LITMIR.BIZ

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a cousin of mine, the Vicomtesse de Beauseant. She has a magnificent house; the rooms are hung with silk — in short, it was a splendid affair, and I was as happy as a king —-”

      “Fisher,” put in Vautrin, interrupting.

      “What do you mean, sir?” said Eugene sharply.

      “I said ‘fisher,’ because kingfishers see a good deal more fun than kings.”

      “Quite true; I would much rather be the little careless bird than a king,” said Poiret the ditto-ist, “because —”

      “In fact”— the law-student cut him short —“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 — real flowers, that scented the air — 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’clock, on foot in the Rue de Gres. Oh! how my heart beat! I began to think —”

      “That she was coming here,” said Vautrin, with a keen look at the student. “I expect that she was going to call on old Gobseck, a money-lender. If ever you explore a Parisian woman’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.”

      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.

      “Then Christophe was too late, and she must have gone to him!” cried Goriot, with anguish in his voice.

      “It is just as I guessed,” said Vautrin, leaning over to whisper in Mme. Vauquer’s ear.

      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.

      “Who the devil could have told you her name, M. Vautrin?” asked Eugene.

      “Aha! there you are!” answered Vautrin. “Old Father Goriot there knew it quite well! and why should I not know it too?”

      “M. Goriot?” the student cried.

      “What is it?” asked the old man. “So she was very beautiful, was she, yesterday night?”

      “Who?”

      “Mme. de Restaud.”

      “Look at the old wretch,” said Mme. Vauquer, speaking to Vautrin; “how his eyes light up!”

      “Then does he really keep her?” said Mlle. Michonneau, in a whisper to the student.

      “Oh! yes, she was tremendously pretty,” Eugene answered. Father Goriot watched him with eager eyes. “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.”

      “So the wheel turns,” said Vautrin; “yesterday night at a duchess’ ball, this morning in a money-lender’s office, on the lowest rung of the ladder — 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’ hearts to find something to pay for their splendor. They will turn the world upside down. Just a Parisienne through and through!”

      Father Goriot’s face, which had shone at the student’s words like the sun on a bright day, clouded over all at once at this cruel speech of Vautrin’s.

      “Well,” said Mme. Vauquer, “but where is your adventure? Did you speak to her? Did you ask her if she wanted to study law?”

      “She did not see me,” said Eugene. “But only think of meeting one of the prettiest women in Paris in the Rue des Gres at nine o’clock! She could not have reached home after the ball till two o’clock this morning. Wasn’t it queer? There is no place like Paris for this sort of adventures.”

      “Pshaw! much funnier things than that happen here!” exclaimed Vautrin.

      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.

      “Well, did you see?” said Mme. Vauquer, addressing Vautrin and the rest of the circle. “He is ruining himself for those women, that is plain.”

      “Nothing will ever make me believe that that beautiful Comtesse de Restaud is anything to Father Goriot,” cried the student.

      “Well, and if you don’t,” broke in Vautrin, “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 —”

      Mlle. Michonneau gave Vautrin a quick glance at these words. They seemed to be like the sound of a trumpet to a trooper’s horse. “Aha!” said Vautrin, stopping in his speech to give her a searching glance, “so we have had our little experiences, have we?”

      The old maid lowered her eyes like a nun who sees a statue.

      “Well,” he went on, “when folk of that kind get a notion into their heads, they cannot drop it. They must drink the water from some particular spring — 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 — 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’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 — 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’s in the Rue des Gres. And now, mark what follows — 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’s protested bills.”

      “You have made me wild to know the truth,” cried Eugene; “I will go to call on Mme. de Restaud to-morrow.”

      “Yes,” echoed Poiret; “you must go and call on Mme. de Restaud.”

      “And perhaps you will find Father Goriot there, who will take payment for the assistance he politely rendered.”

      Eugene looked disgusted. “Why, then, this Paris of yours is a slough.”

      “And an uncommonly queer slough, too,” replied Vautrin. “The mud splashes you as you drive through it in your carriage — you are a respectable person; you go afoot and are splashed — 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

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