchessini will clear the way to Michel Taillefer&rsquo;s
      inheritance with the point of his sword. Victorine will come in for her
      brother&rsquo;s money, a snug fifteen thousand francs a year. I have made
      inquiries already, and I know that her late mother&rsquo;s property amounts to
      more than three hundred thousand&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene heard all this, and could not answer a word; his tongue seemed to
      be glued to the roof of his mouth, an irresistible drowsiness was creeping
      over him. He still saw the table and the faces round it, but it was
      through a bright mist. Soon the noise began to subside, one by one the
      boarders went. At last, when their numbers had so dwindled that the party
      consisted of Mme. Vauquer, Mme. Couture, Mlle. Victorine, Vautrin, and
      Father Goriot, Rastignac watched as though in a dream how Mme. Vauquer
      busied herself by collecting the bottles, and drained the remainder of the
      wine out of each to fill others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! how uproarious they are! what a thing it is to be young!&rdquo; said the
      widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the last words that Eugene heard and understood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no one like M. Vautrin for a bit of fun like this,&rdquo; said Sylvie.
      &ldquo;There, just hark at Christophe, he is snoring like a top.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, mamma,&rdquo; said Vautrin; &ldquo;I am going to a theatre on the boulevard
      to see M. Marty in <i>Le Mont Sauvage</i>, a fine play taken from <i>Le
      Solitaire</i>.... If you like, I will take you and these two ladies&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you; I must decline,&rdquo; said Mme. Couture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! my good lady!&rdquo; cried Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;decline to see a play founded
      on the <i>Le Solitaire</i>, a work by Atala de Chateaubriand? We were so
      fond of that book that we cried over it like Magdalens under the <i>line-trees</i>
      last summer, and then it is an improving work that might edify your young
      lady.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are forbidden to go to the play,&rdquo; answered Victorine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just look, those two yonder have dropped off where they sit,&rdquo; said
      Vautrin, shaking the heads of the two sleepers in a comical way.
    </p>
    <p>
      He altered the sleeping student&rsquo;s position, settled his head more
      comfortably on the back of his chair, kissed him warmly on the forehead,
      and began to sing:
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;Sleep, little darlings;
      I watch while you slumber.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid he may be ill,&rdquo; said Victorine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then stop and take care of him,&rdquo; returned Vautrin. &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis your duty as a
      meek and obedient wife,&rdquo; he whispered in her ear. &ldquo;The young fellow
      worships you, and you will be his little wife&mdash;there&rsquo;s your fortune
      for you. In short,&rdquo; he added aloud, &ldquo;they lived happily ever afterwards,
      were much looked up to in all the countryside, and had a numerous family.
      That is how all the romances end.&mdash;Now, mamma,&rdquo; he went on, as he
      turned to Madame Vauquer and put his arm round her waist, &ldquo;put on your
      bonnet, your best flowered silk, and the countess&rsquo; scarf, while I go out
      and call a cab&mdash;all my own self.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And he started out, singing as he went:
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;Oh! sun! divine sun!
      Ripening the pumpkins every one.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My goodness! Well, I&rsquo;m sure! Mme. Couture, I could live happily in a
      garret with a man like that.&mdash;There, now!&rdquo; she added, looking round
      for the old vermicelli maker, &ldquo;there is that Father Goriot half seas over.
      <i>He</i> never thought of taking me anywhere, the old skinflint. But he
      will measure his length somewhere. My word! it is disgraceful to lose his
      senses like that, at his age! You will be telling me that he couldn&rsquo;t lose
      what he hadn&rsquo;t got&mdash;Sylvie, just take him up to his room!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sylvie took him by the arm, supported him upstairs, and flung him just as
      he was, like a package, across the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor young fellow!&rdquo; said Mme. Couture, putting back Eugene&rsquo;s hair that
      had fallen over his eyes; &ldquo;he is like a young girl, he does not know what
      dissipation is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I can tell you this, I know,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;I have taken
      lodgers these thirty years, and a good many have passed through my hands,
      as the saying is, but I have never seen a nicer nor a more aristocratic
      looking young man than M. Eugene. How handsome he looks sleeping! Just let
      his head rest on your shoulder, Mme. Couture. Pshaw! he falls over towards
      Mlle. Victorine. There&rsquo;s a special providence for young things. A little
      more, and he would have broken his head against the knob of the chair.
      They&rsquo;d make a pretty pair those two would!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, my good neighbor,&rdquo; cried Mme. Couture, &ldquo;you are saying such things&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh!&rdquo; put in Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;he does not hear.&mdash;Here, Sylvie! come
      and help me to dress. I shall put on my best stays.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! your best stays just after dinner, madame?&rdquo; said Sylvie. &ldquo;No, you
      can get some one else to lace you. I am not going to be your murderer.
      It&rsquo;s a rash thing to do, and might cost you your life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care, I must do honor to M. Vautrin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you so fond of your heirs as all that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Sylvie, don&rsquo;t argue,&rdquo; said the widow, as she left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At her age, too!&rdquo; said the cook to Victorine, pointing to her mistress as
      she spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Couture and her ward were left in the dining-room, and Eugene slept
      on Victorine&rsquo;s shoulder. The sound of Christophe&rsquo;s snoring echoed through
      the silent house; Eugene&rsquo;s quiet breathing seemed all the quieter by force
      of contrast, he was sleeping as peacefully as a child. Victorine was very
      happy; she was free to perform one of those acts of charity which form an
      innocent outlet for all the overflowing sentiments of a woman&rsquo;s nature; he
      was so close to her that she could feel the throbbing of his heart; there
      was a look of almost maternal protection and conscious pride in
      Victorine&rsquo;s face. Among the countless thoughts that crowded up in her
      young innocent heart, there was a wild flutter of joy at this close
      contact.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor, dear child!&rdquo; said Mme. Couture, squeezing her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old lady looked at the girl. Victorine&rsquo;s innocent, pathetic face, so
      radiant with the new happiness that had befallen her, called to mind some
      naive work of mediaeval art, when the painter neglected the accessories,
      reserving all the magic of his brush for the quiet, austere outlines and
      ivory tints of the face, which seems to have caught something of the
      golden glory of heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After all, he only took two glasses, mamma,&rdquo; said Victorine, passing her
      fingers through Eugene&rsquo;s hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, if he had been a dissipated young man, child, he would have
      carried his wine like the rest of them. His drowsiness does him credit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a sound of wheels outside in the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is M. Vautrin, mamma,&rdquo; said the girl. &ldquo;Just take M. Eugene. I would
      rather not have that man see me like this; there are some ways of looking
      at you that seem to sully your soul and make you feel as though you had
      nothing on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, you are wrong!&rdquo; said Mme. Couture. &ldquo;M. Vautrin is a worthy man;
      he reminds me a little of my late husband, poor dear M. Couture, rough but
      kind-hearted; his bark is worse than his bite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin came in while she was speaking; he did not make a sound, but
      looked for a while at the picture of the two young faces&mdash;the
      lamplight falling full upon them seemed to caress them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he remarked, folding his arms, &ldquo;here is a picture! It would have
      suggested some pleasing pages to Bernardin de Saint-Pierre (good soul),
      who wrote <i>Paul et Virginie</i>. Youth is very charming, Mme. Couture!&mdash;Sleep
      on, poor boy,&rdquo; he added, looking at Eugene, &ldquo;luck sometimes comes while
      you are sleeping.&mdash;There is something touching and attractive to me
      about this young man, madame,&rdquo; he continued; &ldquo;I know that his nature is in
      harmony with his face. Just look, the head of a cherub on an angel&rsquo;s
      shoulder! He deserves to be loved. If I were a woman, I would die (no&mdash;not
      such a fool), I would live for him.&rdquo; He bent lower and spoke in the
      widow&rsquo;s ear. &ldquo;When I see those two together, madame, I cannot help
      thinking that Providence meant them for each other; He works by secret
      ways, and tries the reins and the heart,&rdquo; he said in a loud voice. &ldquo;And
      when I see you, my children, thus united by a like purity and by all human
      affections, I say to myself that it is quite impossible that the future
      should separate you. God is just.&rdquo;&mdash;He turned to Victorine. &ldquo;It seems
      to me,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that I have seen the line of success in your hand. Let
      me look at it, Mlle. Victorine; I am well up in palmistry, and I have told
      fortunes many a time. Come, now, don&rsquo;t be frightened. Ah! what do I see?
      Upon my word, you will be one of the richest heiresses in Paris before
      very long. You will heap riches on the man who loves you. Your father will
      want you to go and live with him. You will marry a young and handsome man
      with a title, and he will idolize you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The heavy footsteps of the coquettish widow, who was coming down the
      stairs, interrupted Vautrin&rsquo;s fortune-telling. &ldquo;Here is Mamma Vauquerre,
      fair as a starr-r-r, dressed within an inch of her life.&mdash;Aren&rsquo;t we a
      trifle pinched for room?&rdquo; he inquired, with his arm round the lady; &ldquo;we
      are screwed up very tightly about the bust, mamma! If we are much
      agitated, there may be an explosion; but I will pick up the fragments with
      all the care of an antiquary.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a man who can talk the language of French gallantry!&rdquo; said the
      widow, bending to speak in Mme. Couture&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, little ones!&rdquo; said Vautrin, turning to Eugene and Victorine.
      &ldquo;Bless you both!&rdquo; and he laid a hand on either head. &ldquo;Take my word for it,
      young lady, an honest man&rsquo;s prayers are worth something; they should bring
      you happiness, for God hears them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, dear,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer to her lodger. &ldquo;Do you think that M.
      Vautrin means to run away with me?&rdquo; she added, lowering her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lack-a-day!&rdquo; said the widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! mamma dear, suppose it should really happen as that kind M. Vautrin
      said!&rdquo; said Victorine with a sigh as she looked at her hands. The two
      women were alone together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it wouldn&rsquo;t take much to bring it to pass,&rdquo; said the elderly lady;
      &ldquo;just a fall from his horse, and your monster of a brother&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! mamma.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Lord! Well, perhaps it is a sin to wish bad luck to an enemy,&rdquo; the
      widow remarked. &ldquo;I will do penance for it. Still, I would strew flowers on
      his grave with the greatest pleasure, and that is the truth.
      Black-hearted, that he is! The coward couldn&rsquo;t speak up for his own
      mother, and cheats you out of your share by deceit and trickery. My cousin
      had a pretty fortune of her own, but unluckily for you, nothing was said
      in the marriage-contract about anything that she might come in for.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be very hard if my fortune is to cost some one else his life,&rdquo;
       said Victorine. &ldquo;If I cannot be happy unless my brother is to be taken out
      of the world, I would rather stay here all my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Mon Dieu!</i> it is just as that good M. Vautrin says, and he is full
      of piety, you see,&rdquo; Mme. Couture remarked. &ldquo;I am very glad to find that he
      is not an unbeliever like the rest of them that talk of the Almighty with
      less respect than they do of the Devil. Well, as he was saying, who can
      know the ways by which it may please Providence to lead us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With Sylvie&rsquo;s help the two women at last succeeded in getting Eugene up to
      his room; they laid him on the bed, and the cook unfastened his clothes to
      make him more comfortable. Before they left the room, Victorine snatched
      an opportunity when her guardian&rsquo;s back was turned, and pressed a kiss on
      Eugene&rsquo;s forehead, feeling all the joy that this stolen pleasure could
      give her. Then she looked round the room, and gathering up, as it were,
      into one single thought all the untold bliss of that day, she made a
      picture of her memories, and dwelt upon it until she slept, the happiest
      creature in Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      That evening&rsquo;s merry-making, in the course of which Vautrin had given the
      drugged wine to Eugene and Father Goriot, was his own ruin. Bianchon,
      flustered with wine, forgot to open the subject of Trompe-la-Mort with
      Mlle. Michonneau. The mere mention of the name would have set Vautrin on
      his guard; for Vautrin, or, to give him his real name, Jacques Collin, was
      in fact the notorious escaped convict.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was the joke about the Venus of Pere-Lachaise that finally decided
      his fate. Mlle. Michonneau had very nearly made up her mind to warn the
      convict and to throw herself on his generosity, with the idea of making a
      better bargain for herself by helping him to escape that night; but as it
      was, she went out escorted by Poiret in search of the famous chief of
      detectives in the Petite Rue Saint-Anne, still thinking that it was the
      district superintendent&mdash;one Gondureau&mdash;with whom she had to do.
      The head of the department received his visitors courteously. There was a
      little talk, and the details were definitely arranged. Mlle. Michonneau
      asked for the draught that she was to administer in order to set about her
      investigation. But the great man&rsquo;s evident satisfaction set Mlle.
      Michonneau thinking; and she began to see that this business involved
      something more than the mere capture of a runaway convict. She racked her
      brains while he looked in a drawer in his desk for the little phial, and
      it dawned upon her that in consequence of treacherous revelations made by
      the prisoners the police were hoping to lay their hands on a considerable
      sum of money. But on hinting her suspicions to the old fox of the Petite
      Rue Saint-Anne, that officer began to smile, and tried to put her off the
      scent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A delusion,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Collin&rsquo;s <i>sorbonne</i> is the most dangerous
      that has yet been found among the dangerous classes. That is all, and the
      rascals are quite aware of it. They rally round him; he is the backbone of
      the federation, its Bonaparte, in short; he is very popular with them all.
      The rogue will never leave his <i>chump</i> in the Place de Greve.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As Mlle. Michonneau seemed mystified, Gondureau explained the two slang
      words for her benefit. <i>Sorbonne</i> and <i>chump</i> are two forcible
      expressions borrowed from thieves&rsquo; Latin, thieves, of all people, being
      compelled to consider the human head in its two aspects. A sorbonne is the
      head of a living man, his faculty of thinking&mdash;his council; a chump
      is a contemptuous epithet that implies how little a human head is worth
      after the axe has done its work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Collin is playing us off,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;When we come across a man like
      a bar of steel tempered in the English fashion, there is always one
      resource left&mdash;we can kill him if he takes it into his head to make
      the least resistance. We are reckoning on several methods of killing
      Collin to-morrow morning. It saves a trial, and society is rid of him
      without all the expense of guarding and feeding him. What with getting up
      the case, summoning witnesses, paying their expenses, and carrying out the
      sentence, it costs a lot to go through all the proper formalities before
      you can get quit of one of these good-for-nothings, over and above the
      three thousand francs that you are going to have. There is a saving in
      time as well. One good thrust of the bayonet into Trompe-la-Mort&rsquo;s paunch
      will prevent scores of crimes, and save fifty scoundrels from following
      his example; they will be very careful to keep themselves out of the
      police courts. That is doing the work of the police thoroughly, and true
      philanthropists will tell you that it is better to prevent crime than to
      punish it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you do a service to our country,&rdquo; said Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, you are talking in a very sensible manner tonight, that you are,&rdquo;
       said the head of the department. &ldquo;Yes, of course, we are serving our
      country, and we are very hardly used too. We do society very great
      services that are not recognized. In fact, a superior man must rise above
      vulgar prejudices, and a Christian must resign himself to the mishaps that
      doing right entails, when right is done in an out-of-the-way style. Paris
      is Paris, you see! That is the explanation of my life.&mdash;I have the
      honor to wish you a good-evening, mademoiselle. I shall bring my men to
      the Jardin du Roi in the morning. Send Christophe to the Rue du Buffon,
      tell him to ask for M. Gondureau in the house where you saw me before.&mdash;Your
      servant, sir. If you should ever have anything stolen from you, come to
      me, and I will do my best to get it back for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now,&rdquo; Poiret remarked to Mlle. Michonneau, &ldquo;there are idiots who
      are scared out of their wits by the word police. That was a very
      pleasant-spoken gentleman, and what he wants you to do is as easy as
      saying &lsquo;Good-day.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The next day was destined to be one of the most extraordinary in the
      annals of the Maison Vauquer. Hitherto the most startling occurrence in
      its tranquil existence had been the portentous, meteor-like apparition of
      the sham Comtesse de l&rsquo;Ambermesnil. But the catastrophes of this great day
      were to cast all previous events into the shade, and supply an
      inexhaustible topic of conversation for Mme. Vauquer and her boarders so
      long as she lived.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the first place, Goriot and Eugene de Rastignac both slept till close
      upon eleven o&rsquo;clock. Mme. Vauquer, who came home about midnight from the
      Gaite, lay a-bed till half-past ten. Christophe, after a prolonged slumber
      (he had finished Vautrin&rsquo;s first bottle of wine), was behindhand with his
      work, but Poiret and Mlle. Michonneau uttered no complaint, though
      breakfast was delayed. As for Victorine and Mme. Couture, they also lay
      late. Vautrin went out before eight o&rsquo;clock, and only came back just as
      breakfast was ready. Nobody protested, therefore, when Sylvie and
      Christophe went up at a quarter past eleven, knocked at all the doors, and
      announced that breakfast was waiting. While Sylvie and the man were
      upstairs, Mlle. Michonneau, who came down first, poured the contents of
      the phial into the silver cup belonging to Vautrin&mdash;it was standing
      with the others in the bain-marie that kept the cream hot for the morning
      coffee. The spinster had reckoned on this custom of the house to do her
      stroke of business. The seven lodgers were at last collected together, not
      without some difficulty. Just as Eugene came downstairs, stretching
      himself and yawning, a commissionaire handed him a letter from Mme. de
      Nucingen. It ran thus:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel neither false vanity nor anger where you are concerned, my friend.
      Till two o&rsquo;clock this morning I waited for you. Oh, that waiting for one
      whom you love! No one that had passed through that torture could inflict
      it on another. I know now that you have never loved before. What can have
      happened? Anxiety has taken hold of me. I would have come myself to find
      out what had happened, if I had not feared to betray the secrets of my
      heart. How can I walk out or drive out at this time of day? Would it not
      be ruin? I have felt to the full how wretched it is to be a woman. Send a
      word to reassure me, and explain how it is that you have not come after
      what my father told you. I shall be angry, but I will forgive you. One
      word, for pity&rsquo;s sake. You will come to me soon, will you not? If you are
      busy, a line will be enough. Say, &lsquo;I will hasten to you,&rsquo; or else, &lsquo;I am
      ill.&rsquo; But if you were ill my father would have come to tell me so. What
      can have happened?...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed, what has happened?&rdquo; exclaimed Eugene, and, hurrying down to
      the dining-room, he crumpled up the letter without reading any more. &ldquo;What
      time is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Half-past eleven,&rdquo; said Vautrin, dropping a lump of sugar into his
      coffee.
    </p>
    <p>
      The escaped convict cast a glance at Eugene, a cold and fascinating
      glance; men gifted with this magnetic power can quell furious lunatics in
      a madhouse by such a glance, it is said. Eugene shook in every limb. There
      was the sound of wheels in the street, and in another moment a man with a
      scared face rushed into the room. It was one of M. Taillefer&rsquo;s servants;
      Mme. Couture recognized the livery at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;your father is asking for you&mdash;something
      terrible has happened! M. Frederic has had a sword thrust in the forehead
      in a duel, and the doctors have given him up. You will scarcely be in time
      to say good-bye to him! he is unconscious.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor young fellow!&rdquo; exclaimed Vautrin. &ldquo;How can people brawl when they
      have a certain income of thirty thousand livres? Young people have bad
      manners, and that is a fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir!&rdquo; cried Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what then, you big baby!&rdquo; said Vautrin, swallowing down his coffee
      imperturbably, an operation which Mlle. Michonneau watched with such close
      attention that she had no emotion to spare for the amazing news that had
      struck the others dumb with amazement. &ldquo;Are there not duels every morning
      in Paris?&rdquo; added Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go with you, Victorine,&rdquo; said Mme. Couture, and the two women
      hurried away at once without either hats or shawls. But before she went,
      Victorine, with her eyes full of tears, gave Eugene a glance that said&mdash;&ldquo;How
      little I thought that our happiness should cost me tears!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me, you are a prophet, M. Vautrin,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am all sorts of things,&rdquo; said Vautrin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Queer, isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, stringing together a succession of
      commonplaces suited to the occasion. &ldquo;Death takes us off without asking us
      about it. The young often go before the old. It is a lucky thing for us
      women that we are not liable to fight duels, but we have other complaints
      that men don&rsquo;t suffer from. We bear children, and it takes a long time to
      get over it. What a windfall for Victorine! Her father will have to
      acknowledge her now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There!&rdquo; said Vautrin, looking at Eugene, &ldquo;yesterday she had not a penny;
      this morning she has several millions to her fortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, M. Eugene!&rdquo; cried Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;you have landed on your feet!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this exclamation, Father Goriot looked at the student, and saw the
      crumpled letter still in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have not read it through! What does this mean? Are you going to be
      like the rest of them?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, I shall never marry Mlle. Victorine,&rdquo; said Eugene, turning to
      Mme. Vauquer with an expression of terror and loathing that surprised the
      onlookers at this scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot caught the student&rsquo;s hand and grasped it warmly. He could
      have kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, ho!&rdquo; said Vautrin, &ldquo;the Italians have a good proverb&mdash;<i>Col
      tempo</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any answer?&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen&rsquo;s messenger, addressing
      Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say that I will come directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man went. Eugene was in a state of such violent excitement that he
      could not be prudent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is to be done?&rdquo; he exclaimed aloud. &ldquo;There are no proofs!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin began to smile. Though the drug he had taken was doing its work,
      the convict was so vigorous that he rose to his feet, gave Rastignac a
      look, and said in hollow tones, &ldquo;Luck comes to us while we sleep, young
      man,&rdquo; and fell stiff and stark, as if he were struck dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So there is a Divine Justice!&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if ever! What has come to that poor dear M. Vautrin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A stroke!&rdquo; cried Mlle. Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, Sylvie! girl, run for the doctor,&rdquo; called the widow. &ldquo;Oh, M.
      Rastignac, just go for M. Bianchon, and be as quick as you can; Sylvie
      might not be in time to catch our doctor, M. Grimprel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac was glad of an excuse to leave that den of horrors, his hurry
      for the doctor was nothing but a flight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, Christophe, go round to the chemist&rsquo;s and ask for something that&rsquo;s
      good for the apoplexy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Christophe likewise went.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father Goriot, just help us to get him upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin was taken up among them, carried carefully up the narrow
      staircase, and laid upon his bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can do no good here, so I shall go to see my daughter,&rdquo; said M. Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Selfish old thing!&rdquo; cried Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;Yes, go; I wish you may die like
      a dog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just go and see if you can find some ether,&rdquo; said Mlle. Michonneau to
      Mme. Vauquer; the former, with some help from Poiret, had unfastened the
      sick man&rsquo;s clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Vauquer went down to her room, and left Mlle. Michonneau mistress of
      the situation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now! just pull down his shirt and turn him over, quick! You might be of
      some use in sparing my modesty,&rdquo; she said to Poiret, &ldquo;instead of standing
      there like a stock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin was turned over; Mlle. Michonneau gave his shoulder a sharp slap,
      and the two portentous letters appeared, white against the red.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, you have earned your three thousand francs very easily,&rdquo; exclaimed
      Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mlle. Michonneau slipped on the shirt
      again.&mdash;&ldquo;Ouf! How heavy he is,&rdquo; he added, as he laid the convict
      down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! Suppose there is a strong-box here!&rdquo; said the old maid briskly; her
      glances seemed to pierce the walls, she scrutinized every article of the
      furniture with greedy eyes. &ldquo;Could we find some excuse for opening that
      desk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It mightn&rsquo;t be quite right,&rdquo; responded Poiret to this.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the harm? It is money stolen from all sorts of people, so it
      doesn&rsquo;t belong to any one now. But we haven&rsquo;t time, there is the Vauquer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is the ether,&rdquo; said that lady. &ldquo;I must say that this is an eventful
      day. Lord! that man can&rsquo;t have had a stroke; he is as white as curds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;White as curds?&rdquo; echoed Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And his pulse is steady,&rdquo; said the widow, laying her hand on his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Steady?&rdquo; said the astonished Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is all right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo; asked Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord! Yes, he looks as if he were sleeping. Sylvie has gone for a doctor.
      I say, Mlle. Michonneau, he is sniffing the ether. Pooh! it is only a
      spasm. His pulse is good. He is as strong as a Turk. Just look,
      mademoiselle, what a fur tippet he has on his chest; that is the sort of
      man to live till he is a hundred. His wig holds on tightly, however. Dear
      me! it is glued on, and his own hair is red; that is why he wears a wig.
      They say that red-haired people are either the worst or the best. Is he
      one of the good ones, I wonder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good to hang,&rdquo; said Poiret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Round a pretty woman&rsquo;s neck, you mean,&rdquo; said Mlle Michonneau, hastily.
      &ldquo;Just go away, M. Poiret. It is a woman&rsquo;s duty to nurse you men when you
      are ill. Besides, for all the good you are doing, you may as well take
      yourself off,&rdquo; she added. &ldquo;Mme. Vauquer and I will take great care of dear
      M. Vautrin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Poiret went out on tiptoe without a murmur, like a dog kicked out of the
      room by his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac had gone out for the sake of physical exertion; he wanted to
      breathe the air, he felt stifled. Yesterday evening he had meant to
      prevent the murder arranged for half-past eight that morning. What had
      happened? What ought he to do now? He trembled to think that he himself
      might be implicated. Vautrin&rsquo;s coolness still further dismayed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet, how if Vautrin should die without saying a word?&rdquo; Rastignac asked
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He hurried along the alleys of the Luxembourg Gardens as if the hounds of
      justice were after him, and he already heard the baying of the pack.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; shouted Bianchon, &ldquo;you have seen the <i>Pilote</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The <i>Pilote</i> was a Radical sheet, edited by M. Tissot. It came out
      several hours later than the morning papers, and was meant for the benefit
      of country subscribers; for it brought the morning news into provincial
      districts twenty-four hours sooner than the ordinary local journals.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a wonderful history in it,&rdquo; said the house student of the
      Hopital Cochin. &ldquo;Young Taillefer called out Count Franchessini, of the Old
      Guard, and the Count put a couple of inches of steel into his forehead.
      And here is little Victorine one of the richest heiresses in Paris! If we
      had known that, eh? What a game of chance death is! They say Victorine was
      sweet on you; was there any truth in it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut up, Bianchon; I shall never marry her. I am in love with a charming
      woman, and she is in love with me, so&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said that as if you were screwing yourself up to be faithful to her.
      I should like to see the woman worth the sacrifice of Master Taillefer&rsquo;s
      money!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are all the devils of hell at my heels?&rdquo; cried Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you? Are you mad? Give us your hand,&rdquo; said
      Bianchon, &ldquo;and let me feel your pulse. You are feverish.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just go to Mother Vauquer&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said Rastignac; &ldquo;that scoundrel Vautrin has
      dropped down like one dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; said Bianchon, leaving Rastignac to his reflections, &ldquo;you confirm
      my suspicions, and now I mean to make sure for myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The law student&rsquo;s long walk was a memorable one for him. He made in some
      sort a survey of his conscience. After a close scrutiny, after hesitation
      and self-examination, his honor at any rate came out scatheless from this
      sharp and terrible ordeal, like a bar of iron tested in the English
      fashion. He remembered Father Goriot&rsquo;s confidences of the evening before;
      he recollected the rooms taken for him in the Rue d&rsquo;Artois, so that he
      might be near Delphine; and then he thought of his letter, and read it
      again and kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such a love is my anchor of safety,&rdquo; he said to himself. &ldquo;How the old
      man&rsquo;s heart must have been wrung! He says nothing about all that he has
      been through; but who could not guess? Well, then, I will be like a son to
      him; his life shall be made happy. If she cares for me, she will often
      come to spend the day with him. That grand Comtesse de Restaud is a
      heartless thing; she would make her father into her hall porter. Dear
      Delphine! she is kinder to the old man; she is worthy to be loved. Ah!
      this evening I shall be very happy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took out his watch and admired it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had nothing but success! If two people mean to love each other for
      ever, they may help each other, and I can take this. Besides, I shall
      succeed, and I will pay her a hundredfold. There is nothing criminal in
      this <i>liaison</i>; nothing that could cause the most austere moralist to
      frown. How many respectable people contract similar unions! We deceive
      nobody; it is deception that makes a position humiliating. If you lie, you
      lower yourself at once. She and her husband have lived apart for a long
      while. Besides, how if I called upon that Alsatian to resign a wife whom
      he cannot make happy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac&rsquo;s battle with himself went on for a long while; and though the
      scruples of youth inevitably gained the day, an irresistible curiosity led
      him, about half-past four, to return to the Maison Vauquer through the
      gathering dusk.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bianchon had given Vautrin an emetic, reserving the contents of the
      stomach for chemical analysis at the hospital. Mlle. Michonneau&rsquo;s
      officious alacrity had still further strengthened his suspicions of her.
      Vautrin, moreover, had recovered so quickly that it was impossible not to
      suspect some plot against the leader of all frolics at the lodging-house.
      Vautrin was standing in front of the stove in the dining-room when
      Rastignac came in. All the lodgers were assembled sooner than usual by the
      news of young Taillefer&rsquo;s duel. They were anxious to hear any detail about
      the affair, and to talk over the probable change in Victorine&rsquo;s prospects.
      Father Goriot alone was absent, but the rest were chatting. No sooner did
      Eugene come into the room, than his eyes met the inscrutable gaze of
      Vautrin. It was the same look that had read his thoughts before&mdash;the
      look that had such power to waken evil thoughts in his heart. He
      shuddered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, dear boy,&rdquo; said the escaped convict, &ldquo;I am likely to cheat death
      for a good while yet. According to these ladies, I have had a stroke that
      would have felled an ox, and come off with flying colors.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bull you might say,&rdquo; cried the widow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You really might be sorry to see me still alive,&rdquo; said Vautrin in
      Rastignac&rsquo;s ear, thinking that he guessed the student&rsquo;s thoughts. &ldquo;You
      must be mighty sure of yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mlle. Michonneau was talking the day before yesterday about a gentleman
      named <i>Trompe-la-Mort</i>,&rdquo; said Bianchon; &ldquo;and, upon my word, that name
      would do very well for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Vautrin seemed thunderstruck. He turned pale, and staggered back. He
      turned his magnetic glance, like a ray of vivid light, on Mlle.
      Michonneau; the old maid shrank and trembled under the influence of that
      strong will, and collapsed into a chair. The mask of good-nature had
      dropped from the convict&rsquo;s face; from the unmistakable ferocity of that
      sinister look, Poiret felt that the old maid was in danger, and hastily
      stepped between them. None of the lodgers understood this scene in the
      least, they looked on in mute amazement. There was a pause. Just then
      there was a sound of tramping feet outside; there were soldiers there, it
      seemed, for there was a ring of several rifles on the pavement of the
      street. Collin was mechanically looking round the walls for a way of
      escape, when four men entered by way of the sitting-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of the King and the Law!&rdquo; said an officer, but the words were
      almost lost in a murmur of astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Silence fell on the room. The lodgers made way for three of the men, who
      had each a hand on a cocked pistol in a side pocket. Two policemen, who
      followed the detectives, kept the entrance to the sitting-room, and two
      more men appeared in the doorway that gave access to the staircase. A
      sound of footsteps came from the garden, and again the rifles of several
      soldiers rang on the cobblestones under the window. All chance of
      salvation by flight was cut off for Trompe-la-Mort, to whom all eyes
      instinctively turned. The chief walked straight up to him, and commenced
      operations by giving him a sharp blow on the head, so that the wig fell
      off, and Collin&rsquo;s face was revealed in all its ugliness. There was a
      terrible suggestion of strength mingled with cunning in the short,
      brick-red crop of hair, the whole head was in harmony with his powerful
      frame, and at that moment the fires of hell seemed to gleam from his eyes.
      In that flash the real Vautrin shone forth, revealed at once before them
      all; they understood his past, his present, and future, his pitiless
      doctrines, his actions, the religion of his own good pleasure, the majesty
      with which his cynicism and contempt for mankind invested him, the
      physical strength of an organization proof against all trials. The blood
      flew to his face, and his eyes glared like the eyes of a wild cat. He
      started back with savage energy and a fierce growl that drew exclamations
      of alarm from the lodgers. At that leonine start the police caught at
      their pistols under cover of the general clamor. Collin saw the gleaming
      muzzles of the weapons, saw his danger, and instantly gave proof of a
      power of the highest order. There was something horrible and majestic in
      the spectacle of the sudden transformation in his face; he could only be
      compared to a cauldron full of the steam that can send mountains flying, a
      terrific force dispelled in a moment by a drop of cold water. The drop of
      water that cooled his wrathful fury was a reflection that flashed across
      his brain like lightning. He began to smile, and looked down at his wig.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not in the politest of humors to-day,&rdquo; he remarked to the chief,
      and he held out his hands to the policemen with a jerk of his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;put on the bracelets or the handcuffs. I call on
      those present to witness that I make no resistance.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A murmur of admiration ran through the room at the sudden outpouring like
      fire and lava flood from this human volcano, and its equally sudden
      cessation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a sell for you, master crusher,&rdquo; the convict added, looking at
      the famous director of police.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, strip!&rdquo; said he of the Petite Rue Saint-Anne, contemptuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; asked Collin. &ldquo;There are ladies present; I deny nothing, and
      surrender.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He paused, and looked round the room like an orator who is about to
      overwhelm his audience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take this down, Daddy Lachapelle,&rdquo; he went on, addressing a little,
      white-haired old man who had seated himself at the end of the table; and
      after drawing a printed form from the portfolio, was proceeding to draw up
      a document. &ldquo;I acknowledge myself to be Jacques Collin, otherwise known as
      Trompe-la-Mort, condemned to twenty years&rsquo; penal servitude, and I have
      just proved that I have come fairly by my nickname.&mdash;If I had as much
      as raised my hand,&rdquo; he went on, addressing the other lodgers, &ldquo;those three
      sneaking wretches yonder would have drawn claret on Mamma Vauquer&rsquo;s
      domestic hearth. The rogues have laid their heads together to set a trap
      for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Vauquer felt sick and faint at these words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Lord!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;this does give one a turn; and me at the Gaite
      with him only last night!&rdquo; she said to Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Summon your philosophy, mamma,&rdquo; Collin resumed. &ldquo;Is it a misfortune to
      have sat in my box at the Gaite yesterday evening? After all, are you
      better than we are? The brand upon our shoulders is less shameful than the
      brand set on your hearts, you flabby members of a society rotten to the
      core. Not the best man among you could stand up to me.&rdquo; His eyes rested
      upon Rastignac, to whom he spoke with a pleasant smile that seemed
      strangely at variance with the savage expression in his eyes.&mdash;&ldquo;Our
      little bargain still holds good, dear boy; you can accept any time you
      like! Do you understand?&rdquo; And he sang:
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;A charming girl is my Fanchette
      In her simplicity.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you trouble yourself,&rdquo; he went on; &ldquo;I can get in my money. They are
