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'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'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."

Eugene, watching the old man's face, thought that his friend was
light-headed.

"Come," he said, "do not talk any more, you must rest----" Just
then Bianchon came up, and Eugene went down to dinner.

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's

condition demanded continual attention, which the two students
alone were willing to give--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.
"I expected she would come herself; but it would have been a pity

for her to come, she would have been anxious about me," said the
father, and to all appearances he was well content.

At seven o'clock that evening Therese came with a letter from
Delphine.

"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--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 Mose in

Egitto, 'For some it is the monotony of a single note; for
others, it is the infinite of sound.' Remember that I am

expecting you this evening to take me to Mme. de Beauseant's
ball. Every one knows now that the King signed M. d'Ajuda's

marriage-contract this morning, and the poor Vicomtesse knew
nothing of it until two o'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."

Rastignac took up a pen and wrote:
"I am waiting till the doctor comes to know if there is any hope

of your father'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.--Yours a thousand times."

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's life and reason hung in the balance.

"It would be better for him to die at once," the doctor said as
he took leave.

Eugene left Goriot to Bianchon'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.
"Tell her to enjoy her evening as if nothing had happened," cried

Goriot. He had been lying in a sort of stupor, but he suddenly
sat upright as Eugene went out.

Eugene, half heartbroken, entered Delphine'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.
"Why, you are not dressed!" she cried.

"Madame, your father----"
"My father again!" she exclaimed, breaking in upon him. "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'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'clock."

"Madame----"
"Quick! not a word!" she cried, darting into her dressing-room

for a necklace.
"Do go, Monsieur Eugene, or you will vex madame," said Therese,

hurrying him away; and Eugene was too horror-stricken by this
elegant parricide to resist.

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.

"Their crimes are paltry," said Eugene to himself. "Vautrin was
greater."

He had seen society in its three great phases--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