. . . . led by chance."

"What?" asked the widow.

"Father Goriot in the goldsmith's shop in the Rue Dauphine at
half-past eight this morning. They buy old spoons and forks and gold
lace there, and Goriot sold a piece of silver plate for a good round
sum. It had been twisted out of shape very neatly for a man that's
not used to the trade."

"Really? You don't say so?"

"Yes. One of my friends is expatriating himself; I had been to see him
off on board the Royal Mail steamer, and was coming back here. I
waited after that to see what Father Goriot would do; it is a comical
affair. He came back to this quarter of the world, to the Rue des
Gres, and went into a money-lender's house; everybody knows him,
Gobseck, a stuck-up rascal, that would make dominoes out of his
father's bones, a Turk, a heathen, an old Jew, a Greek; it would be a
difficult matter to rob _him_, for he puts all his coin into the
Bank."

"Then what was Father Goriot doing there?"

"Doing?" said Vautrin. "Nothing; he was bent on his own undoing. He is
a simpleton, stupid enough to ruin himself by running after----"

"There he is!" cried Sylvie.