A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS (Lost Illusions Part II)

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated By Ellen Marriage

PREPARER'S NOTE

 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris is part two of a trilogy. Part one, Two Poets, begins the story of Lucien, his sister Eve, and his friend David in the provincial town of Angouleme. Part two is centered on Lucien's Parisian life. Part three, Eve and David, reverts to the setting of Angouleme. In many references parts one and three are combined under the title Lost Illusions and A Distinguished Provincial at Paris is given its individual title. Following this trilogy Lucien's story is continued in another book, Scenes from a Courtesan's Life. 

 A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS

 PART I

Mme. De Bargeton and Lucien de Rubempre had left Angouleme behind, andwere traveling together upon the road to Paris. Not one of the partywho made that journey alluded to it afterwards; but it may be believedthat an infatuated youth who had looked forward to the delights of anelopement, must have found the continual presence of Gentil, theman-servant, and Albertine, the maid, not a little irksome on the way. Lucien, traveling post for the first time in his life, was horrifiedto see pretty nearly the whole sum on which he meant to live in Parisfor a twelvemonth dropped along the road. Like other men who combinegreat intellectual powers with the charming simplicity of childhood, he openly expressed his surprise at the new and wonderful things whichhe saw, and thereby made a mistake. A man should study a woman verycarefully before he allows her to see his thoughts and emotions asthey arise in him. A woman, whose nature is large as her heart istender, can smile upon childishness, and make allowances; but let herhave ever so small a spice of vanity herself, and she cannot forgivechildishness, or littleness, or vanity in her lover. Many a woman isso extravagant a worshiper that she must always see the god in heridol; but there are yet others who love a man for his sake and not fortheir own, and adore his failings with his greater qualities. 

Lucien had not guessed as yet that Mme. De Bargeton's love was graftedon pride. He made another mistake when he failed to discern themeaning of certain smiles which flitted over Louise's lips from timeto time; and instead of keeping himself to himself, he indulged in theplayfulness of the young rat emerging from his hole for the firsttime. 

The travelers were set down before daybreak at the sign of theGaillard-Bois in the Rue de l'Echelle, both so tired out with thejourney that Louise went straight to bed and slept, first biddingLucien to engage the room immediately overhead. Lucien slept on tillfour o'clock in the afternoon, when he was awakened by Mme. DeBargeton's servant, and learning the hour, made a hasty toilet andhurried downstairs. 

Louise was sitting in the shabby inn sitting-room. Hotel accommodationis a blot on the civilization of Paris; for with all its pretensionsto elegance, the city as yet does not boast a single inn where awell-to-do traveler can find the surroundings to which he is accustomedat home. To Lucien's just-awakened, sleep-dimmed eyes, Louise washardly recognizable in this cheerless, sunless room, with the shabbywindow-curtains, the comfortless polished floor, the hideous furniturebought second-hand, or much the worse for wear. 

Some people no longer look the same when detached from the backgroundof faces, objects, and surroundings which serve as a setting, withoutwhich, indeed, they seem to lose something of their intrinsic worth. Personality demands its appropriate atmosphere to bring out itsvalues, just as the figures in Flemish interiors need the arrangementof light and shade in which they are placed by the painter's genius ifthey are to live for us. This is especially true of provincials. Mme. De Bargeton, moreover, looked more thoughtful and dignified than wasnecessary now, when no barriers stood between her and happiness. 

Gentil and Albertine waited upon them, and while they were presentLucien could not complain. The dinner, sent in from a neighboringrestaurant, fell far below the provincial average, both in quantityand quality; the essential goodness of country fare was wanting, andin point of quantity the portions were cut with so strict an eye tobusiness that they savored of short commons. In such small mattersParis does not show its best side to travelers of moderate fortune. Lucien waited till the meal was over. Some change had come overLouise, he thought, but he could not explain it. 

And a change had, in fact, taken place. Events had occurred while heslept; for reflection is an event in our inner history, and Mme. DeBargeton had been reflecting. 

About two o'clock that afternoon, Sixte du Chatelet made hisappearance in the Rue de l'Echelle and asked for Albertine. Thesleeping damsel was roused, and to her he expressed his wish to speakwith her mistress. Mme. De Bargeton had scarcely time to dress beforehe came back again. The unaccountable apparition of M. Du Chateletroused the lady's curiosity, for she had kept her journey a profoundsecret, as she thought. At three o'clock the visitor was admitted. 

"I have risked a reprimand from headquarters to follow you, " he said, as he greeted her; "I foresaw coming events. But if I lose my post forit, YOU, at any rate, shall not be lost. "

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Mme. De Bargeton. 

"I can see plainly that you love Lucien, " he continued, with an air oftender resignation. "You must love indeed if _you_ can act thusrecklessly, and disregard the conventions which you know so well. Dearadored Nais, can you really imagine that Mme. D'Espard's salon, or anyother salon in Paris, will not be closed to you as soon as it is knownthat you have fled from Angouleme, as it were, with a young man, especially after the duel between M. De Bargeton and M. De Chandour?The fact that your husband has gone to the Escarbas looks like aseparation. Under such circumstances a gentleman fights first andafterwards leaves his wife at liberty. By all means, give M. DeRubempre your love and your countenance; do just as you please; butyou must not live in the same house. If anybody here in Paris knewthat you had traveled together, the whole world that you have a mindto see would point the finger at you. 

"And, Nais, do not make these sacrifices for a young man whom you haveas yet compared with no one else; he, on his side, has been put to noproof; he may forsake you for some Parisienne, better able, as he mayfancy, to further his ambitions. I mean no harm to the man you love, but you will permit me to put your own interests before his, and tobeg you to study him, to be fully aware of the serious nature of thisstep that you are taking. And, then, if you find all doors closedagainst you, and that none of the women call upon you, make sure atleast that you will feel no regret for all that you have renounced forhim. Be very certain first that he for whom you will have given up somuch will always be worthy of your sacrifices and appreciate them. 

"Just now, " continued Chatelet, "Mme. D'Espard is the more prudish andparticular because she herself is separated from her husband, nobodyknows why. The Navarreins, the Lenoncourts, the Blamont-Chauvrys, andthe rest of the relations have all rallied round her; the moststrait-laced women are seen at her house, and receive her with respect, and the Marquis d'Espard has been put in the wrong. The first call thatyou pay will make it clear to you that I am right; indeed, knowingParis as I do, I can tell you beforehand that you will no sooner enterthe Marquise's salon than you will be in despair lest she should findout that you are staying at the Gaillard-Bois with an apothecary'sson, though he may wish to be called M. De Rubempre. 

"You will have rivals here, women far more astute and shrewd thanAmelie; they will not fail to discover who you are, where you are, where you come from, and all that you are doing. You have counted uponyour incognito, I see, but you are one of those women for whom anincognito is out of the question. You will meet Angouleme at everyturn. There are the deputies from the Charente coming up for theopening of the session; there is the Commandant in Paris on leave. Why, the first man or woman from Angouleme who happens to see youwould cut your career short in a strange fashion. You would simply beLucien's mistress. 

"If you need me at any time, I am staying with the Receiver-General inthe Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, two steps away from Mme. D'Espard's. I am sufficiently acquainted with the Marechale de Carigliano, Mme. DeSerizy, and the President of the Council to introduce you to thosehouses; but you will meet so many people at Mme. D'Espard's, that youare not likely to require me. So far from wishing to gain admittanceto this set or that, every one will be longing to make youracquaintance. "

Chatelet talked on; Mme. De Bargeton made no interruption. She wasstruck with his perspicacity. The queen of Angouleme had, in fact, counted upon preserving her incognito. 

"You are right, my dear friend, " she said at length; "but what am I todo?"

"Allow me to find suitable furnished lodgings for you, " suggestedChatelet; "that way of living is less expensive than an inn. You willhave a home of your own; and, if you will take my advice, you willsleep in your new rooms this very night. "

"But how did you know my address?" queried she. 

"Your traveling carriage is easily recognized; and, besides, I wasfollowing you. At Sevres your postilion told mine that he had broughtyou here. Will you permit me to act as your harbinger? I will write assoon as I have found lodgings. "

"Very well, do so, " said she. And in those seemingly insignificantwords, all was said. The Baron du Chatelet had spoken the language ofworldly wisdom to a woman of the world. He had made his appearancebefore her in faultless dress, a neat cab was waiting for him at thedoor; and Mme. De Bargeton, standing by the window thinking over theposition, chanced to see the elderly dandy drive away. 

A few moments later Lucien appeared, half awake and hastily dressed. He was handsome, it is true; but his clothes, his last year's nankeentrousers, and his shabby tight jacket were ridiculous. Put Antinous orthe Apollo Belvedere himself into a water-carrier's blouse, and howshall you recognize the godlike creature of the Greek or Roman chisel?The eyes note and compare before the heart has time to revise theswift involuntary judgment; and the contrast between Lucien andChatelet was so abrupt that it could not fail to strike Louise. 

Towards six o'clock that evening, when dinner was over, Mme. DeBargeton beckoned Lucien to sit beside her on the shabby sofa, coveredwith a flowered chintz--a yellow pattern on a red ground. 

"Lucien mine, " she said, "don't you think that if we have both of usdone a foolish thing, suicidal for both our interests, it would onlybe common sense to set matters right? We ought not to live together inParis, dear boy, and we must not allow anyone to suspect that wetraveled together. Your career depends so much upon my position that Iought to do nothing to spoil it. So, to-night, I am going to removeinto lodgings near by. But you will stay on here, we can see eachother every day, and nobody can say a word against us. "

And Louise explained conventions to Lucien, who opened wide eyes. Hehad still to learn that when a woman thinks better of her folly, shethinks better of her love; but one thing he understood--he saw that hewas no longer the Lucien of Angouleme. Louise talked of herself, of_her_ interests, _her_ reputation, and of the world; and, to veil heregoism, she tried to make him believe that this was all on hisaccount. He had no claim upon Louise thus suddenly transformed intoMme. De Bargeton, and, more serious still, he had no power over her. He could not keep back the tears that filled his eyes. 

"If I am your glory, " cried the poet, "you are yet more to me--you aremy one hope, my whole future rests with you. I thought that if youmeant to make my successes yours, you would surely make my adversityyours also, and here we are going to part already. "

"You are judging my conduct, " said she; "you do not love me. "

Lucien looked at her with such a dolorous expression, that in spite ofherself, she said:

"Darling, I will stay if you like. We shall both be ruined, we shallhave no one to come to our aid. But when we are both equally wretched, and every one shuts their door upon us both, when failure (for we mustlook all possibilities in the face), when failure drives us back tothe Escarbas, then remember, love, that I foresaw the end, and that atthe first I proposed that we should make your way by conforming toestablished rules. "

"Louise, " he cried, with his arms around her, "you are wise; youfrighten me! Remember that I am a child, that I have given myself upentirely to your dear will. I myself should have preferred to overcomeobstacles and win my way among men by the power that is in me; but ifI can reach the goal sooner through your aid, I shall be very glad toowe all my success to you. Forgive me! You mean so much to me that Icannot help fearing all kinds of things; and, for me, parting meansthat desertion is at hand, and desertion is death. "

"But, my dear boy, the world's demands are soon satisfied, " returnedshe. "You must sleep here; that is all. All day long you will be withme, and no one can say a word. "

A few kisses set Lucien's mind completely at rest. An hour laterGentil brought in a note from Chatelet. He told Mme. De Bargeton thathe had found lodgings for her in the Rue Nueve-de-Luxembourg. Mme. DeBargeton informed herself of the exact place, and found that it wasnot very far from the Rue de l'Echelle. "We shall be neighbors, " shetold Lucien. 

Two hours afterwards Louise stepped into the hired carriage sent byChatelet for the removal to the new rooms. The apartments were of theclass that upholsterers furnish and let to wealthy deputies andpersons of consideration on a short visit to Paris--showy anduncomfortable. It was eleven o'clock when Lucien returned to his inn, having seen nothing as yet of Paris except the part of the RueSaint-Honore which lies between the Rue Neuve-de-Luxembourg and the Ruede l'Echelle. He lay down in his miserable little room, and could nothelp comparing it in his own mind with Louise's sumptuous apartments. 

Just as he came away the Baron du Chatelet came in, gorgeously arrayedin evening dress, fresh from the Minister for Foreign Affairs, toinquire whether Mme. De Bargeton was satisfied with all that he haddone on her behalf. Nais was uneasy. The splendor was alarming to hermind. Provincial life had reacted upon her; she was painfullyconscientious over her accounts, and economical to a degree that islooked upon as miserly in Paris. She had brought with her twentythousand francs in the shape of a draft on the Receiver-General, considering that the sum would more than cover the expenses of fouryears in Paris; she was afraid already lest she should not haveenough, and should run into debt; and now Chatelet told her that herrooms would only cost six hundred francs per month. 

"A mere trifle, " added he, seeing that Nais was startled. "For fivehundred francs a month you can have a carriage from a livery stable;fifty louis in all. You need only think of your dress. A woman movingin good society could not well do less; and if you mean to obtain aReceiver-General's appointment for M. De Bargeton, or a post in theHousehold, you ought not to look poverty-stricken. Here, in Paris, they only give to the rich. It is most fortunate that you broughtGentil to go out with you, and Albertine for your own woman, forservants are enough to ruin you here. But with your introductions youwill seldom be home to a meal. "

Mme. De Bargeton and the Baron de Chatelet chatted about Paris. Chatelet gave her all the news of the day, the myriad nothings thatyou are bound to know, under penalty of being a nobody. Before verylong the Baron also gave advice as to shopping, recommending Herbaultfor toques and Juliette for hats and bonnets; he added the address ofa fashionable dressmaker to supersede Victorine. In short, he made thelady see the necessity of rubbing off Angouleme. Then he took hisleave after a final flash of happy inspiration. 

"I expect I shall have a box at one of the theatres to-morrow, " heremarked carelessly; "I will call for you and M. De Rubempre, for youmust allow me to do the honors of Paris. "

"There is more generosity in his character than I thought, " said Mme. De Bargeton to herself when Lucien was included in the invitation. 

In the month of June ministers are often puzzled to know what to dowith boxes at the theatre; ministerialist deputies and theirconstituents are busy in their vineyards or harvest fields, and theirmore exacting acquaintances are in the country or traveling about; soit comes to pass that the best seats are filled at this season withheterogeneous theatre-goers, never seen at any other time of year, andthe house is apt to look as if it were tapestried with very shabbymaterial. Chatelet had thought already that this was his opportunityof giving Nais the amusements which provincials crave most eagerly, and that with very little expense. 

The next morning, the very first morning in Paris, Lucien went to theRue Nueve-de-Luxembourg and found that Louise had gone out. She hadgone to make some indispensable purchases, to take counsel of themighty and illustrious authorities in the matter of the femininetoilette, pointed out to her by Chatelet, for she had written to tellthe Marquise d'Espard of her arrival. Mme. De Bargeton possessed theself-confidence born of a long habit of rule, but she was exceedinglyafraid of appearing to be provincial. She had tact enough to know howgreatly the relations of women among themselves depend upon firstimpressions; and though she felt that she was equal to taking herplace at once in such a distinguished set as Mme. De d'Espard's, shefelt also that she stood in need of goodwill at her first entranceinto society, and was resolved, in the first place, that she wouldleave nothing undone to secure success. So she felt boundlesslythankful to Chatelet for pointing out these ways of putting herself inharmony with the fashionable world. 

A singular chance so ordered it that the Marquise was delighted tofind an opportunity of being useful to a connection of her husband'sfamily. The Marquis d'Espard had withdrawn himself without apparentreason from society, and ceased to take any active interest inaffairs, political or domestic. His wife, thus left mistress of heractions, felt the need of the support of public opinion, and was gladto take the Marquis' place and give her countenance to one of herhusband's relations. She meant to be ostentatiously gracious, so as toput her husband more evidently in the wrong; and that very day shewrote, "Mme. De Bargeton _nee_ Negrepelisse" a charming billet, one ofthe prettily worded compositions of which time alone can discover theemptiness. 

"She was delighted that circumstances had brought a relative, of whomshe had heard, whose acquaintance she had desired to make, into closerconnection with her family. Friendships in Paris were not so solid butthat she longed to find one more to love on earth; and if this mightnot be, there would only be one more illusion to bury with the rest. She put herself entirely at her cousin's disposal. She would havecalled upon her if indisposition had not kept her to the house, andshe felt that she lay already under obligations to the cousin who hadthought of her. "

Lucien, meanwhile, taking his first ramble along the Rue de la Paixand through the Boulevards, like all newcomers, was much moreinterested in the things that he saw than in the people he met. Thegeneral effect of Paris is wholly engrossing at first. The wealth inthe shop windows, the high houses, the streams of traffic, thecontrast everywhere between the last extremes of luxury and wantstruck him more than anything else. In his astonishment at the crowdsof strange faces, the man of imaginative temper felt as if he himselfhad shrunk, as it were, immensely. A man of any consequence in hisnative place, where he cannot go out but he meets with somerecognition of his importance at every step, does not readily accustomhimself to the sudden and total extinction of his consequence. You aresomebody in your own country, in Paris you are nobody. The transitionbetween the first state and the last should be made gradually, for thetoo abrupt fall is something like annihilation. Paris could not failto be an appalling wilderness for a young poet, who looked for an echofor all his sentiments, a confidant for all his thoughts, a soul toshare his least sensations. 

Lucien had not gone in search of his luggage and his best blue coat;and painfully conscious of the shabbiness, to say no worse, of hisclothes, he went to Mme. De Bargeton, feeling that she must havereturned. He found the Baron du Chatelet, who carried them both off todinner at the _Rocher de Cancale_. Lucien's head was dizzy with thewhirl of Paris, the Baron was in the carriage, he could say nothing toLouise, but he squeezed her hand, and she gave a warm response to themute confidence. 

After dinner Chatelet took his guests to the Vaudeville. Lucien, inhis heart, was not over well pleased to see Chatelet again, and cursedthe chance that had brought the Baron to Paris. The Baron said thatambition had brought him to town; he had hopes of an appointment assecretary-general to a government department, and meant to take a seatin the Council of State as Master of Requests. He had come to Paris toask for fulfilment of the promises that had been given him, for a manof his stamp could not be expected to remain a comptroller all hislife; he would rather be nothing at all, and offer himself forelection as deputy, or re-enter diplomacy. Chatelet grew visiblytaller; Lucien dimly began to recognize in this elderly beau thesuperiority of the man of the world who knows Paris; and, most of all, he felt ashamed to owe his evening's amusement to his rival. And whilethe poet looked ill at ease and awkward Her Royal Highness'ex-secretary was quite in his element. He smiled at his rival'shesitations, at his astonishment, at the questions he put, at thelittle mistakes which the latter ignorantly made, much as an old saltlaughs at an apprentice who has not found his sea legs; but Lucien'spleasure at seeing a play for the first time in Paris outweighed theannoyance of these small humiliations. 

That evening marked an epoch in Lucien's career; he put away a goodmany of his ideas as to provincial life in the course of it. Hishorizon widened; society assumed different proportions. There werefair Parisiennes in fresh and elegant toilettes all about him; Mme. DeBargeton's costume, tolerably ambitious though it was, looked dowdy bycomparison; the material, like the fashion and the color, was out ofdate. That way of arranging her hair, so bewitching in Angouleme, looked frightfully ugly here among the daintily devised coiffureswhich he saw in every direction. 

"Will she always look like that?" said he to himself, ignorant thatthe morning had been spent in preparing a transformation. 

In the provinces comparison and choice are out of the question; when aface has grown familiar it comes to possess a certain beauty that istaken for granted. But transport the pretty woman of the provinces toParis, and no one takes the slightest notice of her; her prettiness isof the comparative degree illustrated by the saying that among theblind the one-eyed are kings. Lucien's eyes were now busy comparingMme. De Bargeton with other women, just as she herself had contrastedhim with Chatelet on the previous day. And Mme. De Bargeton, on herpart, permitted herself some strange reflections upon her lover. Thepoet cut a poor figure notwithstanding his singular beauty. Thesleeves of his jacket were too short; with his ill-cut country glovesand a waistcoat too scanty for him, he looked prodigiously ridiculous, compared with the young men in the balcony--"positively pitiable, "thought Mme. De Bargeton. Chatelet, interested in her withoutpresumption, taking care of her in a manner that revealed a profoundpassion; Chatelet, elegant, and as much at home as an actor treadingthe familiar boards of his theatre, in two days had recovered all theground lost in the past six months. 

Ordinary people will not admit that our sentiments towards each othercan totally change in a moment, and yet certain it is, that two loversnot seldom fly apart even more quickly than they drew together. InMme. De Bargeton and in Lucien a process of disenchantment was atwork; Paris was the cause. Life had widened out before the poet'seyes, as society came to wear a new aspect for Louise. Nothing but anaccident now was needed to sever finally the bond that united them;nor was that blow, so terrible for Lucien, very long delayed. 

Mme. De Bargeton set Lucien down at his inn, and drove home withChatelet, to the intense vexation of the luckless lover. 

"What will they say about me?" he wondered, as he climbed the stairsto his dismal room. 

"That poor fellow is uncommonly dull, " said Chatelet, with a smile, when the door was closed. 

"That is the way with those who have a world of thoughts in theirheart and brain. Men who have so much in them to give out in greatworks long dreamed of, profess a certain contempt for conversation, acommerce in which the intellect spends itself in small change, "returned the haughty Negrepelisse. She still had courage to defendLucien, but less for Lucien's sake than for her own. 

"I grant it you willingly, " replied the Baron, "but we live with humanbeings and not with books. There, dear Nais! I see how it is, there isnothing between you yet, and I am delighted that it is so. If youdecide to bring an interest of a kind hitherto lacking into your life, let it not be this so-called genius, I implore you. How if you havemade a mistake? Suppose that in a few days' time, when you havecompared him with men whom you will meet, men of real ability, men whohave distinguished themselves in good earnest; suppose that you shoulddiscover, dear and fair siren, that it is no lyre-bearer that you haveborne into port on your dazzling shoulders, but a little ape, with nomanners and no capacity; a presumptuous fool who may be a wit inL'Houmeau, but turns out a very ordinary specimen of a young man inParis? And, after all, volumes of verse come out every week here, theworst of them better than all M. Chardon's poetry put together. Forpity's sake, wait and compare! To-morrow, Friday, is Opera night, " hecontinued as the carriage turned into the Rue Nueve-de-Luxembourg;"Mme. D'Espard has the box of the First Gentlemen of the Chamber, andwill take you, no doubt. I shall go to Mme. De Serizy's box to beholdyou in your glory. They are giving _Les Danaides_. "

"Good-bye, " said she. 

Next morning Mme. De Bargeton tried to arrange a suitable toilette inwhich to call on her cousin, Mme. D'Espard. The weather was ratherchilly. Looking through the dowdy wardrobe from Angouleme, she foundnothing better than a certain green velvet gown, trimmed fantasticallyenough. Lucien, for his part, felt that he must go at once for hiscelebrated blue best coat; he felt aghast at the thought of his tightjacket, and determined to be well dressed, lest he should meet theMarquise d'Espard or receive a sudden summons to her house. He musthave his luggage at once, so he took a cab, and in two hours' timespent three or four francs, matter for much subsequent reflection onthe scale of the cost of living in Paris. Having dressed himself inhis best, such as it was, he went to the Rue Nueve-de-Luxembourg, andon the doorstep encountered Gentil in company with a gorgeouslybe-feathered chasseur. 

"I was just going round to you, sir, madame gave me a line for you, "said Gentil, ignorant of Parisian forms of respect, and accustomed tohomely provincial ways. The chasseur took the poet for a servant. 

Lucien tore open the note, and learned that Mme. De Bargeton had goneto spend the day with the Marquise d'Espard. She was going to theOpera in the evening, but she told Lucien to be there to meet her. Hercousin permitted her to give him a seat in her box. The Marquised'Espard was delighted to procure the young poet that pleasure. 

"Then she loves me! my fears were all nonsense!" said Lucien tohimself. "She is going to present me to her cousin this very evening. "

He jumped for joy. He would spend the day that separated him from thehappy evening as joyously as might be. He dashed out in the directionof the Tuileries, dreaming of walking there until it was time to dineat Very's. And now, behold Lucien frisking and skipping, light of footbecause light of heart, on his way to the Terrasse des Feuillants totake a look at the people of quality on promenade there. Pretty womenwalk arm-in-arm with men of fashion, their adorers, couples greet eachother with a glance as they pass; how different it is from the terraceat Beaulieu! How far finer the birds on this perch than the Angoulemespecies! It is as if you beheld all the colors that glow in theplumage of the feathered tribes of India and America, instead of thesober European families. 

Those were two wretched hours that Lucien spent in the Garden of theTuileries. A violent revulsion swept through him, and he sat injudgment upon himself. 

In the first place, not a single one of these gilded youths wore aswallow-tail coat. The few exceptions, one or two poor wretches, aclerk here and there, an annuitant from the Marais, could be ruled outon the score of age; and hard upon the discovery of a distinctionbetween morning and evening dress, the poet's quick sensibility andkeen eyes saw likewise that his shabby old clothes were not fit to beseen; the defects in his coat branded that garment as ridiculous; thecut was old-fashioned, the color was the wrong shade of blue, thecollar outrageously ungainly, the coat tails, by dint of long wear, overlapped each other, the buttons were reddened, and there were fatalwhite lines along the seams. Then his waistcoat was too short, and sogrotesquely provincial, that he hastily buttoned his coat over it;and, finally, no man of any pretension to fashion wore nankeentrousers. Well-dressed men wore charming fancy materials or immaculatewhite, and every one had straps to his trousers, while the shrunkenhems of Lucien's nether garments manifested a violent antipathy forthe heels of boots which they wedded with obvious reluctance. Lucienwore a white cravat with embroidered ends; his sister had seen that M. Du Hautoy and M. De Chandour wore such things, and hastened to makesimilar ones for her brother. Here, no one appeared to wear whitecravats of a morning except a few grave seniors, elderly capitalists, and austere public functionaries, until, in the street on the otherside of the railings, Lucien noticed a grocer's boy walking along theRue de Rivoli with a basket on his head; him the man of Angoulemedetected in the act of sporting a cravat, with both ends adorned bythe handiwork of some adored shop-girl. The sight was a stab toLucien's breast; penetrating straight to that organ as yet undefined, the seat of our sensibility, the region whither, since sentiment hashad any existence, the sons of men carry their hands in any excess ofjoy or anguish. Do not accuse this chronicle of puerility. The rich, to be sure, never having experienced sufferings of this kind, maythink them incredibly petty and small; but the agonies of lessfortunate mortals are as well worth our attention as crises andvicissitudes in the lives of the mighty and privileged ones of earth. Is not the pain equally great for either? Suffering exalts all things. And, after all, suppose that we change the terms and for a suit ofclothes, more or less fine, put instead a ribbon, or a star, or atitle; have not brilliant careers been tormented by reason of suchapparent trifles as these? Add, moreover, that for those people whomust seem to have that which they have not, the question of clothes isof enormous importance, and not unfrequently the appearance ofpossession is the shortest road to possession at a later day. 

A cold sweat broke out over Lucien as he bethought himself thatto-night he must make his first appearance before the Marquise in thisdress--the Marquise d'Espard, relative of a First Gentleman of theBedchamber, a woman whose house was frequented by the most illustriousamong illustrious men in every field. 

"I look like an apothecary's son, a regular shop-drudge, " he ragedinwardly, watching the youth of the Faubourg Saint-Germain pass underhis eyes; graceful, spruce, fashionably dressed, with a certainuniformity of air, a sameness due to a fineness of contour, and acertain dignity of carriage and expression; though, at the same time, each one differed from the rest in the setting by which he had chosento bring his personal characteristics into prominence. Each one madethe most of his personal advantages. Young men in Paris understand theart of presenting themselves quite as well as women. Lucien hadinherited from his mother the invaluable physical distinction of race, but the metal was still in the ore, and not set free by thecraftsman's hand. 

