As for the
creatures whom he called his daughters, all Mme. Vauquer's boarders
were of her opinion. With the faculty for severe logic sedulously
cultivated by elderly women during long evenings of gossip till they
can always find an hypothesis to fit all circumstances, she was wont
to reason thus:
"If Father Goriot had daughters of his own as rich as those ladies who
came here seemed to be, he would not be lodging in my house, on the
third floor, at forty-five francs a month; and he would not go about
dressed like a poor man."
No objection could be raised to these inferences. So by the end of the
month of November 1819, at the time when the curtain rises on this
drama, every one in the house had come to have a very decided opinion
as to the poor old man. He had never had either wife or daughter;
excesses had reduced him to this sluggish condition; he was a sort of
human mollusk who should be classed among the capulidoe, so one of the
dinner contingent, an _employe_ at the Museum, who had a pretty wit of
his own. Poiret was an eagle, a gentleman, compared with Goriot.
Poiret would join the talk, argue, answer when he was spoken to; as a
matter of fact, his talk, arguments, and responses contributed nothing
to the conversation, for Poiret had a habit of repeating what the
others said in different words; still, he did join in the talk; he was
alive, and seemed capable of feeling; while Father Goriot (to quote
the Museum official again) was invariably at zero degrees--Reaumur.
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