Father Goriot
here is one of that sort. He is discreet, so the Countess exploits
him--just the way of the gay world. The poor old fellow thinks of her
and of nothing else. In all other respects you see he is a stupid
animal; but get him on that subject, and his eyes sparkle like
diamonds. That secret is not difficult to guess. He took some plate
himself this morning to the melting-pot, and I saw him at Daddy
Gobseck's in the Rue des Gres. And now, mark what follows--he came
back here, and gave a letter for the Comtesse de Restaud to that
noodle of a Christophe, who showed us the address; there was a
receipted bill inside it. It is clear that it was an urgent matter if
the Countess also went herself to the old money lender. Father Goriot
has financed her handsomely. There is no need to tack a tale together;
the thing is self-evident. So that shows you, sir student, that all
the time your Countess was smiling, dancing, flirting, swaying her
peach-flower crowned head, with her gown gathered into her hand, her
slippers were pinching her, as they say; she was thinking of her
protested bills, or her lover's protested bills."
"You have made me wild to know the truth," cried Eugene; "I will go to
call on Mme.
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