His hair was badly cut. Instead of holding himself upright with anelastic corset, he felt that he was cooped up inside a hideousshirt-collar; he hung his dejected head without resistance on the partof a limp cravat. What woman could guess that a handsome foot washidden by the clumsy boots which he had brought from Angouleme? Whatyoung man could envy him his graceful figure, disguised by theshapeless blue sack which hitherto he had mistakenly believed to be acoat? What bewitching studs he saw on those dazzling white shirtfronts, his own looked dingy by comparison; and how marvelously allthese elegant persons were gloved, his own gloves were only fit for apoliceman! Yonder was a youth toying with a cane exquisitely mounted;there, another with dainty gold studs in his wristbands. Yet anotherwas twisting a charming riding-whip while he talked with a woman;there were specks of mud on the ample folds of his white trousers, hewore clanking spurs and a tight-fitting jacket, evidently he was aboutto mount one of the two horses held by a hop-o'-my-thumb of a tiger. Ayoung man who went past drew a watch no thicker than a five-francpiece from his pocket, and looked at it with the air of a person whois either too early or too late for an appointment. 

Lucien, seeing these petty trifles, hitherto unimagined, became awareof a whole world of indispensable superfluities, and shuddered tothink of the enormous capital needed by a professional pretty fellow!The more he admired these gay and careless beings, the more conscioushe grew of his own outlandishness; he knew that he looked like a manwho has no idea of the direction of the streets, who stands close tothe Palais Royal and cannot find it, and asks his way to the Louvre ofa passer-by, who tells him, "Here you are. " Lucien saw a great gulffixed between him and this new world, and asked himself how he mightcross over, for he meant to be one of these delicate, slim youths ofParis, these young patricians who bowed before women divinely dressedand divinely fair. For one kiss from one of these, Lucien was ready tobe cut in pieces like Count Philip of Konigsmark. Louise's face roseup somewhere in the shadowy background of memory--compared with thesequeens, she looked like an old woman. He saw women whose names willappear in the history of the nineteenth century, women no less famousthan the queens of past times for their wit, their beauty, or theirlovers; one who passed was the heroine Mlle. Des Touches, so wellknown as Camille Maupin, the great woman of letters, great by herintellect, great no less by her beauty. He overheard the namepronounced by those who went by. 

"Ah!" he thought to himself, "she is Poetry. "

What was Mme. De Bargeton in comparison with this angel in all theglory of youth, and hope, and promise of the future, with that sweetsmile of hers, and the great dark eyes with all heaven in them, andthe glowing light of the sun? She was laughing and chatting with Mme. Firmiani, one of the most charming women in Paris. A voice indeedcried, "Intellect is the lever by which to move the world, " butanother voice cried no less loudly that money was the fulcrum. 

He would not stay any longer on the scene of his collapse and defeat, and went towards the Palais Royal. He did not know the topography ofhis quarter yet, and was obliged to ask his way. Then he went toVery's and ordered dinner by way of an initiation into the pleasuresof Paris, and a solace for his discouragement. A bottle of Bordeaux, oysters from Ostend, a dish of fish, a partridge, a dish of macaroniand dessert, --this was the _ne plus ultra_ of his desire. He enjoyedthis little debauch, studying the while how to give the Marquised'Espard proof of his wit, and redeem the shabbiness of his grotesqueaccoutrements by the display of intellectual riches. The total of thebill drew him down from these dreams, and left him the poorer by fiftyof the francs which were to have gone such a long way in Paris. Hecould have lived in Angouleme for a month on the price of that dinner. Wherefore he closed the door of the palace with awe, thinking as hedid so that he should never set foot in it again. 

"Eve was right, " he said to himself, as he went back under the stonearcading for some more money. "There is a difference between Parisprices and prices in L'Houmeau. "

He gazed in at the tailors' windows on the way, and thought of thecostumes in the Garden of the Tuileries. 

"No, " he exclaimed, "I will _not_ appear before Mme. D'Espard dressedout as I am. "

He fled to his inn, fleet as a stag, rushed up to his room, took out ahundred crowns, and went down again to the Palais Royal, where hisfuture elegance lay scattered over half a score of shops. The firsttailor whose door he entered tried as many coats upon him as he wouldconsent to put on, and persuaded his customer that all were in thevery latest fashion. Lucien came out the owner of a green coat, a pairof white trousers, and a "fancy waistcoat, " for which outfit he gavetwo hundred francs. Ere long he found a very elegant pair ofready-made shoes that fitted his foot; and, finally, when he had madeall necessary purchases, he ordered the tradespeople to send them to hisaddress, and inquired for a hairdresser. At seven o'clock that eveninghe called a cab and drove away to the Opera, curled like a Saint Johnof a Procession Day, elegantly waistcoated and gloved, but feeling alittle awkward in this kind of sheath in which he found himself forthe first time. 

In obedience to Mme. De Bargeton's instructions, he asked for the boxreserved for the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. The man at the boxoffice looked at him, and beholding Lucien in all the grandeur assumedfor the occasion, in which he looked like a best man at a wedding, asked Lucien for his order. 

"I have no order. "

"Then you cannot go in, " said the man at the box office drily. 

"But I belong to Mme. D'Espard's party. "

"It is not our business to know that, " said the man, who could nothelp exchanging a barely perceptible smile with his colleague. 

A carriage stopped under the peristyle as he spoke. A chasseur, in alivery which Lucien did not recognize, let down the step, and twowomen in evening dress came out of the brougham. Lucien had no mind tolay himself open to an insolent order to get out of the way from theofficial. He stepped aside to let the two ladies pass. 

"Why, that lady is the Marquise d'Espard, whom you say you know, sir, "said the man ironically. 

Lucien was so much the more confounded because Mme. De Bargeton didnot seem to recognize him in his new plumage; but when he stepped upto her, she smiled at him and said:

"This has fallen out wonderfully--come!"

The functionaries at the box office grew serious again as Lucienfollowed Mme. De Bargeton. On their way up the great staircase thelady introduced M. De Rubempre to her cousin. The box belonging to theFirst Gentleman of the Bedchamber is situated in one of the angles atthe back of the house, so that its occupants see and are seen all overthe theatre. Lucien took his seat on a chair behind Mme. De Bargeton, thankful to be in the shadow. 

"M. De Rubempre, " said the Marquise with flattering graciousness, "this is your first visit to the Opera, is it not? You must have aview of the house; take this seat, sit in front of the box; we giveyou permission. "

Lucien obeyed as the first act came to an end. 

"You have made good use of your time, " Louise said in his ear, in herfirst surprise at the change in his appearance. 

Louise was still the same. The near presence of the Marquise d'Espard, a Parisian Mme. De Bargeton, was so damaging to her; the brilliancy ofthe Parisienne brought out all the defects in her country cousin soclearly by contrast; that Lucien, looking out over the fashionableaudience in the superb building, and then at the great lady, was twiceenlightened, and saw poor Anais de Negrepelisse as she really was, asParisians saw her--a tall, lean, withered woman, with a pimpled faceand faded complexion; angular, stiff, affected in her manner; pompousand provincial in her speech; and, and above all these things, dowdilydressed. As a matter of fact, the creases in an old dress from Parisstill bear witness to good taste, you can tell what the gown was meantfor; but an old dress made in the country is inexplicable, it is athing to provoke laughter. There was neither charm nor freshness aboutthe dress or its wearer; the velvet, like the complexion had seenwear. Lucien felt ashamed to have fallen in love with this cuttle-fishbone, and vowed that he would profit by Louise's next fit of virtue toleave her for good. Having an excellent view of the house, he couldsee the opera-glasses pointed at the aristocratic box par excellence. The best-dressed women must certainly be scrutinizing Mme. DeBargeton, for they smiled and talked among themselves. 

If Mme. D'Espard knew the object of their sarcasms from those femininesmiles and gestures, she was perfectly insensible to them. In thefirst place, anybody must see that her companion was a poor relationfrom the country, an affliction with which any Parisian family may bevisited. And, in the second, when her cousin had spoken to her of herdress with manifest misgivings, she had reassured Anais, seeing that, when once properly dressed, her relative would very easily acquire thetone of Parisian society. If Mme. De Bargeton needed polish, on theother hand she possessed the native haughtiness of good birth, andthat indescribable something which may be called "pedigree. " So, onMonday her turn would come. And, moreover, the Marquise knew that assoon as people learned that the stranger was her cousin, they wouldsuspend their banter and look twice before they condemned her. 

Lucien did not foresee the change in Louise's appearance shortly to beworked by a scarf about her throat, a pretty dress, an elegantcoiffure, and Mme. D'Espard's advice. As they came up the staircaseeven now, the Marquise told her cousin not to hold her handkerchiefunfolded in her hand. Good or bad taste turns upon hundreds of suchalmost imperceptible shades, which a quick-witted woman discerns atonce, while others will never grasp them. Mme. De Bargeton, plentifully apt, was more than clever enough to discover hershortcomings. Mme. D'Espard, sure that her pupil would do her credit, did not decline to form her. In short, the compact between the twowomen had been confirmed by self-interest on either side. 

Mme. De Bargeton, enthralled, dazzled, and fascinated by her cousin'smanner, wit, and acquaintances, had suddenly declared herself a votaryof the idol of the day. She had discerned the signs of the occultpower exerted by the ambitious great lady, and told herself that shecould gain her end as the satellite of this star, so she had beenoutspoken in her admiration. The Marquise was not insensible to theartlessly admitted conquest. She took an interest in her cousin, seeing that she was weak and poor; she was, besides, not indisposed totake a pupil with whom to found a school, and asked nothing betterthan to have a sort of lady-in-waiting in Mme. De Bargeton, adependent who would sing her praises, a treasure even more scarceamong Parisian women than a staunch and loyal critic among theliterary tribe. The flutter of curiosity in the house was too markedto be ignored, however, and Mme. D'Espard politely endeavored to turnher cousin's mind from the truth. 

"If any one comes to our box, " she said, "perhaps we may discover thecause to which we owe the honor of the interest that these ladies aretaking----"

"I have a strong suspicion that it is my old velvet gown andAngoumoisin air which Parisian ladies find amusing, " Mme. De Bargetonanswered, laughing. 

"No, it is not you; it is something that I cannot explain, " she added, turning to the poet, and, as she looked at him for the first time, itseemed to strike her that he was singularly dressed. 

"There is M. Du Chatelet, " exclaimed Lucien at that moment, and hepointed a finger towards Mme. De Serizy's box, which the renovatedbeau had just entered. 

Mme. De Bargeton bit her lips with chagrin as she saw that gesture, and saw besides the Marquise's ill-suppressed smile of contemptuousastonishment. "Where does the young man come from?" her look said, andLouise felt humbled through her love, one of the sharpest of all pangsfor a Frenchwoman, a mortification for which she cannot forgive herlover. 

In these circles where trifles are of such importance, a gesture or aword at the outset is enough to ruin a newcomer. It is the principalmerit of fine manners and the highest breeding that they produce theeffect of a harmonious whole, in which every element is so blendedthat nothing is startling or obtrusive. Even those who break the lawsof this science, either through ignorance or carried away by someimpulse, must comprehend that it is with social intercourse as withmusic, a single discordant note is a complete negation of the artitself, for the harmony exists only when all its conditions areobserved down to the least particular. 

"Who is that gentleman?" asked Mme. D'Espard, looking towardsChatelet. "And have you made Mme. De Serizy's acquaintance already?"

"Oh! is that the famous Mme. De Serizy who has had so many adventuresand yet goes everywhere?"

"An unheard-of-thing, my dear, explicable but unexplained. The mostformidable men are her friends, and why? Nobody dares to fathom themystery. Then is this person the lion of Angouleme?"

"Well, M. Le Baron du Chatelet has been a good deal talked about, "answered Mme. De Bargeton, moved by vanity to give her adorer thetitle which she herself had called in question. "He was M. DeMontriveau's traveling companion. "

"Ah!" said the Marquise d'Espard, "I never hear that name withoutthinking of the Duchesse de Langeais, poor thing. She vanished like afalling star. --That is M. De Rastignac with Mme. De Nucingen, " shecontinued, indicating another box; "she is the wife of a contractor, abanker, a city man, a broker on a large scale; he forced his way intosociety with his money, and they say that he is not very scrupulous asto his methods of making it. He is at endless pains to establish hiscredit as a staunch upholder of the Bourbons, and has tried already togain admittance into my set. When his wife took Mme. De Langeais' box, she thought that she could take her charm, her wit, and her success aswell. It is the old fable of the jay in the peacock's feathers!"

"How do M. And Mme. De Rastignac manage to keep their son in Paris, when, as we know, their income is under a thousand crowns?" askedLucien, in his astonishment at Rastignac's elegant and expensivedress. 

"It is easy to see that you come from Angouleme, " said Mme. D'Espard, ironically enough, as she continued to gaze through her opera-glass. 

Her remark was lost upon Lucien; the all-absorbing spectacle of theboxes prevented him from thinking of anything else. He guessed that hehimself was an object of no small curiosity. Louise, on the otherhand, was exceedingly mortified by the evident slight esteem in whichthe Marquise held Lucien's beauty. 

"He cannot be so handsome as I thought him, " she said to herself; andbetween "not so handsome" and "not so clever as I thought him" therewas but one step. 

The curtain fell. Chatelet was now paying a visit to the Duchesse deCarigliano in an adjourning box; Mme. De Bargeton acknowledged his bowby a slight inclination of the head. Nothing escapes a woman of theworld; Chatelet's air of distinction was not lost upon Mme. D'Espard. Just at that moment four personages, four Parisian celebrities, cameinto the box, one after another. 

The most striking feature of the first comer, M. De Marsay, famous forthe passions which he had inspired, was his girlish beauty; but itssoftness and effeminacy were counteracted by the expression of hiseyes, unflinching, steady, untamed, and hard as a tiger's. He wasloved and he was feared. Lucien was no less handsome; but Lucien'sexpression was so gentle, his blue eyes so limpid, that he scarcelyseemed to possess the strength and the power which attract women sostrongly. Nothing, moreover, so far had brought out the poet's merits;while de Marsay, with his flow of spirits, his confidence in his powerto please, and appropriate style of dress, eclipsed every rival by hispresence. Judge, therefore, the kind of figure that Lucien, stiff, starched, unbending in clothes as new and unfamiliar as hissurroundings, was likely to cut in de Marsay's vicinity. De Marsaywith his wit and charm of manner was privileged to be insolent. FromMme. D'Espard's reception of this personage his importance was at onceevident to Mme. De Bargeton. 

The second comer was a Vandenesse, the cause of the scandal in whichLady Dudley was concerned. Felix de Vandenesse, amiable, intellectual, and modest, had none of the characteristics on which de Marsay pridedhimself, and owed his success to diametrically opposed qualities. Hehad been warmly recommended to Mme. D'Espard by her cousin Mme. DeMortsauf. 

The third was General de Montriveau, the author of the Duchesse deLangeais' ruin. 

The fourth, M. De Canalis, one of the most famous poets of the day, and as yet a newly risen celebrity, was prouder of his birth than ofhis genius, and dangled in Mme. D'Espard's train by way of concealinghis love for the Duchesse de Chaulieu. In spite of his graces and theaffectation that spoiled them, it was easy to discern the vast, lurking ambitions that plunged him at a later day into the storms ofpolitical life. A face that might be called insignificantly pretty andcaressing manners thinly disguised the man's deeply-rooted egoism andhabit of continually calculating the chances of a career which at thattime looked problematical enough; though his choice of Mme. DeChaulieu (a woman past forty) made interest for him at Court, andbrought him the applause of the Faubourg Saint-Germain and the gibesof the Liberal party, who dubbed him "the poet of the sacristy. "

Mme. De Bargeton, with these remarkable figures before her, no longerwondered at the slight esteem in which the Marquise held Lucien's goodlooks. And when conversation began, when intellects so keen, sosubtle, were revealed in two-edged words with more meaning and depthin them than Anais de Bargeton heard in a month of talk at Angouleme;and, most of all, when Canalis uttered a sonorous phrase, summing up amaterialistic epoch, and gilding it with poetry--then Anais felt allthe truth of Chatelet's dictum of the previous evening. Lucien wasnothing to her now. Every one cruelly ignored the unlucky stranger; hewas so much like a foreigner listening to an unknown language, thatthe Marquise d'Espard took pity upon him. She turned to Canalis. 

"Permit me to introduce M. De Rubempre, " she said. "You rank too highin the world of letters not to welcome a _debutant_. M. De Rubempre isfrom Angouleme, and will need your influence, no doubt, with thepowers that bring genius to light. So far, he has no enemies to helphim to success by their attacks upon him. Is there enough originalityin the idea of obtaining for him by friendship all that hatred hasdone for you to tempt you to make the experiment?"

The four newcomers all looked at Lucien while the Marquise wasspeaking. De Marsay, only a couple of paces away, put up an eyeglassand looked from Lucien to Mme. De Bargeton, and then again at Lucien, coupling them with some mocking thought, cruelly mortifying to both. He scrutinized them as if they had been a pair of strange animals, andthen he smiled. The smile was like a stab to the distinguishedprovincial. Felix de Vandenesse assumed a charitable air. Montriveaulooked Lucien through and through. 

"Madame, " M. De Canalis answered with a bow, "I will obey you, inspite of the selfish instinct which prompts us to show a rival nofavor; but you have accustomed us to miracles. "

"Very well, do me the pleasure of dining with me on Monday with M. DeRubempre, and you can talk of matters literary at your ease. I willtry to enlist some of the tyrants of the world of letters and thegreat people who protect them, the author of _Ourika_, and one or twoyoung poets with sound views. "

"Mme. La Marquise, " said de Marsay, "if you give your support to thisgentleman for his intellect, I will support him for his good looks. Iwill give him advice which will put him in a fair way to be theluckiest dandy in Paris. After that, he may be a poet--if he has amind. "

Mme. De Bargeton thanked her cousin by a grateful glance. 

"I did not know that you were jealous of intellect, " Montriveau said, turning to de Marsay; "good fortune is the death of a poet. "

"Is that why your lordship is thinking of marriage?" inquired thedandy, addressing Canalis, and watching Mme. D'Espard to see if thewords went home. 

Canalis shrugged his shoulders, and Mme. D'Espard, Mme. De Chaulieu'sniece, began to laugh. Lucien in his new clothes felt as if he were anEgyptian statue in its narrow sheath; he was ashamed that he hadnothing to say for himself all this while. At length he turned to theMarquise. 

"After all your kindness, madame, I am pledged to make no failures, "he said in those soft tones of his. 

Chatelet came in as he spoke; he had seen Montriveau, and by hook orcrook snatched at the chance of a good introduction to the Marquised'Espard through one of the kings of Paris. He bowed to Mme. DeBargeton, and begged Mme. D'Espard to pardon him for the liberty hetook in invading her box; he had been separated so long from histraveling companion! Montriveau and Chatelet met for the first timesince they parted in the desert. 

"To part in the desert, and meet again in the opera-house!" saidLucien. 

"Quite a theatrical meeting!" said Canalis. 

Montriveau introduced the Baron du Chatelet to the Marquise, and theMarquise received Her Royal Highness' ex-secretary the more graciouslybecause she had seen that he had been very well received in threeboxes already. Mme. De Serizy knew none but unexceptionable people, and moreover he was Montriveau's traveling companion. So potent wasthis last credential, that Mme. De Bargeton saw from the manner of thegroup that they accepted Chatelet as one of themselves without demur. Chatelet's sultan's airs in Angouleme were suddenly explained. 

At length the Baron saw Lucien, and favored him with a cool, disparaging little nod, indicative to men of the world of therecipient's inferior station. A sardonic expression accompanied thegreeting, "How does _he_ come here?" he seemed to say. This was not loston those who saw it; for de Marsay leaned towards Montriveau, and saidin tones audible to Chatelet:

"Do ask him who the queer-looking young fellow is that looks like adummy at a tailor's shop-door. "

Chatelet spoke a few words in his traveling companion's ear, and whileapparently renewing his acquaintance, no doubt cut his rival topieces. 

If Lucien was surprised at the apt wit and the subtlety with whichthese gentlemen formulated their replies, he felt bewildered withepigram and repartee, and, most of all, by their offhand way oftalking and their ease of manner. The material luxury of Paris hadalarmed him that morning; at night he saw the same lavish expenditureof intellect. By what mysterious means, he asked himself, did thesepeople make such piquant reflections on the spur of the moment, thoserepartees which he could only have made after much pondering? And notonly were they at ease in their speech, they were at ease in theirdress, nothing looked new, nothing looked old, nothing about them wasconspicuous, everything attracted the eyes. The fine gentleman ofto-day was the same yesterday, and would be the same to-morrow. Lucienguessed that he himself looked as if he were dressed for the firsttime in his life. 

"My dear fellow, " said de Marsay, addressing Felix de Vandenesse, "that young Rastignac is soaring away like a paper-kite. Look at himin the Marquise de Listomere's box; he is making progress, he isputting up his eyeglass at us! He knows this gentleman, no doubt, "added the dandy, speaking to Lucien, and looking elsewhere. 

"He can scarcely fail to have heard the name of a great man of whom weare proud, " said Mme. De Bargeton. "Quite lately his sister waspresent when M. De Rubempre read us some very fine poetry. "

Felix de Vandenesse and de Marsay took leave of the Marquise d'Espard, and went off to Mme. De Listomere, Vandenesse's sister. The second actbegan, and the three were left to themselves again. The curious womenlearned how Mme. De Bargeton came to be there from some of the party, while the others announced the arrival of a poet, and made fun of hiscostume. Canalis went back to the Duchesse de Chaulieu, and no morewas seen of him. 

Lucien was glad when the rising of the curtain produced a diversion. All Mme. De Bargeton's misgivings with regard to Lucien were increasedby the marked attention which the Marquise d'Espard had shown toChatelet; her manner towards the Baron was very different from thepatronizing affability with which she treated Lucien. Mme. DeListomere's box was full during the second act, and, to allappearance, the talk turned upon Mme. De Bargeton and Lucien. YoungRastignac evidently was entertaining the party; he had raised thelaughter that needs fresh fuel every day in Paris, the laughter thatseizes upon a topic and exhausts it, and leaves it stale andthreadbare in a moment. Mme. D'Espard grew uneasy. She knew that anill-natured speech is not long in coming to the ears of those whom itwill wound, and waited till the end of the act. 

After a revulsion of feeling such as had taken place in Mme. DeBargeton and Lucien, strange things come to pass in a brief space oftime, and any revolution within us is controlled by laws that workwith great swiftness. Chatelet's sage and politic words as to Lucien, spoken on the way home from the Vaudeville, were fresh in Louise'smemory. Every phrase was a prophecy, it seemed as if Lucien had sethimself to fulfil the predictions one by one. When Lucien and Mme. DeBargeton had parted with their illusions concerning each other, theluckless youth, with a destiny not unlike Rousseau's, went so far inhis predecessor's footsteps that he was captivated by the great ladyand smitten with Mme. D'Espard at first sight. Young men and men whoremember their young emotions can see that this was only what mighthave been looked for. Mme. D'Espard with her dainty ways, her delicateenunciation, and the refined tones of her voice; the fragile woman soenvied, of such high place and high degree, appeared before the poetas Mme. De Bargeton had appeared to him in Angouleme. His ficklenature prompted him to desire influence in that lofty sphere at once, and the surest way to secure such influence was to possess the womanwho exerted it, and then everything would be his. He had succeeded atAngouleme, why should he not succeed in Paris?

Involuntarily, and despite the novel counter fascination of the stage, his eyes turned to the Celimene in her splendor; he glanced furtivelyat her every moment; the longer he looked, the more he desired to lookat her. Mme. De Bargeton caught the gleam in Lucien's eyes, and sawthat he found the Marquise more interesting than the opera. If Lucienhad forsaken her for the fifty daughters of Danaus, she could haveborne his desertion with equanimity; but another glance--bolder, moreardent and unmistakable than any before--revealed the state ofLucien's feelings. She grew jealous, but not so much for the future asfor the past. 

"He never gave me such a look, " she thought. "Dear me! Chatelet wasright!"

Then she saw that she had made a mistake; and when a woman once beginsto repent of her weaknesses, she sponges out the whole past. Every oneof Lucien's glances roused her indignation, but to all outwardappearance she was calm. De Marsay came back in the interval, bringingM. De Listomere with him; and that serious person and the youngcoxcomb soon informed the Marquise that the wedding guest in hisholiday suit, whom she had the bad luck to have in her box, had asmuch right to the appellation of Rubempre as a Jew to a baptismalname. Lucien's father was an apothecary named Chardon. M. DeRastignac, who knew all about Angouleme, had set several boxeslaughing already at the mummy whom the Marquise styled her cousin, andat the Marquise's forethought in having an apothecary at hand tosustain an artificial life with drugs. In short, de Marsay brought aselection from the thousand-and-one jokes made by Parisians on thespur of the moment, and no sooner uttered than forgotten. Chatelet wasat the back of it all, and the real author of this Punic faith. 

Mme. D'Espard turned to Mme. De Bargeton, put up her fan, and said, "My dear, tell me if your protege's name is really M. De Rubempre?"

"He has assumed his mother's name, " said Anais, uneasily. 

"But who was his father?"

"His father's name was Chardon. "

"And what was this Chardon?"

"A druggist. "

"My dear friend, I felt quite sure that all Paris could not belaughing at any one whom I took up. I do not care to stay here whenwags come in in high glee because there is an apothecary's son in mybox. If you will follow my advice, we will leave it, and at once. "

Mme. D'Espard's expression was insolent enough; Lucien was at a lossto account for her change of countenance. He thought that hiswaistcoat was in bad taste, which was true; and that his coat lookedlike a caricature of the fashion, which was likewise true. Hediscerned, in bitterness of soul, that he must put himself in thehands of an expert tailor, and vowed that he would go the very nextmorning to the most celebrated artist in Paris. On Monday he wouldhold his own with the men in the Marquise's house. 

Yet, lost in thought though he was, he saw the third act to an end, and, with his eyes fixed on the gorgeous scene upon the stage, dreamedout his dream of Mme. D'Espard. He was in despair over her suddencoldness; it gave a strange check to the ardent reasoning throughwhich he advanced upon this new love, undismayed by the immensedifficulties in the way, difficulties which he saw and resolved toconquer. He roused himself from these deep musings to look once moreat his new idol, turned his head, and saw that he was alone; he hadheard a faint rustling sound, the door closed--Madame d'Espard hadtaken her cousin with her. Lucien was surprised to the last degree bythe sudden desertion; he did not think long about it, however, simplybecause it was inexplicable. 

When the carriage was rolling along the Rue de Richelieu on the way tothe Faubourg Saint-Honore, the Marquise spoke to her cousin in a toneof suppressed irritation. 

"My dear child, what are you thinking about? Pray wait till anapothecary's son has made a name for himself before you troubleyourself about him. The Duchesse de Chaulieu does not acknowledgeCanalis even now, and he is famous and a man of good family. Thisyoung fellow is neither your son nor your lover, I suppose?" added thehaughty dame, with a keen, inquisitive glance at her cousin. 

"How fortunate for me that I kept the little scapegrace at adistance!" thought Madame de Bargeton. 

"Very well, " continued the Marquise, taking the expression in hercousin's eyes for an answer, "drop him, I beg of you. Taking anillustrious name in that way!--Why, it is a piece of impudence thatwill meet with its desserts in society. It is his mother's name, Idare say; but just remember, dear, that the King alone can confer, bya special ordinance, the title of de Rubempre on the son of a daughterof the house. If she made a _mesalliance_, the favor would be enormous, only to be granted to vast wealth, or conspicuous services, or verypowerful influence. The young man looks like a shopman in his Sundaysuit; evidently he is neither wealthy nor noble; he has a fine head, but he seems to me to be very silly; he has no idea what to do, andhas nothing to say for himself; in fact, he has no breeding. How cameyou to take him up?"

Mme. De Bargeton renounced Lucien as Lucien himself had renounced her;a ghastly fear lest her cousin should learn the manner of her journeyshot through her mind. 

"Dear cousin, I am in despair that I have compromised you. "

"People do not compromise me, " Mme. D'Espard said, smiling; "I am onlythinking of you. "

"But you have asked him to dine with you on Monday. "

"I shall be ill, " the Marquise said quickly; "you can tell him so, andI shall leave orders that he is not to be admitted under either name. "

During the interval Lucien noticed that every one was walking up anddown the lobby. He would do the same. In the first place, not one ofMme. D'Espard's visitors recognized him nor paid any attention to him, their conduct seemed nothing less than extraordinary to the provincialpoet; and, secondly, Chatelet, on whom he tried to hang, watched himout of the corner of his eye and fought shy of him. Lucien walked toand fro, watching the eddying crowd of men, till he felt convincedthat his costume was absurd, and he went back to his box, ensconcedhimself in a corner, and stayed there till the end. At times hethought of nothing but the magnificent spectacle of the ballet in thegreat Inferno scene in the fifth act; sometimes the sight of the houseabsorbed him, sometimes his own thoughts; he had seen society inParis, and the sight had stirred him to the depths. 

