s of gold. The poorest
shepherd-girl never marries without her dozen, be it only a dozen
coppers. They still tell in Issoudun of a certain "dozen" presented to
a rich heiress, which contained a hundred and forty-four _portugaises
d'or_. Pope Clement VII., uncle of Catherine de' Medici, gave her when
he married her to Henri II. a dozen antique gold medals of priceless
value.

During dinner the father, delighted to see his Eugenie looking well in a
new gown, exclaimed: "As it is Eugenie's birthday let us have a fire; it
will be a good omen."

"Mademoiselle will be married this year, that's certain," said la
Grande Nanon, carrying away the remains of the goose,--the pheasant of
tradesmen.

"I don't see any one suitable for her in Saumur," said Madame Grandet,
glancing at her husband with a timid look which, considering her years,
revealed the conjugal slavery under which the poor woman languished.

Grandet looked at his daughter and exclaimed gaily,--

"She is twenty-three years old to-day, the child; we must soon begin to
think of it."

Eugenie and her mother silently exchanged a glance of intelligence.

Madame Grandet was a dry, thin woman, as yellow as a quince, awkward,
slow, one of those women who are born to be down-trodden. She had big
bones, a big nose, a big forehead, big eyes, and presented at first
sight a vague resemblance to those mealy fruits that have neither savor
nor succulence. Her teeth were black and few in number, her mouth was
wrinkled, her chin long and pointed. She was an excellent woman, a true
la Bertelliere. L'abbe Cruchot found occasional opportunity to tell her
that she had not done ill; and she believed him. Angelic sweetness,
the resignation of an insect tortured by children, a rare piety, a good
heart, an unalterable equanimity of soul, made her universally pitied
and respected. Her husband never gave her more than six francs at a time
for her personal expenses. Ridiculous as it may seem, this woman, who by
her own fortune and her various inheritances brought Pere Grandet
more than three hundred thousand francs, had always felt so profoundly
humiliated by her dependence and the slavery in which she lived, against
which the gentleness of her spirit prevented her from revolting, that
she had never asked for one penny or made a single remark on the deeds
which Maitre Cruchot brought for her signature. This foolish secret
pride, this nobility of soul perpetually misunderstood and wounded