"'That isn't mine!' said he, with a start of surprise. 'Mine indeed!
If I were rich, should I live as I do!'

"He made his cup of coffee himself every morning on the cast-iron
chafing dish which stood all day in the black angle of the grate; his
dinner came in from a cookshop; and our old porter's wife went up at
the prescribed hour to set his room in order. Finally, a whimsical
chance, in which Sterne would have seen predestination, had named the
man Gobseck. When I did business for him later, I came to know that he
was about seventy-six years old at the time when we became acquainted.
He was born about 1740, in some outlying suburb of Antwerp, of a Dutch
father and a Jewish mother, and his name was Jean-Esther Van Gobseck.
You remember how all Paris took an interest in that murder case, a
woman named _La belle Hollandaise_? I happened to mention it to my old
neighbor, and he answered without the slightest symptom of interest or
surprise, 'She is my grandniece.'

"That was the only remark drawn from him by the death of his sole
surviving next of kin, his sister's granddaughter. From reports of the
case I found that _La belle Hollandaise_ was in fact named Sara Van
Gobseck. When I asked by what curious chance his grandniece came to
bear his surname, he smiled:

"'The women never marry in our family.'

"Singular creature, he had never cared to find out a single relative
among four generations counted on the female side. The thought of his
heirs was abhorrent to him; and the idea that his wealth could pass
into other hands after his death simply inconceivable.