"So this is my kingdom, " he said to himself; "this is the world that Imust conquer. "

As he walked home through the streets he thought over all that hadbeen said by Mme. D'Espard's courtiers; memory reproducing withstrange faithfulness their demeanor, their gestures, their manner ofcoming and going. 

Next day, towards noon, Lucien betook himself to Staub, the greattailor of that day. Partly by dint of entreaties, and partly by virtueof cash, Lucien succeeded in obtaining a promise that his clothesshould be ready in time for the great day. Staub went so far as togive his word that a perfectly elegant coat, a waistcoat, and a pairof trousers should be forthcoming. Lucien then ordered linen andpocket-handkerchiefs, a little outfit, in short, of a linen-draper, and a celebrated bootmaker measured him for shoes and boots. He boughta neat walking cane at Verdier's; he went to Mme. Irlande for glovesand shirt studs; in short, he did his best to reach the climax ofdandyism. When he had satisfied all his fancies, he went to the RueNeuve-de-Luxembourg, and found that Louise had gone out. 

"She was dining with Mme. La Marquise d'Espard, " her maid said, "andwould not be back till late. "

Lucien dined for two francs at a restaurant in the Palais Royal, andwent to bed early. The next day was Sunday. He went to Louise'slodging at eleven o'clock. Louise had not yet risen. At two o'clock hereturned once more. 

"Madame cannot see anybody yet, " reported Albertine, "but she gave mea line for you. "

"Cannot see anybody yet?" repeated Lucien. "But I am not anybody----"

"I do not know, " Albertine answered very impertinently; and Lucien, less surprised by Albertine's answer than by a note from Mme. DeBargeton, took the billet, and read the following discouraginglines:--

"Mme. D'Espard is not well; she will not be able to see you on Monday. I am not feeling very well myself, but I am about to dress and go tokeep her company. I am in despair over this little disappointment; butyour talents reassure me, you will make your way withoutcharlatanism. "

"And no signature!" Lucien said to himself. He found himself in theTuileries before he knew whither he was walking. 

With the gift of second-sight which accompanies genius, he began tosuspect that the chilly note was but a warning of the catastrophe tocome. Lost in thought, he walked on and on, gazing at the monuments inthe Place Louis Quinze. 

It was a sunny day; a stream of fine carriages went past him on theway to the Champs Elysees. Following the direction of the crowd ofstrollers, he saw the three or four thousand carriages that turn theChamps Elysees into an improvised Longchamp on Sunday afternoons insummer. The splendid horses, the toilettes, and liveries bewilderedhim; he went further and further, until he reached the Arc deTriomphe, then unfinished. What were his feelings when, as hereturned, he saw Mme. De Bargeton and Mme. D'Espard coming towards himin a wonderfully appointed caleche, with a chasseur behind it inwaving plumes and that gold-embroidered green uniform which he knewonly too well. There was a block somewhere in the row, and thecarriages waited. Lucien beheld Louise transformed beyond recognition. All the colors of her toilette had been carefully subordinated to hercomplexion; her dress was delicious, her hair gracefully andbecomingly arranged, her hat, in exquisite taste, was remarkable evenbeside Mme. D'Espard, that leader of fashion. 

There is something in the art of wearing a hat that escapesdefinition. Tilted too far to the back of the head, it imparts a boldexpression to the face; bring it too far forward, it gives you asinister look; tipped to one side, it has a jaunty air; a well-dressedwoman wears her hat exactly as she means to wear it, and exactly atthe right angle. Mme. De Bargeton had solved this curious problem atsight. A dainty girdle outlined her slender waist. She had adopted hercousin's gestures and tricks of manner; and now, as she sat by Mme. D'Espard's side, she played with a tiny scent bottle that dangled by aslender gold chain from one of her fingers, displayed a littlewell-gloved hand without seeming to do so. She had modeled herself onMme. D'Espard without mimicking her; the Marquise had found a cousinworthy of her, and seemed to be proud of her pupil. 

The men and women on the footways all gazed at the splendid carriage, with the bearings of the d'Espards and Blamont-Chauvrys upon thepanels. Lucien was amazed at the number of greetings received by thecousins; he did not know that the "all Paris, " which consists in somescore of salons, was well aware already of the relationship betweenthe ladies. A little group of young men on horseback accompanied thecarriage in the Bois; Lucien could recognize de Marsay and Rastignacamong them, and could see from their gestures that the pair ofcoxcombs were complimenting Mme. De Bargeton upon her transformation. Mme. D'Espard was radiant with health and grace. So her indispositionwas simply a pretext for ridding herself of him, for there had been nomention of another day!

The wrathful poet went towards the caleche; he walked slowly, waitedtill he came in full sight of the two ladies, and made them a bow. Mme. De Bargeton would not see him; but the Marquise put up hereyeglass, and deliberately cut him. He had been disowned by thesovereign lords of Angouleme, but to be disowned by society in Pariswas another thing; the booby-squires by doing their utmost to mortifyLucien admitted his power and acknowledged him as a man; for Mme. D'Espard he had positively no existence. This was a sentence, it was arefusal of justice. Poor poet! a deadly cold seized on him when he sawde Marsay eying him through his glass; and when the Parisian lion letthat optical instrument fall, it dropped in so singular a fashion thatLucien thought of the knife-blade of the guillotine. 

The caleche went by. Rage and a craving for vengeance took possessionof his slighted soul. If Mme. De Bargeton had been in his power, hecould have cut her throat at that moment; he was a Fouquier-Tinvillegloating over the pleasure of sending Mme. D'Espard to the scaffold. If only he could have put de Marsay to the torture with refinements ofsavage cruelty! Canalis went by on horseback, bowing to the prettiestwomen, his dress elegant, as became the most dainty of poets. 

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Lucien. "Money, money at all costs! moneyis the one power before which the world bends the knee. " ("No!" criedconscience, "not money, but glory; and glory means work! Work! thatwas what David said. ") "Great heavens! what am I doing here? But Iwill triumph. I will drive along this avenue in a caleche with achasseur behind me! I will possess a Marquise d'Espard. " And flingingout the wrathful words, he went to Hurbain's to dine for two francs. 

Next morning, at nine o'clock, he went to the Rue Neuve-de-Luxembourgto upbraid Louise for her barbarity. But Mme. De Bargeton was not athome to him, and not only so, but the porter would not allow him to goup to her rooms; so he stayed outside in the street, watching thehouse till noon. At twelve o'clock Chatelet came out, looked at Lucienout of the corner of his eye, and avoided him. 

Stung to the quick, Lucien hurried after his rival; and Chatelet, finding himself closely pursued, turned and bowed, evidently intendingto shake him off by this courtesy. 

"Spare me just a moment for pity's sake, sir, " said Lucien; "I wantjust a word or two with you. You have shown me friendship, I now askthe most trifling service of that friendship. You have just come fromMme. De Bargeton; how have I fallen into disgrace with her and Mme. D'Espard?--please explain. "

"M. Chardon, do you know why the ladies left you at the Opera thatevening?" asked Chatelet, with treacherous good-nature. 

"No, " said the poor poet. 

"Well, it was M. De Rastignac who spoke against you from thebeginning. They asked him about you, and the young dandy simply saidthat your name was Chardon, and not de Rubempre; that your mother wasa monthly nurse; that your father, when he was alive, was anapothecary in L'Houmeau, a suburb of Angouleme; and that your sister, a charming girl, gets up shirts to admiration, and is just about to bemarried to a local printer named Sechard. Such is the world! You nosooner show yourself than it pulls you to pieces. 

"M. De Marsay came to Mme. D'Espard to laugh at you with her; so thetwo ladies, thinking that your presence put them in a false position, went out at once. Do not attempt to go to either house. If Mme. DeBargeton continued to receive your visits, her cousin would havenothing to do with her. You have genius; try to avenge yourself. Theworld looks down upon you; look down in your turn upon the world. Takerefuge in some garret, write your masterpieces, seize on power of anykind, and you will see the world at your feet. Then you can give backthe bruises which you have received, and in the very place where theywere given. Mme. De Bargeton will be the more distant now because shehas been friendly. That is the way with women. But the question nowfor you is not how to win back Anais' friendship, but how to avoidmaking an enemy of her. I will tell you of a way. She has writtenletters to you; send all her letters back to her, she will be sensiblethat you are acting like a gentleman; and at a later time, if youshould need her, she will not be hostile. For my own part, I have sohigh an opinion of your future, that I have taken your parteverywhere; and if I can do anything here for you, you will alwaysfind me ready to be of use. "

The elderly beau seemed to have grown young again in the atmosphere ofParis. He bowed with frigid politeness; but Lucien, woe-begone, haggard, and undone, forgot to return the salutation. He went back tohis inn, and there found the great Staub himself, come in person, notso much to try his customer's clothes as to make inquiries of thelandlady with regard to that customer's financial status. The reporthad been satisfactory. Lucien had traveled post; Mme. De Bargetonbrought him back from Vaudeville last Thursday in her carriage. Staubaddressed Lucien as "Monsieur le Comte, " and called his customer'sattention to the artistic skill with which he had brought a charmingfigure into relief. 

"A young man in such a costume has only to walk in the Tuileries, " hesaid, "and he will marry an English heiress within a fortnight. "

Lucien brightened a little under the influences of the German tailor'sjoke, the perfect fit of his new clothes, the fine cloth, and thesight of a graceful figure which met his eyes in the looking-glass. Vaguely he told himself that Paris was the capital of chance, and forthe moment he believed in chance. Had he not a volume of poems and amagnificent romance entitled _The Archer of Charles IX. _ in manuscript?He had hope for the future. Staub promised the overcoat and the restof the clothes the next day. 

The next day the bootmaker, linen-draper, and tailor all returnedarmed each with his bill, which Lucien, still under the charm ofprovincial habits, paid forthwith, not knowing how otherwise to ridhimself of them. After he had paid, there remained but three hundredand sixty francs out of the two thousand which he had brought with himfrom Angouleme, and he had been but one week in Paris! Nevertheless, he dressed and went to take a stroll in the Terrassee des Feuillants. He had his day of triumph. He looked so handsome and so graceful, hewas so well dressed, that women looked at him; two or three were somuch struck with his beauty, that they turned their heads to lookagain. Lucien studied the gait and carriage of the young men on theTerrasse, and took a lesson in fine manners while he meditated on histhree hundred and sixty francs. 

That evening, alone in his chamber, an idea occurred to him whichthrew a light on the problem of his existence at the Gaillard-Bois, where he lived on the plainest fare, thinking to economize in thisway. He asked for his account, as if he meant to leave, and discoveredthat he was indebted to his landlord to the extent of a hundredfrancs. The next morning was spent in running around the LatinQuarter, recommended for its cheapness by David. For a long while helooked about till, finally, in the Rue de Cluny, close to theSorbonne, he discovered a place where he could have a furnished roomfor such a price as he could afford to pay. He settled with hishostess of the Gaillard-Bois, and took up his quarters in the Rue deCluny that same day. His removal only cost him the cab fare. 

When he had taken possession of his poor room, he made a packet ofMme. De Bargeton's letters, laid them on the table, and sat down towrite to her; but before he wrote he fell to thinking over that fatalweek. He did not tell himself that he had been the first to befaithless; that for a sudden fancy he had been ready to leave hisLouise without knowing what would become of her in Paris. He saw noneof his own shortcomings, but he saw his present position, and blamedMme. De Bargeton for it. She was to have lighted his way; instead shehad ruined him. He grew indignant, he grew proud, he worked himselfinto a paroxysm of rage, and set himself to compose the followingepistle:--

 "What would you think, madame, of a woman who should take a fancy to some poor and timid child full of the noble superstitions which the grown man calls 'illusions;' and using all the charms of woman's coquetry, all her most delicate ingenuity, should feign a mother's love to lead that child astray? Her fondest promises, the card-castles which raised his wonder, cost her nothing; she leads him on, tightens her hold upon him, sometimes coaxing, sometimes scolding him for his want of confidence, till the child leaves his home and follows her blindly to the shores of a vast sea. Smiling, she lures him into a frail skiff, and sends him forth alone and helpless to face the storm. Standing safe on the rock, she laughs and wishes him luck. You are that woman; I am that child. 

 "The child has a keepsake in his hands, something which might betray the wrongs done by your beneficence, your kindness in deserting him. You might have to blush if you saw him struggling for life, and chanced to recollect that once you clasped him to your breast. When you read these words the keepsake will be in your own safe keeping; you are free to forget everything. 

 "Once you pointed out fair hopes to me in the skies, I awake to find reality in the squalid poverty of Paris. While you pass, and others bow before you, on your brilliant path in the great world, I, I whom you deserted on the threshold, shall be shivering in the wretched garret to which you consigned me. Yet some pang may perhaps trouble your mind amid festivals and pleasures; you may think sometimes of the child whom you thrust into the depths. If so, madame, think of him without remorse. Out of the depths of his misery the child offers you the one thing left to him--his forgiveness in a last look. Yes, madame, thanks to you, I have nothing left. Nothing! was not the world created from nothing? Genius should follow the Divine example; I begin with God-like forgiveness, but as yet I know not whether I possess the God-like power. You need only tremble lest I should go astray; for you would be answerable for my sins. Alas! I pity you, for you will have no part in the future towards which I go, with work as my guide. "

After penning this rhetorical effusion, full of the sombre dignitywhich an artist of one-and-twenty is rather apt to overdo, Lucien'sthoughts went back to them at home. He saw the pretty rooms whichDavid had furnished for him, at the cost of part of his little store, and a vision rose before him of quiet, simple pleasures in the past. Shadowy figures came about him; he saw his mother and Eve and David, and heard their sobs over his leave-taking, and at that he began tocry himself, for he felt very lonely in Paris, and friendless andforlorn. 

Two or three days later he wrote to his sister:--

 "MY DEAR EVE, --When a sister shares the life of a brother who devotes himself to art, it is her sad privilege to take more sorrow than joy into her life; and I am beginning to fear that I shall be a great trouble to you. Have I not abused your goodness already? have not all of you sacrificed yourselves to me? It is the memory of the past, so full of family happiness, that helps me to bear up in my present loneliness. Now that I have tasted the first beginnings of poverty and the treachery of the world of Paris, how my thoughts have flown to you, swift as an eagle back to its eyrie, so that I might be with true affection again. Did you see sparks in the candle? Did a coal pop out of the fire? Did you hear singing in your ears? And did mother say, 'Lucien is thinking of us, ' and David answer, 'He is fighting his way in the world?'

 "My Eve, I am writing this letter for your eyes only. I cannot tell any one else all that has happened to me, good and bad, blushing for both, as I write, for good here is as rare as evil ought to be. You shall have a great piece of news in a very few words. Mme. De Bargeton was ashamed of me, disowned me, would not see me, and gave me up nine days after we came to Paris. She saw me in the street and looked another way; when, simply to follow her into the society to which she meant to introduce me, I had spent seventeen hundred and sixty francs out of the two thousand I brought from Angouleme, the money so hardly scraped together. 'How did you spend it?' you will ask. Paris is a strange bottomless gulf, my poor sister; you can dine here for less than a franc, yet the simplest dinner at a fashionable restaurant costs fifty francs; there are waistcoats and trousers to be had for four francs and two francs each; but a fashionable tailor never charges less than a hundred francs. You pay for everything; you pay a halfpenny to cross the kennel in the street when it rains; you cannot go the least little way in a cab for less than thirty-two sous. 

 "I have been staying in one of the best parts of Paris, but now I am living at the Hotel de Cluny, in the Rue de Cluny, one of the poorest and darkest slums, shut in between three churches and the old buildings of the Sorbonne. I have a furnished room on the fourth floor; it is very bare and very dirty, but, all the same, I pay fifteen francs a month for it. For breakfast I spend a penny on a roll and a halfpenny for milk, but I dine very decently for twenty-two sous at a restaurant kept by a man named Flicoteaux in the Place de la Sorbonne itself. My expenses every month will not exceed sixty francs, everything included, until the winter begins --at least I hope not. So my two hundred and forty francs ought to last me for the first four months. Between now and then I shall have sold _The Archer of Charles IX. _ and the _Marguerites_ no doubt. Do not be in the least uneasy on my account. If the present is cold and bare and poverty-stricken, the blue distant future is rich and splendid; most great men have known the vicissitudes which depress but cannot overwhelm me. 

 "Plautus, the great comic Latin poet, was once a miller's lad. Machiavelli wrote _The Prince_ at night, and by day was a common working-man like any one else; and more than all, the great Cervantes, who lost an arm at the battle of Lepanto, and helped to win that famous day, was called a 'base-born, handless dotard' by the scribblers of his day; there was an interval of ten years between the appearance of the first part and the second of his sublime _Don Quixote_ for lack of a publisher. Things are not so bad as that nowadays. Mortifications and want only fall to the lot of unknown writers; as soon as a man's name is known, he grows rich, and I will be rich. And besides, I live within myself, I spend half the day at the Bibliotheque Sainte-Genevieve, learning all that I want to learn; I should not go far unless I knew more than I do. So at this moment I am almost happy. In a few days I have fallen in with my life very gladly. I begin the work that I love with daylight, my subsistence is secure, I think a great deal, and I study. I do not see that I am open to attack at any point, now that I have renounced a world where my vanity might suffer at any moment. The great men of every age are obliged to lead lives apart. What are they but birds in the forest? They sing, nature falls under the spell of their song, and no one should see them. That shall be my lot, always supposing that I can carry out my ambitious plans. 

 "Mme. De Bargeton I do not regret. A woman who could behave as she behaved does not deserve a thought. Nor am I sorry that I left Angouleme. She did wisely when she flung me into the sea of Paris to sink or swim. This is the place for men of letters and thinkers and poets; here you cultivate glory, and I know how fair the harvest is that we reap in these days. Nowhere else can a writer find the living works of the great dead, the works of art which quicken the imagination in the galleries and museums here; nowhere else will you find great reference libraries always open in which the intellect may find pasture. And lastly, here in Paris there is a spirit which you breathe in the air; it infuses the least details, every literary creation bears traces of its influence. You learn more by talk in a cafe, or at a theatre, in one half hour, than you would learn in ten years in the provinces. Here, in truth, wherever you go, there is always something to see, something to learn, some comparison to make. Extreme cheapness and excessive dearness--there is Paris for you; there is honeycomb here for every bee, every nature finds its own nourishment. So, though life is hard for me just now, I repent of nothing. On the contrary, a fair future spreads out before me, and my heart rejoices though it is saddened for the moment. Good-bye my dear sister. Do not expect letters from me regularly; it is one of the peculiarities of Paris that one really does not know how the time goes. Life is so alarmingly rapid. I kiss the mother and you and David more tenderly than ever. 

"LUCIEN. "

The name of Flicoteaux is engraved on many memories. Few indeed werethe students who lived in the Latin Quarter during the last twelveyears of the Restoration and did not frequent that temple sacred tohunger and impecuniosity. There a dinner of three courses, with aquarter bottle of wine or a bottle of beer, could be had for eighteensous; or for twenty-two sous the quarter bottle becomes a bottle. Flicoteaux, that friend of youth, would beyond a doubt have amassed acolossal fortune but for a line on his bill of fare, a line whichrival establishments are wont to print in capital letters, thus--BREADAT DISCRETION, which, being interpreted, should read "indiscretion. "

Flicoteaux has been nursing-father to many an illustrious name. Verily, the heart of more than one great man ought to wax warm withinnumerable recollections of inexpressible enjoyment at the sight ofthe small, square window panes that look upon the Place de laSorbonne, and the Rue Neuve-de-Richelieu. Flicoteaux II. AndFlicoteaux III. Respected the old exterior, maintaining the dingy hueand general air of a respectable, old-established house, showingthereby the depth of their contempt for the charlatanism of theshop-front, the kind of advertisement which feasts the eyes at theexpense of the stomach, to which your modern restaurant almost alwayshas recourse. Here you beheld no piles of straw-stuffed game neverdestined to make the acquaintance of the spit, no fantastical fish tojustify the mountebank's remark, "I saw a fine carp to-day; I expectto buy it this day week. " Instead of the prime vegetables morefittingly described by the word primeval, artfully displayed in thewindow for the delectation of the military man and his fellowcountry-woman the nursemaid, honest Flicoteaux exhibited fullsalad-bowls adorned with many a rivet, or pyramids of stewed prunes torejoice the sight of the customer, and assure him that the word"dessert, " with which other handbills made too free, was in this caseno charter to hoodwink the public. Loaves of six pounds' weight, cutin four quarters, made good the promise of "bread at discretion. " Suchwas the plenty of the establishment, that Moliere would have celebratedit if it had been in existence in his day, so comically appropriate isthe name. 

Flicoteaux still subsists; so long as students are minded to live, Flicoteaux will make a living. You feed there, neither more nor less;and you feed as you work, with morose or cheerful industry, accordingto the circumstances and the temperament. 

At that time his well-known establishment consisted of twodining-halls, at right angles to each other; long, narrow, low-ceiledrooms, looking respectively on the Rue Neuve-de-Richelieu and the Placede la Sorbonne. The furniture must have come originally from therefectory of some abbey, for there was a monastic look about thelengthy tables, where the serviettes of regular customers, each thrustthrough a numbered ring of crystallized tin plate, were laid by theirplaces. Flicoteaux I. Only changed the serviettes of a Sunday; butFlicoteaux II. Changed them twice a week, it is said, under pressure ofcompetition which threatened his dynasty. 

Flicoteaux's restaurant is no banqueting-hall, with its refinementsand luxuries; it is a workshop where suitable tools are provided, andeverybody gets up and goes as soon as he has finished. The coming andgoing within are swift. There is no dawdling among the waiters; theyare all busy; every one of them is wanted. 

The fare is not very varied. The potato is a permanent institution;there might not be a single tuber left in Ireland, and prevailingdearth elsewhere, but you would still find potatoes at Flicoteaux's. Not once in thirty years shall you miss its pale gold (the colorbeloved of Titian), sprinkled with chopped verdure; the potato enjoysa privilege that women might envy; such as you see it in 1814, soshall you find it in 1840. Mutton cutlets and fillet of beef atFlicoteaux's represent black game and fillet of sturgeon at Very's;they are not on the regular bill of fare, that is, and must be orderedbeforehand. Beef of the feminine gender there prevails; the young ofthe bovine species appears in all kinds of ingenious disguises. Whenthe whiting and mackerel abound on our shores, they are likewise seenin large numbers at Flicoteaux's; his whole establishment, indeed, isdirectly affected by the caprices of the season and the vicissitudesof French agriculture. By eating your dinners at Flicoteaux's youlearn a host of things of which the wealthy, the idle, and folkindifferent to the phases of Nature have no suspicion, and the studentpenned up in the Latin Quarter is kept accurately informed of thestate of the weather and good or bad seasons. He knows when it is agood year for peas or French beans, and the kind of salad stuff thatis plentiful; when the Great Market is glutted with cabbages, he is atonce aware of the fact, and the failure of the beetroot crop isbrought home to his mind. A slander, old in circulation in Lucien'stime, connected the appearance of beef-steaks with a mortality amonghorseflesh. 

Few Parisian restaurants are so well worth seeing. Every one atFlicoteaux's is young; you see nothing but youth; and although earnestfaces and grave, gloomy, anxious faces are not lacking, you see hopeand confidence and poverty gaily endured. Dress, as a rule, iscareless, and regular comers in decent clothes are marked exceptions. Everybody knows at once that something extraordinary is afoot: amistress to visit, a theatre party, or some excursion into higherspheres. Here, it is said, friendships have been made among studentswho became famous men in after days, as will be seen in the course ofthis narrative; but with the exception of a few knots of young fellowsfrom the same part of France who make a group about the end of atable, the gravity of the diners is hardly relaxed. Perhaps thisgravity is due to the catholicity of the wine, which checks goodfellowship of any kind. 

Flicoteaux's frequenters may recollect certain sombre and mysteriousfigures enveloped in the gloom of the chilliest penury; these beingswould dine there daily for a couple of years and then vanish, and themost inquisitive regular comer could throw no light on thedisappearance of such goblins of Paris. Friendships struck up overFlicoteaux's dinners were sealed in neighboring cafes in the flames ofheady punch, or by the generous warmth of a small cup of black coffeeglorified by a dash of something hotter and stronger. 

Lucien, like all neophytes, was modest and regular in his habits inthose early days at the Hotel de Cluny. After the first unluckyventure in fashionable life which absorbed his capital, he threwhimself into his work with the first earnest enthusiasm, which isfrittered away so soon over the difficulties or in the by-paths ofevery life in Paris. The most luxurious and the very poorest lives areequally beset with temptations which nothing but the fierce energy ofgenius or the morose persistence of ambition can overcome. 

Lucien used to drop in at Flicoteaux's about half-past four, havingremarked the advantages of an early arrival; the bill-of-fare was morevaried, and there was still some chance of obtaining the dish of yourchoice. Like all imaginative persons, he had taken a fancy to aparticular seat, and showed discrimination in his selection. On thevery first day he had noticed a table near the counter, and from thefaces of those who sat about it, and chance snatches of their talk, herecognized brothers of the craft. A sort of instinct, moreover, pointed out the table near the counter as a spot whence he couldparlay with the owners of the restaurant. In time an acquaintancewould grow up, he thought, and then in the day of distress he could nodoubt obtain the necessary credit. So he took his place at a smallsquare table close to the desk, intended probably for casual comers, for the two clean serviettes were unadorned with rings. Lucien'sopposite neighbor was a thin, pallid youth, to all appearance as pooras himself; his handsome face was somewhat worn, already it told ofhopes that had vanished, leaving lines upon his forehead and barrenfurrows in his soul, where seeds had been sown that had come tonothing. Lucien felt drawn to the stranger by these tokens; hissympathies went out to him with irresistible fervor. 

After a week's exchange of small courtesies and remarks, the poet fromAngouleme found the first person with whom he could chat. Thestranger's name was Etienne Lousteau. Two years ago he had left hisnative place, a town in Berri, just as Lucien had come from Angouleme. His lively gestures, bright eyes, and occasionally curt speechrevealed a bitter apprenticeship to literature. Etienne had come fromSancerre with his tragedy in his pocket, drawn to Paris by the samemotives that impelled Lucien--hope of fame and power and money. 

Sometimes Etienne Lousteau came for several days together; but in alittle while his visits became few and far between, and he would stayaway for five or six days in succession. Then he would come back, andLucien would hope to see his poet next day, only to find a stranger inhis place. When two young men meet daily, their talk harks back totheir last conversation; but these continual interruptions obligedLucien to break the ice afresh each time, and further checked anintimacy which made little progress during the first few weeks. Oninquiry of the damsel at the counter, Lucien was told that his futurefriend was on the staff of a small newspaper, and wrote reviews ofbooks and dramatic criticism of pieces played at the Ambigu-Comique, the Gaite, and the Panorama-Dramatique. The young man became apersonage all at once in Lucien's eyes. Now, he thought, he would leadthe conversation on rather more personal topics, and make some effortto gain a friend so likely to be useful to a beginner. The journaliststayed away for a fortnight. Lucien did not know that Etienne onlydined at Flicoteaux's when he was hard up, and hence his gloomy air ofdisenchantment and the chilly manner, which Lucien met with gracioussmiles and amiable remarks. But, after all, the project of afriendship called for mature deliberation. This obscure journalistappeared to lead an expensive life in which _petits verres_, cups ofcoffee, punch-bowls, sight-seeing, and suppers played a part. In theearly days of Lucien's life in the Latin Quarter, he behaved like apoor child bewildered by his first experience of Paris life; so thatwhen he had made a study of prices and weighed his purse, he lackedcourage to make advances to Etienne; he was afraid of beginning afresh series of blunders of which he was still repenting. And he wasstill under the yoke of provincial creeds; his two guardian angels, Eve and David, rose up before him at the least approach of an evilthought, putting him in mind of all the hopes that were centered onhim, of the happiness that he owed to the old mother, of all thepromises of his genius. 

