de Restaud to-morrow."
"Yes," echoed Poiret; "you must go and call on Mme. de Restaud."
"And perhaps you will find Father Goriot there, who will take payment
for the assistance he politely rendered."
Eugene looked disgusted. "Why, then, this Paris of yours is a slough."
"And an uncommonly queer slough, too," replied Vautrin. "The mud
splashes you as you drive through it in your carriage--you are a
respectable person; you go afoot and are splashed--you are a
scoundrel. You are so unlucky as to walk off with something or other
belonging to somebody else, and they exhibit you as a curiosity in the
Place du Palais-de-Justice; you steal a million, and you are pointed
out in every salon as a model of virtue. And you pay thirty millions
for the police and the courts of justice, for the maintenance of law
and order! A pretty slate of things it is!"
"What," cried Mme. Vauquer, "has Father Goriot really melted down his
silver posset-dish?"
"There were two turtle-doves on the lid, were there not?" asked
Eugene.
"Yes, that there were."
"Then, was he fond of it?" said Eugene. "He cried while he was
breaking up the cup and plate. I happened to see him by accident.
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