Eugene, having finished his errands, returned to the
lodging-house about three o'clock. In spite of himself, the tears came
into his eyes. The coffin, in its scanty covering of black cloth,
was standing there on the pavement before the gate, on two chairs.
A withered sprig of hyssop was soaking in the holy water bowl of
silver-plated copper; there was not a soul in the street, not a
passer-by had stopped to sprinkle the coffin; there was not even an
attempt at a black drapery over the wicket. It was a pauper who lay
there; no one made a pretence of mourning for him; he had neither
friends nor kindred--there was no one to follow him to the grave.

Bianchon's duties compelled him to be at the hospital, but he had left
a few lines for Eugene, telling his friend about the arrangements he
had made for the burial service. The house student's note told Rastignac
that a mass was beyond their means, that the ordinary office for the
dead was cheaper, and must suffice, and that he had sent word to
the undertaker by Christophe. Eugene had scarcely finished reading
Bianchon's scrawl, when he looked up and saw the little circular
gold locket that contained the hair of Goriot's two daughters in Mme.
Vauquer's hands.

"How dared you take it?" he asked.

"Good Lord! is that to be buried along with him?" retorted Sylvie. "It
is gold."

"Of course it shall!" Eugene answered indignantly; "he shall at any
rate take one thing that may represent his daughters into the grave with
him."

When the hearse came, Eugene had the coffin carried into the house
again, unscrewed the lid, and reverently laid on the old man's breast
the token that recalled the days when Delphine and Anastasie were
innocent little maidens, before they began "to think for themselves," as
he had moaned out in his agony.

Rastignac and Christophe and the two undertaker's men were the only
followers of the funeral. The Church of Saint-Etienne du Mont was only a
little distance from the Rue Nueve-Sainte-Genevieve. When the coffin
had been deposited in a low, dark, little chapel, the law student looked
round in vain for Goriot's two daughters or their husbands. Christophe
was his only fellow-mourner; Christophe, who appeared to think it was
his duty to attend the funeral of the man who had put him in the way
of such handsome tips. As they waited there in the chapel for the two
priests, the chorister, and the beadle, Rastignac grasped Christophe's
hand. He could not utte