"What," cried Mme. Vauquer, "has Father Goriot really melted down his
silver posset-dish?"

"There were two turtle-doves on the lid, were there not?" asked
Eugene.

"Yes, that there were."

"Then, was he fond of it?" said Eugene. "He cried while he was
breaking up the cup and plate. I happened to see him by accident."

"It was dear to him as his own life," answered the widow.

"There! you see how infatuated the old fellow is!" cried Vautrin. "The
woman yonder can coax the soul out of him."

The student went up to his room. Vautrin went out, and a few moments
later Mme. Couture and Victorine drove away in a cab which Sylvie had
called for them. Poiret gave his arm to Mlle. Michonneau, and they
went together to spend the two sunniest hours of the day in the Jardin
des Plantes.

"Well, those two are as good as married," was the portly Sylvie's
comment. "They are going out together to-day for the first time. They
are such a couple of dry sticks that if they happen to strike against
each other they will draw sparks like flint and steel."

"Keep clear of Mlle. Michonneau's shawl, then," said Mme. Vauquer,
laughing; "it would flare up like tinder."