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.
"Just come and sit over here, hospitaller of Cochin," said

Eugene.
Bianchon went the more willingly because his change of place

brought him next to the old lodger.
"What is wrong with him?" asked Rastignac.

"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."

"Is there any cure for it?"
"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."
"Yes, there was," said Rastignac, remembering how the two

daughters had struck blow on blow at their father's heart.
"But Delphine at any rate loves her father," he said to himself.

That evening at the opera Rastignac chose his words carefully,
lest he should give Mme. de Nucingen needless alarm.

"Do not be anxious about him," she said, however, as soon as
Eugene began, "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--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."

Eugene was silent, the artless and sincere outpouring made an
impression on him.

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,
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"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."
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.

"Eugene," she said, changing the conversation, "I wonder whether
you know what has been happening? All Paris will go to Mme. de

Beauseant's to-morrow. The Rochefides and the Marquis d'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?"

"The world laughs at baseness and connives at it. But this will
kill Mme. de Beauseant."

"Oh, no," said Delphine, smiling, "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."
"Perhaps, after all, it is one of those absurd reports that

people set in circulation here."
"We shall know the truth to-morrow."

Eugene did not return to the Maison Vauquer. He could not forego
the pleasure of occupying his new rooms in the Rue d'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'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'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'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.

"Aha!" said the painter as Eugene came in, "Father Goriot has
broken down at last. Bianchon is upstairs with him. One of his

daughters--the Comtesse de Restaurama--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."
Rastignac sprang to the staircase.

"Hey! Monsieur Eugene!"
"Monsieur Eugene, the mistress is calling you," shouted Sylvie.

"It is this, sir," said the widow. "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."
"Why can't you trust him?"

"Trust him, indeed! If the old gentleman went off his head and