that matter she had guessed from the very first; in her
opinion the vermicelli maker was an excellent man.

"Ah! my dear lady, such a well-preserved man of his age, as sound as my
eyesight--a man who might make a woman happy!" said the widow.

The good-natured Countess turned to the subject of Mme. Vauquer's dress,
which was not in harmony with her projects. "You must put yourself on a
war footing," said she.

After much serious consideration the two widows went shopping
together--they purchased a hat adorned with ostrich feathers and a cap
at the Palais Royal, and the Countess took her friend to the Magasin de
la Petite Jeannette, where they chose a dress and a scarf. Thus equipped
for the campaign, the widow looked exactly like the prize animal hung
out for a sign above an a la mode beef shop; but she herself was so much
pleased with the improvement, as she considered it, in her appearance,
that she felt that she lay under some obligation to the Countess; and,
though by no means open-handed, she begged that lady to accept a hat
that cost twenty francs. The fact was that she needed the Countess'
services on the delicate mission of sounding Goriot; the countess must
sing her praises in his ears. Mme. de l'Ambermesnil lent herself very
good-naturedly to this manoeuvre, began her operations, and succeeded in
obtaining a private interview; but the overtures that she made, with a
view to securing him for herself, were received with embarrassment, not
to say a repulse. She left him, revolted by his coarseness.

"My angel," said she to her dear friend, "you will make nothing of that
man yonder. He is absurdly suspicious, and he is a mean curmudgeon, an
idiot, a fool; you would never be happy with him."

After what had passed between M. Goriot and Mme. de l'Ambermesnil, the
Countess would no longer live under the same roof. She left the next
day, forgot to pay for six months' board, and left behind her wardrobe,
cast-off clothing to the value of five francs. Eagerly and persistently
as Mme. Vauquer sought her quondam lodger, the Comtesse de l'Ambermesnil
was never heard of again in Paris. The widow often talked of this
deplorable business, and regretted her own too confiding disposition. As
a matter of fact, she was as suspicious as a cat; but she was like many
other people, who cannot trust their own kin and put themselves at the
mercy of the next chance comer--an odd but common phenomenon, whose
causes may readily be tr