He spent his mornings in studying history at the BibliothequeSainte-Genevieve. His very first researches made him aware of frightfulerrors in the memoirs of _The Archer of Charles IX. _ When the libraryclosed, he went back to his damp, chilly room to correct his work, cutting out whole chapters and piecing it together anew. And afterdining at Flicoteaux's, he went down to the Passage du Commerce to seethe newspapers at Blosse's reading-room, as well as new books andmagazines and poetry, so as to keep himself informed of the movementsof the day. And when, towards midnight, he returned to his wretchedlodgings, he had used neither fuel nor candle-light. His reading inthose days made such an enormous change in his ideas, that he revisedthe volume of flower-sonnets, his beloved _Marguerites_, working themover to such purpose, that scarce a hundred lines of the originalverses were allowed to stand. 

So in the beginning Lucien led the honest, innocent life of thecountry lad who never leaves the Latin Quarter; devoting himselfwholly to his work, with thoughts of the future always before him; whofinds Flicoteaux's ordinary luxurious after the simple home-fare; andstrolls for recreation along the alleys of the Luxembourg, the bloodsurging back to his heart as he gives timid side glances to the prettywomen. But this could not last. Lucien, with his poetic temperamentand boundless longings, could not withstand the temptations held outby the play-bills. 

The Theatre-Francais, the Vaudeville, the Varietes, the Opera-Comiquerelieved him of some sixty francs, although he always went to the pit. What student could deny himself the pleasure of seeing Talma in one ofhis famous roles? Lucien was fascinated by the theatre, that firstlove of all poetic temperaments; the actors and actresses wereawe-inspiring creatures; he did not so much as dream of the possibilityof crossing the footlights and meeting them on familiar terms. The menand women who gave him so much pleasure were surely marvelous beings, whom the newspapers treated with as much gravity as matters ofnational interest. To be a dramatic author, to have a play produced onthe stage! What a dream was this to cherish! A dream which a few boldspirits like Casimir Delavigne had actually realized. Thick swarmingthoughts like these, and moments of belief in himself, followed bydespair gave Lucien no rest, and kept him in the narrow way of toiland frugality, in spite of the smothered grumblings of more than onefrenzied desire. 

Carrying prudence to an extreme, he made it a rule never to enter theprecincts of the Palais Royal, that place of perdition where he hadspent fifty francs at Very's in a single day, and nearly five hundredfrancs on his clothes; and when he yielded to temptation, and sawFleury, Talma, the two Baptistes, or Michot, he went no further thanthe murky passage where theatre-goers used to stand in a string fromhalf-past five in the afternoon till the hour when the doors opened, and belated comers were compelled to pay ten sous for a place near theticket-office. And after waiting for two hours, the cry of "Alltickets are sold!" rang not unfrequently in the ears of disappointedstudents. When the play was over, Lucien went home with downcast eyes, through streets lined with living attractions, and perhaps fell inwith one of those commonplace adventures which loom so large in ayoung and timorous imagination. 

One day Lucien counted over his remaining stock of money, and tookalarm at the melting of his funds; a cold perspiration broke out uponhim when he thought that the time had come when he must find apublisher, and try also to find work for which a publisher would payhim. The young journalist, with whom he had made a one-sidedfriendship, never came now to Flicoteaux's. Lucien was waiting for achance--which failed to present itself. In Paris there are no chancesexcept for men with a very wide circle of acquaintance; chances ofsuccess of every kind increase with the number of your connections;and, therefore, in this sense also the chances are in favor of the bigbattalions. Lucien had sufficient provincial foresight still left, andhad no mind to wait until only a last few coins remained to him. Heresolved to face the publishers. 

So one tolerably chilly September morning Lucien went down the Rue dela Harpe, with his two manuscripts under his arm. As he made his wayto the Quai des Augustins, and went along, looking into thebooksellers' windows on one side and into the Seine on the other, hisgood genius might have counseled him to pitch himself into the watersooner than plunge into literature. After heart-searching hesitations, after a profound scrutiny of the various countenances, more or lessencouraging, soft-hearted, churlish, cheerful, or melancholy, to beseen through the window panes, or in the doorways of the booksellers'establishments, he espied a house where the shopmen were busy packingbooks at a great rate. Goods were being despatched. The walls wereplastered with bills:

 JUST OUT. 

 LE SOLITAIRE, by M. Le Vicomte d'Arlincourt. Third edition. LEONIDE, by Victor Ducange; five volumes 12mo, printed on fine paper. 12 francs. INDUCTIONS MORALES, by Keratry. 

"They are lucky, that they are!" exclaimed Lucien. 

The placard, a new and original idea of the celebrated Ladvocat, wasjust beginning to blossom out upon the walls. In no long space Pariswas to wear motley, thanks to the exertions of his imitators, and theTreasury was to discover a new source of revenue. 

Anxiety sent the blood surging to Lucien's heart, as he who had beenso great at Angouleme, so insignificant of late in Paris, slipped pastthe other houses, summoned up all his courage, and at last entered theshop thronged with assistants, customers, and booksellers--"Andauthors too, perhaps!" thought Lucien. 

"I want to speak with M. Vidal or M. Porchon, " he said, addressing ashopman. He had read the names on the sign-board--VIDAL & PORCHON (itran), _French and foreign booksellers' agents_. 

"Both gentlemen are engaged, " said the man. 

"I will wait. "

Left to himself, the poet scrutinized the packages, and amused himselffor a couple of hours by scanning the titles of books, looking intothem, and reading a page or two here and there. At last, as he stoodleaning against a window, he heard voices, and suspecting that thegreen curtains hid either Vidal or Porchon, he listened to theconversation. 

"Will you take five hundred copies of me? If you will, I will let youhave them at five francs, and give fourteen to the dozen. "

"What does that bring them in at?"

"Sixteen sous less. "

"Four francs four sous?" said Vidal or Porchon, whichever it was. 

"Yes, " said the vendor. 

"Credit your account?" inquired the purchaser. 

"Old humbug! you would settle with me in eighteen months' time, withbills at a twelvemonth. "

"No. Settled at once, " returned Vidal or Porchon. 

"Bills at nine months?" asked the publisher or author, who evidentlywas selling his book. 

"No, my dear fellow, twelve months, " returned one of the firm ofbooksellers' agents. 

There was a pause. 

"You are simply cutting my throat!" said the visitor. 

"But in a year's time shall we have placed a hundred copies of_Leonide_?" said the other voice. "If books went off as fast as thepublishers would like, we should be millionaires, my good sir; butthey don't, they go as the public pleases. There is some one nowbringing out an edition of Scott's novels at eighteen sous per volume, three livres twelve sous per copy, and you want me to give you morefor your stale remainders? No. If you mean me to push this novel ofyours, you must make it worth my while. --Vidal!"

A stout man, with a pen behind his ear, came down from his desk. 

"How many copies of Ducange did you place last journey?" asked Porchonof his partner. 

"Two hundred of _Le Petit Vieillard de Calais_, but to sell them I wasobliged to cry down two books which pay in less commission, anduncommonly fine 'nightingales' they are now. 

(A "nightingale, " as Lucien afterwards learned, is a bookseller's namefor books that linger on hand, perched out of sight in the loneliestnooks in the shop. )

"And besides, " added Vidal, "Picard is bringing out some novels, asyou know. We have been promised twenty per cent on the published priceto make the thing a success. "

"Very well, at twelve months, " the publisher answered in a piteousvoice, thunderstruck by Vidal's confidential remark. 

"Is it an offer?" Porchon inquired curtly. 

"Yes. " The stranger went out. After he had gone, Lucien heard Porchonsay to Vidal:

"We have three hundred copies on order now. We will keep him waitingfor his settlement, sell the _Leonides_ for five francs net, settlementin six months, and----"

"And that will be fifteen hundred francs into our pockets, " saidVidal. 

"Oh, I saw quite well that he was in a fix. He is giving Ducange fourthousand francs for two thousand copies. "

Lucien cut Vidal short by appearing in the entrance of the den. 

"I have the honor of wishing you a good day, gentlemen, " he said, addressing both partners. The booksellers nodded slightly. 

"I have a French historical romance after the style of Scott. It iscalled _The Archer of Charles IX. _; I propose to offer it to you----"

Porchon glanced at Lucien with lustreless eyes, and laid his pen downon the desk. Vidal stared rudely at the author. 

"We are not publishing booksellers, sir; we are booksellers' agents, "he said. "When we bring out a book ourselves, we only deal inwell-known names; and we only take serious literature besides--historyand epitomes. "

"But my book is very serious. It is an attempt to set the strugglebetween Catholics and Calvinists in its true light; the Catholics weresupporters of absolute monarchy, and the Protestants for a republic. "

"M. Vidal!" shouted an assistant. Vidal fled. 

"I don't say, sir, that your book is not a masterpiece, " repliedPorchon, with scanty civility, "but we only deal in books that areready printed. Go and see somebody that buys manuscripts. There is oldDoguereau in the Rue du Coq, near the Louvre, he is in the romanceline. If you had only spoken sooner, you might have seen Pollet, acompetitor of Doguereau and of the publisher in the Wooden Galleries. "

"I have a volume of poetry----"

"M. Porchon!" somebody shouted. 

"_Poetry_!" Porchon exclaimed angrily. "For what do you take me?" headded, laughing in Lucien's face. And he dived into the regions of theback shop. 

Lucien went back across the Pont Neuf absorbed in reflection. From allthat he understood of this mercantile dialect, it appeared that books, like cotton nightcaps, were to be regarded as articles of merchandiseto be sold dear and bought cheap. 

"I have made a mistake, " said Lucien to himself; but, all the same, this rough-and-ready practical aspect of literature made an impressionupon him. 

In the Rue du Coq he stopped in front of a modest-looking shop, whichhe had passed before. He saw the inscription DOGUEREAU, BOOKSELLER, painted above it in yellow letters on a green ground, and rememberedthat he had seen the name at the foot of the title-page of severalnovels at Blosse's reading-room. In he went, not without the inwardtrepidation which a man of any imagination feels at the prospect of abattle. Inside the shop he discovered an odd-looking old man, one ofthe queer characters of the trade in the days of the Empire. 

Doguereau wore a black coat with vast square skirts, when fashionrequired swallow-tail coats. His waistcoat was of some cheap material, a checked pattern of many colors; a steel chain, with a copper keyattached to it, hung from his fob and dangled down over a roomy pairof black nether garments. The booksellers' watch must have been thesize of an onion. Iron-gray ribbed stockings, and shoes with silverbuckles completed is costume. The old man's head was bare, andornamented with a fringe of grizzled locks, quite poetically scanty. "Old Doguereau, " as Porchon styled him, was dressed half like aprofessor of belles-lettres as to his trousers and shoes, half like atradesman with respect to the variegated waistcoat, the stockings, andthe watch; and the same odd mixture appeared in the man himself. Heunited the magisterial, dogmatic air, and the hollow countenance ofthe professor of rhetoric with the sharp eyes, suspicious mouth, andvague uneasiness of the bookseller. 

"M. Doguereau?" asked Lucien. 

"That is my name, sir. "

"You are very young, " remarked the bookseller. 

"My age, sir, has nothing to do with the matter. "

"True, " and the old bookseller took up the manuscript. "Ah, begad! _TheArcher of Charles IX. _, a good title. Let us see now, young man, justtell me your subject in a word or two. "

"It is a historical work, sir, in the style of Scott. The character ofthe struggle between the Protestants and Catholics is depicted as astruggle between two opposed systems of government, in which thethrone is seriously endangered. I have taken the Catholic side. "

"Eh! but you have ideas, young man. Very well, I will read your book, I promise you. I would rather have had something more in Mrs. Radcliffe's style; but if you are industrious, if you have some notionof style, conceptions, ideas, and the art of telling a story, I don'task better than to be of use to you. What do we want but goodmanuscripts?"

"When can I come back?"

"I am going into the country this evening; I shall be back again theday after to-morrow. I shall have read your manuscript by that time;and if it suits me, we might come to terms that very day. "

Seeing his acquaintance so easy, Lucien was inspired with the unluckyidea of bringing the _Marguerites_ upon the scene. 

"I have a volume of poetry as well, sir----" he began. 

"Oh! you are a poet! Then I don't want your romance, " and the old manhanded back the manuscript. "The rhyming fellows come to grief whenthey try their hands at prose. In prose you can't use words that meannothing; you absolutely must say something. "

"But Sir Walter Scott, sir, wrote poetry as well as----"

"That is true, " said Doguereau, relenting. He guessed that the youngfellow before him was poor, and kept the manuscript. "Where do youlive? I will come and see you. "

Lucien, all unsuspicious of the idea at the back of the old man'shead, gave his address; he did not see that he had to do with abookseller of the old school, a survival of the eighteenth century, when booksellers tried to keep Voltaires and Montesquieus starving ingarrets under lock and key. 

"The Latin Quarter. I am coming back that very way, " said Doguereau, when he had read the address. 

"Good man!" thought Lucien, as he took his leave. "So I have met witha friend to young authors, a man of taste who knows something. That isthe kind of man for me! It is just as I said to David--talent soonmakes its way in Paris. "

Lucien went home again happy and light of heart; he dreamed of glory. He gave not another thought to the ominous words which fell on his earas he stood by the counter in Vidal and Porchon's shop; he beheldhimself the richer by twelve hundred francs at least. Twelve hundredfrancs! It meant a year in Paris, a whole year of preparation for thework that he meant to do. What plans he built on that hope! What sweetdreams, what visions of a life established on a basis of work!Mentally he found new quarters, and settled himself in them; it wouldnot have taken much to set him making a purchase or two. He could onlystave off impatience by constant reading at Blosse's. 

Two days later old Doguereau come to the lodgings of his budding SirWalter Scott. He was struck with the pains which Lucien had taken withthe style of this his first work, delighted with the strong contrastsof character sanctioned by the epoch, and surprised at the spiritedimagination which a young writer always displays in the scheming of afirst plot--he had not been spoiled, thought old Daddy Doguereau. Hehad made up his mind to give a thousand francs for _The Archer ofCharles IX. _; he would buy the copyright out and out, and bind Lucienby an engagement for several books, but when he came to look at thehouse, the old fox thought better of it. 

"A young fellow that lives here has none but simple tastes, " said heto himself; "he is fond of study, fond of work; I need not give morethan eight hundred francs. "

"Fourth floor, " answered the landlady, when he asked for M. Lucien deRubempre. The old bookseller, peering up, saw nothing but the skyabove the fourth floor. 

"This young fellow, " thought he, "is a good-looking lad; one might goso far as to say that he is very handsome. If he were to make too muchmoney, he would only fall into dissipated ways, and then he would notwork. In the interests of us both, I shall only offer six hundredfrancs, in coin though, not paper. "

He climbed the stairs and gave three raps at the door. Lucien came toopen it. The room was forlorn in its bareness. A bowl of milk and apenny roll stood on the table. The destitution of genius made animpression on Daddy Doguereau. 

"Let him preserve these simple habits of life, this frugality, thesemodest requirements, " thought he. --Aloud he said: "It is a pleasure tome to see you. Thus, sir, lived Jean-Jacques, whom you resemble inmore ways than one. Amid such surroundings the fire of genius shinesbrightly; good work is done in such rooms as these. This is how men ofletters should work, instead of living riotously in cafes andrestaurants, wasting their time and talent and our money. "

He sat down. 

"Your romance is not bad, young man. I was a professor of rhetoriconce; I know French history, there are some capital things in it. Youhave a future before you, in fact. "

"Oh! sir. "

"No; I tell you so. We may do business together. I will buy yourromance. "

Lucien's heart swelled and throbbed with gladness. He was about toenter the world of literature; he should see himself in print at last. 

"I will give you four hundred francs, " continued Doguereau in honeyedaccents, and he looked at Lucien with an air which seemed to betokenan effort of generosity. 

"The volume?" queried Lucien. 

"For the romance, " said Doguereau, heedless of Lucien's surprise. "Inready money, " he added; "and you shall undertake to write two booksfor me every year for six years. If the first book is out of print insix months, I will give you six hundred francs for the others. So, ifyou write two books each year, you will be making a hundred francs amonth; you will have a sure income, you will be well off. There aresome authors whom I only pay three hundred francs for a romance; Igive two hundred for translations of English books. Such prices wouldhave been exorbitant in the old days. "

"Sir, we cannot possibly come to an understanding. Give me back mymanuscript, I beg, " said Lucien, in a cold chill. 

"Here it is, " said the old bookseller. "You know nothing of business, sir. Before an author's first book can appear, a publisher is bound tosink sixteen hundred francs on the paper and the printing of it. It iseasier to write a romance than to find all that money. I have ahundred romances in manuscript, and I have not a hundred and sixtythousand francs in my cash box, alas! I have not made so much in allthese twenty years that I have been a bookseller. So you don't make afortune by printing romances, you see. Vidal and Porchon only takethem of us on conditions that grow harder and harder day by day. Youhave only your time to lose, while I am obliged to disburse twothousand francs. If we fail, _habent sua fata libelli_, I lose twothousand francs; while, as for you, you simply hurl an ode at thethick-headed public. When you have thought over this that I have thehonor of telling you, you will come back to me. --_You will come back tome_!" he asserted authoritatively, by way of reply to a scornfulgesture made involuntarily by Lucien. "So far from finding a publisherobliging enough to risk two thousand francs for an unknown writer, youwill not find a publisher's clerk that will trouble himself to lookthrough your screed. Now that I have read it I can point out a goodmany slips in grammar. You have put _observer_ for _faire observer_ and_malgre que_. _Malgre_ is a preposition, and requires an object. "

Lucien appeared to be humiliated. 

"When I see you again, you will have lost a hundred francs, " he added. "I shall only give a hundred crowns. "

With that he rose and took his leave. On the threshold he said, "Ifyou had not something in you, and a future before you; if I did nottake an interest in studious youth, I should not have made you such ahandsome offer. A hundred francs per month! Think of it! After all, aromance in a drawer is not eating its head off like a horse in astable, nor will it find you in victuals either, and that's a fact. "

Lucien snatched up his manuscript and dashed it on the floor. 

"I would rather burn it, sir!" he exclaimed. 

"You have a poet's head, " returned his senior. 

Lucien devoured his bread and supped his bowl of milk, then he wentdownstairs. His room was not large enough for him; he was turninground and round in it like a lion in a cage at the Jardin des Plantes. 

At the Bibliotheque Saint-Genevieve, whither Lucien was going, he hadcome to know a stranger by sight; a young man of five-and-twenty orthereabouts, working with the sustained industry which nothing candisturb nor distract, the sign by which your genuine literary workeris known. Evidently the young man had been reading there for sometime, for the librarian and attendants all knew him and paid himspecial attention; the librarian would even allow him to take awaybooks, with which Lucien saw him return in the morning. In thestranger student he recognized a brother in penury and hope. 

Pale-faced and slight and thin, with a fine forehead hidden by massesof black, tolerably unkempt hair, there was something about him thatattracted indifferent eyes: it was a vague resemblance which he boreto portraits of the young Bonaparte, engraved from Robert Lefebvre'spicture. That engraving is a poem of melancholy intensity, ofsuppressed ambition, of power working below the surface. Study theface carefully, and you will discover genius in it and discretion, andall the subtlety and greatness of the man. The portrait has speakingeyes like a woman's; they look out, greedy of space, cravingdifficulties to vanquish. Even if the name of Bonaparte were notwritten beneath it, you would gaze long at that face. 

Lucien's young student, the incarnation of this picture, usually worefooted trousers, shoes with thick soles to them, an overcoat of coarsecloth, a black cravat, a waistcoat of some gray-and-white materialbuttoned to the chin, and a cheap hat. Contempt for superfluity indress was visible in his whole person. Lucien also discovered that themysterious stranger with that unmistakable stamp which genius setsupon the forehead of its slaves was one of Flicoteaux's most regularcustomers; he ate to live, careless of the fare which appeared to befamiliar to him, and drank water. Wherever Lucien saw him, at thelibrary or at Flicoteaux's, there was a dignity in his manner, springing doubtless from the consciousness of a purpose that filledhis life, a dignity which made him unapproachable. He had theexpression of a thinker, meditation dwelt on the fine nobly carvedbrow. You could tell from the dark bright eyes, so clear-sighted andquick to observe, that their owner was wont to probe to the bottom ofthings. He gesticulated very little, his demeanor was grave. Lucienfelt an involuntary respect for him. 

Many times already the pair had looked at each other at theBibliotheque or at Flicoteaux's; many times they had been on the pointof speaking, but neither of them had ventured so far as yet. Thesilent young man went off to the further end of the library, on theside at right angles to the Place de la Sorbonne, and Lucien had noopportunity of making his acquaintance, although he felt drawn to aworker whom he knew by indescribable tokens for a character of nocommon order. Both, as they came to know afterwards, wereunsophisticated and shy, given to fears which cause a pleasurableemotion to solitary creatures. Perhaps they never would have beenbrought into communication if they had not come across each other thatday of Lucien's disaster; for as Lucien turned into the Rue des Gres, he saw the student coming away from the Bibliotheque Sainte-Genevieve. 

"The library is closed; I don't know why, monsieur, " said he. 

Tears were standing in Lucien's eyes; he expressed his thanks by oneof those gestures that speak more eloquently than words, and unlockhearts at once when two men meet in youth. They went together alongthe Rue des Gres towards the Rue de la Harpe. 

"As that is so, I shall go to the Luxembourg for a walk, " said Lucien. "When you have come out, it is not easy to settle down to work again. "

"No; one's ideas will not flow in the proper current, " remarked thestranger. "Something seems to have annoyed you, monsieur?"

"I have just had a queer adventure, " said Lucien, and he told thehistory of his visit to the Quai, and gave an account of hissubsequent dealings with the old bookseller. He gave his name and saida word or two of his position. In one month or thereabouts he hadspent sixty francs on his board, thirty for lodging, twenty morefrancs in going to the theatre, and ten at Blosse's reading room--onehundred and twenty francs in all, and now he had just a hundred andtwenty francs in hand. 

"Your story is mine, monsieur, and the story of ten or twelve hundredyoung fellows besides who come from the country to Paris every year. There are others even worse off than we are. Do you see that theatre?"he continued, indicating the turrets of the Odeon. "There came one dayto lodge in one of the houses in the square a man of talent who hadfallen into the lowest depths of poverty. He was married, in additionto the misfortunes which we share with him, to a wife whom he loved;and the poorer or the richer, as you will, by two children. He wasburdened with debt, but he put his faith in his pen. He took a comedyin five acts to the Odeon; the comedy was accepted, the managementarranged to bring it out, the actors learned their parts, the stagemanager urged on the rehearsals. Five several bits of luck, fivedramas to be performed in real life, and far harder tasks than thewriting of a five-act play. The poor author lodged in a garret; youcan see the place from here. He drained his last resources to liveuntil the first representation; his wife pawned her clothes, they alllived on dry bread. On the day of the final rehearsal, the householdowed fifty francs in the Quarter to the baker, the milkwoman, and theporter. The author had only the strictly necessary clothes--a coat, ashirt, trousers, a waistcoat, and a pair of boots. He felt sure of hissuccess; he kissed his wife. The end of their troubles was at hand. 'At last! There is nothing against us now, ' cried he. --'Yes, there isfire, ' said his wife; 'look, the Odeon is on fire!'--The Odeon was onfire, monsieur. So do not you complain. You have clothes, you haveneither wife nor child, you have a hundred and twenty francs foremergencies in your pocket, and you owe no one a penny. --Well, thepiece went through a hundred and fifty representations at the TheatreLouvois. The King allowed the author a pension. 'Genius is patience, 'as Buffon said. And patience after all is a man's nearest approach toNature's processes of creation. What is Art, monsieur, but Natureconcentrated?"

By this time the young men were striding along the walks of theLuxembourg, and in no long time Lucien learned the name of thestranger who was doing his best to administer comfort. That name hassince grown famous. Daniel d'Arthez is one of the most illustrious ofliving men of letters; one of the rare few who show us an example of"a noble gift with a noble nature combined, " to quote a poet's finethought. 

"There is no cheap route to greatness, " Daniel went on in his kindvoice. "The works of Genius are watered with tears. The gift that isin you, like an existence in the physical world, passes throughchildhood and its maladies. Nature sweeps away sickly or deformedcreatures, and Society rejects an imperfectly developed talent. Anyman who means to rise above the rest must make ready for a struggleand be undaunted by difficulties. A great writer is a martyr who doesnot die; that is all. --There is the stamp of genius on your forehead, "d'Arthez continued, enveloping Lucien by a glance; "but unless youhave within you the will of genius, unless you are gifted with angelicpatience, unless, no matter how far the freaks of Fate have set youfrom your destined goal, you can find the way to your Infinite as theturtles in the Indies find their way to the ocean, you had better giveup at once. "

"Then do you yourself expect these ordeals?" asked Lucien. 

"Trials of every kind, slander and treachery, and effrontery andcunning, the rivals who act unfairly, and the keen competition of theliterary market, " his companion said resignedly. "What is a firstloss, if only your work was good?"

"Will you look at mine and give me your opinion?" asked Lucien. 

"So be it, " said d'Arthez. "I am living in the Rue des Quatre-Vents. Desplein, one of the most illustrious men of genius in our time, thegreatest surgeon that the world has known, once endured the martyrdomof early struggles with the first difficulties of a glorious career inthe same house. I think of that every night, and the thought gives methe stock of courage that I need every morning. I am living in thevery room where, like Rousseau, he had no Theresa. Come in an hour'stime. I shall be in. "

The poets grasped each other's hands with a rush of melancholy andtender feeling inexpressible in words, and went their separate ways;Lucien to fetch his manuscript, Daniel d'Arthez to pawn his watch andbuy a couple of faggots. The weather was cold, and his new-foundfriend should find a fire in his room. 

Lucien was punctual. He noticed at once that the house was of an evenpoorer class than the Hotel de Cluny. A staircase gradually becamevisible at the further end of a dark passage; he mounted to the fifthfloor, and found d'Arthez's room. 

A bookcase of dark-stained wood, with rows of labeled cardboard caseson the shelves, stood between the two crazy windows. A gaunt, paintedwooden bedstead, of the kind seen in school dormitories, anight-table, picked up cheaply somewhere, and a couple of horsehairarmchairs, filled the further end of the room. The wall-paper, aHighland plaid pattern, was glazed over with the grime of years. Between the window and the grate stood a long table littered withpapers, and opposite the fireplace there was a cheap mahogany chest ofdrawers. A second-hand carpet covered the floor--a necessary luxury, for it saved firing. A common office armchair, cushioned with leather, crimson once, but now hoary with wear, was drawn up to the table. Addhalf-a-dozen rickety chairs, and you have a complete list of thefurniture. Lucien noticed an old-fashioned candle-sconce for acard-table, with an adjustable screen attached, and wondered to seefour wax candles in the sockets. D'Arthez explained that he could notendure the smell of tallow, a little trait denoting great delicacy ofsense perception, and the exquisite sensibility which accompanies it. 

The reading lasted for seven hours. Daniel listened conscientiously, forbearing to interrupt by word or comment--one of the rarest proofsof good taste in a listener. 

"Well?" queried Lucien, laying the manuscript on the chimney-piece. 

"You have made a good start on the right way, " d'Arthez answeredjudicially, "but you must go over your work again. You must strike outa different style for yourself if you do not mean to ape Sir WalterScott, for you have taken him for your model. You begin, for instance, as he begins, with long conversations to introduce your characters, and only when they have said their say does description and actionfollow. 

"This opposition, necessary in all work of a dramatic kind, comeslast. Just put the terms of the problem the other way round. Givedescriptions, to which our language lends itself so admirably, insteadof diffuse dialogue, magnificent in Scott's work, but colorless inyour own. Lead naturally up to your dialogue. Plunge straight into theaction. Treat your subject from different points of view, sometimes ina side-light, sometimes retrospectively; vary your methods, in fact, to diversify your work. You may be original while adapting the Scotsnovelist's form of dramatic dialogue to French history. There is nopassion in Scott's novels; he ignores passion, or perhaps it wasinterdicted by the hypocritical manners of his country. Woman for himis duty incarnate. His heroines, with possibly one or two exceptions, are all alike; he has drawn them all from the same model, as painterssay. They are, every one of them, descended from Clarissa Harlowe. Andreturning continually, as he did, to the same idea of woman, how couldhe do otherwise than produce a single type, varied only by degrees ofvividness in the coloring? Woman brings confusion into Society throughpassion. Passion gives infinite possibilities. Therefore depictpassion; you have one great resource open to you, foregone by thegreat genius for the sake of providing family reading for prudishEngland. In France you have the charming sinner, the brightly-coloredlife of Catholicism, contrasted with sombre Calvinistic figures on abackground of the times when passions ran higher than at any otherperiod of our history. 

