Wasn't it queer? There is no place like Paris for this sort of
adventures."

"Pshaw! much funnier things than _that_ happen here!" exclaimed Vautrin.

Mlle. Taillefer had scarcely heeded the talk, she was so absorbed by the
thought of the new attempt that she was about to make. Mme. Couture made
a sign that it was time to go upstairs and dress; the two ladies went
out, and Father Goriot followed their example.

"Well, did you see?" said Mme. Vauquer, addressing Vautrin and the rest
of the circle. "He is ruining himself for those women, that is plain."

"Nothing will ever make me believe that that beautiful Comtesse de
Restaud is anything to Father Goriot," cried the student.

"Well, and if you don't," broke in Vautrin, "we are not set on
convincing you. You are too young to know Paris thoroughly yet; later on
you will find out that there are what we call men with a passion----"

Mlle. Michonneau gave Vautrin a quick glance at these words. They seemed
to be like the sound of a trumpet to a trooper's horse. "Aha!" said
Vautrin, stopping in his speech to give her a searching glance, "so we
have had our little experiences, have we?"

The old maid lowered her eyes like a nun who sees a statue.

"Well," he went on, "when folk of that kind get a notion into their
heads, they cannot drop it. They must drink the water from some
particular spring--it is stagnant as often as not; but they will sell
their wives and families, they will sell their own souls to the devil to
get it. For some this spring is play, or the stock-exchange, or music,
or a collection of pictures or insects; for others it is some woman who
can give them the dainties they like. You might offer these last all the
women on earth--they would turn up their noses; they will have the only
one who can gratify their passion. It often happens that the woman
does not care for them at all, and treats them cruelly; they buy their
morsels of satisfaction very dear; but no matter, the fools are never
tired of it; they will take their last blanket to the pawnbroker's to
give their last five-franc piece to her. Father Goriot here is one of
that sort. He is discreet, so the Countess exploits him--just the way of
the gay world. The poor old fellow thinks of her and of nothing else.
In all other respects you see he is a stupid animal; but get him on
that subject, and his eyes sparkle like diamonds. That secret is not
difficult to guess. He took some plate himself this mor