eri Berard's. My lad, the disinterested kindness of
Monsieur Vauquelin is one of the sorrows of my life. I cannot make him
accept any return. Happily, I found out from Chiffreville that he wished
for the Dresden Madonna, engraved by a man named Muller. After two years
correspondence with Germany, Berard has at last found one on Chinese
paper before lettering. It cost fifteen hundred francs, my boy. To-day,
my benefactor will see it in his antechamber when he bows us out; it is
to be all framed, and I want you to see about it. We--that is, my wife
and I--shall thus recall ourselves to his mind; as for gratitude, we
have prayed to God for him daily for sixteen years. I can never forget
him; but you see, Popinot, men buried in the depths of science do forget
everything,--wives, friends, and those they have benefited. As for us
plain people, our lack of mind keeps our hearts warm at any rate. That's
the consolation for not being a great man. Look at those gentlemen of
the Institute,--all brain; you will never meet one of them in a church.
Monsieur Vauquelin is tied to his study or his laboratory; but I like
to believe he thinks of God in analyzing the works of His hands.--Now,
then, it is understood; I give you the money and put you in possession
of my secret; we will go shares, and there's no need for any papers
between us. Hurrah for success! we'll act in concert. Off with you, my
boy! As for me, I've got my part to attend to. One minute, Popinot. I
give a great ball three weeks hence; get yourself a dress-coat, and look
like a merchant already launched."

This last kindness touched Popinot so deeply that he caught Cesar's
big hand and kissed it; the worthy soul had flattered the lover by this
confidence, and people in love are capable of anything.

"Poor boy!" thought Birotteau, as he watched him hurrying across the
Tuileries. "Suppose Cesarine should love him? But he is lame, and his
hair is the color of a warming-pan. Young girls are queer; still, I
don't think that Cesarine--And then her mother wants to see her the
wife of a notary. Alexandre Crottat can make her rich; wealth makes
everything bearable, and there is no happiness that won't give way
under poverty. However, I am resolved to leave my daughter mistress of
herself, even if it seems a folly."

IV

Birotteau's neighbor was a small dealer in umbrellas, parasols, and
canes, named Cayron,--a man from Languedoc, doing a poor business, whom
Cesar had sev