      too much afraid of me to swindle me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The convicts&rsquo; prison, its language and customs, its sudden sharp
      transitions from the humorous to the horrible, its appalling grandeur, its
      triviality and its dark depths, were all revealed in turn by the speaker&rsquo;s
      discourse; he seemed to be no longer a man, but the type and mouthpiece of
      a degenerate race, a brutal, supple, clear-headed race of savages. In one
      moment Collin became the poet of an inferno, wherein all thoughts and
      passions that move human nature (save repentance) find a place. He looked
      about him like a fallen archangel who is for war to the end. Rastignac
      lowered his eyes, and acknowledged this kinship claimed by crime as an
      expiation of his own evil thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who betrayed me?&rdquo; said Collin, and his terrible eyes traveled round the
      room. Suddenly they rested on Mlle. Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was you, old cat!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;That sham stroke of apoplexy was your
      doing, lynx eyes!... Two words from me, and your throat would be cut in
      less than a week, but I forgive you, I am a Christian. You did not sell me
      either. But who did?&mdash;&mdash;Aha! you may rummage upstairs,&rdquo; he
      shouted, hearing the police officers opening his cupboards and taking
      possession of his effects. &ldquo;The nest is empty, the birds flew away
      yesterday, and you will be none the wiser. My ledgers are here,&rdquo; he said
      tapping his forehead. &ldquo;Now I know who sold me! It could only be that
      blackguard Fil-de-Soie. That is who it was, old catchpoll, eh?&rdquo; he said,
      turning to the chief. &ldquo;It was timed so neatly to get the banknotes up
      above there. There is nothing left for you&mdash;spies! As for
      Fil-de-Soie, he will be under the daisies in less than a fortnight, even
      if you were to tell off the whole force to protect him. How much did you
      give the Michonnette?&rdquo; he asked of the police officers. &ldquo;A thousand
      crowns? Oh you Ninon in decay, Pompadour in tatters, Venus of the
      graveyard, I was worth more than that! If you had given me warning, you
      should have had six thousand francs. Ah! you had no suspicion of that, old
      trafficker in flesh and blood, or I should have had the preference. Yes, I
      would have given six thousand francs to save myself an inconvenient
      journey and some loss of money,&rdquo; he said, as they fastened the handcuffs
      on his wrists. &ldquo;These folks will amuse themselves by dragging out this
      business till the end of time to keep me idle. If they were to send me
      straight to jail, I should soon be back at my old tricks in spite of the
      duffers at the Quai des Orfevres. Down yonder they will all turn
      themselves inside out to help their general&mdash;their good
      Trompe-la-Mort&mdash;to get clear away. Is there a single one among you
      that can say, as I can, that he has ten thousand brothers ready to do
      anything for him?&rdquo; he asked proudly. &ldquo;There is some good there,&rdquo; he said
      tapping his heart; &ldquo;I have never betrayed any one!&mdash;Look you here,
      you slut,&rdquo; he said to the old maid, &ldquo;they are all afraid of me, do you
      see? but the sight of you turns them sick. Rake in your gains.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was silent for a moment, and looked round at the lodgers&rsquo; faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What dolts you are, all of you! Have you never seen a convict before? A
      convict of Collin&rsquo;s stamp, whom you see before you, is a man less
      weak-kneed than others; he lifts up his voice against the colossal fraud
      of the Social Contract, as Jean Jacques did, whose pupil he is proud to
      declare himself. In short, I stand here single-handed against a Government
      and a whole subsidized machinery of tribunals and police, and I am a match
      for them all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye gods!&rdquo; cried the painter, &ldquo;what a magnificent sketch one might make of
      him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here, you gentlemen-in-waiting to his highness the gibbet, master of
      ceremonies to the widow&rdquo; (a nickname full of sombre poetry, given by
      prisoners to the guillotine), &ldquo;be a good fellow, and tell me if it really
      was Fil-de-Soie who sold me. I don&rsquo;t want him to suffer for some one else,
      that would not be fair.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But before the chief had time to answer, the rest of the party returned
      from making their investigations upstairs. Everything had been opened and
      inventoried. A few words passed between them and the chief, and the
      official preliminaries were complete.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Collin, addressing the lodgers, &ldquo;they will take me away
      directly. You have all made my stay among you very agreeable, and I shall
      look back upon it with gratitude. Receive my adieux, and permit me to send
      you figs from Provence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He advanced a step or two, and then turned to look once more at Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, Eugene,&rdquo; he said, in a sad and gentle tone, a strange
      transition from his previous rough and stern manner. &ldquo;If you should be
      hard up, I have left you a devoted friend,&rdquo; and, in spite of his shackles,
      he managed to assume a posture of defence, called, &ldquo;One, two!&rdquo; like a
      fencing-master, and lunged. &ldquo;If anything goes wrong, apply in that
      quarter. Man and money, all at your service.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The strange speaker&rsquo;s manner was sufficiently burlesque, so that no one
      but Rastignac knew that there was a serious meaning underlying the
      pantomime.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the police, soldiers, and detectives had left the house,
      Sylvie, who was rubbing her mistress&rsquo; temples with vinegar, looked round
      at the bewildered lodgers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;he was a man, he was, for all that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her words broke the spell. Every one had been too much excited, too much
      moved by very various feelings to speak. But now the lodgers began to look
      at each other, and then all eyes were turned at once on Mlle. Michonneau,
      a thin, shriveled, dead-alive, mummy-like figure, crouching by the stove;
      her eyes were downcast, as if she feared that the green eye-shade could
      not shut out the expression of those faces from her. This figure and the
      feeling of repulsion she had so long excited were explained all at once. A
      smothered murmur filled the room; it was so unanimous, that it seemed as
      if the same feeling of loathing had pitched all the voices in one key.
      Mlle. Michonneau heard it, and did not stir. It was Bianchon who was the
      first to move; he bent over his neighbor, and said in a low voice, &ldquo;If
      that creature is going to stop here, and have dinner with us, I shall
      clear out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the twinkling of an eye it was clear that every one in the room, save
      Poiret, was of the medical student&rsquo;s opinion, so that the latter, strong
      in the support of the majority, went up to that elderly person.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are more intimate with Mlle. Michonneau than the rest of us,&rdquo; he
      said; &ldquo;speak to her, make her understand that she must go, and go at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At once!&rdquo; echoed Poiret in amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then he went across to the crouching figure, and spoke a few words in her
      ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have paid beforehand for the quarter; I have as much right to be here
      as any one else,&rdquo; she said, with a viperous look at the boarders.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind that! we will club together and pay you the money back,&rdquo; said
      Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur is taking Collin&rsquo;s part&rdquo; she said, with a questioning, malignant
      glance at the law student; &ldquo;it is not difficult to guess why.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene started forward at the words, as if he meant to spring upon her and
      wring her neck. That glance, and the depths of treachery that it revealed,
      had been a hideous enlightenment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let her alone!&rdquo; cried the boarders.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac folded his arms and was silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us have no more of Mlle. Judas,&rdquo; said the painter, turning to Mme.
      Vauquer. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t show the Michonneau the door, madame, we shall all
      leave your shop, and wherever we go we shall say that there are only
      convicts and spies left there. If you do the other thing, we will hold our
      tongues about the business; for when all is said and done, it might happen
      in the best society until they brand them on the forehead, when they send
      them to the hulks. They ought not to let convicts go about Paris disguised
      like decent citizens, so as to carry on their antics like a set of
      rascally humbugs, which they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At this Mme. Vauquer recovered miraculously. She sat up and folded her
      arms; her eyes were wide open now, and there was no sign of tears in them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, do you really mean to be the ruin of my establishment, my dear sir?
      There is M. Vautrin&mdash;&mdash;Goodness,&rdquo; she cried, interrupting
      herself, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t help calling him by the name he passed himself off by
      for an honest man! There is one room to let already, and you want me to
      turn out two more lodgers in the middle of the season, when no one is
      moving&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, let us take our hats and go and dine at Flicoteaux&rsquo;s in the
      Place Sorbonne,&rdquo; cried Bianchon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Vauquer glanced round, and saw in a moment on which side her interest
      lay. She waddled across to Mlle. Michonneau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, now,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you would not be the ruin of my establishment,
      would you, eh? There&rsquo;s a dear, kind soul. You see what a pass these
      gentlemen have brought me to; just go up to your room for this evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never a bit of it!&rdquo; cried the boarders. &ldquo;She must go, and go this
      minute!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the poor lady has had no dinner,&rdquo; said Poiret, with piteous entreaty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She can go and dine where she likes,&rdquo; shouted several voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn her out, the spy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn them both out! Spies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; cried Poiret, his heart swelling with the courage that love
      gives to the ovine male, &ldquo;respect the weaker sex.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Spies are of no sex!&rdquo; said the painter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A precious sexorama!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Turn her into the streetorama!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, this is not manners! If you turn people out of the house, it
      ought not to be done so unceremoniously and with no notice at all. We have
      paid our money, and we are not going,&rdquo; said Poiret, putting on his cap,
      and taking a chair beside Mlle. Michonneau, with whom Mme. Vauquer was
      remonstrating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naughty boy!&rdquo; said the painter, with a comical look; &ldquo;run away, naughty
      little boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; said Bianchon; &ldquo;if you do not go, all the rest of us will,&rdquo;
       and the boarders, to a man, made for the sitting-room-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! mademoiselle, what is to be done?&rdquo; cried Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;I am a ruined
      woman. You can&rsquo;t stay here; they will go further, do something violent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau rose to her feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is going!&mdash;She is not going!&mdash;She is going!&mdash;No, she
      isn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These alternate exclamations, and a suggestion of hostile intentions,
      borne out by the behavior of the insurgents, compelled Mlle. Michonneau to
      take her departure. She made some stipulations, speaking in a low voice in
      her hostess&rsquo; ear, and then&mdash;&ldquo;I shall go to Mme. Buneaud&rsquo;s,&rdquo; she said,
      with a threatening look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go where you please, mademoiselle,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, who regarded this
      choice of an opposition establishment as an atrocious insult. &ldquo;Go and
      lodge with the Buneaud; the wine would give a cat the colic, and the food
      is cheap and nasty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boarders stood aside in two rows to let her pass; not a word was
      spoken. Poiret looked so wistfully after Mlle. Michonneau, and so
      artlessly revealed that he was in two minds whether to go or stay, that
      the boarders, in their joy at being quit of Mlle. Michonneau, burst out
      laughing at the sight of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hist!&mdash;st!&mdash;st! Poiret,&rdquo; shouted the painter. &ldquo;Hallo! I say,
      Poiret, hallo!&rdquo; The <i>employe</i> from the Museum began to sing:
    </p>
<pre>
     &ldquo;Partant pour la Syrie,
      Le jeune et beau Dunois...&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get along with you; you must be dying to go, <i>trahit sua quemque
      voluptas!</i>&rdquo; said Bianchon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every one to his taste&mdash;free rendering from Virgil,&rdquo; said the tutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mlle. Michonneau made a movement as if to take Poiret&rsquo;s arm, with an
      appealing glance that he could not resist. The two went out together, the
      old maid leaning upon him, and there was a burst of applause, followed by
      peals of laughter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo, Poiret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who would have thought it of old Poiret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apollo Poiret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mars Poiret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Intrepid Poiret!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A messenger came in at that moment with a letter for Mme. Vauquer, who
      read it through, and collapsed in her chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The house might as well be burned down at once,&rdquo; cried she, &ldquo;if there are
      to be any more of these thunderbolts! Young Taillefer died at three
      o&rsquo;clock this afternoon. It serves me right for wishing well to those
      ladies at that poor man&rsquo;s expense. Mme. Couture and Victorine want me to
      send their things, because they are going to live with her father. M.
      Taillefer allows his daughter to keep old Mme. Couture as her lady
      companion. Four rooms to let! and five lodgers gone!...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sat up, and seemed about to burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bad luck has come to lodge here, I think,&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more there came a sound of wheels from the street outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! another windfall for somebody!&rdquo; was Sylvie&rsquo;s comment.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was Goriot who came in, looking so radiant, so flushed with
      happiness, that he seemed to have grown young again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Goriot in a cab!&rdquo; cried the boarders; &ldquo;the world is coming to an end.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good soul made straight for Eugene, who was standing wrapped in
      thought in a corner, and laid a hand on the young man&rsquo;s arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; he said, with gladness in his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you haven&rsquo;t heard the news?&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;Vautrin was an escaped
      convict; they have just arrested him; and young Taillefer is dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, but what business is it of ours?&rdquo; replied Father Goriot. &ldquo;I am
      going to dine with my daughter in <i>your house</i>, do you understand?
      She is expecting you. Come!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He carried off Rastignac with him by main force, and they departed in as
      great a hurry as a pair of eloping lovers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, let us have dinner,&rdquo; cried the painter, and every one drew his chair
      to the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I never,&rdquo; said the portly Sylvie. &ldquo;Nothing goes right to-day! The
      haricot mutton has caught! Bah! you will have to eat it, burned as it is,
      more&rsquo;s the pity!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. Vauquer was so dispirited that she could not say a word as she looked
      round the table and saw only ten people where eighteen should be; but
      every one tried to comfort and cheer her. At first the dinner contingent,
      as was natural, talked about Vautrin and the day&rsquo;s events; but the
      conversation wound round to such topics of interest as duels, jails,
      justice, prison life, and alterations that ought to be made in the laws.
      They soon wandered miles away from Jacques Collin and Victorine and her
      brother. There might be only ten of them, but they made noise enough for
      twenty; indeed, there seemed to be more of them than usual; that was the
      only difference between yesterday and to-day. Indifference to the fate of
      others is a matter of course in this selfish world, which, on the morrow
      of tragedy, seeks among the events of Paris for a fresh sensation for its
      daily renewed appetite, and this indifference soon gained the upper hand.
      Mme. Vauquer herself grew calmer under the soothing influence of hope, and
      the mouthpiece of hope was the portly Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      That day had gone by like a dream for Eugene, and the sense of unreality
      lasted into the evening; so that, in spite of his energetic character and
      clear-headedness, his ideas were a chaos as he sat beside Goriot in the
      cab. The old man&rsquo;s voice was full of unwonted happiness, but Eugene had
      been shaken by so many emotions that the words sounded in his ears like
      words spoken in a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was finished this morning! All three of us are going to dine there
      together, together! Do you understand? I have not dined with my Delphine,
      my little Delphine, these four years, and I shall have her for a whole
      evening! We have been at your lodging the whole time since morning. I have
      been working like a porter in my shirt sleeves, helping to carry in the
      furniture. Aha! you don&rsquo;t know what pretty ways she has; at table she will
      look after me, &lsquo;Here, papa, just try this, it is nice.&rsquo; And I shall not be
      able to eat. Oh, it is a long while since I have been with her in quiet
      every-day life as we shall have her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It really seems as if the world has been turned upside down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upside down?&rdquo; repeated Father Goriot. &ldquo;Why, the world has never been so
      right-side up. I see none but smiling faces in the streets, people who
      shake hands cordially and embrace each other, people who all look as happy
      as if they were going to dine with their daughter, and gobble down a nice
      little dinner that she went with me to order of the chef at the Cafe des
      Anglais. But, pshaw! with her beside you gall and wormwood would be as
      sweet as honey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel as if I were coming back to life again,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, hurry up there!&rdquo; cried Father Goriot, letting down the window in
      front. &ldquo;Get on faster; I will give you five francs if you get to the place
      I told you of in ten minutes time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this prospect before him the cabman crossed Paris with miraculous
      celerity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How that fellow crawls!&rdquo; said Father Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where are you taking me?&rdquo; Eugene asked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To your own house,&rdquo; said Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cab stopped in the Rue d&rsquo;Artois. Father Goriot stepped out first and
      flung ten francs to the man with the recklessness of a widower returning
      to bachelor ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come along upstairs,&rdquo; he said to Rastignac. They crossed a courtyard, and
      climbed up to the third floor of a new and handsome house. There they
      stopped before a door; but before Goriot could ring, it was opened by
      Therese, Mme. de Nucingen&rsquo;s maid. Eugene found himself in a charming set
      of chambers; an ante-room, a little drawing-room, a bedroom, and a study,
      looking out upon a garden. The furniture and the decorations of the little
      drawing-room were of the most daintily charming description, the room was
      full of soft light, and Delphine rose up from a low chair by the fire and
      stood before him. She set her fire-screen down on the chimney-piece, and
      spoke with tenderness in every tone of her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So we had to go in search of you, sir, you who are so slow to
      understand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Therese left the room. The student took Delphine in his arms and held her
      in a tight clasp, his eyes filled with tears of joy. This last contrast
      between his present surroundings and the scenes he had just witnessed was
      too much for Rastignac&rsquo;s over-wrought nerves, after the day&rsquo;s strain and
      excitement that had wearied heart and brain; he was almost overcome by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I felt sure myself that he loved you,&rdquo; murmured Father Goriot, while
      Eugene lay back bewildered on the sofa, utterly unable to speak a word or
      to reason out how and why the magic wand had been waved to bring about
      this final transformation scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you must see your rooms,&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen. She took his hand
      and led him into a room carpeted and furnished like her own; indeed, down
      to the smallest details, it was a reproduction in miniature of Delphine&rsquo;s
      apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no bed,&rdquo; said Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, monsieur,&rdquo; she answered, reddening, and pressing his hand. Eugene,
      looking at her, understood, young though he yet was, how deeply modesty is
      implanted in the heart of a woman who loves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are one of those beings whom we cannot choose but to adore for ever,&rdquo;
       he said in her ear. &ldquo;Yes, the deeper and truer love is, the more
      mysterious and closely veiled it should be; I can dare to say so, since we
      understand each other so well. No one shall learn our secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! so I am nobody, I suppose,&rdquo; growled the father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know quite well that &lsquo;we&rsquo; means you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is what I wanted. You will not mind me, will you? I shall go and
      come like a good fairy who makes himself felt everywhere without being
      seen, shall I not? Eh, Delphinette, Ninette, Dedel&mdash;was it not a good
      idea of mine to say to you, &lsquo;There are some nice rooms to let in the Rue
      d&rsquo;Artois; let us furnish them for him?&rsquo; And she would not hear of it! Ah!
      your happiness has been all my doing. I am the author of your happiness
      and of your existence. Fathers must always be giving if they would be
      happy themselves; always giving&mdash;they would not be fathers else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was that how it happened?&rdquo; asked Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. She would not listen to me. She was afraid that people would talk,
      as if the rubbish that they say about you were to be compared with
      happiness! Why, all women dream of doing what she has done&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot found himself without an audience, for Mme. de Nucingen had
      led Rastignac into the study; he heard a kiss given and taken, low though
      the sound was.
    </p>
    <p>
      The study was furnished as elegantly as the other rooms, and nothing was
      wanting there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have we guessed your wishes rightly?&rdquo; she asked, as they returned to the
      drawing-room for dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;only too well, alas! For all this luxury so well carried
      out, this realization of pleasant dreams, the elegance that satisfies all
      the romantic fancies of youth, appeals to me so strongly that I cannot but
      feel that it is my rightful possession, but I cannot accept it from you,
      and I am too poor as yet to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! ah! you say me nay already,&rdquo; she said with arch imperiousness, and a
      charming little pout of the lips, a woman&rsquo;s way of laughing away scruples.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Eugene had submitted so lately to that solemn self-questioning, and
      Vautrin&rsquo;s arrest had so plainly shown him the depths of the pit that lay
      ready to his feet, that the instincts of generosity and honor had been
      strengthened in him, and he could not allow himself to be coaxed into
      abandoning his high-minded determinations. Profound melancholy filled his
      mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really mean to refuse?&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen. &ldquo;And do you know
      what such a refusal means? That you are not sure of yourself, that you do
      not dare to bind yourself to me. Are you really afraid of betraying my
      affection? If you love me, if I&mdash;love you, why should you shrink back
      from such a slight obligation? If you but knew what a pleasure it has been
      to see after all the arrangements of this bachelor establishment, you
      would not hesitate any longer, you would ask me to forgive you for your
      hesitation. I had some money that belonged to you, and I have made good
      use of it, that is all. You mean this for magnanimity, but it is very
      little of you. You are asking me for far more than this.... Ah!&rdquo; she
      cried, as Eugene&rsquo;s passionate glance was turned on her, &ldquo;and you are
      making difficulties about the merest trifles. Of, if you feel no love
      whatever for me, refuse, by all means. My fate hangs on a word from you.
      Speak!&mdash;Father,&rdquo; she said after a pause, &ldquo;make him listen to reason.
      Can he imagine that I am less nice than he is on the point of honor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot was looking on and listening to this pretty quarrel with a
      placid smile, as if he had found some balm for all the sorrows of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Child that you are!&rdquo; she cried again, catching Eugene&rsquo;s hand. &ldquo;You are
      just beginning life; you find barriers at the outset that many a man finds
      insurmountable; a woman&rsquo;s hand opens the way and you shrink back! Why, you
      are sure to succeed! You will have a brilliant future. Success is written
      on that broad forehead of yours, and will you not be able to repay me my
      loan of to-day? Did not a lady in olden times arm her knight with sword
      and helmet and coat of mail, and find him a charger, so that he might
      fight for her in the tournament? Well, then, Eugene, these things that I
      offer you are the weapons of this age; every one who means to be something
      must have such tools as these. A pretty place your garret must be if it is
      like papa&rsquo;s room! See, dinner is waiting all this time. Do you want to
      make me unhappy?&mdash;Why don&rsquo;t you answer?&rdquo; she said, shaking his hand.
      &ldquo;<i>Mon Dieu!</i> papa, make up his mind for him, or I will go away and
      never see him any more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will make up your mind,&rdquo; said Goriot, coming down from the clouds.
      &ldquo;Now, my dear M. Eugene, the next thing is to borrow money of the Jews,
      isn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is positively no help for it,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right, I will give you credit,&rdquo; said the other, drawing out a cheap
      leather pocket-book, much the worse for wear. &ldquo;I have turned Jew myself; I
      paid for everything; here are the invoices. You do not owe a penny for
      anything here. It did not come to very much&mdash;five thousand francs at
      most, and I am going to lend you the money myself. I am not a woman&mdash;you
      can refuse me. You shall give me a receipt on a scrap of paper, and you
      can return it some time or other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Delphine and Eugene looked at each other in amazement, tears sprang to
      their eyes. Rastignac held out his hand and grasped Goriot&rsquo;s warmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what is all this about? Are you not my children?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! my poor father,&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen, &ldquo;how did you do it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now you ask me. When I made up my mind to move him nearer to you, and
      saw you buying things as if they were wedding presents, I said to myself,
      &lsquo;She will never be able to pay for them.&rsquo; The attorney says that those law
      proceedings will last quite six months before your husband can be made to
      disgorge your fortune. Well and good. I sold out my property in the funds
      that brought in thirteen hundred and fifty livres a year, and bought a
      safe annuity of twelve hundred francs a year for fifteen thousand francs.
      Then I paid your tradesmen out of the rest of the capital. As for me,
      children, I have a room upstairs for which I pay fifty crowns a year; I
      can live like a prince on two francs a day, and still have something left
      over. I shall not have to spend anything much on clothes, for I never wear
      anything out. This fortnight past I have been laughing in my sleeve,
      thinking to myself, &lsquo;How happy they are going to be!&rsquo; and&mdash;well, now,
      are you not happy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh papa! papa!&rdquo; cried Mme. de Nucingen, springing to her father, who took
      her on his knee. She covered him with kisses, her fair hair brushed his
      cheek, her tears fell on the withered face that had grown so bright and
      radiant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear father, what a father you are! No, there is not another father like
      you under the sun. If Eugene loved you before, what must he feel for you
      now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, children, why Delphinette!&rdquo; cried Goriot, who had not felt his
      daughter&rsquo;s heart beat against his breast for ten years, &ldquo;do you want me to
      die of joy? My poor heart will break! Come, Monsieur Eugene, we are quits
      already.&rdquo; And the old man strained her to his breast with such fierce and
      passionate force that she cried out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! you are hurting me!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am hurting you!&rdquo; He grew pale at the words. The pain expressed in his
      face seemed greater than it is given to humanity to know. The agony of
      this Christ of paternity can only be compared with the masterpieces of
      those princes of the palette who have left for us the record of their
      visions of an agony suffered for a whole world by the Saviour of men.
      Father Goriot pressed his lips very gently against the waist than his
      fingers had grasped too roughly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! no, no,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I have not hurt you, have I?&rdquo; and his smile
      seemed to repeat the question. &ldquo;YOU have hurt me with that cry just now.&mdash;The
      things cost rather more than that,&rdquo; he said in her ear, with another
      gentle kiss, &ldquo;but I had to deceive him about it, or he would have been
      angry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene sat dumb with amazement in the presence of this inexhaustible love;
      he gazed at Goriot, and his face betrayed the artless admiration which
      shapes the beliefs of youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be worthy of all this,&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! my Eugene, that is nobly said,&rdquo; and Mme. de Nucingen kissed the law
      student on the forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He gave up Mlle. Taillefer and her millions for you,&rdquo; said Father Goriot.
      &ldquo;Yes, the little thing was in love with you, and now that her brother is
      dead she is as rich as Croesus.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! why did you tell her?&rdquo; cried Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eugene,&rdquo; Delphine said in his ear, &ldquo;I have one regret now this evening.
      Ah! how I will love you! and for ever!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the happiest day I have had since you two were married!&rdquo; cried
      Goriot. &ldquo;God may send me any suffering, so long as I do not suffer through
      you, and I can still say, &lsquo;In this short month of February I had more
      happiness than other men have in their whole lives.&rsquo;&mdash;Look at me,
      Fifine!&rdquo; he said to his daughter. &ldquo;She is very beautiful, is she not? Tell
      me, now, have you seen many women with that pretty soft color&mdash;that
      little dimple of hers? No, I thought not. Ah, well, and but for me this
      lovely woman would never have been. And very soon happiness will make her
      a thousand times lovelier, happiness through you. I could give up my place
      in heaven to you, neighbor, if needs be, and go down to hell instead.
      Come, let us have dinner,&rdquo; he added, scarcely knowing what he said,
      &ldquo;everything is ours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor dear father!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He rose and went over to her, and took her face in his hands, and set a
      kiss on the plaits of hair. &ldquo;If you only knew, little one, how happy you
      can make me&mdash;how little it takes to make me happy! Will you come and
      see me sometimes? I shall be just above, so it is only a step. Promise me,
      say that you will!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dear father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I will, my kind father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! hush! I should make you say it a hundred times over if I followed
      my own wishes. Let us have dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The three behaved like children that evening, and Father Goriot&rsquo;s spirits
      were certainly not the least wild. He lay at his daughter&rsquo;s feet, kissed
      them, gazed into her eyes, rubbed his head against her dress; in short, no
      young lover could have been more extravagant or more tender.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see!&rdquo; Delphine said with a look at Eugene, &ldquo;so long as my father is
      with us, he monopolizes me. He will be rather in the way sometimes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene had himself already felt certain twinges of jealousy, and could not
      blame this speech that contained the germ of all ingratitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when will the rooms be ready?&rdquo; asked Eugene, looking round. &ldquo;We must
      all leave them this evening, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but to-morrow you must come and dine with me,&rdquo; she answered, with an
      eloquent glance. &ldquo;It is our night at the Italiens.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall go to the pit,&rdquo; said her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was midnight. Mme. de Nucingen&rsquo;s carriage was waiting for her, and
      Father Goriot and the student walked back to the Maison Vauquer, talking
      of Delphine, and warming over their talk till there grew up a curious
      rivalry between the two violent passions. Eugene could not help seeing
      that the father&rsquo;s self-less love was deeper and more steadfast than his
      own. For this worshiper Delphine was always pure and fair, and her
      father&rsquo;s adoration drew its fervor from a whole past as well as a future
      of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      They found Mme. Vauquer by the stove, with Sylvie and Christophe to keep
      her company; the old landlady, sitting like Marius among the ruins of
      Carthage, was waiting for the two lodgers that yet remained to her, and
      bemoaning her lot with the sympathetic Sylvie. Tasso&rsquo;s lamentations as
      recorded in Byron&rsquo;s poem are undoubtedly eloquent, but for sheer force of
      truth they fall far short of the widow&rsquo;s cry from the depths.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only three cups of coffee in the morning, Sylvie! Oh dear! to have your
      house emptied in this way is enough to break your heart. What is life, now
      my lodgers are gone? Nothing at all. Just think of it! It is just as if
      all the furniture had been taken out of the house, and your furniture is
      your life. How have I offended heaven to draw down all this trouble upon
      me? And haricot beans and potatoes laid in for twenty people! The police
      in my house too! We shall have to live on potatoes now, and Christophe
      will have to go!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Savoyard, who was fast asleep, suddenly woke up at this, and said,
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; questioningly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow!&rdquo; said Sylvie, &ldquo;he is like a dog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the dead season, too! Nobody is moving now. I would like to know where
      the lodgers are to drop down from. It drives me distracted. And that old
      witch of a Michonneau goes and takes Poiret with her! What can she have
      done to make him so fond of her? He runs about after her like a little
      dog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord!&rdquo; said Sylvie, flinging up her head, &ldquo;those old maids are up to all
      sorts of tricks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s that poor M. Vautrin that they made out to be a convict,&rdquo; the
      widow went on. &ldquo;Well, you know that is too much for me, Sylvie; I can&rsquo;t
      bring myself to believe it. Such a lively man as he was, and paid fifteen
      francs a month for his coffee of an evening, paid you very penny on the
      nail too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And open-handed he was!&rdquo; said Christophe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is some mistake,&rdquo; said Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, no there isn&rsquo;t! he said so himself!&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;And to
      think that all these things have happened in my house, and in a quarter
      where you never see a cat go by. On my word as an honest woman, it&rsquo;s like
      a dream. For, look here, we saw Louis XVI. meet with his mishap; we saw
      the fall of the Emperor; and we saw him come back and fall again; there
      was nothing out of the way in all that, but lodging-houses are not liable
      to revolutions. You can do without a king, but you must eat all the same;
      and so long as a decent woman, a de Conflans born and bred, will give you
      all sorts of good things for dinner, nothing short of the end of the world
      ought to&mdash;but there, it is the end of the world, that is just what it
      is!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to think that Mlle. Michonneau who made all this mischief is to have
      a thousand crowns a year for it, so I hear,&rdquo; cried Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t speak of her, she is a wicked woman!&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer. &ldquo;She is
      going to the Buneaud, who charges less than cost. But the Buneaud is
      capable of anything; she must have done frightful things, robbed and
      murdered people in her time. <i>She</i> ought to be put in jail for life
      instead of that poor dear&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene and Goriot rang the door-bell at that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! here are my two faithful lodgers,&rdquo; said the widow, sighing.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the two faithful lodgers, who retained but shadowy recollections of
      the misfortunes of their lodging-house, announced to their hostess without
      more ado that they were about to remove to the Chaussee d&rsquo;Antin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sylvie!&rdquo; cried the widow, &ldquo;this is the last straw.&mdash;Gentlemen, this
      will be the death of me! It has quite upset me! There&rsquo;s a weight on my
      chest! I am ten years older for this day! Upon my word, I shall go out of
      my senses! And what is to be done with the haricots!&mdash;Oh, well, if I
      am to be left here all by myself, you shall go to-morrow, Christophe.&mdash;Good-night,
      gentlemen,&rdquo; and she went.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter now?&rdquo; Eugene inquired of Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord! everybody is going about his business, and that has addled her
      wits. There! she is crying upstairs. It will do her good to snivel a bit.
      It&rsquo;s the first time she has cried since I&rsquo;ve been with her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      By the morning, Mme. Vauquer, to use her own expression, had &ldquo;made up her
      mind to it.&rdquo; True, she still wore a doleful countenance, as might be
      expected of a woman who had lost all her lodgers, and whose manner of life
      had been suddenly revolutionized, but she had all her wits about her. Her
      grief was genuine and profound; it was real pain of mind, for her purse
      had suffered, the routine of her existence had been broken. A lover&rsquo;s
      farewell glance at his lady-love&rsquo;s window is not more mournful than Mme.
      Vauquer&rsquo;s survey of the empty places round her table. Eugene administered
      comfort, telling the widow that Bianchon, whose term of residence at the
      hospital was about to expire, would doubtless take his (Rastignac&rsquo;s)
      place; that the official from the Museum had often expressed a desire to
      have Mme. Couture&rsquo;s rooms; and that in a very few days her household would
      be on the old footing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God send it may, my dear sir! but bad luck has come to lodge here.
      There&rsquo;ll be a death in the house before ten days are out, you&rsquo;ll see,&rdquo; and
      she gave a lugubrious look round the dining-room. &ldquo;Whose turn will it be,
      I wonder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is just as well that we are moving out,&rdquo; said Eugene to Father Goriot
      in a low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; said Sylvie, running in with a scared face, &ldquo;I have not seen
      Mistigris these three days.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! well, if my cat is dead, if <i>he</i> has gone and left us, I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The poor woman could not finish her sentence; she clasped her hands and
      hid her face on the back of her armchair, quite overcome by this dreadful
      portent.
    </p>
    <p>
      By twelve o&rsquo;clock, when the postman reaches that quarter, Eugene received
      a letter. The dainty envelope bore the Beauseant arms on the seal, and
      contained an invitation to the Vicomtesse&rsquo;s great ball, which had been
      talked of in Paris for a month. A little note for Eugene was slipped in
      with the card.
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;I think, monsieur, that you will undertake with pleasure to
  interpret my sentiments to Mme. de Nucingen, so I am sending the
  card for which you asked me to you. I shall be delighted to make
  the acquaintance of Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s sister. Pray introduce that
  charming lady to me, and do not let her monopolize all your
  affection, for you owe me not a little in return for mine.

