broken-down invalids; the wretched little hempen mats slip away
from under your feet without slipping away for good; and finally,

the foot-warmers are miserable wrecks, hingeless, charred, broken
away about the holes. It would be impossible to give an idea of

the old, rotten, shaky, cranky, worm-eaten, halt, maimed, one-
eyed, rickety, and ramshackle condition of the furniture without

an exhaustive description, which would delay the progress of the
story to an extent that impatient people would not pardon. The

red tiles of the floor are full of depressions brought about by
scouring and periodical renewings of color. In short, there is no

illusory grace left to the poverty that reigns here; it is dire,
parsimonious, concentrated, threadbare poverty; as yet it has not

sunk into the mire, it is only splashed by it, and though not in
rags as yet, its clothing is ready to drop to pieces.

This apartment is in all its glory at seven o'clock in the
morning, when Mme. Vauquer's cat appears, announcing the near

approach of his mistress, and jumps upon the sideboards to sniff
at the milk in the bowls, each protected by a plate, while he

purrs his morning greeting to the world. A moment later the widow
shows her face; she is tricked out in a net cap attached to a

false front set on awry, and shuffles into the room in her
slipshod fashion. She is an oldish woman, with a bloated

countenance, and a nose like a parrot's beak set in the middle of
it; her fat little hands (she is as sleek as a church rat) and

her shapeless, slouching figure are in keeping with the room that
reeks of misfortune, where hope is reduced to speculate for the

meanest stakes. Mme. Vauquer alone can breathe that tainted air
without being disheartened by it. Her face is as fresh as a

frosty morning in autumn; there are wrinkles about the eyes that
vary in their expression from the set smile of a ballet-dancer to

the dark, suspicious scowl of a discounter of bills; in short,
she is at once the embodiment and interpretation of her lodging-

house, as surely as her lodging-house implies the existence of
its mistress. You can no more imagine the one without the other,

than you can think of a jail without a turnkey. The unwholesome
corpulence of the little woman is produced by the life she leads,

just as typhus fever is bred in the tainted air of a hospital.
The very knitted woolenpetticoat that she wears beneath a skirt

made of an old gown, with the wadding protruding through the
rents in the material, is a sort of epitome of the sitting-room,

the dining-room, and the little garden; it discovers the cook, it
foreshadows the lodgers--the picture of the house is completed by

the portrait of its mistress.
Mme. Vauquer at the age of fifty is like all women who "have seen

a deal of trouble." She has the glassy eyes and innocent air of a
trafficker in flesh and blood, who will wax virtuously indignant

to obtain a higher price for her services, but who is quite ready
to betray a Georges or a Pichegru, if a Georges or a Pichegru

were in hiding and still to be betrayed, or for any other
expedient that may alleviate her lot. Still, "she is a good woman

at bottom," said the lodgers who believed that the widow was
wholly dependent upon the money that they paid her, and

sympathized when they heard her cough and groan like one of
themselves.

What had M. Vauquer been? The lady was never very explicit on
this head. How had she lost her money? "Through trouble," was her

answer. He had treated her badly, had left her nothing but her
eyes to cry over his cruelty, the house she lived in, and the

privilege of pitying nobody, because, so she was wont to say, she
herself had been through every possible misfortune.

Sylvie, the stout cook, hearing her mistress' shuffling
footsteps, hastened to serve the lodgers' breakfasts. Beside

those who lived in the house, Mme. Vauquer took boarders who came
for their meals; but these externes usually only came to dinner,

for which they paid thirty francs a month.
At the time when this story begins, the lodging-house contained

seven inmates. The best rooms in the house were on the first
story, Mme. Vauquer herself occupying the least important, while

the rest were let to a Mme. Couture, the widow of a commissary-
general in the service of the Republic. With her lived Victorine

Taillefer, a schoolgirl, to whom she filled the place of mother.
These two ladies paid eighteen hundred francs a year.

The two sets of rooms on the second floor were respectively
occupied by an old man named Poiret and a man of forty or

thereabouts, the wearer of a black wig and dyed whiskers, who
gave out that he was a retired merchant, and was addressed as M.

Vautrin. Two of the four rooms on the third floor were also let--
one to an elderly spinster, a Mlle. Michonneau, and the other to

a retiredmanufacturer of vermicelli, Italian paste and starch,
who allowed the others to address him as "Father Goriot." The

remaining rooms were allotted to various birds of passage, to
impecunious students, who like "Father Goriot" and Mlle.

Michonneau, could only muster forty-five francs a month to pay
for their board and lodging. Mme. Vauquer had little desire for

lodgers of this sort; they ate too much bread, and she only took
them in default of better.

At that time one of the rooms was tenanted by a law student, a
young man from the neighborhood of Angouleme, one of a large

family who pinched and starved themselves to spare twelve hundred
francs a year for him. Misfortune had accustomed Eugene de

Rastignac, for that was his name, to work. He belonged to the
number of young men who know as children that their parents'

hopes are centered on them, and deliberately prepare themselves
for a great career, subordinating their studies from the first to

this end, carefully watching the indications of the course of
events, calculating the probable turn that affairs will take,

that they may be the first to profit by them. But for his
observant curiosity, and the skill with which he managed to

introduce himself into the salons of Paris, this story would not
have been colored by the tones of truth which it certainly owes

to him, for they are entirely due to his penetrating sagacity and
desire to fathom the mysteries of an appalling condition of

things, which was concealed as carefully by the victim as by
those who had brought it to pass.

Above the third story there was a garret where the linen was hung
to dry, and a couple of attics. Christophe, the man-of-all-work,

slept in one, and Sylvie, the stout cook, in the other. Beside
the seven inmates thus enumerated, taking one year with another,

some eight law or medical students dined in the house, as well as
two or three regular comers who lived in the neighborhood. There

were usually eighteen people at dinner, and there was room, if
need be, for twenty at Mme. Vauquer's table; at breakfast,

however, only the seven lodgers appeared. It was almost like a
family party. Every one came down in dressing-gown and slippers,

and the conversation usually turned on anything that had happened
the evening before; comments on the dress or appearance of the

dinner contingent were exchanged in friendly confidence.
These seven lodgers were Mme. Vauquer's spoiled children. Among

them she distributed, with astronomical precision, the exact
proportion of respect and attention due to the varying amounts

they paid for their board. One single consideration influenced
all these human beings thrown together by chance. The two second-

floor lodgers only paid seventy-two francs a month. Such prices
as these are confined to the Faubourg Saint-Marcel and the

district between La Bourbe and the Salpetriere; and, as might be
expected, poverty, more or less apparent, weighed upon them all,

Mme. Couture being the sole exception to the rule.
The dreary surroundings were reflected in the costumes of the

inmates of the house; all were alike threadbare. The color of the
men's coats were problematical; such shoes, in more fashionable

quarters, are only to be seen lying in the gutter; the cuffs and
collars were worn and frayed at the edges; every limp article of

clothing looked like the ghost of its former self. The women's
dresses were faded, old-fashioned, dyed and re-dyed; they wore