Eugene, by this time, was part of the way upstairs, and did not
overhear the elderly economist.

"Quick," said Bianchon, "let us change his shirt. Hold him upright."

Eugene went to the head of the bed and supported the dying man, while
Bianchon drew off his shirt; and then Goriot made a movement as if he
tried to clutch something to his breast, uttering a low inarticulate
moaning the while, like some dumb animal in mortal pain.

"Ah! yes!" cried Bianchon. "It is the little locket and the chain made
of hair that he wants; we took it off a while ago when we put the
blisters on him. Poor fellow! he must have it again. There it lies on
the chimney-piece."

Eugene went to the chimney-piece and found the little plait of faded
golden hair--Mme. Goriot's hair, no doubt. He read the name on the
little round locket, ANASTASIE on the one side, DELPHINE on the other.
It was the symbol of his own heart that the father always wore on his
breast. The curls of hair inside the locket were so fine and soft that
is was plain they had been taken from two childish heads. When the old
man felt the locket once more, his chest heaved with a long deep sigh
of satisfaction, like a groan. It was something terrible to see, for
it seemed as if the last quiver of the nerves were laid bare to their
eyes, the last communication of sense to the mysterious point within
whence our sympathies come and whither they go. A delirious joy
lighted up the distorted face. The terrific and vivid force of the
feeling that had survived the power of thought made such an impression
on the students, that the dying man felt their hot tears falling on
him, and gave a shrill cry of delight.