                                         &ldquo;VICOMTESSE DE BEAUSEANT.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Eugene to himself, as he read the note a second time, &ldquo;Mme.
      de Beauseant says pretty plainly that she does not want the Baron de
      Nucingen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went to Delphine at once in his joy. He had procured this pleasure for
      her, and doubtless he would receive the price of it. Mme. de Nucingen was
      dressing. Rastignac waited in her boudoir, enduring as best he might the
      natural impatience of an eager temperament for the reward desired and
      withheld for a year. Such sensations are only known once in a life. The
      first woman to whom a man is drawn, if she is really a woman&mdash;that is
      to say, if she appears to him amid the splendid accessories that form a
      necessary background to life in the world of Paris&mdash;will never have a
      rival.
    </p>
    <p>
      Love in Paris is a thing distinct and apart; for in Paris neither men nor
      women are the dupes of the commonplaces by which people seek to throw a
      veil over their motives, or to parade a fine affectation of
      disinterestedness in their sentiments. In this country within a country,
      it is not merely required of a woman that she should satisfy the senses
      and the soul; she knows perfectly well that she has still greater
      obligations to discharge, that she must fulfil the countless demands of a
      vanity that enters into every fibre of that living organism called
      society. Love, for her, is above all things, and by its very nature, a
      vainglorious, brazen-fronted, ostentatious, thriftless charlatan. If at
      the Court of Louis XIV. there was not a woman but envied Mlle. de la
      Valliere the reckless devotion of passion that led the grand monarch to
      tear the priceless ruffles at his wrists in order to assist the entry of a
      Duc de Vermandois into the world&mdash;what can you expect of the rest of
      society? You must have youth and wealth and rank; nay, you must, if
      possible, have more than these, for the more incense you bring with you to
      burn at the shrine of the god, the more favorably will he regard the
      worshiper. Love is a religion, and his cult must in the nature of things
      be more costly than those of all other deities; Love the Spoiler stays for
      a moment, and then passes on; like the urchin of the streets, his course
      may be traced by the ravages that he has made. The wealth of feeling and
      imagination is the poetry of the garret; how should love exist there
      without that wealth?
    </p>
    <p>
      If there are exceptions who do not subscribe to these Draconian laws of
      the Parisian code, they are solitary examples. Such souls live so far out
      of the main current that they are not borne away by the doctrines of
      society; they dwell beside some clear spring of everflowing water, without
      seeking to leave the green shade; happy to listen to the echoes of the
      infinite in everything around them and in their own souls, waiting in
      patience to take their flight for heaven, while they look with pity upon
      those of earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac, like most young men who have been early impressed by the
      circumstances of power and grandeur, meant to enter the lists fully armed;
      the burning ambition of conquest possessed him already; perhaps he was
      conscious of his powers, but as yet he knew neither the end to which his
      ambition was to be directed, nor the means of attaining it. In default of
      the pure and sacred love that fills a life, ambition may become something
      very noble, subduing to itself every thought of personal interest, and
      setting as the end&mdash;the greatness, not of one man, but of a whole
      nation.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the student had not yet reached the time of life when a man surveys
      the whole course of existence and judges it soberly. Hitherto he had
      scarcely so much as shaken off the spell of the fresh and gracious
      influences that envelop a childhood in the country, like green leaves and
      grass. He had hesitated on the brink of the Parisian Rubicon, and in spite
      of the prickings of ambition, he still clung to a lingering tradition of
      an old ideal&mdash;the peaceful life of the noble in his chateau. But
      yesterday evening, at the sight of his rooms, those scruples had vanished.
      He had learned what it was to enjoy the material advantages of fortune, as
      he had already enjoyed the social advantages of birth; he ceased to be a
      provincial from that moment, and slipped naturally and easily into a
      position which opened up a prospect of a brilliant future.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, as he waited for Delphine, in the pretty boudoir, where he felt that
      he had a certain right to be, he felt himself so far away from the
      Rastignac who came back to Paris a year ago, that, turning some power of
      inner vision upon this latter, he asked himself whether that past self
      bore any resemblance to the Rastignac of that moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame is in her room,&rdquo; Therese came to tell him. The woman&rsquo;s voice made
      him start.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found Delphine lying back in her low chair by the fireside, looking
      fresh and bright. The sight of her among the flowing draperies of muslin
      suggested some beautiful tropical flower, where the fruit is set amid the
      blossom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, with a tremor in her voice, &ldquo;here you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess what I bring for you,&rdquo; said Eugene, sitting down beside her. He
      took possession of her arm to kiss her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Nucingen gave a joyful start as she saw the card. She turned to
      Eugene; there were tears in her eyes as she flung her arms about his neck,
      and drew him towards her in a frenzy of gratified vanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I owe this happiness to you&mdash;to <i>thee</i>&rdquo; (she whispered the
      more intimate word in his ear); &ldquo;but Therese is in my dressing-room, let
      us be prudent.&mdash;This happiness&mdash;yes, for I may call it so, when
      it comes to me through <i>you</i>&mdash;is surely more than a triumph for
      self-love? No one has been willing to introduce me into that set. Perhaps
      just now I may seem to you to be frivolous, petty, shallow, like a
      Parisienne, but remember, my friend, that I am ready to give up all for
      you; and that if I long more than ever for an entrance into the Faubourg
      Saint-Germain, it is because I shall meet you there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s note seems to say very plainly that she does not
      expect to see the <i>Baron</i> de Nucingen at her ball; don&rsquo;t you think
      so?&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; said the Baroness as she returned the letter. &ldquo;Those women
      have a talent for insolence. But it is of no consequence, I shall go. My
      sister is sure to be there, and sure to be very beautifully dressed.&mdash;Eugene,&rdquo;
       she went on, lowering her voice, &ldquo;she will go to dispel ugly suspicions.
      You do not know the things that people are saying about her. Only this
      morning Nucingen came to tell me that they had been discussing her at the
      club. Great heavens! on what does a woman&rsquo;s character and the honor of a
      whole family depend! I feel that I am nearly touched and wounded in my
      poor sister. According to some people, M. de Trailles must have put his
      name to bills for a hundred thousand francs, nearly all of them are
      overdue, and proceedings are threatened. In this predicament, it seems
      that my sister sold her diamonds to a Jew&mdash;the beautiful diamonds
      that belonged to her husband&rsquo;s mother, Mme. de Restaud the elder,&mdash;you
      have seen her wearing them. In fact, nothing else has been talked about
      for the last two days. So I can see that Anastasie is sure to come to Mme.
      de Beauseant&rsquo;s ball in tissue of gold, and ablaze with diamonds, to draw
      all eyes upon her; and I will not be outshone. She has tried to eclipse me
      all her life, she has never been kind to me, and I have helped her so
      often, and always had money for her when she had none.&mdash;But never
      mind other people now, to-day I mean to be perfectly happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At one o&rsquo;clock that morning Eugene was still with Mme. de Nucingen. In the
      midst of their lovers&rsquo; farewell, a farewell full of hope of bliss to come,
      she said in a troubled voice, &ldquo;I am very fearful, superstitious. Give what
      name you like to my presentiments, but I am afraid that my happiness will
      be paid for by some horrible catastrophe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Child!&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! have we changed places, and am I the child to-night?&rdquo; she asked,
      laughingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene went back to the Maison Vauquer, never doubting but that he should
      leave it for good on the morrow; and on the way he fell to dreaming the
      bright dreams of youth, when the cup of happiness has left its sweetness
      on the lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; cried Goriot, as Rastignac passed by his door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Eugene; &ldquo;I will tell you everything to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything, will you not?&rdquo; cried the old man. &ldquo;Go to bed. To-morrow our
      happy life will begin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Next day, Goriot and Rastignac were ready to leave the lodging-house, and
      only awaited the good pleasure of a porter to move out of it; but towards
      noon there was a sound of wheels in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, and a
      carriage stopped before the door of the Maison Vauquer. Mme. de Nucingen
      alighted, and asked if her father was still in the house, and, receiving
      an affirmative reply from Sylvie, ran lightly upstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened that Eugene was at home all unknown to his neighbor. At
      breakfast time he had asked Goriot to superintend the removal of his
      goods, saying that he would meet him in the Rue d&rsquo;Artois at four o&rsquo;clock;
      but Rastignac&rsquo;s name had been called early on the list at the Ecole de
      Droit, and he had gone back at once to the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve. No
      one had seen him come in, for Goriot had gone to find a porter, and the
      mistress of the house was likewise out. Eugene had thought to pay her
      himself, for it struck him that if he left this, Goriot in his zeal would
      probably pay for him. As it was, Eugene went up to his room to see that
      nothing had been forgotten, and blessed his foresight when he saw the
      blank bill bearing Vautrin&rsquo;s signature lying in the drawer where he had
      carelessly thrown it on the day when he had repaid the amount. There was
      no fire in the grate, so he was about to tear it into little pieces, when
      he heard a voice speaking in Goriot&rsquo;s room, and the speaker was Delphine!
      He made no more noise, and stood still to listen, thinking that she should
      have no secrets from him; but after the first few words, the conversation
      between the father and daughter was so strange and interesting that it
      absorbed all his attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! thank heaven that you thought of asking him to give an account of the
      money settled on me before I was utterly ruined, father. Is it safe to
      talk?&rdquo; she added.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there is no one in the house,&rdquo; said her father faintly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; asked Mme. de Nucingen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God forgive you! you have just dealt me a staggering blow, child!&rdquo; said
      the old man. &ldquo;You cannot know how much I love you, or you would not have
      burst in upon me like this, with such news, especially if all is not lost.
      Has something so important happened that you must come here about it? In a
      few minutes we should have been in the Rue d&rsquo;Artois.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! does one think what one is doing after a catastrophe? It has turned
      my head. Your attorney has found out the state of things now, but it was
      bound to come out sooner or later. We shall want your long business
      experience; and I come to you like a drowning man who catches at a branch.
      When M. Derville found that Nucingen was throwing all sorts of
      difficulties in his way, he threatened him with proceedings, and told him
      plainly that he would soon obtain an order from the President of the
      Tribunal. So Nucingen came to my room this morning, and asked if I meant
      to ruin us both. I told him that I knew nothing whatever about it, that I
      had a fortune, and ought to be put into possession of my fortune, and that
      my attorney was acting for me in the matter; I said again that I knew
      absolutely nothing about it, and could not possibly go into the subject
      with him. Wasn&rsquo;t that what you told me to tell him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, quite right,&rdquo; answered Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; Delphine continued, &ldquo;he told me all about his affairs. He
      had just invested all his capital and mine in business speculations; they
      have only just been started, and very large sums of money are locked up.
      If I were to compel him to refund my dowry now, he would be forced to file
      his petition; but if I will wait a year, he undertakes, on his honor, to
      double or treble my fortune, by investing it in building land, and I shall
      be mistress at last of the whole of my property. He was speaking the
      truth, father dear; he frightened me! He asked my pardon for his conduct;
      he has given me my liberty; I am free to act as I please on condition that
      I leave him to carry on my business in my name. To prove his sincerity, he
      promised that M. Derville might inspect the accounts as often as I
      pleased, so that I might be assured that everything was being conducted
      properly. In short, he put himself in my power, bound hand and foot. He
      wishes the present arrangements as to the expenses of housekeeping to
      continue for two more years, and entreated me not to exceed my allowance.
      He showed me plainly that it was all that he could do to keep up
      appearances; he has broken with his opera dancer; he will be compelled to
      practise the most strict economy (in secret) if he is to bide his time
      with unshaken credit. I scolded, I did all I could to drive him to
      desperation, so as to find out more. He showed me his ledgers&mdash;he
      broke down and cried at last. I never saw a man in such a state. He lost
      his head completely, talked of killing himself, and raved till I felt
      quite sorry for him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you really believe that silly rubbish?&rdquo;... cried her father. &ldquo;It was
      all got up for your benefit! I have had to do with Germans in the way of
      business, honest and straightforward they are pretty sure to be, but when
      with their simplicity and frankness they are sharpers and humbugs as well,
      they are the worst rogues of all. Your husband is taking advantage of you.
      As soon as pressure is brought to bear on him he shams dead; he means to
      be more the master under your name than in his own. He will take advantage
      of the position to secure himself against the risks of business. He is as
      sharp as he is treacherous; he is a bad lot! No, no; I am not going to
      leave my girls behind me without a penny when I go to Pere-Lachaise. I
      know something about business still. He has sunk his money in speculation,
      he says; very well then, there is something to show for it&mdash;bills,
      receipts, papers of some sort. Let him produce them, and come to an
      arrangement with you. We will choose the most promising of his
      speculations, take them over at our own risk, and have the securities
      transferred into your name; they shall represent the separate estate of
      Delphine Goriot, wife of the Baron de Nucingen. Does that fellow really
      take us for idiots? Does he imagine that I could stand the idea of your
      being without fortune, without bread, for forty-eight hours? I would not
      stand it a day&mdash;no, not a night, not a couple of hours! If there had
      been any foundation for the idea, I should never get over it. What! I have
      worked hard for forty years, carried sacks on my back, and sweated and
      pinched and saved all my life for you, my darlings, for you who made the
      toil and every burden borne for you seem light; and now, my fortune, my
      whole life, is to vanish in smoke! I should die raving mad if I believed a
      word of it. By all that&rsquo;s holiest in heaven and earth, we will have this
      cleared up at once; go through the books, have the whole business looked
      thoroughly into! I will not sleep, nor rest, nor eat until I have
      satisfied myself that all your fortune is in existence. Your money is
      settled upon you, God be thanked! and, luckily, your attorney, Maitre
      Derville, is an honest man. Good Lord! you shall have your snug little
      million, your fifty thousand francs a year, as long as you live, or I will
      raise a racket in Paris, I will so! If the Tribunals put upon us, I will
      appeal to the Chambers. If I knew that you were well and comfortably off
      as far as money is concerned, that thought would keep me easy in spite of
      bad health and troubles. Money? why, it is life! Money does everything.
      That great dolt of an Alsatian shall sing to another tune! Look here,
      Delphine, don&rsquo;t give way, don&rsquo;t make a concession of half a quarter of a
      farthing to that fathead, who has ground you down and made you miserable.
      If he can&rsquo;t do without you, we will give him a good cudgeling, and keep
      him in order. Great heavens! my brain is on fire; it is as if there were
      something redhot inside my head. My Delphine lying on straw! You! my
      Fifine! Good gracious! Where are my gloves? Come, let us go at once; I
      mean to see everything with my own eyes&mdash;books, cash, and
      correspondence, the whole business. I shall have no peace until I know for
      certain that your fortune is secure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! father dear, be careful how you set about it! If there is the least
      hint of vengeance in the business, if you show yourself openly hostile, it
      will be all over with me. He knows whom he has to deal with; he thinks it
      quite natural that if you put the idea into my head, I should be uneasy
      about my money; but I swear to you that he has it in his own hands, and
      that he had meant to keep it. He is just the man to abscond with all the
      money and leave us in the lurch, the scoundrel! He knows quite well that I
      will not dishonor the name I bear by bringing him into a court of law. His
      position is strong and weak at the same time. If we drive him to despair,
      I am lost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then, the man is a rogue?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, yes, father,&rdquo; she said, flinging herself into a chair, &ldquo;I wanted to
      keep it from you to spare your feelings,&rdquo; and she burst into tears; &ldquo;I did
      not want you to know that you had married me to such a man as he is. He is
      just the same in private life&mdash;body and soul and conscience&mdash;the
      same through and through&mdash;hideous! I hate him; I despise him! Yes,
      after all that that despicable Nucingen has told me, I cannot respect him
      any longer. A man capable of mixing himself up in such affairs, and of
      talking about them to me as he did, without the slightest scruple,&mdash;it
      is because I have read him through and through that I am afraid of him.
      He, my husband, frankly proposed to give me my liberty, and do you know
      what that means? It means that if things turn out badly for him, I am to
      play into his hands, and be his stalking-horse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there is law to be had! There is a Place de Greve for sons-in-law of
      that sort,&rdquo; cried her father; &ldquo;why, I would guillotine him myself if there
      was no headsman to do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, father, the law cannot touch him. Listen, this is what he says,
      stripped of all his circumlocutions&mdash;&lsquo;Take your choice, you and no
      one else can be my accomplice; either everything is lost, you are ruined
      and have not a farthing, or you will let me carry this business through
      myself.&rsquo; Is that plain speaking? He <i>must</i> have my assistance. He is
      assured that his wife will deal fairly by him; he knows that I shall leave
      his money to him and be content with my own. It is an unholy and dishonest
      compact, and he holds out threats of ruin to compel me to consent to it.
      He is buying my conscience, and the price is liberty to be Eugene&rsquo;s wife
      in all but name. &lsquo;I connive at your errors, and you allow me to commit
      crimes and ruin poor families!&rsquo; Is that sufficiently explicit? Do you know
      what he means by speculations? He buys up land in his own name, then he
      finds men of straw to run up houses upon it. These men make a bargain with
      a contractor to build the houses, paying them by bills at long dates; then
      in consideration of a small sum they leave my husband in possession of the
      houses, and finally slip through the fingers of the deluded contractors by
      going into bankruptcy. The name of the firm of Nucingen has been used to
      dazzle the poor contractors. I saw that. I noticed, too, that Nucingen had
      sent bills for large amounts to Amsterdam, London, Naples, and Vienna, in
      order to prove if necessary that large sums had been paid away by the
      firm. How could we get possession of those bills?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene heard a dull thud on the floor; Father Goriot must have fallen on
      his knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great heavens! what have I done to you? Bound my daughter to this
      scoundrel who does as he likes with her!&mdash;Oh! my child, my child!
      forgive me!&rdquo; cried the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, if I am in the depths of despair, perhaps you are to blame,&rdquo; said
      Delphine. &ldquo;We have so little sense when we marry! What do we know of the
      world, of business, or men, or life? Our fathers should think for us!
      Father dear, I am not blaming you in the least, forgive me for what I
      said. This is all my own fault. Nay, do not cry, papa,&rdquo; she said, kissing
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not cry either, my little Delphine. Look up and let me kiss away the
      tears. There! I shall find my wits and unravel this skein of your
      husband&rsquo;s winding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, let me do that; I shall be able to manage him. He is fond of me, well
      and good; I shall use my influence to make him invest my money as soon as
      possible in landed property in my own name. Very likely I could get him to
      buy back Nucingen in Alsace in my name; that has always been a pet idea of
      his. Still, come to-morrow and go through the books, and look into the
      business. M. Derville knows little of mercantile matters. No, not
      to-morrow though. I do not want to be upset. Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s ball will
      be the day after to-morrow, and I must keep quiet, so as to look my best
      and freshest, and do honor to my dear Eugene!... Come, let us see his
      room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But as she spoke a carriage stopped in the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve, and
      the sound of Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s voice came from the staircase. &ldquo;Is my
      father in?&rdquo; she asked of Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      This accident was luckily timed for Eugene, whose one idea had been to
      throw himself down on the bed and pretend to be asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, father, have you heard about Anastasie?&rdquo; said Delphine, when she
      heard her sister speak. &ldquo;It looks as though some strange things had
      happened in that family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What sort of things?&rdquo; asked Goriot. &ldquo;This is like to be the death of me.
      My poor head will not stand a double misfortune.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-morning, father,&rdquo; said the Countess from the threshold. &ldquo;Oh!
      Delphine, are you here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Restaud seemed taken aback by her sister&rsquo;s presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-morning, Nasie,&rdquo; said the Baroness. &ldquo;What is there so extraordinary
      in my being here? <i>I</i> see our father every day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since when?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you came yourself you would know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tease, Delphine,&rdquo; said the Countess fretfully. &ldquo;I am very
      miserable, I am lost. Oh! my poor father, it is hopeless this time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, Nasie?&rdquo; cried Goriot. &ldquo;Tell us all about it, child! How white
      she is! Quick, do something, Delphine; be kind to her, and I will love you
      even better, if that were possible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Nasie!&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen, drawing her sister to a chair. &ldquo;We
      are the only two people in the world whose love is always sufficient to
      forgive you everything. Family affection is the surest, you see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Countess inhaled the salts and revived.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This will kill me!&rdquo; said their father. &ldquo;There,&rdquo; he went on, stirring the
      smouldering fire, &ldquo;come nearer, both of you. It is cold. What is it,
      Nasie? Be quick and tell me, this is enough to&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, my husband knows everything,&rdquo; said the Countess. &ldquo;Just
      imagine it; do you remember, father, that bill of Maxime&rsquo;s some time ago?
      Well, that was not the first. I had paid ever so many before that. About
      the beginning of January M. de Trailles seemed very much troubled. He said
      nothing to me; but it is so easy to read the hearts of those you love, a
      mere trifle is enough; and then you feel things instinctively. Indeed, he
      was more tender and affectionate than ever, and I was happier than I had
      ever been before. Poor Maxime! in himself he was really saying good-bye to
      me, so he has told me since; he meant to blow his brains out! At last I
      worried him so, and begged and implored so hard; for two hours I knelt at
      his knees and prayed and entreated, and at last he told me&mdash;that he
      owed a hundred thousand francs. Oh! papa! a hundred thousand francs! I was
      beside myself! You had not the money, I knew, I had eaten up all that you
      had&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Goriot; &ldquo;I could not have got it for you unless I had stolen
      it. But I would have done that for you, Nasie! I will do it yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The words came from him like a sob, a hoarse sound like the death rattle
      of a dying man; it seemed indeed like the agony of death when the father&rsquo;s
      love was powerless. There was a pause, and neither of the sisters spoke.
      It must have been selfishness indeed that could hear unmoved that cry of
      anguish that, like a pebble thrown over a precipice, revealed the depths
      of his despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I found the money, father, by selling what was not mine to sell,&rdquo; and the
      Countess burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Delphine was touched; she laid her head on her sister&rsquo;s shoulder, and
      cried too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then it is all true,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anastasie bowed her head, Mme. de Nucingen flung her arms about her,
      kissed her tenderly, and held her sister to her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall always love you and never judge you, Nasie,&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My angels,&rdquo; murmured Goriot faintly. &ldquo;Oh, why should it be trouble that
      draws you together?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This warm and palpitating affection seemed to give the Countess courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To save Maxime&rsquo;s life,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;to save all my own happiness, I went
      to the money-lender you know of, a man of iron forged in hell-fire;
      nothing can melt him; I took all the family diamonds that M. de Restaud is
      so proud of&mdash;his and mine too&mdash;and sold them to that M. Gobseck.
      <i>Sold them!</i> Do you understand? I saved Maxime, but I am lost.
      Restaud found it all out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How? Who told him? I will kill him,&rdquo; cried Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yesterday he sent to tell me to come to his room. I went. ...
      &lsquo;Anastasie,&rsquo; he said in a voice&mdash;oh! such a voice; that was enough,
      it told me everything&mdash;&lsquo;where are your diamonds?&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;In my room&mdash;&mdash;&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;No,&rsquo;
      he said, looking straight at me, &lsquo;there they are on that chest of drawers&mdash;&mdash;&rsquo;
      and he lifted his handkerchief and showed me the casket. &lsquo;Do you know
      where they came from?&rsquo; he said. I fell at his feet.... I cried; I besought
      him to tell me the death he wished to see me die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said that!&rdquo; cried Goriot. &ldquo;By God in heaven, whoever lays a hand on
      either of you so long as I am alive may reckon on being roasted by slow
      fires! Yes, I will cut him in pieces like...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Goriot stopped; the words died away in his throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then, dear, he asked something worse than death of me. Oh! heaven
      preserve all other women from hearing such words as I heard then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will murder that man,&rdquo; said Goriot quietly. &ldquo;But he has only one life,
      and he deserves to die twice.&mdash;And then, what next?&rdquo; he added,
