If madame says anything, mind
you say nothing about it."
"Has he given you something?"
"He gave me a five-franc piece this month, which is as good as saying,
'Hold your tongue.'"
"Except him and Mme. Couture, who doesn't look twice at every penny,
there's no one in the house that doesn't try to get back with the left
hand all that they give with the right at New Year," said Sylvie.
"And, after all," said Christophe, "what do they give you? A miserable
five-franc piece. There is Father Goriot, who has cleaned his shoes
himself these two years past. There is that old beggar Poiret, who
goes without blacking altogether; he would sooner drink it than put it
on his boots. Then there is that whipper-snapper of a student, who
gives me a couple of francs. Two francs will not pay for my brushes,
and he sells his old clothes, and gets more for them than they are
worth. Oh! they're a shabby lot!"
"Pooh!" said Sylvie, sipping her coffee, "our places are the best in
the Quarter, that I know. But about that great big chap Vautrin,
Christophe; has any one told you anything about him?"
"Yes. I met a gentleman in the street a few days ago; he said to me,
'There's a gentleman in your place, isn't there? a tall man that dyes
his whiskers?' I told him, 'No, sir; they aren't dyed.
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