"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, eh? There are a dozen of them."