"Every epoch which has left authentic records since the time ofCharles the Great calls for at least one romance. Some require four orfive; the periods of Louis XIV. , of Henry IV. , of Francis I. , forinstance. You would give us in this way a picturesque history ofFrance, with the costumes and furniture, the houses and theirinteriors, and domestic life, giving us the spirit of the time insteadof a laborious narration of ascertained facts. Then there is furtherscope for originality. You can remove some of the popular delusionswhich disfigure the memories of most of our kings. Be bold enough inthis first work of yours to rehabilitate the great magnificent figureof Catherine, whom you have sacrificed to the prejudices which stillcloud her name. And finally, paint Charles IX. For us as he reallywas, and not as Protestant writers have made him. Ten years ofpersistent work, and fame and fortune will be yours. "

By this time it was nine o'clock; Lucien followed the example set insecret by his future friend by asking him to dine at Eldon's, andspent twelve francs at that restaurant. During the dinner Danieladmitted Lucien into the secret of his hopes and studies. Danield'Arthez would not allow that any writer could attain to a pre-eminentrank without a profound knowledge of metaphysics. He was engaged inransacking the spoils of ancient and modern philosophy, and in theassimilation of it all; he would be like Moliere, a profoundphilosopher first, and a writer of comedies afterwards. He wasstudying the world of books and the living world about him--thoughtand fact. His friends were learned naturalists, young doctors ofmedicine, political writers and artists, a number of earnest studentsfull of promise. 

D'Arthez earned a living by conscientious and ill-paid work; he wrotearticles for encyclopaedias, dictionaries of biography and naturalscience, doing just enough to enable him to live while he followed hisown bent, and neither more nor less. He had a piece of imaginativework on hand, undertaken solely for the sake of studying the resourcesof language, an important psychological study in the form of a novel, unfinished as yet, for d'Arthez took it up or laid it down as thehumor took him, and kept it for days of great distress. D'Arthez'srevelations of himself were made very simply, but to Lucien he seemedlike an intellectual giant; and by eleven o'clock, when they left therestaurant, he began to feel a sudden, warm friendship for thisnature, unconscious of its loftiness, this unostentatious worth. 

Lucien took d'Arthez's advice unquestioningly, and followed it out tothe letter. The most magnificent palaces of fancy had been suddenlyflung open to him by a nobly-gifted mind, matured already by thoughtand critical examinations undertaken for their own sake, not forpublication, but for the solitary thinker's own satisfaction. Theburning coal had been laid on the lips of the poet of Angouleme, aword uttered by a hard student in Paris had fallen upon groundprepared to receive it in the provincial. Lucien set about recastinghis work. 

In his gladness at finding in the wilderness of Paris a natureabounding in generous and sympathetic feeling, the distinguishedprovincial did, as all young creatures hungering for affection arewont to do; he fastened, like a chronic disease, upon this one friendthat he had found. He called for D'Arthez on his way to theBibliotheque, walked with him on fine days in the Luxembourg Gardens, and went with his friend every evening as far as the door of hislodging-house after sitting next to him at Flicoteaux's. He pressedclose to his friend's side as a soldier might keep by a comrade on thefrozen Russian plains. 

During those early days of his acquaintance, he noticed, not withoutchagrin, that his presence imposed a certain restraint on the circleof Daniel's intimates. The talk of those superior beings of whomd'Arthez spoke to him with such concentrated enthusiasm kept withinthe bounds of a reserve but little in keeping with the evident warmthof their friendships. At these times Lucien discreetly took his leave, a feeling of curiosity mingling with the sense of something like painat the ostracism to which he was subjected by these strangers, who alladdressed each other by their Christian names. Each one of them, liked'Arthez, bore the stamp of genius upon his forehead. 

After some private opposition, overcome by d'Arthez without Lucien'sknowledge, the newcomer was at length judged worthy to make one of the_cenacle_ of lofty thinkers. Henceforward he was to be one of a littlegroup of young men who met almost every evening in d'Arthez's room, united by the keenest sympathies and by the earnestness of theirintellectual life. They all foresaw a great writer in d'Arthez; theylooked upon him as their chief since the loss of one of their number, a mystical genius, one of the most extraordinary intellects of theage. This former leader had gone back to his province for reasons onwhich it serves no purpose to enter, but Lucien often heard them speakof this absent friend as "Louis. " Several of the group were destinedto fall by the way; but others, like d'Arthez, have since won all thefame that was their due. A few details as to the circle will readilyexplain Lucien's strong feeling of interest and curiosity. 

One among those who still survive was Horace Bianchon, then ahouse-student at the Hotel-Dieu; later, a shining light at the Ecolede Paris, and now so well known that it is needless to give anydescription of his appearance, genius, or character. 

Next came Leon Giraud, that profound philosopher and bold theorist, turning all systems inside out, criticising, expressing, andformulating, dragging them all to the feet of his idol--Humanity;great even in his errors, for his honesty ennobled his mistakes. Anintrepid toiler, a conscientious scholar, he became the acknowledgedhead of a school of moralists and politicians. Time alone canpronounce upon the merits of his theories; but if his convictions havedrawn him into paths in which none of his old comrades tread, none theless he is still their faithful friend. 

Art was represented by Joseph Bridau, one of the best painters amongthe younger men. But for a too impressionable nature, which made havocof Joseph's heart, he might have continued the traditions of the greatItalian masters, though, for that matter, the last word has not yetbeen said concerning him. He combines Roman outline with Venetiancolor; but love is fatal to his work, love not merely transfixes hisheart, but sends his arrow through the brain, deranges the course ofhis life, and sets the victim describing the strangest zigzags. If themistress of the moment is too kind or too cruel, Joseph will send intothe Exhibition sketches where the drawing is clogged with color, orpictures finished under the stress of some imaginary woe, in which hegave his whole attention to the drawing, and left the color to takecare of itself. He is a constant disappointment to his friends and thepublic; yet Hoffmann would have worshiped him for his daringexperiments in the realms of art. When Bridau is wholly himself he isadmirable, and as praise is sweet to him, his disgust is great whenone praises the failures in which he alone discovers all that islacking in the eyes of the public. He is whimsical to the last degree. His friends have seen him destroy a finished picture because, in hiseyes, it looked too smooth. "It is overdone, " he would say; "it isniggling work. "

With his eccentric, yet lofty nature, with a nervous organization andall that it entails of torment and delight, the craving for perfectionbecomes morbid. Intellectually he is akin to Sterne, though he is nota literary worker. There is an indescribable piquancy about hisepigrams and sallies of thought. He is eloquent, he knows how to love, but the uncertainty that appears in his execution is a part of thevery nature of the man. The brotherhood loved him for the veryqualities which the philistine would style defects. 

Last among the living comes Fulgence Ridal. No writer of our timespossesses more of the exuberant spirit of pure comedy than this poet, careless of fame, who will fling his more commonplace productions totheatrical managers, and keep the most charming scenes in the seraglioof his brain for himself and his friends. Of the public he asks justsufficient to secure his independence, and then declines to doanything more. Indolent and prolific as Rossini, compelled, like greatpoet-comedians, like Moliere and Rabelais, to see both sides ofeverything, and all that is to be said both for and against, he is asceptic, ready to laugh at all things. Fulgence Ridal is a greatpractical philosopher. His worldly wisdom, his genius for observation, his contempt for fame ("fuss, " as he calls it) have not seared a kindheart. He is as energetic on behalf of another as he is careless wherehis own interests are concerned; and if he bestirs himself, it is fora friend. Living up to his Rabelaisian mask, he is no enemy to goodcheer, though he never goes out of his way to find it; he ismelancholy and gay. His friends dubbed him the "Dog of the Regiment. "You could have no better portrait of the man than his nickname. 

Three more of the band, at least as remarkable as the friends who havejust been sketched in outline, were destined to fall by the way. Ofthese, Meyraux was the first. Meyraux died after stirring up thefamous controversy between Cuvier and Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire, a greatquestion which divided the whole scientific world into two oppositecamps, with these two men of equal genius as leaders. This befell somemonths before the death of the champion of rigorous analytical scienceas opposed to the pantheism of one who is still living to bear anhonored name in Germany. Meyraux was the friend of that "Louis" ofwhom death was so soon to rob the intellectual world. 

With these two, both marked by death, and unknown to-day in spite oftheir wide knowledge and their genius, stands a third, MichelChrestien, the great Republican thinker, who dreamed of EuropeanFederation, and had no small share in bringing about theSaint-Simonian movement of 1830. A politician of the calibre ofSaint-Just and Danton, but simple, meek as a maid, and brimful ofillusions and loving-kindness; the owner of a singing voice whichwould have sent Mozart, or Weber, or Rossini into ecstasies, for hissinging of certain songs of Beranger's could intoxicate the heart inyou with poetry, or hope, or love--Michel Chrestien, poor as Lucien, poor as Daniel d'Arthez, as all the rest of his friends, gained aliving with the haphazard indifference of a Diogenes. He indexedlengthy works, he drew up prospectuses for booksellers, and kept hisdoctrines to himself, as the grave keeps the secrets of the dead. Yetthe gay bohemian of intellectual life, the great statesman who mighthave changed the face of the world, fell as a private soldier in thecloister of Saint-Merri; some shopkeeper's bullet struck down one ofthe noblest creatures that ever trod French soil, and Michel Chrestiendied for other doctrines than his own. His Federation scheme was moredangerous to the aristocracy of Europe than the Republican propaganda;it was more feasible and less extravagant than the hideous doctrinesof indefinite liberty proclaimed by the young madcaps who assume thecharacter of heirs of the Convention. All who knew the noble plebeianwept for him; there is not one of them but remembers, and oftenremembers, a great obscure politician. 

Esteem and friendship kept the peace between the extremes of hostileopinion and conviction represented in the brotherhood. Daniel d'Arthezcame of a good family in Picardy. His belief in the Monarchy was quiteas strong as Michel Chrestien's faith in European Federation. FulgenceRidal scoffed at Leon Giraud's philosophical doctrines, while Giraudhimself prophesied for d'Arthez's benefit the approaching end ofChristianity and the extinction of the institution of the family. Michel Chrestien, a believer in the religion of Christ, the divinelawgiver, who taught the equality of men, would defend the immortalityof the soul from Bianchon's scalpel, for Horace Bianchon was beforeall things an analyst. 

There was plenty of discussion, but no bickering. Vanity was notengaged, for the speakers were also the audience. They would talk overtheir work among themselves and take counsel of each other with thedelightful openness of youth. If the matter in hand was serious, theopponent would leave his own position to enter into his friend's pointof view; and being an impartial judge in a matter outside his ownsphere, would prove the better helper; envy, the hideous treasure ofdisappointment, abortive talent, failure, and mortified vanity, wasquite unknown among them. All of them, moreover, were going theirseparate ways. For these reasons, Lucien and others admitted to theirsociety felt at their ease in it. Wherever you find real talent, youwill find frank good fellowship and sincerity, and no sort ofpretension, the wit that caresses the intellect and never is aimed atself-love. 

When the first nervousness, caused by respect, wore off, it wasunspeakably pleasant to make one of this elect company of youth. Familiarity did not exclude in each a consciousness of his own value, nor a profound esteem for his neighbor; and finally, as every memberof the circle felt that he could afford to receive or to give, no onemade a difficulty of accepting. Talk was unflagging, full of charm, and ranging over the most varied topics; words light as arrows sped tothe mark. There was a strange contrast between the dire materialpoverty in which the young men lived and the splendor of theirintellectual wealth. They looked upon the practical problems ofexistence simply as matter for friendly jokes. The cold weatherhappened to set in early that year. Five of d'Arthez's friendsappeared one day, each concealing firewood under his cloak; the sameidea had occurred to the five, as it sometimes happens that all theguests at a picnic are inspired with the notion of bringing a pie astheir contribution. 

All of them were gifted with the moral beauty which reacts upon thephysical form, and, no less than work and vigils, overlays a youthfulface with a shade of divine gold; purity of life and the fire ofthought had brought refinement and regularity into features somewhatpinched and rugged. The poet's amplitude of brow was a strikingcharacteristic common to them all; the bright, sparkling eyes told ofcleanliness of life. The hardships of penury, when they were felt atall, were born so gaily and embraced with such enthusiasm, that theyhad left no trace to mar the serenity peculiar to the faces of theyoung who have no grave errors laid to their charge as yet, who havenot stooped to any of the base compromises wrung from impatience ofpoverty by the strong desire to succeed. The temptation to use anymeans to this end is the greater since that men of letters are lenientwith bad faith and extend an easy indulgence to treachery. 

There is an element in friendship which doubles its charm and rendersit indissoluble--a sense of certainty which is lacking in love. Theseyoung men were sure of themselves and of each other; the enemy of onewas the enemy of all; the most urgent personal considerations wouldhave been shattered if they had clashed with the sacred solidarity oftheir fellowship. All alike incapable of disloyalty, they could opposea formidable No to any accusation brought against the absent anddefend them with perfect confidence. With a like nobility of natureand strength of feeling, it was possible to think and speak freely onall matters of intellectual or scientific interest; hence the honestyof their friendships, the gaiety of their talk, and with thisintellectual freedom of the community there was no fear of beingmisunderstood; they stood upon no ceremony with each other; theyshared their troubles and joys, and gave thought and sympathy fromfull hearts. The charming delicacy of feeling which makes the tale of_Deux Amis_ a treasury for great souls, was the rule of their dailylife. It may be imagined, therefore, that their standard ofrequirements was not an easy one; they were too conscious of theirworth, too well aware of their happiness, to care to trouble theirlife with the admixture of a new and unknown element. 

This federation of interests and affection lasted for twenty yearswithout a collision or disappointment. Death alone could thin thenumbers of the noble Pleiades, taking first Louis Lambert, laterMeyraux and Michel Chrestien. 

When Michel Chrestien fell in 1832 his friends went, in spite of theperils of the step, to find his body at Saint-Merri; and HoraceBianchon, Daniel d'Arthez, Leon Giraud, Joseph Bridau, and FulgenceRidal performed the last duties to the dead, between two politicalfires. By night they buried their beloved in the cemetery ofPere-Lachaise; Horace Bianchon, undaunted by the difficulties, clearedthem away one after another--it was he indeed who besought theauthorities for permission to bury the fallen insurgent and confessedto his old friendship with the dead Federalist. The little group offriends present at the funeral with those five great men will neverforget that touching scene. 

As you walk in the trim cemetery you will see a grave purchased inperpetuity, a grass-covered mound with a dark wooden cross above it, and the name in large red letters--MICHEL CHRESTIEN. There is no othermonument like it. The friends thought to pay a tribute to the sternlysimple nature of the man by the simplicity of the record of his death. 

So, in that chilly garret, the fairest dreams of friendship wererealized. These men were brothers leading lives of intellectualeffort, loyally helping each other, making no reservations, not evenof their worst thoughts; men of vast acquirements, natures tried inthe crucible of poverty. Once admitted as an equal among such electsouls, Lucien represented beauty and poetry. They admired the sonnetswhich he read to them; they would ask him for a sonnet as he would askMichel Chrestien for a song. And, in the desert of Paris, Lucien foundan oasis in the Rue des Quatre-Vents. 

At the beginning of October, Lucien had spent the last of his money ona little firewood; he was half-way through the task of recasting hiswork, the most strenuous of all toil, and he was penniless. As forDaniel d'Arthez, burning blocks of spent tan, and facing poverty likea hero, not a word of complaint came from him; he was as sober as anyelderly spinster, and methodical as a miser. This courage called outLucien's courage; he had only newly come into the circle, and shrankwith invincible repugnance from speaking of his straits. One morninghe went out, manuscript in hand, and reached the Rue du Coq; he wouldsell _The Archer of Charles IX. _ to Doguereau; but Doguereau was out. Lucien little knew how indulgent great natures can be to theweaknesses of others. Every one of the friends had thought of thepeculiar troubles besetting the poetic temperament, of the prostrationwhich follows upon the struggle, when the soul has been overwrought bythe contemplation of that nature which it is the task of art toreproduce. And strong as they were to endure their own ills, they feltkeenly for Lucien's distress; they guessed that his stock of money wasfailing; and after all the pleasant evenings spent in friendly talkand deep meditations, after the poetry, the confidences, the boldflights over the fields of thought or into the far future of thenations, yet another trait was to prove how little Lucien hadunderstood these new friends of his. 

"Lucien, dear fellow, " said Daniel, "you did not dine at Flicoteaux'syesterday, and we know why. "

Lucien could not keep back the overflowing tears. 

"You showed a want of confidence in us, " said Michel Chrestien; "weshall chalk that up over the chimney, and when we have scored ten wewill----"

"We have all of us found a bit of extra work, " said Bianchon; "for myown part, I have been looking after a rich patient for Desplein;d'Arthez has written an article for the _Revue Encyclopedique_;Chrestien thought of going out to sing in the Champs Elysees of anevening with a pocket-handkerchief and four candles, but he found apamphlet to write instead for a man who has a mind to go intopolitics, and gave his employer six hundred francs worth ofMachiavelli; Leon Giraud borrowed fifty francs of his publisher, Joseph sold one or two sketches; and Fulgence's piece was given onSunday, and there was a full house. "

"Here are two hundred francs, " said Daniel, "and let us say no moreabout it. "

"Why, if he is not going to hug us all as if we had done somethingextraordinary!" cried Chrestien. 

Lucien, meanwhile, had written to the home circle. His letter was amasterpiece of sensibility and goodwill, as well as a sharp cry wrungfrom him by distress. The answers which he received the next day willgive some idea of the delight that Lucien took in this livingencyclopedia of angelic spirits, each of whom bore the stamp of theart or science which he followed:--

 _David Sechard to Lucien. _

 "MY DEAR LUCIEN, --Enclosed herewith is a bill at ninety days, payable to your order, for two hundred francs. You can draw on M. Metivier, paper merchant, our Paris correspondent in the Rue Serpente. My good Lucien, we have absolutely nothing. Eve has undertaken the charge of the printing-house, and works at her task with such devotion, patience, and industry, that I bless heaven for giving me such an angel for a wife. She herself says that it is impossible to send you the least help. But I think, my friend now that you are started in so promising a way, with such great and noble hearts for your companions, that you can hardly fail to reach the greatness to which you were born, aided as you are by intelligence almost divine in Daniel d'Arthez and Michel Chrestien and Leon Giraud, and counseled by Meyraux and Bianchon and Ridal, whom we have come to know through your dear letter. So I have drawn this bill without Eve's knowledge, and I will contrive somehow to meet it when the time comes. Keep on your way, Lucien; it is rough, but it will be glorious. I can bear anything but the thought of you sinking into the sloughs of Paris, of which I saw so much. Have sufficient strength of mind to do as you are doing, and keep out of scrapes and bad company, wild young fellows and men of letters of a certain stamp, whom I learned to take at their just valuation when I lived in Paris. Be a worthy compeer of the divine spirits whom we have learned to love through you. Your life will soon meet with its reward. Farewell, dearest brother; you have sent transports of joy to my heart. I did not expect such courage of you. 

"DAVID. "

 _Eve Sechard to Lucien. _

 "DEAR, --your letter made all of us cry. As for the noble hearts to whom your good angel surely led you, tell them that a mother and a poor young wife will pray for them night and morning; and if the most fervent prayers can reach the Throne of God, surely they will bring blessings upon you all. Their names are engraved upon my heart. Ah! some day I shall see your friends; I will go to Paris, if I have to walk the whole way, to thank them for their friendship for you, for to me the thought has been like balm to smarting wounds. We are working like day laborers here, dear. This husband of mine, the unknown great man whom I love more and more every day, as I discover moment by moment the wealth of his nature, leaves the printing-house more and more to me. Why, I guess. Our poverty, yours, and ours, and our mother's, is heartbreaking to him. Our adored David is a Prometheus gnawed by a vulture, a haggard, sharp-beaked regret. As for himself, noble fellow, he scarcely thinks of himself; he is hoping to make a fortune for _us_. He spends his whole time in experiments in paper-making; he begged me to take his place and look after the business, and gives me as much help as his preoccupation allows. Alas! I shall be a mother soon. That should have been a crowning joy; but as things are, it saddens me. Poor mother! she has grown young again; she has found strength to go back to her tiring nursing. We should be happy if it were not for these money cares. Old Father Sechard will not give his son a farthing. David went over to see if he could borrow a little for you, for we were in despair over your letter. 'I know Lucien, ' David said; 'he will lose his head and do something rash. '--I gave him a good scolding. 'My brother disappoint us in any way!' I told him, 'Lucien knows that I should die of sorrow. '--Mother and I have pawned a few things; David does not know about it, mother will redeem them as soon as she has made a little money. In this way we have managed to put together a hundred francs, which I am sending you by the coach. If I did not answer your last letter, do not remember it against me, dear; we were working all night just then. I have been working like a man. Oh, I had no idea that I was so strong!

 "Mme. De Bargeton is a heartless woman; she has no soul; even if she cared for you no longer, she owed it to herself to use her influence for you and to help you when she had torn you from us to plunge you into that dreadful sea of Paris. Only by the special blessing of Heaven could you have met with true friends there among those crowds of men and innumerable interests. She is not worth a regret. I used to wish that there might be some devoted woman always with you, a second myself; but now I know that your friends will take my place, and I am happy. Spread your wings, my dear great genius, you will be our pride as well as our beloved. 

"EVE. "

 "My darling, " the mother wrote, "I can only add my blessing to all that your sister says, and assure you that you are more in my thoughts and in my prayers (alas!) than those whom I see daily; for some hearts, the absent are always in the right, and so it is with the heart of your mother. "

So two days after the loan was offered so graciously, Lucien repaidit. Perhaps life had never seemed so bright to him as at that moment;but the touch of self-love in his joy did not escape the delicatesensibility and searching eyes of his friends. 

"Any one might think that you were afraid to owe us anything, "exclaimed Fulgence. 

"Oh! the pleasure that he takes in returning the money is a veryserious symptom to my mind, " said Michel Chrestien. "It confirms someobservations of my own. There is a spice of vanity in Lucien. "

"He is a poet, " said d'Arthez. 

"But do you grudge me such a very natural feeling?" asked Lucien. 

"We should bear in mind that he did not hide it, " said Leon Giraud;"he is still open with us; but I am afraid that he may come to feelshy of us. "

"And why?" Lucien asked. 

"We can read your thoughts, " answered Joseph Bridau. 

"There is a diabolical spirit in you that will seek to justify courseswhich are utterly contrary to our principles. Instead of being asophist in theory, you will be a sophist in practice. "

"Ah! I am afraid of that, " said d'Arthez. "You will carry on admirabledebates in your own mind, Lucien, and take up a lofty position intheory, and end by blameworthy actions. You will never be at one withyourself. "

"What ground have you for these charges?"

"Thy vanity, dear poet, is so great that it intrudes itself even intothy friendships!" cried Fulgence. "All vanity of that sort is asymptom of shocking egoism, and egoism poisons friendship. "

"Oh! dear, " said Lucien, "you cannot know how much I love you all. "

"If you loved us as we love you, would you have been in such a hurryto return the money which we had such pleasure in lending? or havemade so much of it?"

"We don't lend here; we give, " said Joseph Bridau roughly. 

"Don't think us unkind, dear boy, " said Michel Chrestien; "we arelooking forward. We are afraid lest some day you may prefer a pettyrevenge to the joys of pure friendship. Read Goethe's _Tasso_, the greatmaster's greatest work, and you will see how the poet-hero lovedgorgeous stuffs and banquets and triumph and applause. Very well, beTasso without his folly. Perhaps the world and its pleasures temptyou? Stay with us. Carry all the cravings of vanity into the world ofimagination. Transpose folly. Keep virtue for daily wear, and letimagination run riot, instead of doing, as d'Arthez says, thinkinghigh thoughts and living beneath them. "

Lucien hung his head. His friends were right. 

"I confess that you are stronger than I, " he said, with a charmingglance at them. "My back and shoulders are not made to bear the burdenof Paris life; I cannot struggle bravely. We are born with differenttemperaments and faculties, and you know better than I that faults andvirtues have their reverse side. I am tired already, I confess. "

"We will stand by you, " said d'Arthez; "it is just in these ways thata faithful friendship is of use. "

"The help that I have just received is precarious, and every one of usis just as poor as another; want will soon overtake me again. Chrestien, at the service of the first that hires him, can do nothingwith the publishers; Bianchon is quite out of it; d'Arthez'sbooksellers only deal in scientific and technical books--they have noconnection with publishers of new literature; and as for Horace andFulgence Ridal and Bridau, their work lies miles away from thebooksellers. There is no help for it; I must make up my mind one wayor another. "

"Stick by us, and make up your mind to it, " said Bianchon. "Bear upbravely, and trust in hard work. "

"But what is hardship for you is death for me, " Lucien put in quickly. 

"Before the cock crows thrice, " smiled Leon Giraud, "this man willbetray the cause of work for an idle life and the vices of Paris. "

"Where has work brought you?" asked Lucien, laughing. 

"When you start out from Paris for Italy, you don't find Romehalf-way, " said Joseph Bridau. "You want your pease to grow readybuttered for you. "

The conversation ended in a joke, and they changed the subject. Lucien's friends, with their perspicacity and delicacy of heart, triedto efface the memory of the little quarrel; but Lucien knewthenceforward that it was no easy matter to deceive them. He soon fellinto despair, which he was careful to hide from such stern mentors ashe imagined them to be; and the Southern temper that runs so easilythrough the whole gamut of mental dispositions, set him making themost contradictory resolutions. 

Again and again he talked of making the plunge into journalism; andtime after time did his friends reply with a "Mind you do nothing ofthe sort!"

"It would be the tomb of the beautiful, gracious Lucien whom we loveand know, " said d'Arthez. 

"You would not hold out for long between the two extremes of toil andpleasure which make up a journalist's life, and resistance is the veryfoundation of virtue. You would be so delighted to exercise your powerof life and death over the offspring of the brain, that you would bean out-and-out journalist in two months' time. To be a journalist--that is to turn Herod in the republic of letters. The man who willsay anything will end by sticking at nothing. That was Napoleon'smaxim, and it explains itself. "

"But you would be with me, would you not?" asked Lucien. 

"Not by that time, " said Fulgence. "If you were a journalist, youwould no more think of us than the Opera girl in all her glory, withher adorers and her silk-lined carriage, thinks of the village at homeand her cows and her sabots. You could never resist the temptation topen a witticism, though it should bring tears to a friend's eyes. Icome across journalists in theatre lobbies; it makes me shudder to seethem. Journalism is an inferno, a bottomless pit of iniquity andtreachery and lies; no one can traverse it undefiled, unless, likeDante, he is protected by Virgil's sacred laurel. "

But the more the set of friends opposed the idea of journalism, themore Lucien's desire to know its perils grew and tempted him. He beganto debate within his own mind; was it not ridiculous to allow want tofind him a second time defenceless? He bethought him of the failure ofhis attempts to dispose of his first novel, and felt but littletempted to begin a second. How, besides, was he to live while he waswriting another romance? One month of privation had exhausted hisstock of patience. Why should he not do nobly that which journalistsdid ignobly and without principle? His friends insulted him with theirdoubts; he would convince them of his strength of mind. Some day, perhaps, he would be of use to them; he would be the herald of theirfame!

"And what sort of a friendship is it which recoils from complicity?"demanded he one evening of Michel Chrestien; Lucien and Leon Giraudwere walking home with their friend. 

"We shrink from nothing, " Michel Chrestien made reply. "If you were sounlucky as to kill your mistress, I would help you to hide your crime, and could still respect you; but if you were to turn spy, I shouldshun you with abhorrence, for a spy is systematically shameless andbase. There you have journalism summed up in a sentence. Friendshipcan pardon error and the hasty impulse of passion; it is bound to beinexorable when a man deliberately traffics in his own soul, andintellect, and opinions. "

"Why cannot I turn journalist to sell my volume of poetry and thenovel, and then give up at once?"

"Machiavelli might do so, but not Lucien de Rubempre, " said LeonGiraud. 

"Very well, " exclaimed Lucien; "I will show you that I can do as muchas Machiavelli. "

"Oh!" cried Michel, grasping Leon's hand, "you have done it, Leon. --Lucien, " he continued, "you have three hundred francs in hand; youcan live comfortably for three months; very well, then, work hard andwrite another romance. D'Arthez and Fulgence will help you with theplot; you will improve, you will be a novelist. And I, meanwhile, willenter one of those _lupanars_ of thought; for three months I will be ajournalist. I will sell your books to some bookseller or other byattacking his publications; I will write the articles myself; I willget others for you. We will organize a success; you shall be a greatman, and still remain our Lucien. "

"You must despise me very much, if you think that I should perishwhile you escape, " said the poet. 

