me a five-franc piece this month, which is as good as saying,
'Hold your tongue.'"

"Except him and Mme. Couture, who doesn't look twice at every penny,
there's no one in the house that doesn't try to get back with the left
hand all that they give with the right at New Year," said Sylvie.

"And, after all," said Christophe, "what do they give you? A miserable
five-franc piece. There is Father Goriot, who has cleaned his shoes
himself these two years past. There is that old beggar Poiret, who goes
without blacking altogether; he would sooner drink it than put it on his
boots. Then there is that whipper-snapper of a student, who gives me a
couple of francs. Two francs will not pay for my brushes, and he sells
his old clothes, and gets more for them than they are worth. Oh! they're
a shabby lot!"

"Pooh!" said Sylvie, sipping her coffee, "our places are the best in the
Quarter, that I know. But about that great big chap Vautrin, Christophe;
has any one told you anything about him?"

"Yes. I met a gentleman in the street a few days ago; he said to me,
'There's a gentleman in your place, isn't there? a tall man that dyes
his whiskers?' I told him, 'No, sir; they aren't dyed. A gay fellow
like him hasn't the time to do it.' And when I told M. Vautrin about
it afterwards, he said, 'Quite right, my boy. That is the way to
answer them. There is nothing more unpleasant than to have your little
weaknesses known; it might spoil many a match.'"

"Well, and for my part," said Sylvie, "a man tried to humbug me at the
market wanting to know if I had seen him put on his shirt. Such bosh!
There," she cried, interrupting herself, "that's a quarter to ten
striking at the Val-de-Grace, and not a soul stirring!"

"Pooh! they are all gone out. Mme. Couture and the girl went out at
eight o'clock to take the wafer at Saint-Etienne. Father Goriot started
off somewhere with a parcel, and the student won't be back from his
lecture till ten o'clock. I saw them go while I was sweeping the stairs;
Father Goriot knocked up against me, and his parcel was as hard as iron.
What is the old fellow up to, I wonder? He is as good as a plaything for
the rest of them; they can never let him alone; but he is a good man,
all the same, and worth more than all of them put together. He doesn't
give you much himself, but he sometimes sends you with a message to
ladies who fork out famous tips; they are dressed grandly, too."

"His daughters, as he calls them,