had regarded his wife, the only daughter of a rich farmer of La Brie,
with a devout admiration; his love for her had been boundless. Goriot
had felt the charm of a lovely and sensitive nature, which, in its
delicate strength, was the very opposite of his own. Is there any
instinct more deeply implanted in the heart of man than the pride of
protection, a protection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and
defenceless creature? Join love thereto, the warmth of gratitude that
all generous souls feel for the source of their pleasures, and you
have the explanation of many strange incongruities in human nature.

After seven years of unclouded happiness, Goriot lost his wife. It was
very unfortunate for him. She was beginning to gain an ascendency over
him in other ways; possibly she might have brought that barren soil
under cultivation, she might have widened his ideas and given other
directions to his thoughts. But when she was dead, the instinct of
fatherhood developed in him till it almost became a mania. All the
affection balked by death seemed to turn to his daughters, and he
found full satisfaction for his heart in loving them. More or less
brilliant proposals were made to him from time to time; wealthy
merchants or farmers with daughters vied with each other in offering
inducements to him to marry again; but he determined to remain a
widower. His father-in-law, the only man for whom he felt a decided
friendship, gave out that Goriot had made a vow to be faithful to his
wife's memory. The frequenters of the Corn Exchange, who could not
comprehend this sublime piece of folly, joked about it among
themselves, and found a ridiculous nickname for him. One of them
ventured (after a glass over a bargain) to call him by it, and a blow
from the vermicelli maker's fist sent him headlong into a gutter in
the Rue Oblin. He could think of nothing else when his children were
concerned; his love for them made him fidgety and anxious; and this