"_Peste!_ what a man!" said Rastignac, as he watched Goriot's muscular
arms; there was not a sound in the room while the old man, with the
aid of the rope, was kneading the silver like dough. "Was he then,
indeed, a thief, or a receiver of stolen goods, who affected
imbecility and decrepitude, and lived like a beggar that he might
carry on his pursuits the more securely?" Eugene stood for a moment
revolving these questions, then he looked again through the keyhole.
Father Goriot had unwound his coil of rope; he had covered the table
with a blanket, and was now employed in rolling the flattened mass of
silver into a bar, an operation which he performed with marvelous
dexterity.
"Why, he must be as strong as Augustus, King of Poland!" said Eugene
to himself when the bar was nearly finished.
Father Goriot looked sadly at his handiwork, tears fell from his eyes,
he blew out the dip which had served him for a light while he
manipulated the silver, and Eugene heard him sigh as he lay down
again.
"He is mad," thought the student.
"_Poor child!_" Father Goriot said aloud. Rastignac, hearing those
words, concluded to keep silence; he would not hastily condemn his
neighbor.
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