“You have made me wild to know the truth,” cried Eugene; “I will go to call on Mme. de Restaud to-morrow.”
“Yes,” echoed Poiret; “you must go and call on Mme. de Restaud.”
“And perhaps you will find Father Goriot there, who will take payment for the assistance he politely rendered.”
Eugene looked disgusted. “Why, then, this Paris of yours is a slough.”
“And an uncommonly queer slough, too,” replied Vautrin. “The mud splashes you as you drive through it in your carriage—you are a respectable person; you go afoot and are splashed—you are a scoundrel. You are so unlucky as to walk off with something or other belonging to somebody else, and they exhibit you as a curiosity in the Place du Palais-de-Justice; you steal a million, and you are pointed out in every salon as a model of virtue. And you pay thirty millions for the police and the courts of justice, for the maintenance of law and order! A pretty slate of things it is!”
“What,” cried Mme. Vauquer, “has Father Goriot really melted down his silver posset-dish?”
“There were two turtle-doves on the lid, were there not?” asked Eugene.
“Yes, that there were.”
“Then, was he fond of it?” said Eugene. “He cried while he was breaking up the cup and plate. I happened to see him by accident.”
“It was dear to him as his own life,” answered the widow.