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 by
Grandet, ruled the whole conduct of the wife.

Madame Grandet was attired habitually in a gown of greenish levantine