"O Lord, forgive him; it is a child!" cried Michel Chrestien. 

When Lucien's intellect had been stimulated by the evenings spent ind'Arthez's garret, he had made some study of the jokes and articles inthe smaller newspapers. He was at least the equal, he felt, of thewittiest contributors; in private he tried some mental gymnastics ofthe kind, and went out one morning with the triumphant idea of findingsome colonel of such light skirmishers of the press and enlisting intheir ranks. He dressed in his best and crossed the bridges, thinkingas he went that authors, journalists, and men of letters, his futurecomrades, in short, would show him rather more kindness anddisinterestedness than the two species of booksellers who had sodashed his hopes. He should meet with fellow-feeling, and something ofthe kindly and grateful affection which he found in the _cenacle_ of theRue des Quatre-Vents. Tormented by emotion, consequent upon thepresentiments to which men of imagination cling so fondly, halfbelieving, half battling with their belief in them, he arrived in theRue Saint-Fiacre off the Boulevard Montmartre. Before a house, occupied by the offices of a small newspaper, he stopped, and at thesight of it his heart began to throb as heavily as the pulses of ayouth upon the threshold of some evil haunt. 

Nevertheless, upstairs he went, and found the offices in the low_entresol_ between the ground floor and the first story. The first roomwas divided down the middle by a partition, the lower half of solidwood, the upper lattice work to the ceiling. In this apartment Luciendiscovered a one-armed pensioner supporting several reams of paper onhis head with his remaining hand, while between his teeth he held thepassbook which the Inland Revenue Department requires every newspaperto produce with each issue. This ill-favored individual, owner of ayellow countenance covered with red excrescences, to which he owed hisnickname of "Coloquinte, " indicated a personage behind the lattice asthe Cerberus of the paper. This was an elderly officer with a medal onhis chest and a silk skull-cap on his head; his nose was almost hiddenby a pair of grizzled moustaches, and his person was hidden ascompletely in an ample blue overcoat as the body of the turtle in itscarapace. 

"From what date do you wish your subscription to commence, sir?"inquired the Emperor's officer. 

"I did not come about a subscription, " returned Lucien. Looking abouthim, he saw a placard fastened on a door, corresponding to the one bywhich he had entered, and read the words--EDITOR'S OFFICE, and below, in smaller letters, _No admittance except on business_. 

"A complaint, I expect?" replied the veteran. "Ah! yes; we have beenhard on Mariette. What would you have? I don't know the why andwherefore of it yet. --But if you want satisfaction, I am ready foryou, " he added, glancing at a collection of small arms and foilsstacked in a corner, the armory of the modern warrior. 

"That was still further from my intention, sir. I have come to speakto the editor. "

"Nobody is ever here before four o'clock. "

"Look you here, Giroudeau, old chap, " remarked a voice, "I make iteleven columns; eleven columns at five francs apiece is fifty-fivefrancs, and I have only been paid forty; so you owe me another fifteenfrancs, as I have been telling you. "

These words proceeded from a little weasel-face, pallid andsemi-transparent as the half-boiled white of an egg; two slits of eyeslooked out of it, mild blue in tint, but appallingly malignant inexpression; and the owner, an insignificant young man, was completelyhidden by the veteran's opaque person. It was a blood-curdling voice, a sound between the mewing of a cat and the wheezy chokings of ahyena. 

"Yes, yes, my little militiaman, " retorted he of the medal, "but youare counting the headings and white lines. I have Finot's instructionsto add up the totals of the lines, and to divide them by the propernumber for each column; and after I performed that concentratingoperation on your copy, there were three columns less. "

"He doesn't pay for the blanks, the Jew! He reckons them in thoughwhen he sends up the total of his work to his partner, and he getspaid for them too. I will go and see Etienne Lousteau, Vernou----"

"I cannot go beyond my orders, my boy, " said the veteran. "What! doyou cry out against your foster-mother for a matter of fifteen francs?you that turn out an article as easily as I smoke a cigar. Fifteenfrancs! why, you will give a bowl of punch to your friends, or win anextra game of billiards, and there's an end of it!"

"Finot's savings will cost him very dear, " said the contributor as hetook his departure. 

"Now, would not anybody think that he was Rousseau and Voltaire rolledin one?" the cashier remarked to himself as he glanced at Lucien. 

"I will come in again at four, sir, " said Lucien. 

While the argument proceeded, Lucien had been looking about him. Hesaw upon the walls the portraits of Benjamin Constant, General Foy, and the seventeen illustrious orators of the Left, interspersed withcaricatures at the expense of the Government; but he looked moreparticularly at the door of the sanctuary where, no doubt, the paperwas elaborated, the witty paper that amused him daily, and enjoyed theprivilege of ridiculing kings and the most portentous events, ofcalling anything and everything in question with a jest. Then hesauntered along the boulevards. It was an entirely novel amusement;and so agreeable did he find it, that, looking at the turret clocks, he saw the hour hands were pointing to four, and only then rememberedthat he had not breakfasted. 

He went at once in the direction of the Rue Saint-Fiacre, climbed thestair, and opened the door. 

The veteran officer was absent; but the old pensioner, sitting on apile of stamped papers, was munching a crust and acting as sentinelresignedly. Coloquinte was as much accustomed to his work in theoffice as to the fatigue duty of former days, understanding as much oras little about it as the why and wherefore of forced marches made bythe Emperor's orders. Lucien was inspired with the bold idea ofdeceiving that formidable functionary. He settled his hat on his head, and walked into the editor's office as if he were quite at home. 

Looking eagerly about him, he beheld a round table covered with agreen cloth, and half-a-dozen cherry-wood chairs, newly reseated withstraw. The colored brick floor had not been waxed, but it was clean;so clean that the public, evidently, seldom entered the room. Therewas a mirror above the chimney-piece, and on the ledge below, amid asprinkling of visiting-cards, stood a shopkeeper's clock, smotheredwith dust, and a couple of candlesticks with tallow dips thrust intotheir sockets. A few antique newspapers lay on the table beside aninkstand containing some black lacquer-like substance, and acollection of quill pens twisted into stars. Sundry dirty scraps ofpaper, covered with almost undecipherable hieroglyphs, proved to bemanuscript articles torn across the top by the compositor to check offthe sheets as they were set up. He admired a few rather clevercaricatures, sketched on bits of brown paper by somebody who evidentlyhad tried to kill time by killing something else to keep his hand in. 

Other works of art were pinned in the cheap sea-green wall-paper. These consisted of nine pen-and-ink illustrations for _Le Solitaire_. The work had attained to such an unheard-of European popularity, thatjournalists evidently were tired of it. --"The Solitary makes his firstappearance in the provinces; sensation among the women. --The Solitaryperused at a chateau. --Effect of the Solitary on domestic animals. --The Solitary explained to savage tribes, with the most brilliantresults. --The Solitary translated into Chinese and presented by theauthor to the Emperor at Pekin. --The Mont Sauvage, Rape of Elodie. "--(Lucien though this caricature very shocking, but he could not helplaughing at it. )--"The Solitary under a canopy conducted in triumphalprocession by the newspapers. --The Solitary breaks the press tosplinters, and wounds the printers. --Read backwards, the superiorbeauties of the Solitary produce a sensation at the Academie. "--On anewspaper-wrapper Lucien noticed a sketch of a contributor holding outhis hat, and beneath it the words, "Finot! my hundred francs, " and aname, since grown more notorious than famous. 

Between the window and the chimney-piece stood a writing-table, amahogany armchair, and a waste-paper basket on a strip of hearth-rug;the dust lay thick on all these objects. There were short curtains inthe windows. About a score of new books lay on the writing-table, deposited there apparently during the day, together with prints, music, snuff-boxes of the "Charter" pattern, a copy of the ninthedition of _Le Solitaire_ (the great joke of the moment), and some tenunopened letters. 

Lucien had taken stock of this strange furniture, and made reflectionsof the most exhaustive kind upon it, when, the clock striking five, hereturned to question the pensioner. Coloquinte had finished his crust, and was waiting with the patience of a commissionaire, for the man ofmedals, who perhaps was taking an airing on the boulevard. 

At this conjuncture the rustle of a dress sounded on the stair, andthe light unmistakable footstep of a woman on the threshold. Thenewcomer was passably pretty. She addressed herself to Lucien. 

"Sir, " she said, "I know why you cry up Mlle. Virginie's hats so much;and I have come to put down my name for a year's subscription in thefirst place; but tell me your conditions----"

"I am not connected with the paper, madame. "

"Oh!"

"A subscription dating from October?" inquired the pensioner. 

"What does the lady want to know?" asked the veteran, reappearing onthe scene. 

The fair milliner and the retired military man were soon deep inconverse; and when Lucien, beginning to lose patience, came back tothe first room, he heard the conclusion of the matter. 

"Why, I shall be delighted, quite delighted, sir. Mlle. Florentine cancome to my shop and choose anything she likes. Ribbons are in mydepartment. So it is all quite settled. You will say no more aboutVirginie, a botcher that cannot design a new shape, while I have ideasof my own, I have. "

Lucien heard a sound as of coins dropping into a cashbox, and theveteran began to make up his books for the day. 

"I have been waiting here for an hour, sir, " Lucien began, looking nota little annoyed. 

"And 'they' have not come yet!" exclaimed Napoleon's veteran, civillyfeigning concern. "I am not surprised at that. It is some time since Ihave seen 'them' here. It is the middle of the month, you see. Thosefine fellows only turn up on pay days--the 29th or the 30th. "

"And M. Finot?" asked Lucien, having caught the editor's name. 

"He is in the Rue Feydeau, that's where he lives. Coloquinte, oldchap, just take him everything that has come in to-day when you gowith the paper to the printers. "

"Where is the newspaper put together?" Lucien said to himself. 

"The newspaper?" repeated the officer, as he received the rest of thestamp money from Coloquinte, "the newspaper?--broum! broum!--(Mind youare round at the printers' by six o'clock to-morrow, old chap, to sendoff the porters. )--The newspaper, sir, is written in the street, atthe writers' houses, in the printing-office between eleven and twelveo'clock at night. In the Emperor's time, sir, these shops for spoiledpaper were not known. Oh! he would have cleared them out with four menand a corporal; they would not have come over _him_ with their talk. Butthat is enough of prattling. If my nephew finds it worth his while, and so long as they write for the son of the Other (broum! broum!)----after all, there is no harm in that. Ah! by the way, subscribersdon't seem to me to be advancing in serried columns; I shall leave mypost. "

"You seem to know all about the newspaper, sir, " Lucien began. 

"From a business point of view, broum! broum!" coughed the soldier, clearing his throat. "From three to five francs per column, accordingto ability. --Fifty lines to a column, forty letters to a line; noblanks; there you are! As for the staff, they are queer fish, littleyoungsters whom I wouldn't take on for the commissariat; and becausethey make fly tracks on sheets of white paper, they look down, forsooth, on an old Captain of Dragoons of the Guard, that retiredwith a major's rank after entering every European capital withNapoleon. "

The soldier of Napoleon brushed his coat, and made as if he would goout, but Lucien, swept to the door, had courage enough to make astand. 

"I came to be a contributor of the paper, " he said. "I am full ofrespect, I vow and declare, for a captain of the Imperial Guard, thosemen of bronze----"

"Well said, my little civilian, there are several kinds ofcontributors; which kind do you wish to be?" replied the trooper, bearing down on Lucien, and descending the stairs. At the foot of theflight he stopped, but it was only to light a cigar at the porter'sbox. 

"If any subscribers come, you see them and take note of them, MotherChollet. --Simply subscribers, never know anything but subscribers, " headded, seeing that Lucien followed him. "Finot is my nephew; he is theonly one of my family that has done anything to relieve me in myposition. So when anybody comes to pick a quarrel with Finot, he findsold Giroudeau, Captain of the Dragoons of the Guard, that set out as aprivate in a cavalry regiment in the army of the Sambre-et-Meuse, andwas fencing-master for five years to the First Hussars, army of Italy!One, two, and the man that had any complaints to make would be turnedoff into the dark, " he added, making a lunge. "Now writers, my boy, are in different corps; there is the writer who writes and draws hispay; there is the writer who writes and gets nothing (a volunteer wecall him); and, lastly, there is the writer who writes nothing, and heis by no means the stupidest, for he makes no mistakes; he giveshimself out for a literary man, he is on the paper, he treats us todinners, he loafs about the theatres, he keeps an actress, he is verywell off. What do you mean to be?"

"The man that does good work and gets good pay. "

"You are like the recruits. They all want to be marshals of France. Take old Giroudeau's word for it, and turn right about, indouble-quick time, and go and pick up nails in the gutter like thatgood fellow yonder; you can tell by the look of him that he has beenin the army. --Isn't it a shame that an old soldier who has walked intothe jaws of death hundreds of times should be picking up old iron inthe streets of Paris? Ah! God A'mighty! 'twas a shabby trick to desertthe Emperor. --Well, my boy, the individual you saw this morning hasmade his forty francs a month. Are you going to do better? And, according to Finot, he is the cleverest man on the staff. "

"When you enlisted in the Sambre-et-Meuse, did they talk aboutdanger?"

"Rather. "

"Very well?"

"Very well. Go and see my nephew Finot, a good fellow, as good afellow as you will find, if you can find him, that is, for he is likea fish, always on the move. In his way of business, there is nowriting, you see, it is setting others to write. That sort likegallivanting about with actresses better than scribbling on sheets ofpaper, it seems. Oh! they are queer customers, they are. Hope I mayhave the honor of seeing you again. "

With that the cashier raised his formidable loaded cane, one of thedefenders of Germainicus, and walked off, leaving Lucien in thestreet, as much bewildered by this picture of the newspaper world ashe had formerly been by the practical aspects of literature at Messrs. Vidal and Porchon's establishment. 

Ten several times did Lucien repair to the Rue Feydeau in search ofAndoche Finot, and ten times he failed to find that gentleman. He wentfirst thing in the morning; Finot had not come in. At noon, Finot hadgone out; he was breakfasting at such and such a cafe. At the cafe, inanswer to inquiries of the waitress, made after surmountingunspeakable repugnance, Lucien heard that Finot had just left theplace. Lucien, at length tired out, began to regard Finot as amythical and fabulous character; it appeared simpler to waylay EtienneLousteau at Flicoteaux's. That youthful journalist would, doubtless, explain the mysteries that enveloped the paper for which he wrote. 

Since the day, a hundred times blessed, when Lucien made theacquaintance of Daniel d'Arthez, he had taken another seat atFlicoteaux's. The two friends dined side by side, talking in loweredvoices of the higher literature, of suggested subjects, and ways ofpresenting, opening up, and developing them. At the present timeDaniel d'Arthez was correcting the manuscript of _The Archer of CharlesIX. _ He reconstructed whole chapters, and wrote the fine passages foundtherein, as well as the magnificent preface, which is, perhaps, thebest thing in the book, and throws so much light on the work of theyoung school of literature. One day it so happened that Daniel hadbeen waiting for Lucien, who now sat with his friend's hand in hisown, when he saw Etienne Lousteau turn the door-handle. Lucieninstantly dropped Daniel's hand, and told the waiter that he woulddine at his old place by the counter. D'Arthez gave Lucien a glance ofdivine kindness, in which reproach was wrapped in forgiveness. Theglance cut the poet to the quick; he took Daniel's hand and grasped itanew. 

"It is an important question of business for me; I will tell you aboutit afterwards, " said he. 

Lucien was in his old place by the time that Lousteau reached thetable; as the first comer, he greeted his acquaintance; they soonstruck up a conversation, which grew so lively that Lucien went off insearch of the manuscript of the _Marguerites_, while Lousteau finishedhis dinner. He had obtained leave to lay his sonnets before thejournalist, and mistook the civility of the latter for willingness tofind him a publisher, or a place on the paper. When Lucien camehurrying back again, he saw d'Arthez resting an elbow on the table ina corner of the restaurant, and knew that his friend was watching himwith melancholy eyes, but he would not see d'Arthez just then; he feltthe sharp pangs of poverty, the goadings of ambition, and followedLousteau. 

In the late afternoon the journalist and the neophyte went to theLuxembourg, and sat down under the trees in that part of the gardenswhich lies between the broad Avenue de l'Observatoire and the Rue del'Ouest. The Rue de l'Ouest at that time was a long morass, bounded byplanks and market-gardens; the houses were all at the end nearest theRue de Vaugirard; and the walk through the gardens was so littlefrequented, that at the hour when Paris dines, two lovers might fallout and exchange the earnest of reconciliation without fear ofintruders. The only possible spoil-sport was the pensioner on duty atthe little iron gate on the Rue de l'Ouest, if that gray-headedveteran should take it into his head to lengthen his monotonous beat. There, on a bench beneath the lime-trees, Etienne Lousteau sat andlistened to sample-sonnets from the _Marguerites_. 

Etienne Lousteau, after a two-years' apprenticeship, was on the staffof a newspaper; he had his foot in the stirrup; he reckoned some ofthe celebrities of the day among his friends; altogether, he was animposing personage in Lucien's eyes. Wherefore, while Lucien untiedthe string about the _Marguerites_, he judged it necessary to make somesort of preface. 

"The sonnet, monsieur, " said he, "is one of the most difficult formsof poetry. It has fallen almost entirely into disuse. No Frenchman canhope to rival Petrarch; for the language in which the Italian wrote, being so infinitely more pliant than French, lends itself to play ofthought which our positivism (pardon the use of the expression)rejects. So it seemed to me that a volume of sonnets would besomething quite new. Victor Hugo has appropriated the old, Canaliswrites lighter verse, Beranger has monopolized songs, CasimirDelavigne has taken tragedy, and Lamartine the poetry of meditation. "

"Are you a 'Classic' or a 'Romantic'?" inquired Lousteau. 

Lucien's astonishment betrayed such complete ignorance of the state ofaffairs in the republic of letters, that Lousteau thought it necessaryto enlighten him. 

"You have come up in the middle of a pitched battle, my dear fellow;you must make your decision at once. Literature is divided, in thefirst place, into several zones, but our great men are ranged in twohostile camps. The Royalists are 'Romantics, ' the Liberals are'Classics. ' The divergence of taste in matters literary and divergenceof political opinion coincide; and the result is a war with weapons ofevery sort, double-edged witticisms, subtle calumnies and nicknames _aoutrance_, between the rising and the waning glory, and ink is shed intorrents. The odd part of it is that the Royalist-Romantics are allfor liberty in literature, and for repealing laws and conventions;while the Liberal-Classics are for maintaining the unities, theAlexandrine, and the classical theme. So opinions in politics oneither side are directly at variance with literary taste. If you areeclectic, you will have no one for you. Which side do you take?"

"Which is the winning side?"

"The Liberal newspapers have far more subscribers than the Royalistand Ministerial journals; still, though Canalis is for Church andKing, and patronized by the Court and the clergy, he reaches otherreaders. --Pshaw! sonnets date back to an epoch before Boileau's time, "said Etienne, seeing Lucien's dismay at the prospect of choosingbetween two banners. "Be a Romantic. The Romantics are young men, andthe Classics are pedants; the Romantics will gain the day. "

The word "pedant" was the latest epithet taken up by Romanticjournalism to heap confusion on the Classical faction. 

Lucien began to read, choosing first of all the title-sonnets. 

 EASTER DAISIES. 

 The daisies in the meadows, not in vain, In red and white and gold before our eyes, Have written an idyll for man's sympathies, And set his heart's desire in language plain. 

 Gold stamens set in silver filigrane Reveal the treasures which we idolize; And all the cost of struggle for the prize Is symboled by a secret blood-red stain. 

 Was it because your petals once uncurled When Jesus rose upon a fairer world, And from wings shaken for a heav'nward flight Shed grace, that still as autumn reappears You bloom again to tell of dead delight, To bring us back the flower of twenty years?

Lucien felt piqued by Lousteau's complete indifference during thereading of the sonnet; he was unfamiliar as yet with the disconcertingimpassibility of the professional critic, wearied by much reading ofpoetry, prose, and plays. Lucien was accustomed to applause. He chokeddown his disappointment and read another, a favorite with Mme. DeBargeton and with some of his friends in the Rue des Quatre-Vents. 

"This one, perhaps, will draw a word from him, " he thought. 

 THE MARGUERITE. 

 I am the Marguerite, fair and tall I grew In velvet meadows, 'mid the flowers a star. They sought me for my beauty near and far; My dawn, I thought, should be for ever new. But now an all unwished-for gift I rue, A fatal ray of knowledge shed to mar My radiant star-crown grown oracular, For I must speak and give an answer true. An end of silence and of quiet days, The Lover with two words my counsel prays; And when my secret from my heart is reft, When all my silver petals scattered lie, I am the only flower neglected left, Cast down and trodden under foot to die. 

At the end, the poet looked up at his Aristarchus. Etienne Lousteauwas gazing at the trees in the Pepiniere. 

"Well?" asked Lucien. 

"Well, my dear fellow, go on! I am listening to you, am I not? Thatfact in itself is as good as praise in Paris. "

"Have you had enough?" Lucien asked. 

"Go on, " the other answered abruptly enough. 

Lucien proceeded to read the following sonnet, but his heart was deadwithin him; Lousteau's inscrutable composure froze his utterance. Ifhe had come a little further upon the road, he would have known thatbetween writer and writer silence or abrupt speech, under suchcircumstances, is a betrayal of jealousy, and outspoken admirationmeans a sense of relief over the discovery that the work is not abovethe average after all. 

 THE CAMELLIA. 

 In Nature's book, if rightly understood, The rose means love, and red for beauty glows; A pure, sweet spirit in the violet blows, And bright the lily gleams in lowlihood. 

 But this strange bloom, by sun and wind unwooed, Seems to expand and blossom 'mid the snows, A lily sceptreless, a scentless rose, For dainty listlessness of maidenhood. 

 Yet at the opera house the petals trace For modesty a fitting aureole; An alabaster wreath to lay, methought, In dusky hair o'er some fair woman's face Which kindles ev'n such love within the soul As sculptured marble forms by Phidias wrought. 

"What do you think of my poor sonnets?" Lucien asked, coming straightto the point. 

"Do you want the truth?"

"I am young enough to like the truth, and so anxious to succeed that Ican hear it without taking offence, but not without despair, " repliedLucien. 

"Well, my dear fellow, the first sonnet, from its involved style, wasevidently written at Angouleme; it gave you so much trouble, no doubt, that you cannot give it up. The second and third smack of Parisalready; but read us one more sonnet, " he added, with a gesture thatseemed charming to the provincial. 

Encouraged by the request, Lucien read with more confidence, choosinga sonnet which d'Arthez and Bridau liked best, perhaps on account ofits color. 

 THE TULIP. 

 I am the Tulip from Batavia's shore; The thrifty Fleming for my beauty rare Pays a king's ransom, when that I am fair, And tall, and straight, and pure my petal's core. 

 And, like some Yolande of the days of yore, My long and amply folded skirts I wear, O'er-painted with the blazon that I bear --Gules, a fess azure; purpure, fretty, or. 

 The fingers of the Gardener divine Have woven for me my vesture fair and fine, Of threads of sunlight and of purple stain; No flower so glorious in the garden bed, But Nature, woe is me, no fragrance shed Within my cup of Orient porcelain. 

"Well?" asked Lucien after a pause, immeasurably long, as it seemed tohim. 

"My dear fellow, " Etienne said, gravely surveying the tips of Lucien'sboots (he had brought the pair from Angouleme, and was wearing themout). "My dear fellow, I strongly recommend you to put your ink onyour boots to save blacking, and to take your pens for toothpicks, sothat when you come away from Flicoteaux's you can swagger along thispicturesque alley looking as if you had dined. Get a situation of anysort or description. Run errands for a bailiff if you have the heart, be a shopman if your back is strong enough, enlist if you happen tohave a taste for military music. You have the stuff of three poets inyou; but before you can reach your public, you will have time to dieof starvation six times over, if you intend to live on the proceeds ofyour poetry, that is. And from your too unsophisticated discourse, itwould seem to be your intention to coin money out of your inkstand. 

"I say nothing as to your verses; they are a good deal better than allthe poetical wares that are cumbering the ground in booksellers'backshops just now. Elegant 'nightingales' of that sort cost a littlemore than the others, because they are printed on hand-made paper, butthey nearly all of them come down at last to the banks of the Seine. You may study their range of notes there any day if you care to makean instructive pilgrimage along the Quais from old Jerome's stall bythe Pont Notre Dame to the Pont Royal. You will find them all there--all the _Essays in Verse_, the _Inspirations_, the lofty flights, the hymns, and songs, and ballads, and odes; all the nestfuls hatchedduring the last seven years, in fact. There lie their muses, thickwith dust, bespattered by every passing cab, at the mercy of everyprofane hand that turns them over to look at the vignette on thetitle-page. 

"You know nobody; you have access to no newspaper, so your _Marguerites_will remain demurely folded as you hold them now. They will never openout to the sun of publicity in fair fields with broad margins enameledwith the florets which Dauriat the illustrious, the king of the WoodenGalleries, scatters with a lavish hand for poets known to fame. I cameto Paris as you came, poor boy, with a plentiful stock of illusions, impelled by irrepressible longings for glory--and I found therealities of the craft, the practical difficulties of the trade, thehard facts of poverty. In my enthusiasm (it is kept well under controlnow), my first ebullition of youthful spirits, I did not see thesocial machinery at work; so I had to learn to see it by bumpingagainst the wheels and bruising myself against the shafts, and chains. Now you are about to learn, as I learned, that between you and allthese fair dreamed-of things lies the strife of men, and passions, andnecessities. 

"Willy-nilly, you must take part in a terrible battle; book againstbook, man against man, party against party; make war you must, andthat systematically, or you will be abandoned by your own party. Andthey are mean contests; struggles which leave you disenchanted, andwearied, and depraved, and all in pure waste; for it often happensthat you put forth all your strength to win laurels for a man whom youdespise, and maintain, in spite of yourself, that some second-ratewriter is a genius. 

"There is a world behind the scenes in the theatre of literature. Thepublic in front sees unexpected or well-deserved success, andapplauds; the public does _not_ see the preparations, ugly as theyalways are, the painted supers, the _claqueurs_ hired to applaud, thestage carpenters, and all that lies behind the scenes. You are stillamong the audience. Abdicate, there is still time, before you set yourfoot on the lowest step of the throne for which so many ambitiousspirits are contending, and do not sell your honor, as I do, for alivelihood. " Etienne's eyes filled with tears as he spoke. 

"Do you know how I make a living?" he continued passionately. "Thelittle stock of money they gave me at home was soon eaten up. A pieceof mine was accepted at the Theatre-Francais just as I came to an endof it. At the Theatre-Francais the influence of a first gentleman ofthe bedchamber, or of a prince of the blood, would not be enough tosecure a turn of favor; the actors only make concessions to those whothreaten their self-love. If it is in your power to spread a reportthat the _jeune premier_ has the asthma, the leading lady a fistulawhere you please, and the soubrette has foul breath, then your piecewould be played to-morrow. I do not know whether in two years' time, Iwho speak to you now, shall be in a position to exercise such power. You need so many to back you. And where and how am I to gain my breadmeanwhile?

"I tried lots of things; I wrote a novel, anonymously; old Doguereaugave me two hundred francs for it, and he did not make very much outof it himself. Then it grew plain to me that journalism alone couldgive me a living. The next thing was to find my way into those shops. I will not tell you all the advances I made, nor how often I begged invain. I will say nothing of the six months I spent as extra hand on apaper, and was told that I scared subscribers away, when as a fact Iattracted them. Pass over the insults I put up with. At this moment Iam doing the plays at the Boulevard theatres, almost _gratis_, for apaper belonging to Finot, that stout young fellow who breakfasts twoor three times a month, even now, at the Cafe Voltaire (but you don'tgo there). I live by selling tickets that managers give me to bribe agood word in the paper, and reviewers' copies of books. In short, Finot once satisfied, I am allowed to write for and against variouscommercial articles, and I traffic in tribute paid in kind by varioustradesmen. A facetious notice of a Carminative Toilet Lotion, _Pate desSultanes_, Cephalic Oil, or Brazilian Mixture brings me in twenty orthirty francs. 

