dinner; it is
half-past four," remarked Sylvie. The next instant she all but collided
with Mme. de Restaud on the landing outside.

There was something awful and appalling in the sudden apparition of
the Countess. She saw the bed of death by the dim light of the single
candle, and her tears flowed at the sight of her father's passive
features, from which the life had almost ebbed. Bianchon with thoughtful
tact left the room.

"I could not escape soon enough," she said to Rastignac.

The student bowed sadly in reply. Mme. de Restaud took her father's hand
and kissed it.

"Forgive me, father! You used to say that my voice would call you back
from the grave; ah! come back for one moment to bless your penitent
daughter. Do you hear me? Oh! this is fearful! No one on earth will ever
bless me henceforth; every one hates me; no one loves me but you in all
the world. My own children will hate me. Take me with you, father; I
will love you, I will take care of you. He does not hear me ... I am
mad..."

She fell on her knees, and gazed wildly at the human wreck before her.

"My cup of misery is full," she said, turning her eyes upon Eugene.
"M. de Trailles has fled, leaving enormous debts behind him, and I have
found out that he was deceiving me. My husband will never forgive me,
and I have left my fortune in his hands. I have lost all my illusions.
Alas! I have forsaken the one heart that loved me (she pointed to her
father as she spoke), and for whom? I have held his kindness cheap,
and slighted his affection; many and many a time I have given him pain,
ungrateful wretch that I am!"

"He knew it," said Rastignac.

Just then Goriot's eyelids unclosed; it was only a muscular contraction,
but the Countess' sudden start of reviving hope was no less dreadful
than the dying eyes.

"Is it possible that he can hear me?" cried the Countess. "No," she
answered herself, and sat down beside the bed. As Mme. de Restaud seemed
to wish to sit by her father, Eugene went down to take a little food.
The boarders were already assembled.

"Well," remarked the painter, as he joined them, "it seems that there is
to be a death-orama upstairs."

"Charles, I think you might find something less painful to joke about,"
said Eugene.

"So we may not laugh here?" returned the painter. "What harm does it do?
Bianchon said that the old man was quite insensible."

"Well, then," said the _employe_ from the Museum, "he will die as he has
lived."