heir hands there, I think I should get better. ... _Mon Dieu!_ who
will recover their money for them when I am gone?... I will manufacture
vermicelli out in Odessa; I will go to Odessa for their sakes."

"Here is something to drink," said Eugene, supporting the dying man on
his left arm, while he held a cup of tisane to Goriot's lips.

"How you must love your own father and mother!" said the old man, and
grasped the student's hand in both of his. It was a feeble, trembling
grasp. "I am going to die; I shall die without seeing my daughters; do
you understand? To be always thirsting, and never to drink; that
has been my life for the last ten years.... I have no daughters, my
sons-in-law killed them. No, since their marriages they have been
dead to me. Fathers should petition the Chambers to pass a law
against marriage. If you love your daughters, do not let them marry. A
son-in-law is a rascal who poisons a girl's mind and contaminates
her whole nature. Let us have no more marriages! It robs us of our
daughters; we are left alone upon our deathbeds, and they are not with
us then. They ought to pass a law for dying fathers. This is awful! It
cries for vengeance! They cannot come, because my sons-in-law forbid
them!... Kill them!... Restaud and the Alsatian, kill them both! They
have murdered me between them!... Death or my daughters!... Ah! it is
too late, I am dying, and they are not here!... Dying without them!...
Nasie! Fifine! Why do you not come to me? Your papa is going----"

"Dear Father Goriot, calm yourself. There, there, lie quietly and rest;
don't worry yourself, don't think."

"I shall not see them. Oh! the agony of it!"

"You _shall_ see them."

"Really?" cried the old man, still wandering. "Oh! shall I see them; I
shall see them and hear their voices. I shall die happy. Ah! well, after
all, I do not wish to live; I cannot stand this much longer; this
pain that grows worse and worse. But, oh! to see them, to touch their
dresses--ah! nothing but their dresses, that is very little; still, to
feel something that belongs to them. Let me touch their hair with my
fingers... their hair..."

His head fell back on the pillow, as if a sudden heavy blow had struck
him down, but his hands groped feebly over the quilt, as if to find his
daughters' hair.

"My blessing on them..." he said, making an effort, "my blessing..."

His voice died away. Just at that moment Bianchon came into the room.

"I met Christophe,"