"Come, Eugene, pluck up heart, my boy," said Bianchon, as soon as they
were alone; "we must set about changing his sheets, and put him into a
clean shirt. Go and tell Sylvie to bring some sheets and come and help
us to make the bed."

Eugene went downstairs, and found Mme. Vauquer engaged in setting the
table; Sylvie was helping her. Eugene had scarcely opened his mouth
before the widow walked up to him with the acidulous sweet smile of a
cautious shopkeeper who is anxious neither to lose money nor to offend
a customer.

"My dear Monsieur Eugene," she said, when he had spoken, "you know
quite as well as I do that Father Goriot has not a brass farthing
left. If you give out clean linen for a man who is just going to turn
up his eyes, you are not likely to see your sheets again, for one is
sure to be wanted to wrap him in. Now, you owe me a hundred and
forty-four francs as it is, add forty francs for the pair of sheets,
and then there are several little things, besides the candle that
Sylvie will give you; altogether it will all mount up to at least two
hundred francs, which is more than a poor widow like me can afford to
lose. Lord! now, Monsieur Eugene, look at it fairly. I have lost quite
enough in these five days since this run of ill-luck set in for me. I
would rather than ten crowns that the old gentlemen had moved out as
you said. It sets the other lodgers against the house. It would not
take much to make me send him to the workhouse. In short, just put
yourself in my place. I have to think of my establishment first, for I
have my own living to make."

Eugene hurried up to Goriot's room.