_ from the Museum began to sing:

"Partant pour la Syrie,
Le jeune et beau Dunois..."

"Get along with you; you must be dying to go, _trahit sua quemque
voluptas!_" said Bianchon.

"Every one to his taste--free rendering from Virgil," said the tutor.

Mlle. Michonneau made a movement as if to take Poiret's arm, with an
appealing glance that he could not resist. The two went out together,
the old maid leaning upon him, and there was a burst of applause,
followed by peals of laughter.

"Bravo, Poiret!"

"Who would have thought it of old Poiret!"

"Apollo Poiret!"

"Mars Poiret!"

"Intrepid Poiret!"

A messenger came in at that moment with a letter for Mme. Vauquer, who
read it through, and collapsed in her chair.

"The house might as well be burned down at once," cried she, "if there
are to be any more of these thunderbolts! Young Taillefer died at three
o'clock this afternoon. It serves me right for wishing well to those
ladies at that poor man's expense. Mme. Couture and Victorine want me
to send their things, because they are going to live with her father.
M. Taillefer allows his daughter to keep old Mme. Couture as her lady
companion. Four rooms to let! and five lodgers gone!..."

She sat up, and seemed about to burst into tears.

"Bad luck has come to lodge here, I think," she cried.

Once more there came a sound of wheels from the street outside.

"What! another windfall for somebody!" was Sylvie's comment.

But it was Goriot who came in, looking so radiant, so flushed with
happiness, that he seemed to have grown young again.

"Goriot in a cab!" cried the boarders; "the world is coming to an end."

The good soul made straight for Eugene, who was standing wrapped in
thought in a corner, and laid a hand on the young man's arm.

"Come," he said, with gladness in his eyes.

"Then you haven't heard the news?" said Eugene. "Vautrin was an escaped
convict; they have just arrested him; and young Taillefer is dead."

"Very well, but what business is it of ours?" replied Father Goriot. "I
am going to dine with my daughter in _your house_, do you understand?
She is expecting you. Come!"

He carried off Rastignac with him by main force, and they departed in as
great a hurry as a pair of eloping lovers.

"Now, let us have dinner," cried the painter, and every one drew his
chair to the table.

"Well, I never," said the portly Sylvie. "Nothing goes right to-day! The
haricot mutton has caug