"They come sometimes," he said in a tremulous voice.
"Aha! you still see them sometimes?" cried the students. "Bravo,
Father Goriot!"
The old man scarcely seemed to hear the witticisms at his expense that
followed on the words; he had relapsed into the dreamy state of mind
that these superficial observers took for senile torpor, due to his
lack of intelligence. If they had only known, they might have been
deeply interested by the problem of his condition; but few problems
were more obscure. It was easy, of course, to find out whether Goriot
had really been a vermicelli manufacturer; the amount of his fortune
was readily discoverable; but the old people, who were most
inquisitive as to his concerns, never went beyond the limits of the
Quarter, and lived in the lodging-house much as oysters cling to a
rock. As for the rest, the current of life in Paris daily awaited
them, and swept them away with it; so soon as they left the Rue
Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve, they forgot the existence of the old man,
their butt at dinner. For those narrow souls, or for careless youth,
the misery in Father Goriot's withered face and its dull apathy were
quite incompatible with wealth or any sort of intelligence.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61