two faithful lodgers," said the widow, sighing.

But the two faithful lodgers, who retained but shadowy recollections
of the misfortunes of their lodging-house, announced to their hostess
without more ado that they were about to remove to the Chaussee d'Antin.

"Sylvie!" cried the widow, "this is the last straw.--Gentlemen, this
will be the death of me! It has quite upset me! There's a weight on my
chest! I am ten years older for this day! Upon my word, I shall go out
of my senses! And what is to be done with the haricots!--Oh, well, if
I am to be left here all by myself, you shall go to-morrow,
Christophe.--Good-night, gentlemen," and she went.

"What is the matter now?" Eugene inquired of Sylvie.

"Lord! everybody is going about his business, and that has addled her
wits. There! she is crying upstairs. It will do her good to snivel a
bit. It's the first time she has cried since I've been with her."

By the morning, Mme. Vauquer, to use her own expression, had "made up
her mind to it." True, she still wore a doleful countenance, as might
be expected of a woman who had lost all her lodgers, and whose manner
of life had been suddenly revolutionized, but she had all her wits about
her. Her grief was genuine and profound; it was real pain of mind, for
her purse had suffered, the routine of her existence had been broken. A
lover's farewell glance at his lady-love's window is not more mournful
than Mme. Vauquer's survey of the empty places round her table. Eugene
administered comfort, telling the widow that Bianchon, whose term of
residence at the hospital was about to expire, would doubtless take
his (Rastignac's) place; that the official from the Museum had often
expressed a desire to have Mme. Couture's rooms; and that in a very few
days her household would be on the old footing.

"God send it may, my dear sir! but bad luck has come to lodge here.
There'll be a death in the house before ten days are out, you'll see,"
and she gave a lugubrious look round the dining-room. "Whose turn will
it be, I wonder?"

"It is just as well that we are moving out," said Eugene to Father
Goriot in a low voice.

"Madame," said Sylvie, running in with a scared face, "I have not seen
Mistigris these three days."

"Ah! well, if my cat is dead, if _he_ has gone and left us, I----"

The poor woman could not finish her sentence; she clasped her hands
and hid her face on the back of her armchair, quite overcome by this
dreadful portent