"Just go and see if you can find some ether," said Mlle.
Michonneau to Mme. Vauquer; the former, with some help from

Poiret, had unfastened the sick man's clothes.
Mme. Vauquer went down to her room, and left Mlle. Michonneau

mistress of the situation.
"Now! just pull down his shirt and turn him over, quick! You

might be of some use in sparing my modesty," she said to Poiret,
"instead of standing there like a stock."

Vautrin was turned over; Mlle. Michonneau gave his shoulder a
sharp slap, and the two portentous letters appeared, white

against the red.
"There, you have earned your three thousand francs very easily,"

exclaimed Poiret, supporting Vautrin while Mlle. Michonneau
slipped on the shirt again.--"Ouf! How heavy he is," he added, as

he laid the convict down.
"Hush! Suppose there is a strong-box here!" said the old maid

briskly; her glances seemed to pierce the walls, she scrutinized
every article of the furniture with greedy eyes. "Could we find

some excuse for opening that desk?"
"It mightn't be quite right," responded Poiret to this.

"Where is the harm? It is money stolen from all sorts of people,
so it doesn't belong to any one now. But we haven't time, there

is the Vauquer."
"Here is the ether," said that lady. "I must say that this is an

eventful day. Lord! that man can't have had a stroke; he is as
white as curds."

"White as curds?" echoed Poiret.
"And his pulse is steady," said the widow, laying her hand on his

breast.
"Steady?" said the astonished Poiret.

"He is all right."
"Do you think so?" asked Poiret.

"Lord! Yes, he looks as if he were sleeping. Sylvie has gone for
a doctor. I say, Mlle. Michonneau, he is sniffing the ether.

Pooh! it is only a spasm. His pulse is good. He is as strong as a
Turk. Just look, mademoiselle, what a fur tippet he has on his

chest; that is the sort of man to live till he is a hundred. His
wig holds on tightly, however. Dear me! it is glued on, and his

own hair is red; that is why he wears a wig. They say that red-
haired people are either the worst or the best. Is he one of the

good ones, I wonder?"
"Good to hang," said Poiret.

"Round a pretty woman's neck, you mean," said Mlle Michonneau,
hastily. "Just go away, M. Poiret. It is a woman's duty to nurse

you men when you are ill. Besides, for all the good you are
doing, you may as well take yourself off," she added. "Mme.

Vauquer and I will take great care of dear M. Vautrin.
Poiret went out on tiptoe without a murmur, like a dog kicked out

of the room by his master.
Rastignac had gone out for the sake of physicalexertion; he

wanted to breathe the air, he felt stifled. Yesterday evening he
had meant to prevent the murder arranged for half-past eight that

morning. What had happened? What ought he to do now? He trembled
to think that he himself might be implicated. Vautrin's coolness

still further dismayed him.
"Yet, how if Vautrin should die without saying a word?" Rastignac

asked himself.
He hurried along the alleys of the Luxembourg Gardens as if the

hounds of justice were after him, and he already heard the baying
of the pack.

"Well?" shouted Bianchon, "you have seen the Pilote?"
The Pilote was a Radical sheet, edited by M. Tissot. It came out

several hours later than the morning papers, and was meant for
the benefit of country subscribers; for it brought the morning

news into provincial districts twenty-four hours sooner than the
ordinary local journals.

"There is a wonderful history in it," said the house student of
the Hopital Cochin. "Young Taillefer called out Count

Franchessini, of the Old Guard, and the Count put a couple of
inches of steel into his forehead. And here is little Victorine

one of the richest heiresses in Paris! If we had known that, eh?
What a game of chance death is! They say Victorine was sweet on

you; was there any truth in it?"
"Shut up, Bianchon; I shall never marry her. I am in love with a

charming woman, and she is in love with me, so----"
"You said that as if you were screwing yourself up to be faithful

to her. I should like to see the woman worth the sacrifice of
Master Taillefer's money!"

"Are all the devils of hell at my heels?" cried Rastignac.
"What is the matter with you? Are you mad? Give us your hand,"

said Bianchon, "and let me feel your pulse. You are feverish."
"Just go to Mother Vauquer's," said Rastignac; "that scoundrel

Vautrin has dropped down like one dead."
"Aha!" said Bianchon, leaving Rastignac to his reflections, "you

confirm my suspicions, and now I mean to make sure for myself."
The law student's long walk was a memorable one for him. He made

in some sort a survey of his conscience. After a close scrutiny,
after hesitation and self-examination, his honor at any rate came

out scatheless from this sharp and terrible ordeal, like a bar of
iron tested in the English fashion. He remembered Father Goriot's

confidences of the evening before; he recollected the rooms taken
for him in the Rue d'Artois, so that he might be near Delphine;

and then he thought of his letter, and read it again and kissed
it.

"Such a love is my anchor of safety," he said to himself. "How
the old man's heart must have been wrung! He says nothing about

all that he has been through; but who could not guess? Well,
then, I will be like a son to him; his life shall be made happy.

If she cares for me, she will often come to spend the day with
him. That grand Comtesse de Restaud is a heartless thing; she

would make her father into her hall porter. Dear Delphine! she is
kinder to the old man; she is worthy to be loved. Ah! this

evening I shall be very happy!"
He took out his watch and admired it.

"I have had nothing but success! If two people mean to love each
other for ever, they may help each other, and I can take this.

Besides, I shall succeed, and I will pay her a hundredfold. There
is nothing criminal in this liaison; nothing that could cause the

most austere moralist to frown. How many respectable people
contract similar unions! We deceive nobody; it is deception that

makes a position humiliating. If you lie, you lower yourself at
once. She and her husband have lived apart for a long while.

Besides, how if I called upon that Alsatian to resign a wife whom
he cannot make happy?"

Rastignac's battle with himself went on for a long while; and
though the scruples of youth inevitably gained the day, an

irresistible curiosity led him, about half-past four, to return
to the Maison Vauquer through the gathering dusk.

Bianchon had given Vautrin an emetic, reserving the contents of
the stomach for chemicalanalysis at the hospital. Mlle.

Michonneau's officious alacrity had still further strengthened
his suspicions of her. Vautrin, moreover, had recovered so

quickly that it was impossible not to suspect some plot against
the leader of all frolics at the lodging-house. Vautrin was

standing in front of the stove in the dining-room when Rastignac
came in. All the lodgers were assembled sooner than usual by the