      looking at Anastasie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; the Countess resumed, &ldquo;there was a pause, and he looked at me.
      &lsquo;Anastasie,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;I will bury this in silence; there shall be no
      separation; there are the children. I will not kill M. de Trailles. I
      might miss him if we fought, and as for other ways of getting rid of him,
      I should come into collision with the law. If I killed him in your arms,
      it would bring dishonor on <i>those</i> children. But if you do not want
      to see your children perish, nor their father nor me, you must first of
      all submit to two conditions. Answer me. Have I a child of my own?&rsquo; I
      answered, &lsquo;Yes,&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Which?&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Ernest, our eldest boy.&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;Very
      well,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;and now swear to obey me in this particular from this
      time forward.&rsquo; I swore. &lsquo;You will make over your property to me when I
      require you to do so.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do nothing of the kind!&rdquo; cried Goriot. &ldquo;Aha! M. de Restaud, you could not
      make your wife happy; she has looked for happiness and found it elsewhere,
      and you make her suffer for your own ineptitude? He will have to reckon
      with me. Make yourself easy, Nasie. Aha! he cares about his heir! Good,
      very good. I will get hold of the boy; isn&rsquo;t he my grandson? What the
      blazes! I can surely go to see the brat! I will stow him away somewhere; I
      will take care of him, you may be quite easy. I will bring Restaud to
      terms, the monster! I shall say to him, &lsquo;A word or two with you! If you
      want your son back again, give my daughter her property, and leave her to
      do as she pleases.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I am your father, Nasie, a father indeed! That rogue of a great lord
      had better not ill-treat my daughter. <i>Tonnerre!</i> What is it in my
      veins? There is the blood of a tiger in me; I could tear those two men to
      pieces! Oh! children, children! so this is what your lives are! Why, it is
      death!... What will become of you when I shall be here no longer? Fathers
      ought to live as long as their children. Ah! Lord God in heaven! how ill
      Thy world is ordered! Thou hast a Son, if what they tell us is true, and
      yet Thou leavest us to suffer so through our children. My darlings, my
      darlings! to think that trouble only should bring you to me, that I should
      only see you with tears on your faces! Ah! yes, yes, you love me, I see
      that you love me. Come to me and pour out your griefs to me; my heart is
      large enough to hold them all. Oh! you might rend my heart in pieces, and
      every fragment would make a father&rsquo;s heart. If only I could bear all your
      sorrows for you! ... Ah! you were so happy when you were little and still
      with me....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have never been happy since,&rdquo; said Delphine. &ldquo;Where are the old days
      when we slid down the sacks in the great granary?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not all, father,&rdquo; said Anastasie in Goriot&rsquo;s ear. The old man
      gave a startled shudder. &ldquo;The diamonds only sold for a hundred thousand
      francs. Maxime is hard pressed. There are twelve thousand francs still to
      pay. He has given me his word that he will be steady and give up play in
      future. His love is all that I have left in the world. I have paid such a
      fearful price for it that I should die if I lose him now. I have
      sacrificed my fortune, my honor, my peace of mind, and my children for
      him. Oh! do something, so that at the least Maxime may be at large and
      live undisgraced in the world, where he will assuredly make a career for
      himself. Something more than my happiness is at stake; the children have
      nothing, and if he is sent to Sainte-Pelagie all his prospects will be
      ruined.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t the money, Nasie. I have <i>nothing</i>&mdash;nothing left.
      This is the end of everything. Yes, the world is crumbling into ruin, I am
      sure. Fly! Save yourselves! Ah!&mdash;I have still my silver buckles left,
      and half-a-dozen silver spoons and forks, the first I ever had in my life.
      But I have nothing else except my life annuity, twelve hundred francs...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what has become of your money in the funds?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sold out, and only kept a trifle for my wants. I wanted twelve thousand
      francs to furnish some rooms for Delphine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In your own house?&rdquo; asked Mme. de Restaud, looking at her sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does it matter where they were?&rdquo; asked Goriot. &ldquo;The money is spent
      now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see how it is,&rdquo; said the Countess. &ldquo;Rooms for M. de Rastignac. Poor
      Delphine, take warning by me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;M. de Rastignac is incapable of ruining the woman he loves, dear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thanks! Delphine. I thought you would have been kinder to me in my
      troubles, but you never did love me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, she loves you, Nasie,&rdquo; cried Goriot; &ldquo;she was saying so only
      just now. We were talking about you, and she insisted that you were
      beautiful, and that she herself was only pretty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty!&rdquo; said the Countess. &ldquo;She is as hard as a marble statue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if I am?&rdquo; cried Delphine, flushing up, &ldquo;how have you treated me? You
      would not recognize me; you closed the doors of every house against me;
      you have never let an opportunity of mortifying me slip by. And when did I
      come, as you were always doing, to drain our poor father, a thousand
      francs at a time, till he is left as you see him now? That is all your
      doing, sister! I myself have seen my father as often as I could. I have
      not turned him out of the house, and then come and fawned upon him when I
      wanted money. I did not so much as know that he had spent those twelve
      thousand francs on me. I am economical, as you know; and when papa has
      made me presents, it has never been because I came and begged for them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were better off than I. M. de Marsay was rich, as you have reason to
      know. You always were as slippery as gold. Good-bye; I have neither sister
      nor&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! hush, hush, Nasie!&rdquo; cried her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nobody else would repeat what everybody has ceased to believe. You are an
      unnatural sister!&rdquo; cried Delphine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, children, children! hush! hush! or I will kill myself before your
      eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, Nasie, I forgive you,&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen; &ldquo;you are very
      unhappy. But I am kinder than you are. How could you say <i>that</i> just
      when I was ready to do anything in the world to help you, even to be
      reconciled with my husband, which for my own sake I&mdash;&mdash;Oh! it is
      just like you; you have behaved cruelly to me all through these nine
      years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Children, children, kiss each other!&rdquo; cried the father. &ldquo;You are angels,
      both of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Let me alone,&rdquo; cried the Countess shaking off the hand that her
      father had laid on her arm. &ldquo;She is more merciless than my husband. Any
      one might think she was a model of all the virtues herself!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;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,&rdquo; retorted Mme. de Nucingen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Delphine!</i>&rdquo; cried the Countess, stepping towards her sister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall tell you the truth about yourself if you begin to slander me,&rdquo;
       said the Baroness coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delphine! you are a &mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Father Goriot sprang between them, grasped the Countess&rsquo; hand, and laid
      his own over her mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good heavens, father! What have you been handling this morning?&rdquo; said
      Anastasie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! well, yes, I ought not to have touched you,&rdquo; said the poor father,
      wiping his hands on his trousers, &ldquo;but I have been packing up my things; I
      did not know that you were coming to see me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was glad that he had drawn down her wrath upon himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he sighed, as he sat down, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he added, looking through his tears at the Baroness, &ldquo;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!&rdquo; and he sank on
      his knees beside Delphine. &ldquo;Ask her to forgive you&mdash;just to please
      me,&rdquo; he said in her ear. &ldquo;She is more miserable than you are. Come now,
      Dedel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Nasie!&rdquo; said Delphine, alarmed at the wild extravagant grief in her
      father&rsquo;s face, &ldquo;I was in the wrong, kiss me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is like balm to my heart,&rdquo; cried Father Goriot. &ldquo;But how are we
      to find twelve thousand francs? I might offer myself as a substitute in
      the army&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! father dear!&rdquo; they both cried, flinging their arms about him. &ldquo;No,
      no!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God reward you for the thought. We are not worth it, are we, Nasie?&rdquo;
       asked Delphine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And besides, father dear, it would only be a drop in the bucket,&rdquo;
       observed the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But is flesh and blood worth nothing?&rdquo; cried the old man in his despair.
      &ldquo;I would give body and soul to save you, Nasie. I would do a murder for
      the man who would rescue you. I would do, as Vautrin did, go to the hulks,
      go&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; he stopped as if struck by a thunderbolt, and put both
      hands to his head. &ldquo;Nothing left!&rdquo; he cried, tearing his hair. &ldquo;If I only
      knew of a way to steal money, but it is so hard to do it, and then you
      can&rsquo;t set to work by yourself, and it takes time to rob a bank. Yes, it is
      time I was dead; there is nothing left me to do but to die. I am no good
      in the world; I am no longer a father! No. She has come to me in her
      extremity, and, wretch that I am, I have nothing to give her. Ah! you put
      your money into a life annuity, old scoundrel; and had you not daughters?
      You did not love them. Die, die in a ditch, like the dog that you are!
      Yes, I am worse than a dog; a beast would not have done as I have done!
      Oh! my head... it throbs as if it would burst.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Papa!&rdquo; cried both the young women at once, &ldquo;do, pray, be reasonable!&rdquo; and
      they clung to him to prevent him from dashing his head against the wall.
      There was a sound of sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene, greatly alarmed, took the bill that bore Vautrin&rsquo;s signature, saw
      that the stamp would suffice for a larger sum, altered the figures, made
      it into a regular bill for twelve thousand francs, payable to Goriot&rsquo;s
      order, and went to his neighbor&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is the money, madame,&rdquo; he said, handing the piece of paper to her.
      &ldquo;I was asleep; your conversation awoke me, and by this means I learned all
      that I owed to M. Goriot. This bill can be discounted, and I shall meet it
      punctually at the due date.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Countess stood motionless and speechless, but she held the bill in her
      fingers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delphine,&rdquo; she said, with a white face, and her whole frame quivering
      with indignation, anger, and rage, &ldquo;I forgave you everything; God is my
      witness that I forgave you, but I cannot forgive this! So this gentleman
      was there all the time, and you knew it! Your petty spite has let you to
      wreak your vengeance on me by betraying my secrets, my life, my children&rsquo;s
      lives, my shame, my honor! There, you are nothing to me any longer. I hate
      you. I will do all that I can to injure you. I will...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Anger paralyzed her; the words died in her dry parched throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, he is my son, my child; he is your brother, your preserver!&rdquo; cried
      Goriot. &ldquo;Kiss his hand, Nasie! Stay, I will embrace him myself,&rdquo; he said,
      straining Eugene to his breast in a frenzied clasp. &ldquo;Oh my boy! I will be
      more than a father to you; if I had God&rsquo;s power, I would fling worlds at
      your feet. Why don&rsquo;t you kiss him, Nasie? He is not a man, but an angel, a
      angel out of heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind her, father; she is mad just now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mad! am I? And what are you?&rdquo; cried Mme. de Restaud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Children, children, I shall die if you go on like this,&rdquo; cried the old
      man, and he staggered and fell on the bed as if a bullet had struck him.&mdash;&ldquo;They
      are killing me between them,&rdquo; he said to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Countess fixed her eyes on Eugene, who stood stock still; all his
      faculties were numbed by this violent scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir?...&rdquo; she said, doubt and inquiry in her face, tone, and bearing; she
      took no notice now of her father nor of Delphine, who was hastily
      unfastening his waistcoat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; said Eugene, answering the question before it was asked, &ldquo;I will
      meet the bill, and keep silence about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have killed our father, Nasie!&rdquo; said Delphine, pointing to Goriot,
      who lay unconscious on the bed. The Countess fled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I freely forgive her,&rdquo; said the old man, opening his eyes; &ldquo;her position
      is horrible; it would turn an older head than hers. Comfort Nasie, and be
      nice to her, Delphine; promise it to your poor father before he dies,&rdquo; he
      asked, holding Delphine&rsquo;s hand in a convulsive clasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! what ails you, father?&rdquo; she cried in real alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, nothing,&rdquo; said Goriot; &ldquo;it will go off. There is something heavy
      pressing on my forehead, a little headache.... Ah! poor Nasie, what a life
      lies before her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Just as he spoke, the Countess came back again and flung herself on her
      knees before him. &ldquo;Forgive me!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said her father, &ldquo;you are hurting me still more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; the Countess said, turning to Rastignac, &ldquo;misery made me
      unjust to you. You will be a brother to me, will you not?&rdquo; and she held
      out her hand. Her eyes were full of tears as she spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nasie,&rdquo; cried Delphine, flinging her arms round her sister, &ldquo;my little
      Nasie, let us forget and forgive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; cried Nasie; &ldquo;I shall never forget!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear angels,&rdquo; cried Goriot, &ldquo;it is as if a dark curtain over my eyes had
      been raised; your voices have called me back to life. Kiss each other once
      more. Well, now, Nasie, that bill will save you, won&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope so. I say, papa, will you write your name on it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! how stupid of me to forget that! But I am not feeling at all well,
      Nasie, so you must not remember it against me. Send and let me know as
      soon as you are out of your strait. No, I will go to you. No, after all, I
      will not go; I might meet your husband, and I should kill him on the spot.
      And as for signing away your property, I shall have a word to say about
      that. Quick, my child, and keep Maxime in order in future.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was too bewildered to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor Anastasie, she always had a violent temper,&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen,
      &ldquo;but she has a good heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She came back for the endorsement,&rdquo; said Eugene in Delphine&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only wish I could think otherwise. Do not trust her,&rdquo; he answered,
      raising his eyes as if he confided to heaven the thoughts that he did not
      venture to express.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. She is always acting a part to some extent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you feel now, dear Father Goriot?&rdquo; asked Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to go to sleep,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene helped him to bed, and Delphine sat by the bedside, holding his
      hand until he fell asleep. Then she went.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This evening at the Italiens,&rdquo; she said to Eugene, &ldquo;and you can let me
      know how he is. To-morrow you will leave this place, monsieur. Let us go
      into your room.&mdash;Oh! how frightful!&rdquo; she cried on the threshold.
      &ldquo;Why, you are even worse lodged than our father. Eugene, you have behaved
      well. I would love you more if that were possible; but, dear boy, if you
      are to succeed in life, you must not begin by flinging twelve thousand
      francs out of the windows like that. The Comte de Trailles is a confirmed
      gambler. My sister shuts her eyes to it. He would have made the twelve
      thousand francs in the same way that he wins and loses heaps of gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A groan from the next room brought them back to Goriot&rsquo;s bedside; to all
      appearances he was asleep, but the two lovers caught the words, &ldquo;They are
      not happy!&rdquo; Whether he was awake or sleeping, the tone in which they were
      spoken went to his daughter&rsquo;s heart. She stole up to the pallet-bed on
      which her father lay, and kissed his forehead. He opened his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! Delphine!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are you now?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite comfortable. Do not worry about me; I shall get up presently. Don&rsquo;t
      stay with me, children; go, go and be happy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene went back with Delphine as far as her door; but he was not easy
      about Goriot, and would not stay to dinner, as she proposed. He wanted to
      be back at the Maison Vauquer. Father Goriot had left his room, and was
      just sitting down to dinner as he came in. Bianchon had placed himself
      where he could watch the old man carefully; and when the old vermicelli
      maker took up his square of bread and smelled it to find out the quality
      of the flour, the medical student, studying him closely, saw that the
      action was purely mechanical, and shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just come and sit over here, hospitaller of Cochin,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bianchon went the more willingly because his change of place brought him
      next to the old lodger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is wrong with him?&rdquo; asked Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all up with him, or I am much mistaken! Something very
      extraordinary must have taken place; he looks to me as if he were in
      imminent danger of serous apoplexy. The lower part of his face is composed
      enough, but the upper part is drawn and distorted. Then there is that
      peculiar look about the eyes that indicates an effusion of serum in the
      brain; they look as though they were covered with a film of fine dust, do
      you notice? I shall know more about it by to-morrow morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any cure for it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None. It might be possible to stave death off for a time if a way could
      be found of setting up a reaction in the lower extremities; but if the
      symptoms do not abate by to-morrow evening, it will be all over with him,
      poor old fellow! Do you know what has happened to bring this on? There
      must have been some violent shock, and his mind has given way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there was,&rdquo; said Rastignac, remembering how the two daughters had
      struck blow on blow at their father&rsquo;s heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But Delphine at any rate loves her father,&rdquo; he said to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      That evening at the opera Rastignac chose his words carefully, lest he
      should give Mme. de Nucingen needless alarm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not be anxious about him,&rdquo; she said, however, as soon as Eugene began,
      &ldquo;our father has really a strong constitution, but this morning we gave him
      a shock. Our whole fortunes were in peril, so the thing was serious, you
      see. I could not live if your affection did not make me insensible to
      troubles that I should once have thought too hard to bear. At this moment
      I have but one fear left, but one misery to dread&mdash;to lose the love
      that has made me feel glad to live. Everything else is as nothing to me
      compared with our love; I care for nothing else, for you are all the world
      to me. If I feel glad to be rich, it is for your sake. To my shame be it
      said, I think of my lover before my father. Do you ask why? I cannot tell
      you, but all my life is in you. My father gave me a heart, but you have
      taught it to beat. The whole world may condemn me; what does it matter if
      I stand acquitted in your eyes, for you have no right to think ill of me
      for the faults which a tyrannous love has forced me to commit for you! Do
      you think me an unnatural daughter? Oh! no, no one could help loving such
      a dear kind father as ours. But how could I hide the inevitable
      consequences of our miserable marriages from him? Why did he allow us to
      marry when we did? Was it not his duty to think for us and foresee for us?
      To-day I know he suffers as much as we do, but how can it be helped? And
      as for comforting him, we could not comfort him in the least. Our
      resignation would give him more pain and hurt him far more than complaints
      and upbraidings. There are times in life when everything turns to
      bitterness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was silent, the artless and sincere outpouring made an impression
      on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Parisian women are often false, intoxicated with vanity, selfish and
      self-absorbed, frivolous and shallow; yet of all women, when they love,
      they sacrifice their personal feelings to their passion; they rise but so
      much the higher for all the pettiness overcome in their nature, and become
      sublime. Then Eugene was struck by the profound discernment and insight
      displayed by this woman in judging of natural affection, when a privileged
      affection had separated and set her at a distance apart. Mme. de Nucingen
      was piqued by the silence,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you thinking about?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thinking about what you said just now. Hitherto I have always felt
      sure that I cared far more for you than you did for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She smiled, and would not give way to the happiness she felt, lest their
      talk should exceed the conventional limits of propriety. She had never
      heard the vibrating tones of a sincere and youthful love; a few more
      words, and she feared for her self-control.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eugene,&rdquo; she said, changing the conversation, &ldquo;I wonder whether you know
      what has been happening? All Paris will go to Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s
      to-morrow. The Rochefides and the Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda have agreed to keep the
      matter a profound secret, but to-morrow the king will sign the
      marriage-contract, and your poor cousin the Vicomtesse knows nothing of it
      as yet. She cannot put off her ball, and the Marquis will not be there.
      People are wondering what will happen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The world laughs at baseness and connives at it. But this will kill Mme.
      de Beauseant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; said Delphine, smiling, &ldquo;you do not know that kind of woman.
      Why, all Paris will be there, and so shall I; I ought to go there for your
      sake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps, after all, it is one of those absurd reports that people set in
      circulation here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall know the truth to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene did not return to the Maison Vauquer. He could not forego the
      pleasure of occupying his new rooms in the Rue d&rsquo;Artois. Yesterday evening
      he had been obliged to leave Delphine soon after midnight, but that night
      it was Delphine who stayed with him until two o&rsquo;clock in the morning. He
      rose late, and waited for Mme. de Nucingen, who came about noon to
      breakfast with him. Youth snatches eagerly at these rosy moments of
      happiness, and Eugene had almost forgotten Goriot&rsquo;s existence. The pretty
      things that surrounded him were growing familiar; this domestication in
      itself was one long festival for him, and Mme. de Nucingen was there to
      glorify it all by her presence. It was four o&rsquo;clock before they thought of
      Goriot, and of how he had looked forward to the new life in that house.
      Eugene said that the old man ought to be moved at once, lest he should
      grow too ill to move. He left Delphine and hurried back to the
      lodging-house. Neither Father Goriot nor young Bianchon was in the
      dining-room with the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; said the painter as Eugene came in, &ldquo;Father Goriot has broken down
      at last. Bianchon is upstairs with him. One of his daughters&mdash;the
      Comtesse de Restaurama&mdash;came to see the old gentleman, and he would
      get up and go out, and made himself worse. Society is about to lose one of
      its brightest ornaments.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac sprang to the staircase.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey! Monsieur Eugene!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Eugene, the mistress is calling you,&rdquo; shouted Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is this, sir,&rdquo; said the widow. &ldquo;You and M. Goriot should by rights
      have moved out on the 15th of February. That was three days ago; to-day is
      the 18th, I ought really to be paid a month in advance; but if you will
      engage to pay for both, I shall be quite satisfied.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why can&rsquo;t you trust him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Trust him, indeed! If the old gentleman went off his head and died, those
      daughters of his would not pay me a farthing, and his things won&rsquo;t fetch
      ten francs. This morning he went out with all the spoons and forks he has
      left, I don&rsquo;t know why. He had got himself up to look quite young, and&mdash;Lord,
      forgive me&mdash;but I thought he had rouge on his cheeks; he looked quite
      young again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be responsible,&rdquo; said Eugene, shuddering with horror, for he
      foresaw the end.
    </p>
    <p>
      He climbed the stairs and reached Father Goriot&rsquo;s room. The old man was
      tossing on his bed. Bianchon was with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-evening, father,&rdquo; said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man turned his glassy eyes on him, smiled gently, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is <i>she</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is quite well. But how are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nothing much the matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tire him,&rdquo; said Bianchon, drawing Eugene into a corner of the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo; asked Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing but a miracle can save him now. Serous congestion has set in; I
      have put on mustard plasters, and luckily he can feel them, they are
      acting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible to move him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite out of the question. He must stay where he is, and be kept as quiet
      as possible&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Bianchon,&rdquo; said Eugene, &ldquo;we will nurse him between us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had the head physician round from my hospital to see him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what did he say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will give no opinion till to-morrow evening. He promised to look in
      again at the end of the day. Unluckily, the preposterous creature must
      needs go and do something foolish this morning; he will not say what it
      was. He is as obstinate as a mule. As soon as I begin to talk to him he
      pretends not to hear, and lies as if he were asleep instead of answering,
      or if he opens his eyes he begins to groan. Some time this morning he went
      out on foot in the streets, nobody knows where he went, and he took
      everything that he had of any value with him. He has been driving some
      confounded bargain, and it has been too much for his strength. One of his
      daughters has been here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it the Countess?&rdquo; asked Eugene. &ldquo;A tall, dark-haired woman, with
      large bright eyes, slender figure, and little feet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave him to me for a bit,&rdquo; said Rastignac. &ldquo;I will make him confess; he
