LITMIR.BIZ

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are you imagining that —?”

      “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.”

      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.

      “Mistigris!” she cried.

      The cat fled, but promptly returned to rub against her ankles.

      “Oh! yes, you can wheedle, you old hypocrite!” she said. “Sylvie! Sylvie!”

      “Yes, madame; what is it?”

      “Just see what the cat has done!”

      “It is all that stupid Christophe’s fault. I told him to stop and lay the table. What has become of him? Don’t you worry, madame; Father Goriot shall have it. I will fill it up with water, and he won’t know the difference; he never notices anything, not even what he eats.”

      “I wonder where the old heathen can have gone?” said Mme. Vauquer, setting the plates round the table.

      “Who knows? He is up to all sorts of tricks.”

      “I have overslept myself,” said Mme. Vauquer.

      “But madame looks as fresh as a rose, all the same.”

      The door bell rang at that moment, and Vautrin came through the sitting-room, singing loudly:

      “ ’Tis the same old story everywhere,

       A roving heart and a roving glance..

      “Oh! Mamma Vauquer! good-morning!” he cried at the sight of his hostess, and he put his arm gaily round her waist.

      “There! have done —”

      “‘Impertinence!’ Say it!” he answered. “Come, say it! Now, isn’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?

      “For the locks of brown and the golden hair

       A sighing lover . . .

      “Oh! I have just seen something so funny —

      . . . . led by chance.”

      “What?” asked the widow.

      “Father Goriot in the goldsmith’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’s not used to the trade.”

      “Really? You don’t say so?”

      “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’s house; everybody knows him, Gobseck, a stuck-up rascal, that would make dominoes out of his father’s bones, a Turk, a heathen, an old Jew, a Greek; it would be a difficult matter to rob him, for he puts all his coin into the Bank.”

      “Then what was Father Goriot doing there?”

      “Doing?” said Vautrin. “Nothing; he was bent on his own undoing. He is a simpleton, stupid enough to ruin himself by running after —”

      “There he is!” cried Sylvie.

      “Christophe,” cried Father Goriot’s voice, “come upstairs with me.”

      Christophe went up, and shortly afterwards came down again.

      “Where are you going?” Mme. Vauquer asked of her servant.

      “Out on an errand for M. Goriot.”

      “What may that be?” said Vautrin, pouncing on a letter in Christophe’s hand. “Mme. la Comtesse Anastasie de Restaud,” he read. “Where are you going with it?” he added, as he gave the letter back to Christophe.

      “To the Rue du Helder. I have orders to give this into her hands myself.”

      “What is there inside it?” said Vautrin, holding the letter up to the light. “A banknote? No.” He peered into the envelope. “A receipted account!” he cried. “My word! ’tis a gallant old dotard. Off with you, old chap,” he said, bringing down a hand on Christophe’s head, and spinning the man round like a thimble; “you will have a famous tip.”

      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:

      “The same old story everywhere,

       A roving heart and a roving glance.”

      When everything was ready, Mme. Couture and Mlle. Taillefer came in.

      “Where have you been this morning, fair lady?” said Mme. Vauquer, turning to Mme. Couture.

      “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,” Mme. Couture went on, as she seated herself before the fire and held the steaming soles of her boots to the blaze.

      “Warm yourself, Victorine,” said Mme. Vauquer.

      “It is quite right and proper, mademoiselle, to pray to Heaven to soften your father’s heart,” said Vautrin, as he drew a chair nearer to the orphan girl; “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.”

      “Poor child!” said Mme. Vauquer. “Never mind, my pet, your wretch of a father is going just the way to bring trouble upon himself.”

      Victorine’s eyes filled with tears at the words, and the widow checked herself at a sign from Mme. Couture.

      “If we could only see him!” said the Commissary-General’s widow; “if I could speak to him myself and give him his wife’s last letter! I have never dared to run the risk of sending it by post; he knew my handwriting —”

      “ ‘Oh woman, persecuted and injured innocent!’ “ exclaimed Vautrin, breaking in upon her. “So that is how you are, is it? In a few days’ time I will look into your affairs, and it will be all right, you shall see.”

      “Oh! sir,” said Victorine, with a tearful but eager glance at Vautrin, who showed no sign of being touched by it, “if you know of any way of communicating with my father, please be sure and tell him that his affection and my mother’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 —”

      “The same old story everywhere,” 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’s footstep was heard outside.

      “Ah! here you are, M. Eugene,” said Sylvie; “every one is breakfasting at home to-day.”

      The student exchanged greetings with the lodgers, and sat down beside Goriot.

      “I have just met with a queer adventure,” he said, as he helped himself abundantly to the mutton, and cut a slice of bread, which Mme. Vauquer’s eyes gauged as usual.

      “An adventure?” queried Poiret.

      “Well, and what is there to astonish you in that, old boy?” Vautrin asked of Poiret. “M. Eugene is cut out for that kind of thing.”

      Mlle.

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