“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 your sacrifice in favor of a poor girl——­”

Lousteau was touched; there was so much expression in her look, her accent, her attitude.  “She would make a good man happy,” thought he, pressing her hand in reply.

Madame Cardot looked upon her son-in-law as a man with a future before him; but, above all the fine qualities she ascribed to him, she was most delighted by his high tone of morals.  Etienne, prompted by the wily notary, had pledged his word that he had no natural children, no tie that could endanger the happiness of her dear Felicie.