otary.

"I knew monsieur your father," said he, "at Florentine's, so I may well
know you here, at Mademoiselle Turquet's. Like father, like son. A very
good fellow and a philosopher, was little Daddy Cardot--excuse me,
we always called him so. At that time, Florine, Florentine, Tullia,
Coralie, and Mariette were the five fingers of your hand, so to
speak--it is fifteen years ago. My follies, as you may suppose, are a
thing of the past.--In those days it was pleasure that ran away with me;
now I am ambitious; but, in our day, to get on at all a man must be
free from debt, have a good income, a wife, and a family. If I pay taxes
enough to qualify me, I may be a deputy yet, like any other man."

Maitre Cardot appreciated this profession of faith. Lousteau had laid
himself out to please and the notary liked him, feeling himself more
at his ease, as may be easily imagined, with a man who had known his
father's secrets than he would have been with another. On the following
day Lousteau was introduced to the Cardot family as the purchaser of the
house in the Rue Saint-Lazare, and three days later he dined there.

Cardot lived in an old house near the Place du Chatelet. In this house
everything was "good." Economy covered every scrap of gilding with green
gauze; all the furniture wore holland covers. Though it was impossible
to feel a shade of uneasiness as to the wealth of the inhabitants, at
the end of half an hour no one could suppress a yawn. Boredom perched
in every nook; the curtains hung dolefully; the dining-room was like
Harpagon's. Even if Lousteau had not known all about Malaga, he could
have guessed that the notary's real life was spent elsewhere.

The journalist saw a tall, fair girl with blue eyes, at once shy and
languishing. The elder brother took a fancy to him; he was the fourth
clerk in the office, but strongly attracted by the snares of literary
fame, though destined to succeed his father. The younger sister was
twelve years old. Lousteau, assuming a little Jesuitical air, played
the Monarchist and Churchman for the benefit of the mother, was quite
smooth, deliberate, and complimentary.

Within three weeks of their introduction, at his fourth dinner there,
Felicie Cardot, who had been watching Lousteau out of the corner of her
eye, carried him a cup of coffee where he stood in the window recess,
and said in a low voice, with tears in her eyes:

"I will devote my whole life, monsieur, to thanking you for