“Here, madame” he said in disgust, “let us square accounts. M. Goriot will not stay much longer in your house, nor shall I——”
“Yes, he will go out feet foremost, poor old gentleman,” she said, counting the francs with a half-facetious, half-lugubrious expression.
“Let us get this over,” said Rastignac.
“Sylvie, look out some sheets, and go upstairs to help the gentlemen.”
“You won’t forget Sylvie,” said Mme. Vauquer in Eugene’s ear; “she has been sitting up these two nights.”
As soon as Eugene’s back was turned, the old woman hurried after her handmaid.
“Take the sheets that have had the sides turned into the middle, number 7. Lord! they are plenty good enough for a corpse,” she said in Sylvie’s ear.
Eugene, by this time, was part of the way upstairs, and did not overhear the elderly economist.
“Quick,” said Bianchon, “let us change his shirt. Hold him upright.”
Eugene went to the head of the bed and supported the dying man, while Bianchon drew off his shirt; and then Goriot made a movement as if he tried to clutch something to his breast, uttering a low inarticulate moaning the while, like some dumb animal in mortal pain.