"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"Why, only just now," said the student, "I saw a gentleman go out at
the gate, Father Goriot, my next door neighbor in the house where I am
lodging."
At the sound of this name, and the prefix that embellished it, the
Count, who was stirring the fire, let the tongs fall as though they
had burned his fingers, and rose to his feet.
"Sir," he cried, "you might have called him 'Monsieur Goriot'!"
The Countess turned pale at first at the sight of her husband's
vexation, then she reddened; clearly she was embarrassed, her answer
was made in a tone that she tried to make natural, and with an air of
assumed carelessness:
"You could not know any one who is dearer to us both . . ."
She broke off, glanced at the piano as if some fancy had crossed her
mind, and asked, "Are you fond of music, M. de Rastignac?"
"Exceedingly," answered Eugene, flushing, and disconcerted by a dim
suspicion that he had somehow been guilty of a clumsy piece of folly.
"Do you sing?" she cried, going to the piano, and, sitting down
before it, she swept her fingers over the keyboard from end to end.
R-r-r-rah!
"No, madame.
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