      will tell me all about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And meanwhile I will get my dinner. But try not to excite him; there is
      still some hope left.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How they will enjoy themselves to-morrow,&rdquo; said Father Goriot when they
      were alone. &ldquo;They are going to a grand ball.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What were you doing this morning, papa, to make yourself so poorly this
      evening that you have to stop in bed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did not Anastasie come to see you?&rdquo; demanded Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Father Goriot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, don&rsquo;t keep anything from me. What more did she want of you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, she was very miserable,&rdquo; he answered, gathering up all his strength
      to speak. &ldquo;It was this way, my boy. Since that affair of the diamonds,
      Nasie has not had a penny of her own. For this ball she had ordered a
      golden gown like a setting for a jewel. Her mantuamaker, a woman without a
      conscience, would not give her credit, so Nasie&rsquo;s waiting-woman advanced a
      thousand francs on account. Poor Nasie! reduced to such shifts! It cut me
      to the heart to think of it! But when Nasie&rsquo;s maid saw how things were
      between her master and mistress, she was afraid of losing her money, and
      came to an understanding with the dressmaker, and the woman refuses to
      send the ball-dress until the money is paid. The gown is ready, and the
      ball is to-morrow night! Nasie was in despair. She wanted to borrow my
      forks and spoons to pawn them. Her husband is determined that she shall go
      and wear the diamonds, so as to contradict the stories that are told all
      over Paris. How can she go to that heartless scoundrel and say, &lsquo;I owe a
      thousand francs to my dressmaker; pay her for me!&rsquo; She cannot. I saw that
      myself. Delphine will be there too in a superb toilette, and Anastasie
      ought not to be outshone by her younger sister. And then&mdash;she was
      drowned in tears, poor girl! I felt so humbled yesterday when I had not
      the twelve thousand francs, that I would have given the rest of my
      miserable life to wipe out that wrong. You see, I could have borne
      anything once, but latterly this want of money has broken my heart. Oh! I
      did not do it by halves; I titivated myself up a bit, and went out and
      sold my spoons and forks and buckles for six hundred francs; then I went
      to old Daddy Gobseck, and sold a year&rsquo;s interest on my annuity for four
      hundred francs down. Pshaw! I can live on dry bread, as I did when I was a
      young man; if I have done it before, I can do it again. My Nasie shall
      have one happy evening, at any rate. She shall be smart. The banknote for
      a thousand francs is under my pillow; it warms me to have it lying there
      under my head, for it is going to make my poor Nasie happy. She can turn
      that bad girl Victoire out of the house. A servant that cannot trust her
      mistress, did any one ever hear the like! I shall be quite well to-morrow.
      Nasie is coming at ten o&rsquo;clock. They must not think that I am ill, or they
      will not go to the ball; they will stop and take care of me. To-morrow
      Nasie will come and hold me in her arms as if I were one of her children;
      her kisses will make me well again. After all, I might have spent the
      thousand francs on physic; I would far rather give them to my little
      Nasie, who can charm all the pain away. At any rate, I am some comfort to
      her in her misery; and that makes up for my unkindness in buying an
      annuity. She is in the depths, and I cannot draw her out of them now. Oh!
      I will go into business again, I will buy wheat in Odessa; out there,
      wheat fetches a quarter of the price it sells for here. There is a law
      against the importation of grain, but the good folk who made the law
      forgot to prohibit the introduction of wheat products and food stuffs made
      from corn. Hey! hey!... That struck me this morning. There is a fine trade
      to be done in starch.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene, watching the old man&rsquo;s face, thought that his friend was
      light-headed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;do not talk any more, you must rest&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; Just
      then Bianchon came up, and Eugene went down to dinner.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two students sat up with him that night, relieving each other in turn.
      Bianchon brought up his medical books and studied; Eugene wrote letters
      home to his mother and sisters. Next morning Bianchon thought the symptoms
      more hopeful, but the patient&rsquo;s condition demanded continual attention,
      which the two students alone were willing to give&mdash;a task impossible
      to describe in the squeamish phraseology of the epoch. Leeches must be
      applied to the wasted body, the poultices and hot foot-baths, and other
      details of the treatment required the physical strength and devotion of
      the two young men. Mme. de Restaud did not come; but she sent a messenger
      for the money.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expected she would come herself; but it would have been a pity for her
      to come, she would have been anxious about me,&rdquo; said the father, and to
      all appearances he was well content.
    </p>
    <p>
      At seven o&rsquo;clock that evening Therese came with a letter from Delphine.
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;What are you doing, dear friend? I have been loved for a very
  little while, and I am neglected already? In the confidences of
  heart and heart, I have learned to know your soul&mdash;you are too
  noble not to be faithful for ever, for you know that love with all
  its infinite subtle changes of feeling is never the same. Once you
  said, as we were listening to the Prayer in <i>Mose in Egitto</i>, &lsquo;For
  some it is the monotony of a single note; for others, it is the
  infinite of sound.&rsquo; Remember that I am expecting you this evening
  to take me to Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s ball. Every one knows now that
  the King signed M. d&rsquo;Ajuda&rsquo;s marriage-contract this morning, and
  the poor Vicomtesse knew nothing of it until two o&rsquo;clock this
  afternoon. All Paris will flock to her house, of course, just as a
  crowd fills the Place de Greve to see an execution. It is
  horrible, is it not, to go out of curiosity to see if she will
  hide her anguish, and whether she will die courageously? I
  certainly should not go, my friend, if I had been at her house
  before; but, of course, she will not receive society any more
  after this, and all my efforts would be in vain. My position is a
  very unusual one, and besides, I am going there partly on your
  account. I am waiting for you. If you are not beside me in less
  than two hours, I do not know whether I could forgive such
  treason.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Rastignac took up a pen and wrote:
    </p>
<pre>
 &ldquo;I am waiting till the doctor comes to know if there is any hope of
  your father&rsquo;s life. He is lying dangerously ill. I will come and
  bring you the news, but I am afraid it may be a sentence of death.
  When I come you can decide whether you can go to the ball.&mdash;Yours
  a thousand times.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      At half-past eight the doctor arrived. He did not take a very hopeful view
      of the case, but thought that there was no immediate danger. Improvements
      and relapses might be expected, and the good man&rsquo;s life and reason hung in
      the balance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be better for him to die at once,&rdquo; the doctor said as he took
      leave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene left Goriot to Bianchon&rsquo;s care, and went to carry the sad news to
      Mme. de Nucingen. Family feeling lingered in her, and this must put an end
      for the present to her plans of amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell her to enjoy her evening as if nothing had happened,&rdquo; cried Goriot.
      He had been lying in a sort of stupor, but he suddenly sat upright as
      Eugene went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene, half heartbroken, entered Delphine&rsquo;s. Her hair had been dressed;
      she wore her dancing slippers; she had only to put on her ball-dress; but
      when the artist is giving the finishing stroke to his creation, the last
      touches require more time than the whole groundwork of the picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you are not dressed!&rdquo; she cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, your father&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father again!&rdquo; she exclaimed, breaking in upon him. &ldquo;You need not
      teach me what is due to my father, I have known my father this long while.
      Not a word, Eugene. I will hear what you have to say when you are dressed.
      My carriage is waiting, take it, go round to your rooms and dress, Therese
      has put out everything in readiness for you. Come back as soon as you can;
      we will talk about my father on the way to Mme. de Beauseant&rsquo;s. We must go
      early; if we have to wait our turn in a row of carriages, we shall be
      lucky if we get there by eleven o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick! not a word!&rdquo; she cried, darting into her dressing-room for a
      necklace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do go, Monsieur Eugene, or you will vex madame,&rdquo; said Therese, hurrying
      him away; and Eugene was too horror-stricken by this elegant parricide to
      resist.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went to his rooms and dressed, sad, thoughtful, and dispirited. The
      world of Paris was like an ocean of mud for him just then; and it seemed
      that whoever set foot in that black mire must needs sink into it up to the
      chin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Their crimes are paltry,&rdquo; said Eugene to himself. &ldquo;Vautrin was greater.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had seen society in its three great phases&mdash;Obedience, Struggle,
      and Revolt; the Family, the World, and Vautrin; and he hesitated in his
      choice. Obedience was dull, Revolt impossible, Struggle hazardous. His
      thoughts wandered back to the home circle. He thought of the quiet
      uneventful life, the pure happiness of the days spent among those who
      loved him there. Those loving and beloved beings passed their lives in
      obedience to the natural laws of the hearth, and in that obedience found a
      deep and constant serenity, unvexed by torments such as these. Yet, for
      all his good impulses, he could not bring himself to make profession of
      the religion of pure souls to Delphine, nor to prescribe the duties of
      piety to her in the name of love. His education had begun to bear its
      fruits; he loved selfishly already. Besides, his tact had discovered to
      him the real nature of Delphine; he divined instinctively that she was
      capable of stepping over her father&rsquo;s corpse to go to the ball; and within
      himself he felt that he had neither the strength of mind to play the part
      of mentor, nor the strength of character to vex her, nor the courage to
      leave her to go alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She would never forgive me for putting her in the wrong over it,&rdquo; he said
      to himself. Then he turned the doctor&rsquo;s dictum over in his mind; he tried
      to believe that Goriot was not so dangerously ill as he had imagined, and
      ended by collecting together a sufficient quantity of traitorous excuses
      for Delphine&rsquo;s conduct. She did not know how ill her father was; the kind
      old man himself would have made her go to the ball if she had gone to see
      him. So often it happens that this one or that stands condemned by the
      social laws that govern family relations; and yet there are peculiar
      circumstances in the case, differences of temperament, divergent
      interests, innumerable complications of family life that excuse the
      apparent offence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene did not wish to see too clearly; he was ready to sacrifice his
      conscience to his mistress. Within the last few days his whole life had
      undergone a change. Woman had entered into his world and thrown it into
      chaos, family claims dwindled away before her; she had appropriated all
      his being to her uses. Rastignac and Delphine found each other at a crisis
      in their lives when their union gave them the most poignant bliss. Their
      passion, so long proved, had only gained in strength by the gratified
      desire that often extinguishes passion. This woman was his, and Eugene
      recognized that not until then had he loved her; perhaps love is only
      gratitude for pleasure. This woman, vile or sublime, he adored for the
      pleasure she had brought as her dower; and Delphine loved Rastignac as
      Tantalus would have loved some angel who had satisfied his hunger and
      quenched the burning thirst in his parched throat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Mme. de Nucingen when he came back in evening dress, &ldquo;how is
      my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very dangerously ill,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;if you will grant me a proof of your
      affections, we will just go in to see him on the way.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Yes, but afterwards. Dear Eugene, do be nice, and
      don&rsquo;t preach to me. Come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They set out. Eugene said nothing for a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it now?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can hear the death-rattle in your father&rsquo;s throat,&rdquo; he said almost
      angrily. And with the hot indignation of youth, he told the story of Mme.
      de Restaud&rsquo;s vanity and cruelty, of her father&rsquo;s final act of
      self-sacrifice, that had brought about this struggle between life and
      death, of the price that had been paid for Anastasie&rsquo;s golden
      embroideries. Delphine cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall look frightful,&rdquo; she thought. She dried her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will nurse my father; I will not leave his bedside,&rdquo; she said aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now you are as I would have you,&rdquo; exclaimed Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      The lamps of five hundred carriages lit up the darkness about the Hotel de
      Beauseant. A gendarme in all the glory of his uniform stood on either side
      of the brightly lighted gateway. The great world was flocking thither that
      night in its eager curiosity to see the great lady at the moment of her
      fall, and the rooms on the ground floor were already full to overflowing,
      when Mme. de Nucingen and Rastignac appeared. Never since Louis XIV. tore
      her lover away from La grand Mademoiselle, and the whole court hastened to
      visit that unfortunate princess, had a disastrous love affair made such a
      sensation in Paris. But the youngest daughter of the almost royal house of
      Burgundy had risen proudly above her pain, and moved till the last moment
      like a queen in this world&mdash;its vanities had always been valueless
      for her, save in so far as they contributed to the triumph of her passion.
      The salons were filled with the most beautiful women in Paris, resplendent
      in their toilettes, and radiant with smiles. Ministers and ambassadors,
      the most distinguished men at court, men bedizened with decorations,
      stars, and ribbons, men who bore the most illustrious names in France, had
      gathered about the Vicomtesse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The music of the orchestra vibrated in wave after wave of sound from the
      golden ceiling of the palace, now made desolate for its queen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de Beauseant stood at the door of the first salon to receive the
      guests who were styled her friends. She was dressed in white, and wore no
      ornament in the plaits of hair braided about her head; her face was calm;
      there was no sign there of pride, nor of pain, nor of joy that she did not
      feel. No one could read her soul; she stood there like some Niobe carved
      in marble. For a few intimate friends there was a tinge of satire in her
      smile; but no scrutiny saw any change in her, nor had she looked otherwise
      in the days of the glory of her happiness. The most callous of her guests
      admired her as young Rome applauded some gladiator who could die smiling.
      It seemed as if society had adorned itself for a last audience of one of
      its sovereigns.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was afraid that you would not come,&rdquo; she said to Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo; he said, in an unsteady voice, taking her speech as a reproach,
      &ldquo;I shall be the last to go, that is why I am here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good,&rdquo; she said, and she took his hand. &ldquo;You are perhaps the only one I
      can trust here among all these. Oh, my friend, when you love, love a woman
      whom you are sure that you can love always. Never forsake a woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took Rastignac&rsquo;s arm, and went towards a sofa in the card-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to go to the Marquis,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Jacques, my footman, will go
      with you; he has a letter that you will take. I am asking the Marquis to
      give my letters back to me. He will give them all up, I like to think
      that. When you have my letters, go up to my room with them. Some one shall
      bring me word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rose to go to meet the Duchesse de Langeais, her most intimate friend,
      who had come like the rest of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac went. He asked for the Marquis d&rsquo;Ajuda at the Hotel Rochefide,
      feeling certain that the latter would be spending his evening there, and
      so it proved. The Marquis went to his own house with Rastignac, and gave a
      casket to the student, saying as he did so, &ldquo;They are all there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed as if he was about to say something to Eugene, to ask about the
      ball, or the Vicomtesse; perhaps he was on the brink of the confession
      that, even then, he was in despair, and knew that his marriage had been a
      fatal mistake; but a proud gleam shone in his eyes, and with deplorable
      courage he kept his noblest feelings a secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not even mention my name to her, my dear Eugene.&rdquo; He grasped
      Rastignac&rsquo;s hand sadly and affectionately, and turned away from him.
      Eugene went back to the Hotel Beauseant, the servant took him to the
      Vicomtesse&rsquo;s room. There were signs there of preparations for a journey.
      He sat down by the fire, fixed his eyes on the cedar wood casket, and fell
      into deep mournful musings. Mme. de Beauseant loomed large in these
      imaginings, like a goddess in the Iliad.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my friend!...&rdquo; said the Vicomtesse; she crossed the room and laid her
      hand on Rastignac&rsquo;s shoulder. He saw the tears in his cousin&rsquo;s uplifted
      eyes, saw that one hand was raised to take the casket, and that the
      fingers of the other trembled. Suddenly she took the casket, put it in the
      fire, and watched it burn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are dancing,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;They all came very early; but death will be
      long in coming. Hush! my friend,&rdquo; and she laid a finger on Rastignac&rsquo;s
      lips, seeing that he was about to speak. &ldquo;I shall never see Paris again. I
      am taking my leave of the world. At five o&rsquo;clock this morning I shall set
      out on my journey; I mean to bury myself in the remotest part of Normandy.
      I have had very little time to make my arrangements; since three o&rsquo;clock
      this afternoon I have been busy signing documents, setting my affairs in
      order; there was no one whom I could send to...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She broke off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was sure to be...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again she broke off; the weight of her sorrow was more than she could
      bear. In such moments as these everything is agony, and some words are
      impossible to utter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so I counted upon you to do me this last piece of service this
      evening,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I should like to give you some pledge of friendship.
      I shall often think of you. You have seemed to me to be kind and noble,
      fresh-hearted and true, in this world where such qualities are seldom
      found. I should like you to think sometimes of me. Stay,&rdquo; she said,
      glancing about her, &ldquo;there is this box that has held my gloves. Every time
      I opened it before going to a ball or to the theatre, I used to feel that
      I must be beautiful, because I was so happy; and I never touched it except
      to lay some gracious memory in it: there is so much of my old self in it,
      of a Madame de Beauseant who now lives no longer. Will you take it? I will
      leave directions that it is to be sent to you in the Rue d&rsquo;Artois.&mdash;Mme.
      de Nucingen looked very charming this evening. Eugene, you must love her.
      Perhaps we may never see each other again, my friend; but be sure of this,
      that I shall pray for you who have been kind to me.&mdash;Now, let us go
      downstairs. People shall not think that I am weeping. I have all time and
      eternity before me, and where I am going I shall be alone, and no one will
      ask me the reason of my tears. One last look round first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She stood for a moment. Then she covered her eyes with her hands for an
      instant, dashed away the tears, bathed her face with cold water, and took
      the student&rsquo;s arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      This suffering, endured with such noble fortitude, shook Eugene with a
      more violent emotion than he had felt before. They went back to the
      ballroom, and Mme. de Beauseant went through the rooms on Eugene&rsquo;s arm&mdash;the
      last delicately gracious act of a gracious woman. In another moment he saw
      the sisters, Mme. de Restaud and Mme. de Nucingen. The Countess shone in
      all the glory of her magnificent diamonds; every stone must have scorched
      like fire, she was never to wear them again. Strong as love and pride
      might be in her, she found it difficult to meet her husband&rsquo;s eyes. The
      sight of her was scarcely calculated to lighten Rastignac&rsquo;s sad thoughts;
      through the blaze of those diamonds he seemed to see the wretched
      pallet-bed on which Father Goriot was lying. The Vicomtesse misread his
      melancholy; she withdrew her hand from his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I must not deprive you of a pleasure.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was soon claimed by Delphine. She was delighted by the impression
      that she had made, and eager to lay at her lover&rsquo;s feet the homage she had
      received in this new world in which she hoped to live and move henceforth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you think of Nasie?&rdquo; she asked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has discounted everything, even her own father&rsquo;s death,&rdquo; said
      Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards four o&rsquo;clock in the morning the rooms began to empty. A little
      later the music ceased, and the Duchesse de Langeais and Rastignac were
      left in the great ballroom. The Vicomtesse, who thought to find the
      student there alone, came back there at last. She had taken leave of M. de
      Beauseant, who had gone off to bed, saying again as he went, &ldquo;It is a
      great pity, my dear, to shut yourself up at your age! Pray stay among us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mme. de Beauseant saw the Duchesse, and, in spite of herself, an
      exclamation broke from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw how it was, Clara,&rdquo; said Mme. de Langeais. &ldquo;You are going from
      among us, and you will never come back. But you must not go until you have
      heard me, until we have understood each other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She took her friend&rsquo;s arm, and they went together into the next room.
      There the Duchess looked at her with tears in her eyes; she held her
      friend in close embrace and kissed her cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not let you go without a word, dearest; the remorse would have
      been too hard to bear. You can count upon me as surely as upon yourself.
      You have shown yourself great this evening; I feel that I am worthy of our
      friendship, and I mean to prove myself worthy of it. I have not always
      been kind; I was in the wrong; forgive me, dearest; I wish I could unsay
      anything that may have hurt you; I take back those words. One common
      sorrow has brought us together again, for I do not know which of us is the
      more miserable. M. de Montriveau was not here to-night; do you understand
      what that means?&mdash;None of those who saw you to-night, Clara, will
      ever forget you. I mean to make one last effort. If I fail, I shall go
      into a convent. Clara, where are you going?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Into Normandy, to Courcelles. I shall love and pray there until the day
      when God shall take me from this world.&mdash;M. de Rastignac!&rdquo; called the
      Vicomtesse, in a tremulous voice, remembering that the young man was
      waiting there.
    </p>
    <p>
      The student knelt to kiss his cousin&rsquo;s hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good-bye, Antoinette!&rdquo; said Mme. de Beauseant. &ldquo;May you be happy.&rdquo;&mdash;She
      turned to the student. &ldquo;You are young,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you have some beliefs
      still left. I have been privileged, like some dying people, to find
      sincere and reverent feeling in those about me as I take my leave of this
      world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was nearly five o&rsquo;clock that morning when Rastignac came away. He had
      put Mme. de Beauseant into her traveling carriage, and received her last
      farewells, spoken amid fast-falling tears; for no greatness is so great
      that it can rise above the laws of human affection, or live beyond the
      jurisdiction of pain, as certain demagogues would have the people believe.
      Eugene returned on foot to the Maison Vauquer through the cold and
      darkness. His education was nearly complete.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no hope for poor Father Goriot,&rdquo; said Bianchon, as Rastignac
      came into the room. Eugene looked for a while at the sleeping man, then he
      turned to his friend. &ldquo;Dear fellow, you are content with the modest career
      you have marked out for yourself; keep to it. I am in hell, and I must
      stay there. Believe everything that you hear said of the world, nothing is
      too impossibly bad. No Juvenal could paint the horrors hidden away under
      the covering of gems and gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At two o&rsquo;clock in the afternoon Bianchon came to wake Rastignac, and
      begged him to take charge of Goriot, who had grown worse as the day wore
      on. The medical student was obliged to go out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor old man, he has not two days to live, maybe not many hours,&rdquo; he
      said; &ldquo;but we must do our utmost, all the same, to fight the disease. It
      will be a very troublesome case, and we shall want money. We can nurse him
      between us, of course, but, for my own part, I have not a penny. I have
      turned out his pockets, and rummaged through his drawers&mdash;result,
      nix. I asked him about it while his mind was clear, and he told me he had
      not a farthing of his own. What have you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have twenty francs left,&rdquo; said Rastignac; &ldquo;but I will take them to the
      roulette table, I shall be sure to win.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if you lose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I shall go to his sons-in-law and his daughters and ask them for
      money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And suppose they refuse?&rdquo; Bianchon retorted. &ldquo;The most pressing thing
      just now is not really money; we must put mustard poultices, as hot as
      they can be made, on his feet and legs. If he calls out, there is still
      some hope for him. You know how to set about doing it, and besides,
      Christophe will help you. I am going round to the dispensary to persuade
      them to let us have the things we want on credit. It is a pity that we
      could not move him to the hospital; poor fellow, he would be better there.
      Well, come along, I leave you in charge; you must stay with him till I
      come back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two young men went back to the room where the old man was lying.
      Eugene was startled at the change in Goriot&rsquo;s face, so livid, distorted,
      and feeble.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are you, papa?&rdquo; he said, bending over the pallet-bed. Goriot turned
      his dull eyes upon Eugene, looked at him attentively, and did not
      recognize him. It was more than the student could bear; the tears came
      into his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bianchon, ought we to have the curtains put up in the windows?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, the temperature and the light do not affect him now. It would be a
      good thing for him if he felt heat or cold; but we must have a fire in any
      case to make tisanes and heat the other things. I will send round a few
      sticks; they will last till we can have in some firewood. I burned all the
      bark fuel you had left, as well as his, poor man, yesterday and during the
      night. The place is so damp that the water stood in drops on the walls; I
      could hardly get the room dry. Christophe came in and swept the floor, but
      the place is like a stable; I had to burn juniper, the smell was something
      horrible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Mon Dieu!</i>&rdquo; said Rastignac. &ldquo;To think of those daughters of his.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One moment, if he asks for something to drink, give him this,&rdquo; said the
      house student, pointing to a large white jar. &ldquo;If he begins to groan, and
