regions in its depths, caverns unknown, flowers and pearls and

monsters of the deep overlooked or forgotten by the divers of
literature. The Maison Vauquer is one of these curious

monstrosities.
Two, however, of Mme. Vauquer's boarders formed a striking

contrast to the rest. There was a sickly pallor, such as is often
seen in anaemic girls, in Mlle. Victorine Taillefer's face; and

her unvarying expression of sadness, like her embarrassed manner
and pinched look, was in keeping with the general wretchedness of

the establishment in the Rue Nueve-Saint-Genevieve, which forms a
background to this picture; but her face was young, there was

youthfulness in her voice and elasticity in her movements. This
young misfortune was not unlike a shrub, newly planted in an

uncongenial soil, where its leaves have already begun to wither.
The outlines of her figure, revealed by her dress of the simplest

and cheapest materials, were also youthful. There was the same
kind of charm about her too slender form, her faintly colored

face and light-brown hair, that modern poets find in mediaeval
statuettes; and a sweet expression, a look of Christian

resignation in the dark gray eyes. She was pretty by force of
contrast; if she had been happy, she would have been charming.

Happiness is the poetry of woman, as the toilette is her tinsel.
If the delightfulexcitement of a ball had made the pale face

glow with color; if the delights of a luxurious life had brought
the color to the wan cheeks that were slightly hollowed already;

if love had put light into the sad eyes, then Victorine might
have ranked among the fairest; but she lacked the two things

which create woman a second time--pretty dresses and love-
letters.

A book might have been made of her story. Her father was
persuaded that he had sufficient reason for declining to

acknowledge her, and allowed her a bare six hundred francs a
year; he had further taken measures to disinherit his daughter,

and had converted all his real estate into personalty, that he
might leave it undivided to his son. Victorine's mother had died

broken-hearted in Mme. Couture's house; and the latter, who was a
near relation, had taken charge of the little orphan. Unluckily,

the widow of the commissary-general to the armies of the Republic
had nothing in the world but her jointure and her widow's

pension, and some day she might be obliged to leave the helpless,
inexperienced girl to the mercy of the world. The good soul,

therefore, took Victorine to mass every Sunday, and to confession
once a fortnight, thinking that, in any case, she would bring up

her ward to be devout. She was right; religion offered a solution
of the problem of the young girl's future. The poor child loved

the father who refused to acknowledge her. Once every year she
tried to see him to deliver her mother's message of forgiveness,

but every year hitherto she had knocked at that door in vain; her
father was inexorable. Her brother, her only means of

communication, had not come to see her for four years, and had
sent her no assistance; yet she prayed to God to unseal her

father's eyes and to soften her brother's heart, and no
accusations mingled with her prayers. Mme. Couture and Mme.

Vauquer exhausted the vocabulary of abuse, and failed to find
words that did justice to the banker's iniquitous conduct; but

while they heaped execrations on the millionaire, Victorine's
words were as gentle as the moan of the wounded dove, and

affection found expression even in the cry drawn from her by
pain.

Eugene de Rastignac was a thoroughly southern type; he had a fair
complexion, blue eyes, black hair. In his figure, manner, and his

whole bearing it was easy to see that he had either come of a
noble family, or that, from his earliest childhood, he had been

gently bred. If he was careful of his wardrobe, only taking last
year's clothes into daily wear, still upon occasion he could

issue forth as a young man of fashion. Ordinarily he wore a
shabby coat and waistcoat, the limp black cravat, untidily

knotted, that students affect, trousers that matched the rest of
his costume, and boots that had been resoled.

Vautrin (the man of forty with the dyed whiskers) marked a
transition stage between these two young people and the others.

He was the kind of man that calls forth the remark: "He looks a
jovial sort!" He had broad shoulders, a well-developed chest,

muscular arms, and strong square-fisted hands; the joints of his
fingers were covered with tufts of fiery red hair. His face was

furrowed by premature wrinkles; there was a certain hardness
about it in spite of his bland and insinuating manner. His bass

voice was by no means unpleasant, and was in keeping with his
boisterous laughter. He was always obliging, always in good

spirits; if anything went wrong with one of the locks, he would
soon unscrew it, take it to pieces, file it, oil and clean and

set it in order, and put it back in its place again; "I am an old
hand at it," he used to say. Not only so, he knew all about

ships, the sea, France, foreign countries, men, business, law,
great houses and prisons,--there was nothing that he did not

know. If any one complained rather more than usual, he would
offer his services at once. He had several times lent money to

Mme. Vauquer, or to the boarders; but, somehow, those whom he
obliged felt that they would sooner face death than fail to repay

him; a certain resolute look, sometimes seen on his face,
inspired fear of him, for all his appearance of easy good-nature.

In the way he spat there was an imperturbable coolness which
seemed to indicate that this was a man who would not stick at a

crime to extricate himself from a false position. His eyes, like
those of a pitiless judge, seemed to go to the very bottom of all

questions, to read all natures, all feelings and thoughts. His
habit of life was very regular; he usually went out after

breakfast, returning in time for dinner, and disappeared for the
rest of the evening, letting himself in about midnight with a

latch key, a privilege that Mme. Vauquer accorded to no other
boarder. But then he was on very good terms with the widow; he

used to call her "mamma," and put his arm round her waist, a
piece of flattery perhaps not appreciated to the full! The worthy

woman might imagine this to be an easy feat; but, as a matter of
fact, no arm but Vautrin's was long enough to encircle her.

It was a characteristic" target="_blank" title="a.特有的 n.特性">characteristic trait of his generously to pay fifteen
francs a month for the cup of coffee with a dash of brandy in it,

which he took after dinner. Less superficial observers than young
men engulfed by the whirlpool of Parisian life, or old men, who

took no interest in anything that did not directly concern them,
would not have stopped short at the vaguely unsatisfactory

impression that Vautrin made upon them. He knew or guessed the
concerns of every one about him; but none of them had been able

to penetrate his thoughts, or to discover his occupation. He had
deliberately made his apparent good-nature, his unfailing

readiness to oblige, and his high spirits into a barrier between
himself and the rest of them, but not seldom he gave glimpses of

appalling depths of character. He seemed to delight in scourging
the upper classes of society with the lash of his tongue, to take

pleasure in convicting it of inconsistency, in mocking at law and
order with some grim jest worthy of Juvenal, as if some grudge

against the social system rankled in him, as if there were some
mystery carefully hidden away in his life.

Mlle. Taillefer felt attracted, perhaps unconsciously, by the
strength of the one man, and the good looks of the other; her

stolen glances and secret thoughts were divided between them; but
neither of them seemed to take any notice of her, although some

day a chance might alter her position, and she would be a wealthy
heiress. For that matter, there was not a soul in the house who

took any trouble to investigate the various chronicles of
misfortunes, real or imaginary, related by the rest. Each one

regarded the others with indifference, tempered by suspicion; it
was a natural result of their relative positions. Practical

assistance not one could give, this they all knew, and they had
long since exhausted their stock of condolence over previous

discussions of their grievances. They were in something the same
position as an elderly couple who have nothing left to say to

each other. The routine of existence kept them in contact, but
they were parts of a mechanism which wanted oil. There was not