"I am obliged to dun the publishers when they don't send in asufficient number of reviewers' copies; Finot, as editor, appropriatestwo and sells them, and I must have two to sell. If a book of capitalimportance comes out, and the publisher is stingy with copies, hislife is made a burden to him. The craft is vile, but I live by it, andso do scores of others. Do not imagine that things are any better inpublic life. There is corruption everywhere in both regions; every manis corrupt or corrupts others. If there is any publishing enterprisesomewhat larger than usual afoot, the trade will pay me something tobuy neutrality. The amount of my income varies, therefore, directlywith the prospectuses. When prospectuses break out like a rash, moneypours into my pockets; I stand treat all round. When trade is dull, Idine at Flicoteaux's. 

"Actresses will pay you likewise for praise, but the wiser among thempay for criticism. To be passed over in silence is what they dread themost; and the very best thing of all, from their point of view, iscriticism which draws down a reply; it is far more effectual than baldpraise, forgotten as soon as read, and it costs more in consequence. Celebrity, my dear fellow, is based upon controversy. I am a hiredbravo; I ply my trade among ideas and reputations, commercial, literary, and dramatic; I make some fifty crowns a month; I can sell anovel for five hundred francs; and I am beginning to be looked upon asa man to be feared. Some day, instead of living with Florine at theexpense of a druggist who gives himself the airs of a lord, I shall bein a house of my own; I shall be on the staff of a leading newspaper, I shall have a _feuilleton_; and on that day, my dear fellow, Florinewill become a great actress. As for me, I am not sure what I shall bewhen that time comes, a minister or an honest man--all things arestill possible. "

He raised his humiliated head, and looked out at the green leaves, with an expression of despairing self-condemnation dreadful to see. 

"And I had a great tragedy accepted!" he went on. "And among my papersthere is a poem, which will die. And I was a good fellow, and my heartwas clean! I used to dream lofty dreams of love for great ladies, queens in the great world; and--my mistress is an actress at thePanorama-Dramatique. And lastly, if a bookseller declines to send acopy of a book to my paper, I will run down work which is good, as Iknow. "

Lucien was moved to tears, and he grasped Etienne's hand in his. Thejournalist rose to his feet, and the pair went up and down the broadAvenue de l'Observatoire, as if their lungs craved ampler breathingspace. 

"Outside the world of letters, " Etienne Lousteau continued, "not asingle creature suspects that every one who succeeds in that world--who has a certain vogue, that is to say, or comes into fashion, orgains reputation, or renown, or fame, or favor with the public (for bythese names we know the rungs of the ladder by which we climb to thehigher heights above and beyond them), --every one who comes even thusfar is the hero of a dreadful Odyssey. Brilliant portents rise abovethe mental horizon through a combination of a thousand accidents;conditions change so swiftly that no two men have been known to reachsuccess by the same road. Canalis and Nathan are two dissimilar cases;things never fall out in the same way twice. There is d'Arthez, whoknocks himself to pieces with work--he will make a famous name by someother chance. 

"This so much desired reputation is nearly always crownedprostitution. Yes; the poorest kind of literature is the haplesscreature freezing at the street corner; second-rate literature is thekept-mistress picked out of the brothels of journalism, and I am herbully; lastly, there is lucky literature, the flaunting, insolentcourtesan who has a house of her own and pays taxes, who receivesgreat lords, treating or ill-treating them as she pleases, who hasliveried servants and a carriage, and can afford to keep greedycreditors waiting. Ah! and for yet others, for me not so very longago, for you to-day--she is a white-robed angel with many-coloredwings, bearing a green palm branch in the one hand, and in the other aflaming sword. An angel, something akin to the mythologicalabstraction which lives at the bottom of a well, and to the poor andhonest girl who lives a life of exile in the outskirts of the greatcity, earning every penny with a noble fortitude and in the full lightof virtue, returning to heaven inviolate of body and soul; unless, indeed, she comes to lie at the last, soiled, despoiled, polluted, andforgotten, on a pauper's bier. As for the men whose brains areencompassed with bronze, whose hearts are still warm under the snowsof experience, they are found but seldom in the country that lies atour feet, " he added, pointing to the great city seething in the lateafternoon light. 

A vision of d'Arthez and his friends flashed upon Lucien's sight, andmade appeal to him for a moment; but Lousteau's appalling lamentationcarried him away. 

"They are very few and far between in that great fermenting vat; rareas love in love-making, rare as fortunes honestly made in business, rare as the journalist whose hands are clean. The experience of thefirst man who told me all that I am telling you was thrown away uponme, and mine no doubt will be wasted upon you. It is always the sameold story year after year; the same eager rush to Paris from theprovinces; the same, not to say a growing, number of beardless, ambitious boys, who advance, head erect, and the heart that PrincessTourandocte of the _Mille et un Jours_--each one of them fain to be herPrince Calaf. But never a one of them reads the riddle. One by onethey drop, some into the trench where failures lie, some into the mireof journalism, some again into the quagmires of the book-trade. 

"They pick up a living, these beggars, what with biographical notices, penny-a-lining, and scraps of news for the papers. They becomebooksellers' hacks for the clear-headed dealers in printed paper, whowould sooner take the rubbish that goes off in a fortnight than amasterpiece which requires time to sell. The life is crushed out ofthe grubs before they reach the butterfly stage. They live by shameand dishonor. They are ready to write down a rising genius or topraise him to the skies at a word from the pasha of the_Constitutionnel_, the _Quotidienne_, or the _Debats_, at a sign from apublisher, at the request of a jealous comrade, or (as not seldomhappens) simply for a dinner. Some surmount the obstacles, and theseforget the misery of their early days. I, who am telling you this, have been putting the best that is in me into newspaper articles forsix months past for a blackguard who gives them out as his own and hassecured a _feuilleton_ in another paper on the strength of them. He hasnot taken me on as his collaborator, he has not give me so much as afive-franc piece, but I hold out a hand to grasp his when we meet; Icannot help myself. "

"And why?" Lucien, asked, indignantly. 

"I may want to put a dozen lines into his _feuilleton_ some day, "Lousteau answered coolly. "In short, my dear fellow, in literature youwill not make money by hard work, that is not the secret of success;the point is to exploit the work of somebody else. A newspaperproprietor is a contractor, we are the bricklayers. The more mediocrethe man, the better his chance of getting on among mediocrities; hecan play the toad-eater, put up with any treatment, and flatter allthe little base passions of the sultans of literature. There is HectorMerlin, who came from Limoges a short time ago; he is writingpolitical articles already for a Right Centre daily, and he is at workon our little paper as well. I have seen an editor drop his hat andMerlin pick it up. The fellow was careful never to give offence, andslipped into the thick of the fight between rival ambitions. I amsorry for you. It is as if I saw in you the self that I used to be, and sure am I that in one or two years' time you will be what I amnow. --You will think that there is some lurking jealousy or personalmotive in this bitter counsel, but it is prompted by the despair of adamned soul that can never leave hell. --No one ventures to utter suchthings as these. You hear the groans of anguish from a man wounded tothe heart, crying like a second Job from the ashes, 'Behold mysores!'"

"But whether I fight upon this field or elsewhere, fight I must, " saidLucien. 

"Then, be sure of this, " returned Lousteau, "if you have anything inyou, the war will know no truce, the best chance of success lies in anempty head. The austerity of your conscience, clear as yet, will relaxwhen you see that a man holds your future in his two hands, when aword from such a man means life to you, and he will not say that word. For, believe me, the most brutal bookseller in the trade is not soinsolent, so hard-hearted to a newcomer as the celebrity of the day. The bookseller sees a possible loss of money, while the writer ofbooks dreads a possible rival; the first shows you the door, thesecond crushes the life out of you. To do really good work, my boy, means that you will draw out the energy, sap, and tenderness of yournature at every dip of the pen in the ink, to set it forth for theworld in passion and sentiment and phrases. Yes; instead of acting, you will write; you will sing songs instead of fighting; you will loveand hate and live in your books; and then, after all, when you shallhave reserved your riches for your style, your gold and purple foryour characters, and you yourself are walking the streets of Paris inrags, rejoicing in that, rivaling the State Register, you haveauthorized the existence of beings styled Adolphe, Corinne orClarissa, Rene or Manon; when you shall have spoiled your life andyour digestion to give life to that creation, then you shall see itslandered, betrayed, sold, swept away into the back waters of oblivionby journalists, and buried out of sight by your best friends. How canyou afford to wait until the day when your creation shall rise again, raised from the dead--how? when? and by whom? Take a magnificent book, the _pianto_ of unbelief; _Obermann_ is a solitary wanderer in the desertplaces of booksellers' warehouses, he has been a 'nightingale, 'ironically so called, from the very beginning: when will his Eastercome? Who knows? Try, to begin with, to find somebody bold enough toprint the _Marguerites_; not to pay for them, but simply to print them;and you will see some queer things. "

The fierce tirade, delivered in every tone of the passionate feelingwhich it expressed, fell upon Lucien's spirit like an avalanche, andleft a sense of glacial cold. For one moment he stood silent; then, ashe felt the terrible stimulating charm of difficulty beginning to workupon him, his courage blazed up. He grasped Lousteau's hand. 

"I will triumph!" he cried aloud. 

"Good!" said the other, "one more Christian given over to the wildbeasts in the arena. --There is a first-night performance at thePanorama-Dramatique, my dear fellow; it doesn't begin till eight, soyou can change your coat, come properly dressed in fact, and call forme. I am living on the fourth floor above the Cafe Servel, Rue de laHarpe. We will go to Dauriat's first of all. You still mean to go on, do you not? Very well, I will introduce you to one of the kings of thetrade to-night, and to one or two journalists. We will sup with mymistress and several friends after the play, for you cannot count thatdinner as a meal. Finot will be there, editor and proprietor of mypaper. As Minette says in the Vaudeville (do you remember?), 'Time isa great lean creature. ' Well, for the like of us, Chance is a greatlean creature, and must be tempted. "

"I shall remember this day as long as I live, " said Lucien. 

"Bring your manuscript with you, and be careful of your dress, not onFlorine's account, but for the booksellers' benefit. "

The comrade's good-nature, following upon the poet's passionateoutcry, as he described the war of letters, moved Lucien quite asdeeply as d'Arthez's grave and earnest words on a former occasion. Theprospect of entering at once upon the strife with men warmed him. Inhis youth and inexperience he had no suspicion how real were the moralevils denounced by the journalist. Nor did he know that he wasstanding at the parting of two distinct ways, between two systems, represented by the brotherhood upon one hand, and journalism upon theother. The first way was long, honorable, and sure; the second besetwith hidden dangers, a perilous path, among muddy channels whereconscience is inevitably bespattered. The bent of Lucien's characterdetermined for the shorter way, and the apparently pleasanter way, andto snatch at the quickest and promptest means. At this moment he sawno difference between d'Arthez's noble friendship and Lousteau's easycomaraderie; his inconstant mind discerned a new weapon in journalism;he felt that he could wield it, so he wished to take it. 

He was dazzled by the offers of this new friend, who had struck a handin his in an easy way, which charmed Lucien. How should he know thatwhile every man in the army of the press needs friends, every leaderneeds men. Lousteau, seeing that Lucien was resolute, enlisted him asa recruit, and hoped to attach him to himself. The relative positionsof the two were similar--one hoped to become a corporal, the other toenter the ranks. 

Lucien went back gaily to his lodgings. He was as careful over histoilet as on that former unlucky occasion when he occupied theMarquise d'Espard's box; but he had learned by this time how to wearhis clothes with a better grace. They looked as though they belongedto him. He wore his best tightly-fitting, light-colored trousers, anda dress-coat. His boots, a very elegant pair adorned with tassels, hadcost him forty francs. His thick, fine, golden hair was scented andcrimped into bright, rippling curls. Self-confidence and belief in hisfuture lighted up his forehead. He paid careful attention to hisalmost feminine hands, the filbert nails were a spotless pink, and thewhite contours of his chin were dazzling by contrast with a blacksatin stock. Never did a more beautiful youth come down from the hillsof the Latin Quarter. 

Glorious as a Greek god, Lucien took a cab, and reached the CafeServel at a quarter to seven. There the portress gave him sometolerably complicated directions for the ascent of four pairs ofstairs. Provided with these instructions, he discovered, not withoutdifficulty, an open door at the end of a long, dark passage, and inanother moment made the acquaintance of the traditional room of theLatin Quarter. 

A young man's poverty follows him wherever he goes--into the Rue de laHarpe as into the Rue de Cluny, into d'Arthez's room, into Chrestien'slodging; yet everywhere no less the poverty has its own peculiarcharacteristics, due to the idiosyncrasies of the sufferer. Poverty inthis case wore a sinister look. 

A shabby, cheap carpet lay in wrinkles at the foot of a curtainlesswalnut-wood bedstead; dingy curtains, begrimed with cigar smoke andfumes from a smoky chimney, hung in the windows; a Carcel lamp, Florine's gift, on the chimney-piece, had so far escaped thepawnbroker. Add a forlorn-looking chest of drawers, and a tablelittered with papers and disheveled quill pens, and the list offurniture was almost complete. All the books had evidently arrived inthe course of the last twenty-four hours; and there was not a singleobject of any value in the room. In one corner you beheld a collectionof crushed and flattened cigars, coiled pocket-handkerchiefs, shirtswhich had been turned to do double duty, and cravats that had reacheda third edition; while a sordid array of old boots stood gaping inanother angle of the room among aged socks worn into lace. 

The room, in short, was a journalist's bivouac, filled with odds andends of no value, and the most curiously bare apartment imaginable. Ascarlet tinder-box glowed among a pile of books on the nightstand. Abrace of pistols, a box of cigars, and a stray razor lay upon themantel-shelf; a pair of foils, crossed under a wire mask, hung againsta panel. Three chairs and a couple of armchairs, scarcely fit for theshabbiest lodging-house in the street, completed the inventory. 

The dirty, cheerless room told a tale of a restless life and a want ofself-respect; some one came hither to sleep and work at high pressure, staying no longer than he could help, longing, while he remained, tobe out and away. What a difference between this cynical disorder andd'Arthez's neat and self-respecting poverty! A warning came with thethought of d'Arthez; but Lucien would not heed it, for Etienne made ajoking remark to cover the nakedness of a reckless life. 

"This is my kennel; I appear in state in the Rue de Bondy, in the newapartments which our druggist has taken for Florine; we hold thehouse-warming this evening. "

Etienne Lousteau wore black trousers and beautifully-varnished boots;his coat was buttoned up to his chin; he probably meant to change hislinen at Florine's house, for his shirt collar was hidden by a velvetstock. He was trying to renovate his hat by an application of thebrush. 

"Let us go, " said Lucien. 

"Not yet. I am waiting for a bookseller to bring me some money; I havenot a farthing; there will be play, perhaps, and in any case I musthave gloves. "

As he spoke, the two new friends heard a man's step in the passageoutside. 

"There he is, " said Lousteau. "Now you will see, my dear fellow, theshape that Providence takes when he manifests himself to poets. Youare going to behold Dauriat, the fashionable bookseller of the Quaides Augustins, the pawnbroker, the marine store dealer of the trade, the Norman ex-greengrocer. --Come along, old Tartar!" shouted Lousteau. 

"Here am I, " said a voice like a cracked bell. 

"Brought the money with you?"

"Money? There is no money now in the trade, " retorted the other, ayoung man who eyed Lucien curiously. 

"_Imprimis_, you owe me fifty francs, " Lousteau continued. 

"There are two copies of _Travels in Egypt_ here, a marvel, so they say, swarming with woodcuts, sure to sell. Finot has been paid for tworeviews that I am to write for him. _Item_ two works, just out, byVictor Ducange, a novelist highly thought of in the Marais. _Item_ acouple of copies of a second work by Paul de Kock, a beginner in thesame style. _Item_ two copies of _Yseult of Dole_, a charming provincialwork. Total, one hundred francs, my little Barbet. "

Barbet made a close survey of edges and binding. 

"Oh! they are in perfect condition, " cried Lousteau. "The _Travels_ areuncut, so is the Paul de Kock, so is the Ducange, so is that otherthing on the chimney-piece, _Considerations on Symbolism_. I will throwthat in; myths weary me to that degree that I will let you have thething to spare myself the sight of the swarms of mites coming out ofit. "

"But, " asked Lucien, "how are you going to write your reviews?"

Barbet, in profound astonishment, stared at Lucien; then he looked atEtienne and chuckled. 

"One can see that the gentleman has not the misfortune to be aliterary man, " said he. 

"No, Barbet--no. He is a poet, a great poet; he is going to cut outCanalis, and Beranger, and Delavigne. He will go a long way if he doesnot throw himself into the river, and even so he will get as far asthe drag-nets at Saint-Cloud. "

"If I had any advice to give the gentleman, " remarked Barbet, "itwould be to give up poetry and take to prose. Poetry is not wanted onthe Quais just now. "

Barbet's shabby overcoat was fastened by a single button; his collarwas greasy; he kept his hat on his head as he spoke; he wore lowshoes, an open waistcoat gave glimpses of a homely shirt of coarselinen. Good-nature was not wanting in the round countenance, with itstwo slits of covetous eyes; but there was likewise the vagueuneasiness habitual to those who have money to spend and hear constantapplications for it. Yet, to all appearance, he was plain-dealing andeasy-natured, his business shrewdness was so well wadded round withfat. He had been an assistant until he took a wretched little shop onthe Quai des Augustins two years since, and issued thence on hisrounds among journalists, authors, and printers, buying up free copiescheaply, making in such ways some ten or twenty francs daily. Now, hehad money saved; he knew instinctively where every man was pressed; hehad a keen eye for business. If an author was in difficulties, hewould discount a bill given by a publisher at fifteen or twenty percent; then the next day he would go to the publisher, haggle over theprice of some work in demand, and pay him with his own bills insteadof cash. Barbet was something of a scholar; he had had just enougheducation to make him careful to steer clear of modern poetry andmodern romances. He had a liking for small speculations, for books ofa popular kind which might be bought outright for a thousand francsand exploited at pleasure, such as the _Child's History of France_, _Book-keeping in Twenty Lessons_, and _Botany for Young Ladies_. Twoor three times already he had allowed a good book to slip through hisfingers; the authors had come and gone a score of times while hehesitated, and could not make up his mind to buy the manuscript. Whenreproached for his pusillanimity, he was wont to produce the accountof a notorious trial taken from the newspapers; it cost him nothing, and had brought him in two or three thousand francs. 

Barbet was the type of bookseller that goes in fear and trembling;lives on bread and walnuts; rarely puts his name to a bill; filcheslittle profits on invoices; makes deductions, and hawks his booksabout himself; heaven only knows where they go, but he sells themsomehow, and gets paid for them. Barbet was the terror of printers, who could not tell what to make of him; he paid cash and took off thediscount; he nibbled at their invoices whenever he thought they werepressed for money; and when he had fleeced a man once, he never wentback to him--he feared to be caught in his turn. 

"Well, " said Lousteau, "shall we go on with our business?"

"Eh! my boy, " returned Barbet in a familiar tone; "I have six thousandvolumes of stock on hand at my place, and paper is not gold, as theold bookseller said. Trade is dull. "

"If you went into his shop, my dear Lucien, " said Etienne, turning tohis friend, "you would see an oak counter from some bankrupt winemerchant's sale, and a tallow dip, never snuffed for fear it shouldburn too quickly, making darkness visible. By that anomalous light youdescry rows of empty shelves with some difficulty. An urchin in a blueblouse mounts guard over the emptiness, and blows his fingers, andshuffles his feet, and slaps his chest, like a cabman on the box. Justlook about you! there are no more books there than I have here. Nobodycould guess what kind of shop he keeps. "

"Here is a bill at three months for a hundred francs, " said Barbet, and he could not help smiling as he drew it out of his pocket; "I willtake your old books off your hands. I can't pay cash any longer, yousee; sales are too slow. I thought that you would be wanting me; I hadnot a penny, and I made a bill simply to oblige you, for I am not fondof giving my signature. "

"So you want my thanks and esteem into the bargain, do you?"

"Bills are not met with sentiment, " responded Barbet; "but I willaccept your esteem, all the same. "

"But I want gloves, and the perfumers will be base enough to declineyour paper, " said Lousteau. "Stop, there is a superb engraving in thetop drawer of the chest there, worth eighty francs, proof beforeletters and after letterpress, for I have written a pretty drollarticle upon it. There was something to lay hold of in _Hippocratesrefusing the Presents of Artaxerxes_. A fine engraving, eh? Just thething to suit all the doctors, who are refusing the extravagant giftsof Parisian satraps. You will find two or three dozen novelsunderneath it. Come, now, take the lot and give me forty francs. "

"_Forty francs_!" exclaimed the bookseller, emitting a cry like thesquall of a frightened fowl. "Twenty at the very most! And then I maynever see the money again, " he added. 

"Where are your twenty francs?" asked Lousteau. 

"My word, I don't know that I have them, " said Barbet, fumbling in hispockets. "Here they are. You are plundering me; you have an ascendencyover me----"

"Come, let us be off, " said Lousteau, and taking up Lucien'smanuscript, he drew a line upon it in ink under the string. 

"Have you anything else?" asked Barbet. 

"Nothing, you young Shylock. I am going to put you in the way of a bitof very good business, " Etienne continued ("in which you shall lose athousand crowns, to teach you to rob me in this fashion"), he addedfor Lucien's ear. 

"But how about your reviews?" said Lucien, as they rolled away to thePalais Royal. 

"Pooh! you do not know how reviews are knocked off. As for the _Travelsin Egypt_, I looked into the book here and there (without cutting thepages), and I found eleven slips in grammar. I shall say that thewriter may have mastered the dicky-bird language on the flints thatthey call 'obelisks' out there in Egypt, but he cannot write in hisown, as I will prove to him in a column and a half. I shall say thatinstead of giving us the natural history and archaeology, he ought tohave interested himself in the future of Egypt, in the progress ofcivilization, and the best method of strengthening the bond betweenEgypt and France. France has won and lost Egypt, but she may yetattach the country to her interests by gaining a moral ascendency overit. Then some patriotic penny-a-lining, interlarded with diatribes onMarseilles, the Levant and our trade. "

"But suppose that he had taken that view, what would you do?"

"Oh well, I should say that instead of boring us with politics, heshould have written about art, and described the picturesque aspectsof the country and the local color. Then the critic bewails himself. Politics are intruded everywhere; we are weary of politics--politicson all sides. I should regret those charming books of travel thatdwelt upon the difficulties of navigation, the fascination of steeringbetween two rocks, the delights of crossing the line, and all thethings that those who never will travel ought to know. Mingle thisapproval with scoffing at the travelers who hail the appearance of abird or a flying-fish as a great event, who dilate upon fishing, andmake transcripts from the log. Where, you ask, is that perfectlyunintelligible scientific information, fascinating, like all that isprofound, mysterious, and incomprehensible. The reader laughs, that isall that he wants. As for novels, Florine is the greatest novel readeralive; she gives me a synopsis, and I take her opinion and put areview together. When a novelist bores her with 'author's stuff, ' asshe calls it, I treat the work respectfully, and ask the publisher foranother copy, which he sends forthwith, delighted to have a favorablereview. "

"Goodness! and what of criticism, the critic's sacred office?" criedLucien, remembering the ideas instilled into him by the brotherhood. 

"My dear fellow, " said Lousteau, "criticism is a kind of brush whichmust not be used upon flimsy stuff, or it carries it all away with it. That is enough of the craft, now listen! Do you see that mark?" hecontinued, pointing to the manuscript of the _Marguerites_. "I have putink on the string and paper. If Dauriat reads your manuscript, hecertainly could not tie the string and leave it just as it was before. So your book is sealed, so to speak. This is not useless to you forthe experiment that you propose to make. And another thing: please toobserve that you are not arriving quite alone and without a sponsor inthe place, like the youngsters who make the round of half-a-score ofpublishers before they find one that will offer them a chair. "

Lucien's experience confirmed the truth of this particular. Lousteaupaid the cabman, giving him three francs--a piece of prodigalityfollowing upon such impecuniosity astonishing Lucien more than alittle. Then the two friends entered the Wooden Galleries, wherefashionable literature, as it is called, used to reign in state. 

 PART II

The Wooden Galleries of the Palais Royal used to be one of the mostfamous sights of Paris. Some description of the squalid bazar will notbe out of place; for there are few men of forty who will not take aninterest in recollections of a state of things which will seemincredible to a younger generation. 

The great dreary, spacious Galerie d'Orleans, that flowerlesshothouse, as yet was not; the space upon which it now stands wascovered with booths; or, to be more precise, with small, wooden dens, pervious to the weather, and dimly illuminated on the side of thecourt and the garden by borrowed lights styled windows by courtesy, but more like the filthiest arrangements for obscuring daylight to befound in little wineshops in the suburbs. 

The Galleries, parallel passages about twelve feet in height, wereformed by a triple row of shops. The centre row, giving back and frontupon the Galleries, was filled with the fetid atmosphere of the place, and derived a dubious daylight through the invariably dirty windows ofthe roof; but so thronged were these hives, that rents wereexcessively high, and as much as a thousand crowns was paid for aspace scarce six feet by eight. The outer rows gave respectively uponthe garden and the court, and were covered on that side by a slighttrellis-work painted green, to protect the crazy plastered walls fromcontinual friction with the passers-by. In a few square feet of earthat the back of the shops, strange freaks of vegetable life unknown toscience grew amid the products of various no less flourishingindustries. You beheld a rosebush capped with printed paper in such asort that the flowers of rhetoric were perfumed by the cankeredblossoms of that ill-kept, ill-smelling garden. Handbills and ribbonstreamers of every hue flaunted gaily among the leaves; naturalflowers competed unsuccessfully for an existence with odds and ends ofmillinery. You discovered a knot of ribbon adorning a green tuft; thedahlia admired afar proved on a nearer view to be a satin rosette. 

The Palais seen from the court or from the garden was a fantasticsight, a grotesque combination of walls of plaster patchwork which hadonce been whitewashed, of blistered paint, heterogeneous placards, andall the most unaccountable freaks of Parisian squalor; the greentrellises were prodigiously the dingier for constant contact with aParisian public. So, upon either side, the fetid, disreputableapproaches might have been there for the express purpose of warningaway fastidious people; but fastidious folk no more recoiled beforethese horrors than the prince in the fairy stories turns tail at sightof the dragon or of the other obstacles put between him and theprincess by the wicked fairy. 

There was a passage through the centre of the Galleries then as now;and, as at the present day, you entered them through the twoperistyles begun before the Revolution, and left unfinished for lackof funds; but in place of the handsome modern arcade leading to theTheatre-Francais, you passed along a narrow, disproportionately loftypassage, so ill-roofed that the rain came through on wet days. All theroofs of the hovels indeed were in very bad repair, and covered hereand again with a double thickness of tarpaulin. A famous silk merceronce brought an action against the Orleans family for damages done inthe course of a night to his stock of shawls and stuffs, and gainedthe day and a considerable sum. It was in this last-named passage, called "The Glass Gallery" to distinguish it from the WoodenGalleries, that Chevet laid the foundations of his fortunes. 

Here, in the Palais, you trod the natural soil of Paris, augmented byimportations brought in upon the boots of foot passengers; here, atall seasons, you stumbled among hills and hollows of dried mud sweptdaily by the shopman's besom, and only after some practice could youwalk at your ease. The treacherous mud-heaps, the window-panesincrusted with deposits of dust and rain, the mean-looking hovelscovered with ragged placards, the grimy unfinished walls, the generalair of a compromise between a gypsy camp, the booths of a countryfair, and the temporary structures that we in Paris build round aboutpublic monuments that remain unbuilt; the grotesque aspect of the martas a whole was in keeping with the seething traffic of various kindscarried on within it; for here in this shameless, unblushing haunt, amid wild mirth and a babel of talk, an immense amount of business wastransacted between the Revolution of 1789 and the Revolution of 1830. 

