downstairs.

"Here, madame" he said in disgust, "let us square accounts. M. Goriot
will not stay much longer in your house, nor shall I----"

"Yes, he will go out feet foremost, poor old gentleman," she said,
counting the francs with a half-facetious, half-lugubrious expression.

"Let us get this over," said Rastignac.

"Sylvie, look out some sheets, and go upstairs to help the gentlemen."

"You won't forget Sylvie," said Mme. Vauquer in Eugene's ear; "she has
been sitting up these two nights."

As soon as Eugene's back was turned, the old woman hurried after her
handmaid.

"Take the sheets that have had the sides turned into the middle, number
7. Lord! they are plenty good enough for a corpse," she said in Sylvie's
ear.

Eugene, by this time, was part of the way upstairs, and did not overhear
the elderly economist.

"Quick," said Bianchon, "let us change his shirt. Hold him upright."

Eugene went to the head of the bed and supported the dying man, while
Bianchon drew off his shirt; and then Goriot made a movement as if he
tried to clutch something to his breast, uttering a low inarticulate
moaning the while, like some dumb animal in mortal pain.

"Ah! yes!" cried Bianchon. "It is the little locket and the chain
made of hair that he wants; we took it off a while ago when we put the
blisters on him. Poor fellow! he must have it again. There it lies on
the chimney-piece."

Eugene went to the chimney-piece and found the little plait of faded
golden hair--Mme. Goriot's hair, no doubt. He read the name on the
little round locket, ANASTASIE on the one side, DELPHINE on the other.
It was the symbol of his own heart that the father always wore on his
breast. The curls of hair inside the locket were so fine and soft that
is was plain they had been taken from two childish heads. When the old
man felt the locket once more, his chest heaved with a long deep sigh
of satisfaction, like a groan. It was something terrible to see, for it
seemed as if the last quiver of the nerves were laid bare to their eyes,
the last communication of sense to the mysterious point within whence
our sympathies come and whither they go. A delirious joy lighted up the
distorted face. The terrific and vivid force of the feeling that had
survived the power of thought made such an impression on the students,
that the dying man felt their hot tears falling on him, and gave a
shrill cry of delight.

"Nasie! Fifine!"

"There is life in him yet,