might make application for aliment pending her suit; she is not eating anything. Eh! eh! just see how Father Goriot is staring at Mlle. Victorine.”
The old man had forgotten his dinner, he was so absorbed in gazing at the poor girl; the sorrow in her face was unmistakable — the slighted love of a child whose father would not recognize her.
“We are mistaken about Father Goriot, my dear boy,” said Eugene in a low voice. “He is not an idiot, nor wanting in energy. Try your Gall system on him, and let me know what you think. I saw him crush a silver dish last night as if it had been made of wax; there seems to be something extraordinary going on in his mind just now, to judge by his face. His life is so mysterious that it must be worth studying. Oh! you may laugh, Bianchon; I am not joking.”
“The man is a subject, is he?” said Bianchon; “all right! I will dissect him, if he will give me the chance.”
“No; feel his bumps.”
“Hm! — his stupidity might perhaps be contagious.”
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