      the belly feels hot and hard to the touch, you know what to do; get
      Christophe to help you. If he should happen to grow much excited, and
      begin to talk a good deal and even to ramble in his talk, do not be
      alarmed. It would not be a bad symptom. But send Christophe to the Hospice
      Cochin. Our doctor, my chum, or I will come and apply moxas. We had a
      great consultation this morning while you were asleep. A surgeon, a pupil
      of Gall&rsquo;s came, and our house surgeon, and the head physician from the
      Hotel-Dieu. Those gentlemen considered that the symptoms were very unusual
      and interesting; the case must be carefully watched, for it throws a light
      on several obscure and rather important scientific problems. One of the
      authorities says that if there is more pressure of serum on one or other
      portion of the brain, it should affect his mental capacities in such and
      such directions. So if he should talk, notice very carefully what kind of
      ideas his mind seems to run on; whether memory, or penetration, or the
      reasoning faculties are exercised; whether sentiments or practical
      questions fill his thoughts; whether he makes forecasts or dwells on the
      past; in fact; you must be prepared to give an accurate report of him. It
      is quite likely that the extravasation fills the whole brain, in which
      case he will die in the imbecile state in which he is lying now. You
      cannot tell anything about these mysterious nervous diseases. Suppose the
      crash came here,&rdquo; said Bianchon, touching the back of the head, &ldquo;very
      strange things have been known to happen; the brain sometimes partially
      recovers, and death is delayed. Or the congested matter may pass out of
      the brain altogether through channels which can only be determined by a
      post-mortem examination. There is an old man at the Hospital for
      Incurables, an imbecile patient, in his case the effusion has followed the
      direction of the spinal cord; he suffers horrid agonies, but he lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did they enjoy themselves?&rdquo; It was Father Goriot who spoke. He had
      recognized Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! he thinks of nothing but his daughters,&rdquo; said Bianchon. &ldquo;Scores of
      times last night he said to me, &lsquo;They are dancing now! She has her dress.&rsquo;
      He called them by their names. He made me cry, the devil take it, calling
      with that tone in his voice, for &lsquo;Delphine! my little Delphine! and
      Nasie!&rsquo; Upon my word,&rdquo; said the medical student, &ldquo;it was enough to make
      any one burst out crying.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delphine,&rdquo; said the old man, &ldquo;she is there, isn&rsquo;t she? I knew she was
      there,&rdquo; and his eyes sought the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going down now to tell Sylvie to get the poultices ready,&rdquo; said
      Bianchon. &ldquo;They ought to go on at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac was left alone with the old man. He sat at the foot of the bed,
      and gazed at the face before him, so horribly changed that it was shocking
      to see.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble natures cannot dwell in this world,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;Mme de Beauseant has
      fled from it, and there he lies dying. What place indeed is there in the
      shallow petty frivolous thing called society for noble thoughts and
      feelings?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pictures of yesterday&rsquo;s ball rose up in his memory, in strange contrast to
      the deathbed before him. Bianchon suddenly appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Eugene, I have just seen our head surgeon at the hospital, and I
      ran all the way back here. If the old man shows any signs of reason, if he
      begins to talk, cover him with a mustard poultice from the neck to the
      base of the spine, and send round for us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Bianchon,&rdquo; exclaimed Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! it is an interesting case from a scientific point of view,&rdquo; said the
      medical student, with all the enthusiasm of a neophyte.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So!&rdquo; said Eugene. &ldquo;Am I really the only one who cares for the poor old
      man for his own sake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would not have said so if you had seen me this morning,&rdquo; returned
      Bianchon, who did not take offence at this speech. &ldquo;Doctors who have seen
      a good deal of practice never see anything but the disease, but, my dear
      fellow, I can see the patient still.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went. Eugene was left alone with the old man, and with an apprehension
      of a crisis that set in, in fact, before very long.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! dear boy, is that you?&rdquo; said Father Goriot, recognizing Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you feel better?&rdquo; asked the law student, taking his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. My head felt as if it were being screwed up in a vise, but now it is
      set free again. Did you see my girls? They will be here directly; as soon
      as they know that I am ill they will hurry here at once; they used to take
      such care of me in the Rue de la Jussienne! Great Heavens! if only my room
      was fit for them to come into! There has been a young man here, who has
      burned up all my bark fuel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can hear Christophe coming upstairs,&rdquo; Eugene answered. &ldquo;He is bringing
      up some firewood that that young man has sent you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good, but how am I to pay for the wood. I have not a penny left, dear
      boy. I have given everything, everything. I am a pauper now. Well, at
      least the golden gown was grand, was it not? (Ah! what pain this is!)
      Thanks, Christophe! God will reward you, my boy; I have nothing left now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene went over to Christophe and whispered in the man&rsquo;s ear, &ldquo;I will pay
      you well, and Sylvie too, for your trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My daughters told you that they were coming, didn&rsquo;t they, Christophe? Go
      again to them, and I will give you five francs. Tell them that I am not
      feeling well, that I should like to kiss them both and see them once again
      before I die. Tell them that, but don&rsquo;t alarm them more than you can
      help.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac signed to Christophe to go, and the man went.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will come before long,&rdquo; the old man went on. &ldquo;I know them so well.
      My tender-hearted Delphine! If I am going to die, she will feel it so
      much! And so will Nasie. I do not want to die; they will cry if I die; and
      if I die, dear Eugene, I shall not see them any more. It will be very
      dreary there where I am going. For a father it is hell to be without your
      children; I have served my apprenticeship already since they married. My
      heaven was in the Rue de la Jussienne. Eugene, do you think that if I go
      to heaven I can come back to earth, and be near them in spirit? I have
      heard some such things said. It is true? It is as if I could see them at
      this moment as they used to be when we all lived in the Rue de la
      Jussienne. They used to come downstairs of a morning. &lsquo;Good-morning,
      papa!&rsquo; they used to say, and I would take them on my knees; we had all
      sorts of little games of play together, and they had such pretty coaxing
      ways. We always had breakfast together, too, every morning, and they had
      dinner with me&mdash;in fact, I was a father then. I enjoyed my children.
      They did not think for themselves so long as they lived in the Rue de la
      Jussienne; they knew nothing of the world; they loved me with all their
      hearts. <i>Mon Dieu!</i> why could they not always be little girls? (Oh!
      my head! this racking pain in my head!) Ah! ah! forgive me, children, this
      pain is fearful; it must be agony indeed, for you have used me to endure
      pain. <i>Mon Dieu!</i> if only I held their hands in mine, I should not
      feel it at all.&mdash;Do you think that they are on the way? Christophe is
      so stupid; I ought to have gone myself. <i>He</i> will see them. But you
      went to the ball yesterday; just tell me how they looked. They did not
      know that I was ill, did they, or they would not have been dancing, poor
      little things? Oh! I must not be ill any longer. They stand too much in
      need of me; their fortunes are in danger. And such husbands as they are
      bound to! I must get well! (Oh! what pain this is! what pain this is! ...
      ah! ah!)&mdash;I must get well, you see; for they <i>must</i> have money,
      and I know how to set about making some. I will go to Odessa and
      manufacture starch there. I am an old hand, I will make millions. (Oh!
      this is agony!)&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Goriot was silent for a moment; it seemed to require his whole strength to
      endure the pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they were here, I should not complain,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;So why should I
      complain now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed to grow drowsy with exhaustion, and lay quietly for a long time.
      Christophe came back; and Rastignac, thinking that Goriot was asleep,
      allowed the man to give his story aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First of all, sir, I went to Madame la Comtesse,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but she and
      her husband were so busy that I couldn&rsquo;t get to speak to her. When I
      insisted that I must see her, M. de Restaud came out to me himself, and
      went on like this: &lsquo;M. Goriot is dying, is he? Very well, it is the best
      thing he can do. I want Mme. de Restaud to transact some important
      business, when it is all finished she can go.&rsquo; The gentleman looked angry,
      I thought. I was just going away when Mme. de Restaud came out into an
      ante-chamber through a door that I did not notice, and said, &lsquo;Christophe,
      tell my father that my husband wants me to discuss some matters with him,
      and I cannot leave the house, the life or death of my children is at
      stake; but as soon as it is over, I will come.&rsquo; As for Madame la Baronne,
      that is another story! I could not speak to her either, and I did not even
      see her. Her waiting-woman said, &lsquo;Ah yes, but madame only came back from a
      ball at a quarter to five this morning; she is asleep now, and if I wake
      her before mid-day she will be cross. As soon as she rings, I will go and
      tell her that her father is worse. It will be time enough then to tell her
      bad news!&rsquo; I begged and I prayed, but, there! it was no good. Then I asked
      for M. le Baron, but he was out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To think that neither of his daughters should come!&rdquo; exclaimed Rastignac.
      &ldquo;I will write to them both.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither of them!&rdquo; cried the old man, sitting upright in bed. &ldquo;They are
      busy, they are asleep, they will not come! I knew that they would not. Not
      until you are dying do you know your children.... Oh! my friend, do not
      marry; do not have children! You give them life; they give you your
      deathblow. You bring them into the world, and they send you out of it. No,
      they will not come. I have known that these ten years. Sometimes I have
      told myself so, but I did not dare to believe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The tears gathered and stood without overflowing the red sockets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! if I were rich still, if I had kept my money, if I had not given all
      to them, they would be with me now; they would fawn on me and cover my
      cheeks with their kisses! I should be living in a great mansion; I should
      have grand apartments and servants and a fire in my room; and <i>they</i>
      would be about me all in tears, and their husbands and their children. I
      should have had all that; now&mdash;I have nothing. Money brings
      everything to you; even your daughters. My money. Oh! where is my money?
      If I had plenty of money to leave behind me, they would nurse me and tend
      me; I should hear their voices, I should see their faces. Ah, God! who
      knows? They both of them have hearts of stone. I loved them too much; it
      was not likely that they should love me. A father ought always to be rich;
      he ought to keep his children well in hand, like unruly horses. I have
      gone down on my knees to them. Wretches! this is the crowning act that
      brings the last ten years to a proper close. If you but knew how much they
      made of me just after they were married. (Oh! this is cruel torture!) I
      had just given them each eight hundred thousand francs; they were bound to
      be civil to me after that, and their husbands too were civil. I used to go
      to their houses: it was &lsquo;My kind father&rsquo; here, &lsquo;My dear father&rsquo; there.
      There was always a place for me at their tables. I used to dine with their
      husbands now and then, and they were very respectful to me. I was still
      worth something, they thought. How should they know? I had not said
      anything about my affairs. It is worth while to be civil to a man who has
      given his daughters eight hundred thousand francs apiece; and they showed
      me every attention then&mdash;but it was all for my money. Grand people
      are not great. I found that out by experience! I went to the theatre with
      them in their carriage; I might stay as long as I cared to stay at their
      evening parties. In fact, they acknowledged me their father; publicly they
      owned that they were my daughters. But I was always a shrewd one, you see,
      and nothing was lost upon me. Everything went straight to the mark and
      pierced my heart. I saw quite well that it was all sham and pretence, but
      there is no help for such things as these. I felt less at my ease at their
      dinner-table than I did downstairs here. I had nothing to say for myself.
      So these grand folks would ask in my son-in-law&rsquo;s ear, &lsquo;Who may that
      gentleman be?&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;The father-in-law with the money bags; he is very
      rich.&rsquo;&mdash;&lsquo;The devil, he is!&rsquo; they would say, and look again at me with
      the respect due to my money. Well, if I was in the way sometimes, I paid
      dearly for my mistakes. And besides, who is perfect? (My head is one
      sore!) Dear Monsieur Eugene, I am suffering so now, that a man might die
      of the pain; but it is nothing to be compared with the pain I endured when
      Anastasie made me feel, for the first time, that I had said something
      stupid. She looked at me, and that glance of hers opened all my veins. I
      used to want to know everything, to be learned; and one thing I did learn
      thoroughly&mdash;I knew that I was not wanted here on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The next day I went to Delphine for comfort, and what should I do there
      but make some stupid blunder that made her angry with me. I was like one
      driven out of his senses. For a week I did not know what to do; I did not
      dare to go to see them for fear they should reproach me. And that was how
      they both turned me out of the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh God! Thou knowest all the misery and anguish that I have endured; Thou
      hast counted all the wounds that have been dealt to me in these years that
      have aged and changed me and whitened my hair and drained my life; why
      dost Thou make me to suffer so to-day? Have I not more than expiated the
      sin of loving them too much? They themselves have been the instruments of
      vengeance; they have tortured me for my sin of affection.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well! fathers know no better; I loved them so; I went back to them as
      a gambler goes to the gaming table. This love was my vice, you see, my
      mistress&mdash;they were everything in the world to me. They were always
      wanting something or other, dresses and ornaments, and what not; their
      maids used to tell me what they wanted, and I used to give them the things
      for the sake of the welcome that they bought for me. But, at the same
      time, they used to give me little lectures on my behavior in society; they
      began about it at once. Then they began to feel ashamed of me. That is
      what comes of having your children well brought up. I could not go to
      school again at my time of life. (This pain is fearful! <i>Mon Dieu!</i>
      These doctors! these doctors! If they would open my head, it would give me
      some relief!) Oh, my daughters, my daughters! Anastasie! Delphine! If I
      could only see them! Send for the police, and make them come to me!
      Justice is on my side, the whole world is on my side, I have natural
      rights, and the law with me. I protest! The country will go to ruin if a
      father&rsquo;s rights are trampled under foot. That is easy to see. The whole
      world turns on fatherly love; fatherly love is the foundation of society;
      it will crumble into ruin when children do not love their fathers. Oh! if
      I could only see them, and hear them, no matter what they said; if I could
      simply hear their voices, it would soothe the pain. Delphine! Delphine
      most of all. But tell them when they come not to look so coldly at me as
      they do. Oh! my friend, my good Monsieur Eugene, you do not know that it
      is when all the golden light in a glance suddenly turns to a leaden gray.
      It has been one long winter here since the light in their eyes shone no
      more for me. I have had nothing but disappointments to devour.
      Disappointment has been my daily bread; I have lived on humiliation and
      insults. I have swallowed down all the affronts for which they sold me my
      poor stealthy little moments of joy; for I love them so! Think of it! a
      father hiding himself to get a glimpse of his children! I have given all
      my life to them, and to-day they will not give me one hour! I am hungering
      and thirsting for them, my heart is burning in me, but they will not come
      to bring relief in the agony, for I am dying now, I feel that this is
      death. Do they not know what it means to trample on a father&rsquo;s corpse?
      There is a God in heaven who avenges us fathers whether we will or no.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! they will come! Come to me, darlings, and give me one more kiss; one
      last kiss, the Viaticum for your father, who will pray God for you in
      heaven. I will tell Him that you have been good children to your father,
      and plead your cause with God! After all, it is not their fault. I tell
      you they are innocent, my friend. Tell every one that it is not their
      fault, and no one need be distressed on my account. It is all my own
      fault, I taught them to trample upon me. I loved to have it so. It is no
      one&rsquo;s affair but mine; man&rsquo;s justice and God&rsquo;s justice have nothing to do
      in it. God would be unjust if He condemned them for anything they may have
      done to me. I did not behave to them properly; I was stupid enough to
      resign my rights. I would have humbled myself in the dust for them. What
      could you expect? The most beautiful nature, the noblest soul, would have
      been spoiled by such indulgence. I am a wretch, I am justly punished. I,
      and I only, am to blame for all their sins; I spoiled them. To-day they
      are as eager for pleasure as they used to be for sugar-plums. When they
      were little girls I indulged them in every whim. They had a carriage of
      their own when they were fifteen. They have never been crossed. I am
      guilty, and not they&mdash;but I sinned through love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My heart would open at the sound of their voices. I can hear them; they
      are coming. Yes! yes! they are coming. The law demands that they should be
      present at their father&rsquo;s deathbed; the law is on my side. It would only
      cost them the hire of a cab. I would pay that. Write to them, tell them
      that I have millions to leave to them! On my word of honor, yes. I am
      going to manufacture Italian paste foods at Odessa. I understand the
      trade. There are millions to be made in it. Nobody has thought of the
      scheme as yet. You see, there will be no waste, no damage in transit, as
      there always is with wheat and flour. Hey! hey! and starch too; there are
      millions to be made in the starch trade! You will not be telling a lie.
      Millions, tell them; and even if they really come because they covet the
      money, I would rather let them deceive me; and I shall see them in any
      case. I want my children! I gave them life; they are mine, mine!&rdquo; and he
      sat upright. The head thus raised, with its scanty white hair, seemed to
      Eugene like a threat; every line that could still speak spoke of menace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, there, dear father,&rdquo; said Eugene, &ldquo;lie down again; I will write to
      them at once. As soon as Bianchon comes back I will go for them myself, if
      they do not come before.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they do not come?&rdquo; repeated the old man, sobbing. &ldquo;Why, I shall be
      dead before then; I shall die in a fit of rage, of rage! Anger is getting
      the better of me. I can see my whole life at this minute. I have been
      cheated! They do not love me&mdash;they have never loved me all their
      lives! It is all clear to me. They have not come, and they will not come.
      The longer they put off their coming, the less they are likely to give me
      this joy. I know them. They have never cared to guess my disappointments,
      my sorrows, my wants; they never cared to know my life; they will have no
      presentiment of my death; they do not even know the secret of my
      tenderness for them. Yes, I see it all now. I have laid my heart open so
      often, that they take everything I do for them as a matter of course. They
      might have asked me for the very eyes out of my head and I would have
      bidden them to pluck them out. They think that all fathers are like
      theirs. You should always make your value felt. Their own children will
      avenge me. Why, for their own sakes they should come to me! Make them
      understand that they are laying up retribution for their own deathbeds.
      All crimes are summed up in this one.... Go to them; just tell them that
      if they stay away it will be parricide! There is enough laid to their
      charge already without adding that to the list. Cry aloud as I do now,
      &lsquo;Nasie! Delphine! here! Come to your father; the father who has been so
      kind to you is lying ill!&rsquo;&mdash;Not a sound; no one comes! Then am I to
      die like a dog? This is to be my reward&mdash;I am forsaken at the last.
      They are wicked, heartless women; curses on them, I loathe them. I shall
      rise at night from my grave to curse them again; for, after all, my
      friends, have I done wrong? They are behaving very badly to me, eh? ...
      What am I saying? Did you not tell me just now that Delphine is in the
      room? She is more tender-hearted than her sister.... Eugene, you are my
      son, you know. You will love her; be a father to her! Her sister is very
      unhappy. And there are their fortunes! Ah, God! I am dying, this anguish
      is almost more than I can bear! Cut off my head; leave me nothing but my
      heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christophe!&rdquo; shouted Eugene, alarmed by the way in which the old man
      moaned, and by his cries, &ldquo;go for M. Bianchon, and send a cab here for me.&mdash;I
      am going to fetch them, dear father; I will bring them back to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make them come! Compel them to come! Call out the Guard, the military,
      anything and everything, but make them come!&rdquo; He looked at Eugene, and a
      last gleam of intelligence shone in his eyes. &ldquo;Go to the authorities, to
      the Public Prosecutor, let them bring them here; come they shall!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have cursed them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who said that!&rdquo; said the old man in dull amazement. &ldquo;You know quite well
      that I love them, I adore them! I shall be quite well again if I can see
      them.... Go for them, my good neighbor, my dear boy, you are kind-hearted;
      I wish I could repay you for your kindness, but I have nothing to give you
      now, save the blessing of a dying man. Ah! if I could only see Delphine,
      to tell her to pay my debt to you. If the other cannot come, bring
      Delphine to me at any rate. Tell her that unless she comes, you will not
      love her any more. She is so fond of you that she will come to me then.
      Give me something to drink! There is a fire in my bowels. Press something
      against my forehead! If my daughters would lay their hands there, I think
      I should get better. ... <i>Mon Dieu!</i> who will recover their money for
      them when I am gone?... I will manufacture vermicelli out in Odessa; I
      will go to Odessa for their sakes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is something to drink,&rdquo; said Eugene, supporting the dying man on his
      left arm, while he held a cup of tisane to Goriot&rsquo;s lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How you must love your own father and mother!&rdquo; said the old man, and
      grasped the student&rsquo;s hand in both of his. It was a feeble, trembling
      grasp. &ldquo;I am going to die; I shall die without seeing my daughters; do you
      understand? To be always thirsting, and never to drink; that has been my
      life for the last ten years.... I have no daughters, my sons-in-law killed
      them. No, since their marriages they have been dead to me. Fathers should
      petition the Chambers to pass a law against marriage. If you love your
      daughters, do not let them marry. A son-in-law is a rascal who poisons a
      girl&rsquo;s mind and contaminates her whole nature. Let us have no more
      marriages! It robs us of our daughters; we are left alone upon our
      deathbeds, and they are not with us then. They ought to pass a law for
      dying fathers. This is awful! It cries for vengeance! They cannot come,
      because my sons-in-law forbid them!... Kill them!... Restaud and the
      Alsatian, kill them both! They have murdered me between them!... Death or
      my daughters!... Ah! it is too late, I am dying, and they are not here!...
      Dying without them!... Nasie! Fifine! Why do you not come to me? Your papa
      is going&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Father Goriot, calm yourself. There, there, lie quietly and rest;
      don&rsquo;t worry yourself, don&rsquo;t think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not see them. Oh! the agony of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You <i>shall</i> see them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo; cried the old man, still wandering. &ldquo;Oh! shall I see them; I
      shall see them and hear their voices. I shall die happy. Ah! well, after
      all, I do not wish to live; I cannot stand this much longer; this pain
      that grows worse and worse. But, oh! to see them, to touch their dresses&mdash;ah!
      nothing but their dresses, that is very little; still, to feel something
      that belongs to them. Let me touch their hair with my fingers... their
      hair...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His head fell back on the pillow, as if a sudden heavy blow had struck him
      down, but his hands groped feebly over the quilt, as if to find his
      daughters&rsquo; hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My blessing on them...&rdquo; he said, making an effort, &ldquo;my blessing...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His voice died away. Just at that moment Bianchon came into the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I met Christophe,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;he is gone for your cab.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he looked at the patient, and raised the closed eyelids with his
      fingers. The two students saw how dead and lustreless the eyes beneath had
      grown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will not get over this, I am sure,&rdquo; said Bianchon. He felt the old
      man&rsquo;s pulse, and laid a hand over his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The machinery works still; more is the pity, in his state it would be
      better for him to die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my word, it would!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you? You are as pale as death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear fellow, the moans and cries that I have just heard.... There is a
      God! Ah! yes, yes, there is a God, and He has made a better world for us,
      or this world of ours would be a nightmare. I could have cried like a
      child; but this is too tragical, and I am sick at heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We want a lot of things, you know; and where is the money to come from?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac took out his watch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, be quick and pawn it. I do not want to stop on the way to the Rue
      du Helder; there is not a moment to lose, I am afraid, and I must wait
      here till Christophe comes back. I have not a farthing; I shall have to
      pay the cabman when I get home again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac rushed down the stairs, and drove off to the Rue du Helder. The
      awful scene through which he had just passed quickened his imagination,
      and he grew fiercely indignant. He reached Mme. de Restaud&rsquo;s house only to
      be told by the servant that his mistress could see no one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I have brought a message from her father, who is dying,&rdquo; Rastignac
      told the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Count has given us the strictest orders, sir&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is M. de Restaud who has given the orders, tell him that his
      father-in-law is dying, and that I am here, and must speak with him at
      once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene waited for a long while. &ldquo;Perhaps her father is dying at this
      moment,&rdquo; he thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then the man came back, and Eugene followed him to the little
      drawing-room. M. de Restaud was standing before the fireless grate, and
      did not ask his visitor to seat himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Comte,&rdquo; said Rastignac, &ldquo;M. Goriot, your father-in-law, is
      lying at the point of death in a squalid den in the Latin Quarter. He has
      not a penny to pay for firewood; he is expected to die at any moment, and
