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--one Gondureau--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's evident
satisfaction set Mlle. Michonneau thinking; and she began to see

that this business involved something more than the mere capture
of a runawayconvict. 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.

"A delusion," he said. "Collin's sorbonne 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 chump
in the Place de Greve."

As Mlle. Michonneau seemed mystified, Gondureau explained the two
slang words for her benefit. Sorbonne and chump are two forcible

expressions borrowed from thieves' 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--
his council; a chump is a contemptuous epithet that implies how

little a human head is worth after the axe has done its work.
"Collin is playing us off," he continued. "When we come across a

man like a bar of steel tempered in the English fashion, there is
always one resource left--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'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."

"And you do a service to our country," said Poiret.
"Really, you are talking in a very sensible manner tonight, that

you are," said the head of the department. "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.--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.--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."
"Well, now," Poiret remarked to Mlle. Michonneau, "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 'Good-day.' "
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 tranquilexistence had been the portentous,

meteor-like apparition of the sham Comtesse de l'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.
In the first place, Goriot and Eugene de Rastignac both slept

till close upon eleven o'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'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'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--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:--
"I feel neither false vanity nor anger where you are concerned,

my friend. Till two o'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's sake. You will come
to me soon, will you not? If you are busy, a line will be enough.

Say, 'I will hasten to you,' or else, 'I am ill.' But if you were
ill my father would have come to tell me so. What can have

happened? . . ."
"Yes, indeed, what has happened?" exclaimed Eugene, and, hurrying

down to the dining-room, he crumpled up the letter without
reading any more. "What time is it?"

"Half-past eleven," said Vautrin, dropping a lump of sugar into
his coffee.

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's servants; Mme.