a trade,
and Monsieur Lousteau, the father, was a turner, just as Louis XVI. was
a locksmith. These candlesticks were ornamented with circlets made of
the roots of rose, peach, and apricot trees. Madame Hochon actually
risked the use of her precious relics! These preparations and this
sacrifice increased old Hochon's anxiety; up to this time he had not
believed in the arrival of the Bridaus.

The morning of the day that was celebrated by the trick on Fario, Madame
Hochon said to her husband after breakfast:--

"I hope, Hochon, that you will receive my goddaughter, Madame Bridau,
properly." Then, after making sure that her grandchildren were out of
hearing, she added: "I am mistress of my own property; don't oblige me
to make up to Agathe in my will for any incivility on your part."

"Do you think, madame," answered Hochon, in a mild voice, "that, at my
age, I don't know the forms of decent civility?"

"You know very well what I mean, you crafty old thing! Be friendly to
our guests, and remember that I love Agathe."

"And you love Maxence Gilet also, who is getting the property away from
your dear Agathe! Ah! you've warmed a viper in your bosom there; but
after all, the Rouget money is bound to go to a Lousteau."

After making this allusion to the supposed parentage and both Max and
Agathe, Hochon turned to leave the room; but old Madame Hochon, a woman
still erect and spare, wearing a round cap with ribbon knots and her
hair powdered, a taffet petticoat of changeable colors like a pigeon's
breast, tight sleeves, and her feet in high-heeled slippers, deposited
her snuff-box on a little table, and said:--

"Really, Monsieur Hochon, how can a man of your sense repeat absurdities
which, unhappily, cost my poor friend her peace of mind, and Agathe the
property which she ought to have had from her father. Max Gilet is not
the son of my brother, whom I often advised to save the money he
paid for him. You know as well as I do that Madame Rouget was virtue
itself--"

"And the daughter takes after her; for she strikes me as uncommonly
stupid. After losing all her fortune, she brings her sons up so well
that here is one in prison and likely to be brought up on a criminal
indictment before the Court of Peers for a conspiracy worthy of Berton.
As for the other, he is worse off; he's a painter. If your proteges are
to stay here till they have extricated that fool of a Rouget from the
claws of Gilet and the Rabouilleuse, we s