      keeps calling for his daughter&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel very little affection for M. Goriot, sir, as you probably are
      aware,&rdquo; the Count answered coolly. &ldquo;His character has been compromised in
      connection with Mme. de Restaud; he is the author of the misfortunes that
      have embittered my life and troubled my peace of mind. It is a matter of
      perfect indifference to me if he lives or dies. Now you know my feelings
      with regard to him. Public opinion may blame me, but I care nothing for
      public opinion. Just now I have other and much more important matters to
      think about than the things that fools and chatterers may say about me. As
      for Mme. de Restaud, she cannot leave the house; she is in no condition to
      do so. And, besides, I shall not allow her to leave it. Tell her father
      that as soon as she has done her duty by her husband and child she shall
      go to see him. If she has any love for her father, she can be free to go
      to him, if she chooses, in a few seconds; it lies entirely with her&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Comte, it is no business of mine to criticise your conduct;
      you can do as you please with your wife, but may I count upon your keeping
      your word with me? Well, then, promise me to tell her that her father has
      not twenty-four hours to live; that he looks in vain for her, and has
      cursed her already as he lies on his deathbed,&mdash;that is all I ask.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can tell her yourself,&rdquo; the Count answered, impressed by the thrill
      of indignation in Eugene&rsquo;s voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Count led the way to the room where his wife usually sat. She was
      drowned in tears, and lay crouching in the depths of an armchair, as if
      she were tired of life and longed to die. It was piteous to see her.
      Before venturing to look at Rastignac, she glanced at her husband in
      evident and abject terror that spoke of complete prostration of body and
      mind; she seemed crushed by a tyranny both mental and physical. The Count
      jerked his head towards her; she construed this as a permission to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard all that you said, monsieur. Tell my father that if he knew all
      he would forgive me.... I did not think there was such torture in the
      world as this; it is more than I can endure, monsieur!&mdash;But I will
      not give way as long as I live,&rdquo; she said, turning to her husband. &ldquo;I am a
      mother.&mdash;Tell my father that I have never sinned against him in spite
      of appearances!&rdquo; she cried aloud in her despair.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene bowed to the husband and wife; he guessed the meaning of the scene,
      and that this was a terrible crisis in the Countess&rsquo; life. M. de Restaud&rsquo;s
      manner had told him that his errand was a fruitless one; he saw that
      Anastasie had no longer any liberty of action. He came away mazed and
      bewildered, and hurried to Mme. de Nucingen. Delphine was in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor dear Eugene, I am ill,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I caught cold after the ball, and
      I am afraid of pneumonia. I am waiting for the doctor to come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you were at death&rsquo;s door,&rdquo; Eugene broke in, &ldquo;you must be carried
      somehow to your father. He is calling for you. If you could hear the
      faintest of those cries, you would not feel ill any longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eugene, I dare say my father is not quite so ill as you say; but I cannot
      bear to do anything that you do not approve, so I will do just as you
      wish. As for <i>him</i>, he would die of grief I know if I went out to see
      him and brought on a dangerous illness. Well, I will go as soon as I have
      seen the doctor.&mdash;Ah!&rdquo; she cried out, &ldquo;you are not wearing your
      watch, how is that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene reddened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eugene, Eugene! if you have sold it already or lost it.... Oh! it would
      be very wrong of you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The student bent over Delphine and said in her ear, &ldquo;Do you want to know?
      Very well, then, you shall know. Your father has nothing left to pay for
      the shroud that they will lay him in this evening. Your watch has been
      pawned, for I had nothing either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Delphine sprang out of bed, ran to her desk, and took out her purse. She
      gave it to Eugene, and rang the bell, crying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go, I will go at once, Eugene. Leave me, I will dress. Why, I
      should be an unnatural daughter! Go back; I will be there before you.&mdash;Therese,&rdquo;
       she called to the waiting-woman, &ldquo;ask M. de Nucingen to come upstairs at
      once and speak to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene was almost happy when he reached the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve; he
      was so glad to bring the news to the dying man that one of his daughters
      was coming. He fumbled in Delphine&rsquo;s purse for money, so as to dismiss the
      cab at once; and discovered that the young, beautiful, and wealthy woman
      of fashion had only seventy francs in her private purse. He climbed the
      stairs and found Bianchon supporting Goriot, while the house surgeon from
      the hospital was applying moxas to the patient&rsquo;s back&mdash;under the
      direction of the physician, it was the last expedient of science, and it
      was tried in vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you feel them?&rdquo; asked the physician. But Goriot had caught sight of
      Rastignac, and answered, &ldquo;They are coming, are they not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is hope yet,&rdquo; said the surgeon; &ldquo;he can speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Eugene, &ldquo;Delphine is coming.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! that is nothing!&rdquo; said Bianchon; &ldquo;he has been talking about his
      daughters all the time. He calls for them as a man impaled calls for
      water, they say&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We may as well give up,&rdquo; said the physician, addressing the surgeon.
      &ldquo;Nothing more can be done now; the case is hopeless.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bianchon and the house surgeon stretched the dying man out again on his
      loathsome bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the sheets ought to be changed,&rdquo; added the physician. &ldquo;Even if there
      is no hope left, something is due to human nature. I shall come back
      again, Bianchon,&rdquo; he said, turning to the medical student. &ldquo;If he
      complains again, rub some laudanum over the diaphragm.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He went, and the house surgeon went with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Eugene, pluck up heart, my boy,&rdquo; said Bianchon, as soon as they
      were alone; &ldquo;we must set about changing his sheets, and put him into a
      clean shirt. Go and tell Sylvie to bring some sheets and come and help us
      to make the bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene went downstairs, and found Mme. Vauquer engaged in setting the
      table; Sylvie was helping her. Eugene had scarcely opened his mouth before
      the widow walked up to him with the acidulous sweet smile of a cautious
      shopkeeper who is anxious neither to lose money nor to offend a customer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Monsieur Eugene,&rdquo; she said, when he had spoken, &ldquo;you know quite
      as well as I do that Father Goriot has not a brass farthing left. If you
      give out clean linen for a man who is just going to turn up his eyes, you
      are not likely to see your sheets again, for one is sure to be wanted to
      wrap him in. Now, you owe me a hundred and forty-four francs as it is, add
      forty francs for the pair of sheets, and then there are several little
      things, besides the candle that Sylvie will give you; altogether it will
      all mount up to at least two hundred francs, which is more than a poor
      widow like me can afford to lose. Lord! now, Monsieur Eugene, look at it
      fairly. I have lost quite enough in these five days since this run of
      ill-luck set in for me. I would rather than ten crowns that the old
      gentlemen had moved out as you said. It sets the other lodgers against the
      house. It would not take much to make me send him to the workhouse. In
      short, just put yourself in my place. I have to think of my establishment
      first, for I have my own living to make.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene hurried up to Goriot&rsquo;s room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bianchon,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;the money for the watch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There it is on the table, or the three hundred and sixty odd francs that
      are left of it. I paid up all the old scores out of it before they let me
      have the things. The pawn ticket lies there under the money.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac hurried downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, madame&rdquo; he said in disgust, &ldquo;let us square accounts. M. Goriot will
      not stay much longer in your house, nor shall I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he will go out feet foremost, poor old gentleman,&rdquo; she said,
      counting the francs with a half-facetious, half-lugubrious expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us get this over,&rdquo; said Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sylvie, look out some sheets, and go upstairs to help the gentlemen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t forget Sylvie,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer in Eugene&rsquo;s ear; &ldquo;she has
      been sitting up these two nights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As soon as Eugene&rsquo;s back was turned, the old woman hurried after her
      handmaid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take the sheets that have had the sides turned into the middle, number 7.
      Lord! they are plenty good enough for a corpse,&rdquo; she said in Sylvie&rsquo;s ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eugene, by this time, was part of the way upstairs, and did not overhear
      the elderly economist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick,&rdquo; said Bianchon, &ldquo;let us change his shirt. Hold him upright.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene went to the head of the bed and supported the dying man, while
      Bianchon drew off his shirt; and then Goriot made a movement as if he
      tried to clutch something to his breast, uttering a low inarticulate
      moaning the while, like some dumb animal in mortal pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! yes!&rdquo; cried Bianchon. &ldquo;It is the little locket and the chain made of
      hair that he wants; we took it off a while ago when we put the blisters on
      him. Poor fellow! he must have it again. There it lies on the
      chimney-piece.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene went to the chimney-piece and found the little plait of faded
      golden hair&mdash;Mme. Goriot&rsquo;s hair, no doubt. He read the name on the
      little round locket, ANASTASIE on the one side, DELPHINE on the other. It
      was the symbol of his own heart that the father always wore on his breast.
      The curls of hair inside the locket were so fine and soft that is was
      plain they had been taken from two childish heads. When the old man felt
      the locket once more, his chest heaved with a long deep sigh of
      satisfaction, like a groan. It was something terrible to see, for it
      seemed as if the last quiver of the nerves were laid bare to their eyes,
      the last communication of sense to the mysterious point within whence our
      sympathies come and whither they go. A delirious joy lighted up the
      distorted face. The terrific and vivid force of the feeling that had
      survived the power of thought made such an impression on the students,
      that the dying man felt their hot tears falling on him, and gave a shrill
      cry of delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nasie! Fifine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is life in him yet,&rdquo; said Bianchon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does he go on living for?&rdquo; said Sylvie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To suffer,&rdquo; answered Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bianchon made a sign to his friend to follow his example, knelt down and
      pressed his arms under the sick man, and Rastignac on the other side did
      the same, so that Sylvie, standing in readiness, might draw the sheet from
      beneath and replace it with the one that she had brought. Those tears, no
      doubt, had misled Goriot; for he gathered up all his remaining strength in
      a last effort, stretched out his hands, groped for the students&rsquo; heads,
      and as his fingers caught convulsively at their hair, they heard a faint
      whisper:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! my angels!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Two words, two inarticulate murmurs, shaped into words by the soul which
      fled forth with them as they left his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor dear!&rdquo; cried Sylvie, melted by that exclamation; the expression of
      the great love raised for the last time to a sublime height by that most
      ghastly and involuntary of lies.
    </p>
    <p>
      The father&rsquo;s last breath must have been a sigh of joy, and in that sigh
      his whole life was summed up; he was cheated even at the last. They laid
      Father Goriot upon his wretched bed with reverent hands. Thenceforward
      there was no expression on his face, only the painful traces of the
      struggle between life and death that was going on in the machine; for that
      kind of cerebral consciousness that distinguishes between pleasure and
      pain in a human being was extinguished; it was only a question of time&mdash;and
      the mechanism itself would be destroyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will lie like this for several hours, and die so quietly at last, that
      we shall not know when he goes; there will be no rattle in the throat. The
      brain must be completely suffused.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke there was a footstep on the staircase, and a young woman
      hastened up, panting for breath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has come too late,&rdquo; said Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was not Delphine; it was Therese, her waiting-woman, who stood in
      the doorway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Eugene,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;monsieur and madame have had a terrible
      scene about some money that Madame (poor thing!) wanted for her father.
      She fainted, and the doctor came, and she had to be bled, calling out all
      the while, &lsquo;My father is dying; I want to see papa!&rsquo; It was heartbreaking
      to hear her&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will do, Therese. If she came now, it would be trouble thrown away.
      M. Goriot cannot recognize any one now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor, dear gentleman, is he as bad at that?&rdquo; said Therese.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t want me now, I must go and look after my dinner; it is
      half-past four,&rdquo; remarked Sylvie. The next instant she all but collided
      with Mme. de Restaud on the landing outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something awful and appalling in the sudden apparition of the
      Countess. She saw the bed of death by the dim light of the single candle,
      and her tears flowed at the sight of her father&rsquo;s passive features, from
      which the life had almost ebbed. Bianchon with thoughtful tact left the
      room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not escape soon enough,&rdquo; she said to Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      The student bowed sadly in reply. Mme. de Restaud took her father&rsquo;s hand
      and kissed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forgive me, father! You used to say that my voice would call you back
      from the grave; ah! come back for one moment to bless your penitent
      daughter. Do you hear me? Oh! this is fearful! No one on earth will ever
      bless me henceforth; every one hates me; no one loves me but you in all
      the world. My own children will hate me. Take me with you, father; I will
      love you, I will take care of you. He does not hear me ... I am mad...&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She fell on her knees, and gazed wildly at the human wreck before her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My cup of misery is full,&rdquo; she said, turning her eyes upon Eugene. &ldquo;M. de
      Trailles has fled, leaving enormous debts behind him, and I have found out
      that he was deceiving me. My husband will never forgive me, and I have
      left my fortune in his hands. I have lost all my illusions. Alas! I have
      forsaken the one heart that loved me (she pointed to her father as she
      spoke), and for whom? I have held his kindness cheap, and slighted his
      affection; many and many a time I have given him pain, ungrateful wretch
      that I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He knew it,&rdquo; said Rastignac.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just then Goriot&rsquo;s eyelids unclosed; it was only a muscular contraction,
      but the Countess&rsquo; sudden start of reviving hope was no less dreadful than
      the dying eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible that he can hear me?&rdquo; cried the Countess. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she
      answered herself, and sat down beside the bed. As Mme. de Restaud seemed
      to wish to sit by her father, Eugene went down to take a little food. The
      boarders were already assembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; remarked the painter, as he joined them, &ldquo;it seems that there is
      to be a death-orama upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charles, I think you might find something less painful to joke about,&rdquo;
       said Eugene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So we may not laugh here?&rdquo; returned the painter. &ldquo;What harm does it do?
      Bianchon said that the old man was quite insensible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; said the <i>employe</i> from the Museum, &ldquo;he will die as he
      has lived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father is dead!&rdquo; shrieked the Countess.
    </p>
    <p>
      The terrible cry brought Sylvie, Rastignac, and Bianchon; Mme. de Restaud
      had fainted away. When she recovered they carried her downstairs, and put
      her into the cab that stood waiting at the door. Eugene sent Therese with
      her, and bade the maid take the Countess to Mme. de Nucingen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bianchon came down to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he is dead,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, sit down to dinner, gentlemen,&rdquo; said Mme. Vauquer, &ldquo;or the soup
      will be cold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two students sat down together.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the next thing to be done?&rdquo; Eugene asked of Bianchon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have closed his eyes and composed his limbs,&rdquo; said Bianchon. &ldquo;When the
      certificate has been officially registered at the Mayor&rsquo;s office, we will
      sew him in his winding sheet and bury him somewhere. What do you think we
      ought to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will not smell at his bread like this any more,&rdquo; said the painter,
      mimicking the old man&rsquo;s little trick.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, hang it all!&rdquo; cried the tutor, &ldquo;let Father Goriot drop, and let us
      have something else for a change. He is a standing dish, and we have had
      him with every sauce this hour or more. It is one of the privileges of the
      good city of Paris that anybody may be born, or live, or die there without
      attracting any attention whatsoever. Let us profit by the advantages of
      civilization. There are fifty or sixty deaths every day; if you have a
      mind to do it, you can sit down at any time and wail over whole hecatombs
      of dead in Paris. Father Goriot has gone off the hooks, has he? So much
      the better for him. If you venerate his memory, keep it to yourselves, and
      let the rest of us feed in peace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, to be sure,&rdquo; said the widow, &ldquo;it is all the better for him that he is
      dead. It looks as though he had had trouble enough, poor soul, while he
      was alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And this was all the funeral oration delivered over him who had been for
      Eugene the type and embodiment of Fatherhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fifteen lodgers began to talk as usual. When Bianchon and Eugene had
      satisfied their hunger, the rattle of spoons and forks, the boisterous
      conversation, the expressions on the faces that bespoke various degrees of
      want of feeling, gluttony, or indifference, everything about them made
      them shiver with loathing. They went out to find a priest to watch that
      night with the dead. It was necessary to measure their last pious cares by
      the scanty sum of money that remained. Before nine o&rsquo;clock that evening
      the body was laid out on the bare sacking of the bedstead in the desolate
      room; a lighted candle stood on either side, and the priest watched at the
      foot. Rastignac made inquiries of this latter as to the expenses of the
      funeral, and wrote to the Baron de Nucingen and the Comte de Restaud,
      entreating both gentlemen to authorize their man of business to defray the
      charges of laying their father-in-law in the grave. He sent Christophe
      with the letters; then he went to bed, tired out, and slept.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day Bianchon and Rastignac were obliged to take the certificate to
      the registrar themselves, and by twelve o&rsquo;clock the formalities were
      completed. Two hours went by, no word came from the Count nor from the
      Baron; nobody appeared to act for them, and Rastignac had already been
      obliged to pay the priest. Sylvie asked ten francs for sewing the old man
      in his winding-sheet and making him ready for the grave, and Eugene and
      Bianchon calculated that they had scarcely sufficient to pay for the
      funeral, if nothing was forthcoming from the dead man&rsquo;s family. So it was
      the medical student who laid him in a pauper&rsquo;s coffin, despatched from
      Bianchon&rsquo;s hospital, whence he obtained it at a cheaper rate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us play those wretches a trick,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Go to the cemetery, buy a
      grave for five years at Pere-Lachaise, and arrange with the Church and the
      undertaker to have a third-class funeral. If the daughters and their
      husbands decline to repay you, you can carve this on the headstone&mdash;&lsquo;<i>Here
      lies M. Goriot, father of the Comtesse de Restaud and the Baronne de
      Nucingen, interred at the expense of two students</i>.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene took part of his friend&rsquo;s advice, but only after he had gone in
      person first to M. and Mme. de Nucingen, and then to M. and Mme. de
      Restaud&mdash;a fruitless errand. He went no further than the doorstep in
      either house. The servants had received strict orders to admit no one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur and Madame can see no visitors. They have just lost their
      father, and are in deep grief over their loss.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Eugene&rsquo;s Parisian experience told him that it was idle to press the point.
      Something clutched strangely at his heart when he saw that it was
      impossible to reach Delphine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sell some of your ornaments,&rdquo; he wrote hastily in the porter&rsquo;s room, &ldquo;so
      that your father may be decently laid in his last resting-place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sealed the note, and begged the porter to give it to Therese for her
      mistress; but the man took it to the Baron de Nucingen, who flung the note
      into the fire. Eugene, having finished his errands, returned to the
      lodging-house about three o&rsquo;clock. In spite of himself, the tears came
      into his eyes. The coffin, in its scanty covering of black cloth, was
      standing there on the pavement before the gate, on two chairs. A withered
      sprig of hyssop was soaking in the holy water bowl of silver-plated
      copper; there was not a soul in the street, not a passer-by had stopped to
      sprinkle the coffin; there was not even an attempt at a black drapery over
      the wicket. It was a pauper who lay there; no one made a pretence of
      mourning for him; he had neither friends nor kindred&mdash;there was no
      one to follow him to the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bianchon&rsquo;s duties compelled him to be at the hospital, but he had left a
      few lines for Eugene, telling his friend about the arrangements he had
      made for the burial service. The house student&rsquo;s note told Rastignac that
      a mass was beyond their means, that the ordinary office for the dead was
      cheaper, and must suffice, and that he had sent word to the undertaker by
      Christophe. Eugene had scarcely finished reading Bianchon&rsquo;s scrawl, when
      he looked up and saw the little circular gold locket that contained the
      hair of Goriot&rsquo;s two daughters in Mme. Vauquer&rsquo;s hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How dared you take it?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good Lord! is that to be buried along with him?&rdquo; retorted Sylvie. &ldquo;It is
      gold.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course it shall!&rdquo; Eugene answered indignantly; &ldquo;he shall at any rate
      take one thing that may represent his daughters into the grave with him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the hearse came, Eugene had the coffin carried into the house again,
      unscrewed the lid, and reverently laid on the old man&rsquo;s breast the token
      that recalled the days when Delphine and Anastasie were innocent little
      maidens, before they began &ldquo;to think for themselves,&rdquo; as he had moaned out
      in his agony.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rastignac and Christophe and the two undertaker&rsquo;s men were the only
      followers of the funeral. The Church of Saint-Etienne du Mont was only a
      little distance from the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve. When the coffin had
      been deposited in a low, dark, little chapel, the law student looked round
      in vain for Goriot&rsquo;s two daughters or their husbands. Christophe was his
      only fellow-mourner; Christophe, who appeared to think it was his duty to
      attend the funeral of the man who had put him in the way of such handsome
      tips. As they waited there in the chapel for the two priests, the
      chorister, and the beadle, Rastignac grasped Christophe&rsquo;s hand. He could
      not utter a word just then.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur Eugene,&rdquo; said Christophe, &ldquo;he was a good and worthy man,
      who never said one word louder than another; he never did any one any
      harm, and gave nobody any trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two priests, the chorister, and the beadle came, and said and did as
      much as could be expected for seventy francs in an age when religion
      cannot afford to say prayers for nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ecclesiatics chanted a psalm, the <i>Libera nos</i> and the <i>De
      profundis</i>. The whole service lasted about twenty minutes. There was
      but one mourning coach, which the priest and chorister agreed to share
      with Eugene and Christophe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no one else to follow us,&rdquo; remarked the priest, &ldquo;so we may as
      well go quickly, and so save time; it is half-past five.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But just as the coffin was put in the hearse, two empty carriages, with
      the armorial bearings of the Comte de Restaud and the Baron de Nucingen,
      arrived and followed in the procession to Pere-Lachaise. At six o&rsquo;clock
      Goriot&rsquo;s coffin was lowered into the grave, his daughters&rsquo; servants
      standing round the while. The ecclesiastic recited the short prayer that
      the students could afford to pay for, and then both priest and lackeys
      disappeared at once. The two grave diggers flung in several spadefuls of
      earth, and then stopped and asked Rastignac for their fee. Eugene felt in
      vain in his pocket, and was obliged to borrow five francs of Christophe.
      This thing, so trifling in itself, gave Rastignac a terrible pang of
      distress. It was growing dusk, the damp twilight fretted his nerves; he
      gazed down into the grave and the tears he shed were drawn from him by the
      sacred emotion, a single-hearted sorrow. When such tears fall on earth,
      their radiance reaches heaven. And with that tear that fell on Father
      Goriot&rsquo;s grave, Eugene Rastignac&rsquo;s youth ended. He folded his arms and
      gazed at the clouded sky; and Christophe, after a glance at him, turned
      and went&mdash;Rastignac was left alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He went a few paces further, to the highest point of the cemetery, and
      looked out over Paris and the windings of the Seine; the lamps were
      beginning to shine on either side of the river. His eyes turned almost
      eagerly to the space between the column of the Place Vendome and the
      cupola of the Invalides; there lay the shining world that he had wished to
      reach. He glanced over that humming hive, seeming to draw a foretaste of
      its honey, and said magniloquently:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Henceforth there is war between us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And by way of throwing down the glove to Society, Rastignac went to dine
      with Mme. de Nucingen.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br ><br ><br ><br >
    </div>
    <h2>
      ADDENDUM
    </h2>
    <h3>
      The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.
    </h3>
<pre>
     Ajuda-Pinto, Marquis Miguel d&rsquo;
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       The Secrets of a Princess
       Beatrix

     Beauseant, Marquis
       An Episode under the Terror

     Beauseant, Vicomte de
       The Deserted Woman

     Beauseant, Vicomtesse de
       The Deserted Woman
       Albert Savarus

     Bianchon, Horace
       The Atheist&rsquo;s Mass
       Cesar Birotteau
       The Commission in Lunacy
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       A Bachelor&rsquo;s Establishment
       The Secrets of a Princess
       The Government Clerks
       Pierrette
       A Study of Woman
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       Honorine
       The Seamy Side of History
       The Magic Skin
       A Second Home
       A Prince of Bohemia
       Letters of Two Brides
       The Muse of the Department
       The Imaginary Mistress
       The Middle Classes
       Cousin Betty
       The Country Parson
     In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following:
       Another Study of Woman
       La Grande Breteche

     Bibi-Lupin (chief of secret police, called himself Gondureau)
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life

     Carigliano, Marechal, Duc de
       Sarrasine

     Collin, Jacques
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       The Member for Arcis

     Derville
       Gobseck
       A Start in Life
       The Gondreville Mystery
       Colonel Chabert
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life

     Franchessini, Colonel
       The Member for Arcis

     Galathionne, Princess
       A Daughter of Eve

     Gobseck, Jean-Esther Van
       Gobseck
       Cesar Birotteau
       The Government Clerks
       The Unconscious Humorists

     Jacques (M. de Beauseant&rsquo;s butler)
       The Deserted Woman

     Langeais, Duchesse Antoinette de
       The Thirteen

     Marsay, Henri de
       The Thirteen
       The Unconscious Humorists
       Another Study of Woman
       The Lily of the Valley
       Jealousies of a Country Town
       Ursule Mirouet
       A Marriage Settlement
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       Letters of Two Brides
       The Ball at Sceaux
       Modest Mignon
       The Secrets of a Princess
       The Gondreville Mystery
       A Daughter of Eve

     Maurice (de Restaud&rsquo;s valet)
       Gobseck

     Montriveau, General Marquis Armand de
       The Thirteen
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       Another Study of Woman
       Pierrette
       The Member for Arcis

     Nucingen, Baron Frederic de
       The Firm of Nucingen
       Pierrette
       Cesar Birotteau
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       Another Study of Woman
       The Secrets of a Princess
       A Man of Business
       Cousin Betty
       The Muse of the Department
       The Unconscious Humorists

     Nucingen, Baronne Delphine de
       The Thirteen
       Eugenie Grandet
       Cesar Birotteau
       Melmoth Reconciled
       Lost Illusions
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       The Commission in Lunacy
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       Modeste Mignon
       The Firm of Nucingen
       Another Study of Woman
       A Daughter of Eve
       The Member for Arcis

     Poiret
       The Government Clerks
       A Start in Life
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       The Middle Classes

     Poiret, Madame (nee Christine-Michelle Michonneau)
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       The Middle Classes

     Rastignac, Baron and Baronne de (Eugene&rsquo;s parents)
       Lost Illusions

     Rastignac, Eugene de
       A Distinguished Provincial at Paris
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life
       The Ball at Sceaux
       The Interdiction
       A Study of Woman
       Another Study of Woman
       The Magic Skin
       The Secrets of a Princess
       A Daughter of Eve
       The Gondreville Mystery
       The Firm of Nucingen
       Cousin Betty
       The Member for Arcis
       The Unconscious Humorists

     Rastignac, Laure-Rose and Agathe de
       Lost Illusions
       The Member for Arcis

     Rastignac, Monseigneur Gabriel de
       The Country Parson
       A Daughter of Eve

     Restaud, Comte de
       Gobseck

     Restaud, Comtesse Anastasie de
       Gobseck

     Selerier
       Scenes from a Courtesan&rsquo;s Life

     Taillefer, Jean-Frederic
       The Firm of Nucingen
       The Magic Skin
       The Red Inn

     Taillefer, Victorine
       The Red Inn

     Therese
       A Daughter of Eve

     Tissot, Pierre-Francois
       A Prince of Bohemia

     Trailles, Comte Maxime de
       Cesar Birotteau
       Gobseck
       Ursule Mirouet
       A Man of Business
       The Member for Arcis
       The Secrets of a Princess
       Cousin Betty
       The Member for Arcis
       Beatrix
       The Unconscious Humorists
</pre>
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
    <hr >
    <p>
      <br > <br >
    </p>
  <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1237 ***</div>
</body>
</html>
generated by cgit v1.2.3 (git 2.25.1) at 2026-07-05 13:27:52 +0000