For twenty years the Bourse stood just opposite, on the ground floorof the Palais. Public opinion was manufactured, and reputations madeand ruined here, just as political and financial jobs were arranged. People made appointments to meet in the Galleries before or after'Change; on showery days the Palais Royal was often crowded withweather-bound capitalists and men of business. The structure which hadgrown up, no one knew how, about this point was strangely resonant, laughter was multiplied; if two men quarreled, the whole place rangfrom one end to the other with the dispute. In the daytime millinersand booksellers enjoyed a monopoly of the place; towards nightfall itwas filled with women of the town. Here dwelt poetry, politics, andprose, new books and classics, the glories of ancient and modernliterature side by side with political intrigue and the tricks of thebookseller's trade. Here all the very latest and newest literaturewere sold to a public which resolutely decline to buy elsewhere. Sometimes several thousand copies of such and such a pamphlet byPaul-Louis Courier would be sold in a single evening; and peoplecrowded thither to buy _Les aventures de la fille d'un Roi_--thatfirst shot fired by the Orleanists at The Charter promulgated byLouis XVIII. 

When Lucien made his first appearance in the Wooden Galleries, somefew of the shops boasted proper fronts and handsome windows, but thesein every case looked upon the court or the garden. As for the centrerow, until the day when the whole strange colony perished under thehammer of Fontaine the architect, every shop was open back and frontlike a booth in a country fair, so that from within you could look outupon either side through gaps among the goods displayed or through theglass doors. As it was obviously impossible to kindle a fire, thetradesmen were fain to use charcoal chafing-dishes, and formed a sortof brigade for the prevention of fires among themselves; and, indeed, a little carelessness might have set the whole quarter blazing infifteen minutes, for the plank-built republic, dried by the heat ofthe sun, and haunted by too inflammable human material, was bedizenedwith muslin and paper and gauze, and ventilated at times by a thoroughdraught. 

The milliners' windows were full of impossible hats and bonnets, displayed apparently for advertisement rather than for sale, each on aseparate iron spit with a knob at the top. The galleries were deckedout in all the colors of the rainbow. On what heads would those dustybonnets end their careers?--for a score of years the problem hadpuzzled frequenters of the Palais. Saleswomen, usually plain-featured, but vivacious, waylaid the feminine foot passenger with cunningimportunities, after the fashion of market-women, and using much thesame language; a shop-girl, who made free use of her eyes and tongue, sat outside on a stool and harangued the public with "Buy a prettybonnet, madame?--Do let me sell you something!"--varying a rich andpicturesque vocabulary with inflections of the voice, with glances, and remarks upon the passers-by. Booksellers and milliners lived onterms of mutual understanding. 

But it was in the passage known by the pompous title of the "GlassGallery" that the oddest trades were carried on. Here wereventriloquists and charlatans of every sort, and sights of everydescription, from the kind where there is nothing to see to panoramasof the globe. One man who has since made seven or eight hundredthousand francs by traveling from fair to fair began here by hangingout a signboard, a revolving sun in a blackboard, and the inscriptionin red letters: "Here Man may see what God can never see. Admittance, two sous. " The showman at the door never admitted one person alone, nor more than two at a time. Once inside, you confronted a greatlooking-glass; and a voice, which might have terrified Hoffmann ofBerlin, suddenly spoke as if some spring had been touched, "You seehere, gentlemen, something that God can never see through alleternity, that is to say, your like. God has not His like. " And outyou went, too shamefaced to confess to your stupidity. 

Voices issued from every narrow doorway, crying up the merits ofCosmoramas, views of Constantinople, marionettes, automaticchess-players, and performing dogs who would pick you out the prettiestwoman in the company. The ventriloquist Fritz-James flourished here inthe Cafe Borel before he went to fight and fall at Montmartre with theyoung lads from the Ecole polytechnique. Here, too, there were fruitand flower shops, and a famous tailor whose gold-laced uniforms shonelike the sun when the shops were lighted at night. 

Of a morning the galleries were empty, dark, and deserted; theshopkeepers chatted among themselves. Towards two o'clock in theafternoon the Palais began to fill; at three, men came in from theBourse, and Paris, generally speaking, crowded the place. Impecuniousyouth, hungering after literature, took the opportunity of turningover the pages of the books exposed for sale on the stalls outside thebooksellers' shops; the men in charge charitably allowed a poorstudent to pursue his course of free studies; and in this way aduodecimo volume of some two hundred pages, such as _Smarra_ or _PierreSchlemihl_, or _Jean Sbogar_ or _Jocko_, might be devoured in a couple ofafternoons. There was something very French in this alms given to theyoung, hungry, starved intellect. Circulating libraries were not asyet; if you wished to read a book, you were obliged to buy it, forwhich reason novels of the early part of the century were sold innumbers which now seem well-nigh fabulous to us. 

But the poetry of this terrible mart appeared in all its splendor atthe close of the day. Women of the town, flocking in and out from theneighboring streets, were allowed to make a promenade of the WoodenGalleries. Thither came prostitutes from every quarter of Paris to "dothe Palais. " The Stone Galleries belonged to privileged houses, whichpaid for the right of exposing women dressed like princesses undersuch and such an arch, or in the corresponding space of garden; butthe Wooden Galleries were the common ground of women of the streets. This was _the_ Palais, a word which used to signify the temple ofprostitution. A woman might come and go, taking away her preywhithersoever seemed good to her. So great was the crowd attractedthither at night by the women, that it was impossible to move exceptat a slow pace, as in a procession or at a masked ball. Nobodyobjected to the slowness; it facilitated examination. The womendressed in a way that is never seen nowadays. The bodices cutextremely low both back and front; the fantastical head-dresses, designed to attract notice; here a cap from the Pays de Caux, andthere a Spanish mantilla; the hair crimped and curled like a poodle's, or smoothed down in bandeaux over the forehead; the close-fittingwhite stockings and limbs, revealed it would not be easy to say how, but always at the right moment--all this poetry of vice has fled. Thelicense of question and reply, the public cynicism in keeping with thehaunt, is now unknown even at masquerades or the famous public balls. It was an appalling, gay scene. The dazzling white flesh of thewomen's necks and shoulders stood out in magnificent contrast againstthe men's almost invariably sombre costumes. The murmur of voices, thehum of the crowd, could be heard even in the middle of the garden as asort of droning bass, interspersed with _fioriture_ of shrill laughteror clamor of some rare dispute. You saw gentlemen and celebritiescheek by jowl with gallows-birds. There was something indescribablypiquant about the anomalous assemblage; the most insensible of menfelt its charm, so much so, that, until the very last moment, Pariscame hither to walk up and down on the wooden planks laid over thecellars where men were at work on the new buildings; and when thesqualid wooden erections were finally taken down, great and unanimousregret was felt. 

Ladvocat the bookseller had opened a shop but a few days since in theangle formed by the central passage which crossed the galleries; andimmediately opposite another bookseller, now forgotten, Dauriat, abold and youthful pioneer, who opened up the paths in which his rivalwas to shine. Dauriat's shop stood in the row which gave upon thegarden; Ladvocat's, on the opposite side, looked out upon the court. Dauriat's establishment was divided into two parts; his shop wassimply a great trade warehouse, and the second room was his privateoffice. 

Lucien, on this first visit to the Wooden Galleries, was bewildered bya sight which no novice can resist. He soon lost the guide whobefriended him. 

"If you were as good-looking as yonder young fellow, I would give youyour money's worth, " a woman said, pointing out Lucien to an old man. 

Lucien slunk through the crowd like a blind man's dog, following thestream in a state of stupefaction and excitement difficult todescribe. Importuned by glances and white-rounded contours, dazzled bythe audacious display of bared throat and bosom, he gripped his rollof manuscript tightly lest somebody should steal it--innocent that hewas!

"Well, what is it, sir!" he exclaimed, thinking, when some one caughthim by the arm, that his poetry had proved too great a temptation tosome author's honesty, and turning, he recognized Lousteau. 

"I felt sure that you would find your way here at last, " said hisfriend. 

The poet was standing in the doorway of a shop crowded with personswaiting for an audience with the sultan of the publishing trade. Printers, paper-dealers, and designers were catechizing Dauriat'sassistants as to present or future business. 

Lousteau drew Lucien into the shop. "There! that is Finot who edits mypaper, " he said; "he is talking with Felicien Vernou, who hasabilities, but the little wretch is as dangerous as a hidden disease. "

"Well, old boy, there is a first night for you, " said Finot, coming upwith Vernou. "I have disposed of the box. "

"Sold it to Braulard?"

"Well, and if I did, what then? You will get a seat. What do you wantwith Dauriat? Oh, it is agreed that we are to push Paul de Kock, Dauriat has taken two hundred copies, and Victor Ducange is refusingto give him his next. Dauriat wants to set up another man in the sameline, he says. You must rate Paul de Kock above Ducange. "

"But I have a piece on with Ducange at the Gaite, " said Lousteau. 

"Very well, tell him that I wrote the article. It can be supposed thatI wrote a slashing review, and you toned it down; and he will owe youthanks. "

"Couldn't you get Dauriat's cashier to discount this bit of a bill fora hundred francs?" asked Etienne Lousteau. "We are celebratingFlorine's house-warming with a supper to-night, you know. "

"Ah! yes, you are treating us all, " said Finot, with an apparenteffort of memory. "Here, Gabusson, " he added, handing Barbet's bill tothe cashier, "let me have ninety francs for this individual. --Fill inyour name, old man. "

Lousteau signed his name while the cashier counted out the money; andLucien, all eyes and ears, lost not a syllable of the conversation. 

"That is not all, my friend, " Etienne continued; "I don't thank you, we have sworn an eternal friendship. I have taken it upon myself tointroduce this gentleman to Dauriat, and you must incline his ear tolisten to us. "

"What is on foot?" asked Finot. 

"A volume of poetry, " said Lucien. 

"Oh!" said Finot, with a shrug of the shoulders. 

"Your acquaintance cannot have had much to do with publishers, or hewould have hidden his manuscript in the loneliest spot in hisdwelling, " remarked Vernou, looking at Lucien as he spoke. 

Just at that moment a good-looking young man came into the shop, gavea hand to Finot and Lousteau, and nodded slightly to Vernou. Thenewcomer was Emile Blondet, who had made his first appearance in the_Journal des Debats_, with articles revealing capacities of the veryhighest order. 

"Come and have supper with us at midnight, at Florine's, " saidLousteau. 

"Very good, " said the newcomer. "But who is going to be there?"

"Oh, Florine and Matifat the druggist, " said Lousteau, "and du Bruel, the author who gave Florine the part in which she is to make her firstappearance, a little old fogy named Cardot, and his son-in-lawCamusot, and Finot, and----"

"Does your druggist do things properly?"

"He will not give us doctored wine, " said Lucien. 

"You are very witty, monsieur, " Blondet returned gravely. "Is hecoming, Lousteau?"

"Yes. "

"Then we shall have some fun. "

Lucien had flushed red to the tips of his ears. Blondet tapped on thewindow above Dauriat's desk. 

"Is your business likely to keep you long, Dauriat?"

"I am at your service, my friend. "

"That's right, " said Lousteau, addressing his protege. "That youngfellow is hardly any older than you are, and he is on the _Debats_! Heis one of the princes of criticism. They are afraid of him, Dauriatwill fawn upon him, and then we can put in a word about our businesswith the pasha of vignettes and type. Otherwise we might have waitedtill eleven o'clock, and our turn would not have come. The crowd ofpeople waiting to speak with Dauriat is growing bigger every moment. "

Lucien and Lousteau followed Blondet, Finot, and Vernou, and stood ina knot at the back of the shop. 

"What is he doing?" asked Blondet of the head-clerk, who rose to bidhim good-evening. 

"He is buying a weekly newspaper. He wants to put new life into it, and set up a rival to the _Minerve_ and the _Conservateur_; Eymery hasrather too much of his own way in the _Minerve_, and the _Conservateur_ istoo blindly Romantic. "

"Is he going to pay well?"

"Only too much--as usual, " said the cashier. 

Just as he spoke another young man entered; this was the writer of amagnificent novel which had sold very rapidly and met with thegreatest possible success. Dauriat was bringing out a second edition. The appearance of this odd and extraordinary looking being, sounmistakably an artist, made a deep impression on Lucien's mind. 

"That is Nathan, " Lousteau said in his ear. 

Nathan, then in the prime of his youth, came up to the group ofjournalists, hat in hand; and in spite of his look of fierce pride hewas almost humble to Blondet, whom as yet he only knew by sight. Blondet did not remove his hat, neither did Finot. 

"Monsieur, I am delighted to avail myself of an opportunity yielded bychance----"

("He is so nervous that he is committing a pleonasm, " said Felicien inan aside to Lousteau. )

"----to give expression to my gratitude for the splendid review whichyou were so good as to give me in the _Journal des Debats_. Half thesuccess of my book is owing to you. "

"No, my dear fellow, no, " said Blondet, with an air of patronagescarcely masked by good-nature. "You have talent, the deuce you have, and I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. "

"Now that your review has appeared, I shall not seem to be courtingpower; we can feel at ease. Will you do me the honor and the pleasureof dining with me to-morrow? Finot is coming. --Lousteau, old man, youwill not refuse me, will you?" added Nathan, shaking Etienne by thehand. --"Ah, you are on the way to a great future, monsieur, " he added, turning again to Blondet; "you will carry on the line of Dussaults, Fievees, and Geoffrois! Hoffmann was talking about you to a friend ofmine, Claude Vignon, his pupil; he said that he could die in peace, the _Journal des Debats_ would live forever. They ought to pay youtremendously well. "

"A hundred francs a column, " said Blondet. "Poor pay when one isobliged to read the books, and read a hundred before you find oneworth interesting yourself in, like yours. Your work gave me pleasure, upon my word. "

"And brought him in fifteen hundred francs, " said Lousteau forLucien's benefit. 

"But you write political articles, don't you?" asked Nathan. 

"Yes; now and again. "

Lucien felt like an embryo among these men; he had admired Nathan'sbook, he had reverenced the author as an immortal; Nathan's abjectattitude before this critic, whose name and importance were bothunknown to him, stupefied Lucien. 

"How if I should come to behave as he does?" he thought. "Is a manobliged to part with his self-respect?--Pray put on your hat again, Nathan; you have written a great book, and the critic has only writtena review of it. "

These thoughts set the blood tingling in his veins. Scarce a minutepassed but some young author, poverty-stricken and shy, came in, askedto speak with Dauriat, looked round the crowded shop despairingly, andwent out saying, "I will come back again. " Two or three politicianswere chatting over the convocation of the Chambers and public businesswith a group of well-known public men. The weekly newspaper for whichDauriat was in treaty was licensed to treat of matters political, andthe number of newspapers suffered to exist was growing smaller andsmaller, till a paper was a piece of property as much in demand as atheatre. One of the largest shareholders in the _Constitutionnel_ wasstanding in the midst of the knot of political celebrities. Lousteauperformed the part of cicerone to admiration; with every sentence heuttered Dauriat rose higher in Lucien's opinion. Politics andliterature seemed to converge in Dauriat's shop. He had seen a greatpoet prostituting his muse to journalism, humiliating Art, as womanwas humiliated and prostituted in those shameless galleries without, and the provincial took a terrible lesson to heart. Money! That wasthe key to every enigma. Lucien realized the fact that he was unknownand alone, and that the fragile clue of an uncertain friendship washis sole guide to success and fortune. He blamed the kind and loyallittle circle for painting the world for him in false colors, forpreventing him from plunging into the arena, pen in hand. "I should bea Blondet at this moment!" he exclaimed within himself. 

Only a little while ago they had sat looking out over Paris from theGardens of the Luxembourg, and Lousteau had uttered the cry of awounded eagle; then Lousteau had been a great man in Lucien's eyes, and now he had shrunk to scarce visible proportions. The reallyimportant man for him at this moment was the fashionable bookseller, by whom all these men lived; and the poet, manuscript in hand, felt anervous tremor that was almost like fear. He noticed a group of bustsmounted on wooden pedestals, painted to resemble marble; Byron stoodthere, and Goethe and M. De Canalis. Dauriat was hoping to publish avolume by the last-named poet, who might see, on his entrance into theshop, the estimation in which he was held by the trade. UnconsciouslyLucien's own self-esteem began to shrink, and his courage ebbed. Hebegan to see how large a part this Dauriat would play in hisdestinies, and waited impatiently for him to appear. 

"Well, children, " said a voice, and a short, stout man appeared, witha puffy face that suggested a Roman pro-consul's visage, mellowed byan air of good-nature which deceived superficial observers. "Well, children, here am I, the proprietor of the only weekly paper in themarket, a paper with two thousand subscribers!"

"Old joker! The registered number is seven hundred, and that is overthe mark, " said Blondet. 

"Twelve thousand, on my sacred word of honor--I said two thousand forthe benefit of the printers and paper-dealers yonder, " he added, lowering his voice, then raising it again. "I thought you had moretact, my boy, " he added. 

"Are you going to take any partners?" inquired Finot. 

"That depends, " said Dauriat. "Will you take a third at forty thousandfrancs?"

"It's a bargain, if you will take Emile Blondet here on the staff, andClaude Vignon, Scribe, Theodore Leclercq, Felicien Vernou, Jay, Jouy, Lousteau, and----"

"And why not Lucien de Rubempre?" the provincial poet put in boldly. 

"----and Nathan, " concluded Finot. 

"Why not the people out there in the street?" asked Dauriat, scowlingat the author of the _Marguerites_. --"To whom have I the honor ofspeaking?" he added, with an insolent glance. 

"One moment, Dauriat, " said Lousteau. "I have brought this gentlemanto you. Listen to me, while Finot is thinking over your proposals. "

Lucien watched this Dauriat, who addressed Finot with the familiar tu, which even Finot did not permit himself to use in reply; who calledthe redoubtable Blondet "my boy, " and extended a hand royally toNathan with a friendly nod. The provincial poet felt his shirt wetwith perspiration when the formidable sultan looked indifferent andill pleased. 

"Another piece of business, my boy!" exclaimed Dauriat. "Why, I haveeleven hundred manuscripts on hand, as you know! Yes, gentlemen, Ihave eleven hundred manuscripts submitted to me at this moment; askGabusson. I shall soon be obliged to start a department to keepaccount of the stock of manuscripts, and a special office for readingthem, and a committee to vote on their merits, with numbered countersfor those who attend, and a permanent secretary to draw up the minutesfor me. It will be a kind of local branch of the Academie, and theAcademicians will be better paid in the Wooden Galleries than at theInstitut. "

"'Tis an idea, " said Blondet. 

"A bad idea, " returned Dauriat. "It is not my business to take stockof the lucubrations of those among you who take to literature becausethey cannot be capitalists, and there is no opening for them asbootmakers, nor corporals, nor domestic servants, nor officials, norbailiffs. Nobody comes here until he has made a name for himself! Makea name for yourself, and you will find gold in torrents. I have madethree great men in the last two years; and lo and behold threeexamples of ingratitude! Here is Nathan talking of six thousand francsfor the second edition of his book, which cost me three thousandfrancs in reviews, and has not brought in a thousand yet. I paid athousand francs for Blondet's two articles, besides a dinner, whichcost me five hundred----"

"But if all booksellers talked as you do, sir, how could a man publishhis first book at all?" asked Lucien. Blondet had gone downtremendously in his opinion since he had heard the amount given byDauriat for the articles in the _Debats_. 

"That is not my affair, " said Dauriat, looking daggers at thishandsome young fellow, who was smiling pleasantly at him. "I do notpublish books for amusement, nor risk two thousand francs for the sakeof seeing my money back again. I speculate in literature, and publishforty volumes of ten thousand copies each, just as Panckouke does andthe Baudoins. With my influence and the articles which I secure, I canpush a business of a hundred thousand crowns, instead of a singlevolume involving a couple of thousand francs. It is just as muchtrouble to bring out a new name and to induce the public to take up anauthor and his book, as to make a success with the _Theatres etrangers_, _Victoires et Conquetes_, or _Memoires sur la Revolution_, books thatbring in a fortune. I am not here as a stepping-stone to future fame, but to make money, and to find it for men with distinguished names. The manuscripts for which I give a hundred thousand francs pay mebetter than work by an unknown author who asks six hundred. If I amnot exactly a Maecenas, I deserve the gratitude of literature; I havedoubled the prices of manuscripts. I am giving you this explanationbecause you are a friend of Lousteau's my boy, " added Dauriat, clapping Lucien on the shoulder with odious familiarity. "If I were totalk to all the authors who have a mind that I should be theirpublisher, I should have to shut up shop; I should pass my time veryagreeably no doubt, but the conversations would cost too much. I amnot rich enough yet to listen to all the monologues of self-conceit. Nobody does, except in classical tragedies on the stage. "

The terrible Dauriat's gorgeous raiment seemed in the provincialpoet's eyes to add force to the man's remorseless logic. 

"What is it about?" he continued, addressing Lucien's protector. 

"It is a volume of magnificent poetry. "

At that word, Dauriat turned to Gabusson with a gesture worthy ofTalma. 

"Gabusson, my friend, " he said, "from this day forward, when anybodybegins to talk of works in manuscript here--Do you hear that, all ofyou?" he broke in upon himself; and three assistants at once emergedfrom among the piles of books at the sound of their employer'swrathful voice. "If anybody comes here with manuscripts, " hecontinued, looking at the finger-nails of a well-kept hand, "ask himwhether it is poetry or prose; and if he says poetry, show him thedoor at once. Verses mean reverses in the booktrade. "

"Bravo! well put, Dauriat, " cried the chorus of journalists. 

"It is true!" cried the bookseller, striding about his shop withLucien's manuscript in his hand. "You have no idea, gentlemen, of theamount of harm that Byron, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Casimir Delavigne, Canalis, and Beranger have done by their success. The fame of them hasbrought down an invasion of barbarians upon us. I know _this_: thereare a thousand volumes of manuscript poetry going the round of thepublishers at this moment, things that nobody can make head nor tailof, stories in verse that begin in the middle, like _The Corsair_ and_Lara_. They set up to be original, forsooth, and indulge in stanzasthat nobody can understand, and descriptive poetry after the patternof the younger men who discovered Delille, and imagine that they aredoing something new. Poets have been swarming like cockchafers for twoyears past. I have lost twenty thousand francs through poetry in thelast twelvemonth. You ask Gabusson! There may be immortal poetssomewhere in the world; I know of some that are blooming and rosy, andhave no beards on their chins as yet, " he continued, looking atLucien; "but in the trade, young man, there are only four poets--Beranger, Casimir Delavigne, Lamartine, and Victor Hugo; as forCanalis--he is a poet made by sheer force of writing him up. "

Lucien felt that he lacked the courage to hold up his head and showhis spirit before all these influential persons, who were laughingwith all their might. He knew very well that he should look hopelesslyridiculous, and yet he felt consumed by a fierce desire to catch thebookseller by the throat, to ruffle the insolent composure of hiscravat, to break the gold chain that glittered on the man's chest, trample his watch under his feet, and tear him in pieces. Mortifiedvanity opened the door to thoughts of vengeance, and inwardly he sworeeternal enmity to that bookseller. But he smiled amiably. 

"Poetry is like the sun, " said Blondet, "giving life alike to primevalforests and to ants and gnats and mosquitoes. There is no virtue buthas a vice to match, and literature breeds the publisher. "

"And the journalist, " said Lousteau. 

Dauriat burst out laughing. 

"What is this after all?" he asked, holding up the manuscript. 

"A volume of sonnets that will put Petrarch to the blush, " saidLousteau. 

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say, " answered Lousteau, seeing the knowing smile thatwent round the group. Lucien could not take offence but he chafedinwardly. 

"Very well, I will read them, " said Dauriat, with a regal gesture thatmarked the full extent of the concession. "If these sonnets of yoursare up to the level of the nineteenth century, I will make a greatpoet of you, my boy. "

"If he has brains to equal his good looks, you will run no greatrisks, " remarked one of the greatest public speakers of the day, adeputy who was chatting with the editor of the _Minerve_, and a writerfor the _Constitutionnel_. 

"Fame means twelve thousand francs in reviews, and a thousand more fordinners, General, " said Dauriat. "If M. Benjamin de Constant means towrite a paper on this young poet, it will not be long before I make abargain with him. "

At the title of General, and the distinguished name of BenjaminConstant, the bookseller's shop took the proportions of Olympus forthe provincial great man. 

"Lousteau, I want a word with you, " said Finot; "but I shall see youagain later, at the theatre. --Dauriat, I will take your offer, but onconditions. Let us step into your office. "

"Come in, my boy, " answered Dauriat, allowing Finot to pass beforehim. Then, intimating to some ten persons still waiting for him thathe was engaged, he likewise was about to disappear when Lucienimpatiently stopped him. 

"You are keeping my manuscript. When shall I have an answer?"

"Oh, come back in three or four days, my little poet, and we willsee. "

Lousteau hurried Lucien away; he had not time to take leave of Vernouand Blondet and Raoul Nathan, nor to salute General Foy nor BenjaminConstant, whose book on the Hundred Days was just about to appear. Lucien scarcely caught a glimpse of fair hair, a refined oval-shapedface, keen eyes, and the pleasant-looking mouth belonging to the manwho had played the part of a Potemkin to Mme. De Stael for twentyyears, and now was at war with the Bourbons, as he had been at warwith Napoleon. He was destined to win his cause and to die stricken toearth by his victory. 

"What a shop!" exclaimed Lucien, as he took his place in the cabbeside Lousteau. 

"To the Panorama-Dramatique; look sharp, and you shall have thirtysous, " Etienne Lousteau called to the cabman. --"Dauriat is a rascalwho sells books to the amount of fifteen or sixteen hundred thousandfrancs every year. He is a kind of Minister of Literature, " Lousteaucontinued. His self-conceit had been pleasantly tickled, and he wasshowing off before Lucien. "Dauriat is just as grasping as Barbet, butit is on a wholesale scale. Dauriat can be civil, and he is generous, but he has a great opinion of himself; as for his wit, it consists ina faculty for picking up all that he hears, and his shop is a capitalplace to frequent. You meet all the best men at Dauriat's. A youngfellow learns more there in an hour than by poring over books forhalf-a-score of years. People talk about articles and concoctsubjects; you make the acquaintance of great or influential people whomay be useful to you. You must know people if you mean to get onnowadays. --It is all luck, you see. And as for sitting by yourself ina corner alone with your intellect, it is the most dangerous thing ofall. "

"But what insolence!" said Lucien. 

"Pshaw! we all of us laugh at Dauriat, " said Etienne. "If you are inneed of him, he tramples upon you; if he has need of the _Journal desDebats_, Emile Blondet sets him spinning like a top. Oh, if you taketo literature, you will see a good many queer things. Well, what wasI telling you, eh?"

"Yes, you were right, " said Lucien. "My experience in that shop waseven more painful than I expected, after your programme. "

"Why do you choose to suffer? You find your subject, you wear out yourwits over it with toiling at night, you throw your very life into it:and after all your journeyings in the fields of thought, the monumentreared with your life-blood is simply a good or a bad speculation fora publisher. Your work will sell or it will not sell; and therein, forthem, lies the whole question. A book means so much capital to risk, and the better the book, the less likely it is to sell. A man oftalent rises above the level of ordinary heads; his success varies indirect ratio with the time required for his work to be appreciated. And no publisher wants to wait. To-day's book must be sold byto-morrow. Acting on this system, publishers and booksellers do notcare to take real literature, books that call for the high praise thatcomes slowly. "

"D'Arthez was right, " exclaimed Lucien. 

"Do you know d'Arthez?" asked Lousteau. "I know of no more dangerouscompany than solitary spirits like that fellow yonder, who fancy thatthey can draw the world after them. All of us begin by thinking thatwe are capable of great things; and when once a youthful imaginationis heated by this superstition, the candidate for posthumous honorsmakes no attempt to move the world while such moving of the world isboth possible and profitable; he lets the time go by. I am forMahomet's system--if the mountain does not come to me, I am for goingto the mountain. "

The common-sense so trenchantly put in this sally left Lucien haltingbetween the resignation preached by the brotherhood and Lousteau'smilitant doctrine. He said not a word till they reached the Boulevarddu Temple. 

The Panorama-Dramatique no longer exists. A dwelling-house stands onthe site of the once charming theatre in the Boulevard du Temple, where two successive managements collapsed without making a singlehit; and yet Vignol, who has since fallen heir to some of Potier'spopularity, made his _debut_ there; and Florine, five years later acelebrated actress, made her first appearance in the theatre oppositethe Rue Charlot. Play-houses, like men, have their vicissitudes. ThePanorama-Dramatique suffered from competition. The machinations of itsrivals, the Ambigu, the Gaite, the Porte Saint-Martin, and theVaudeville, together with a plethora of restrictions and a scarcity ofgood plays, combined to bring about the downfall of the house. Nodramatic author cared to quarrel with a prosperous theatre for thesake of the Panorama-Dramatique, whose existence was, to say theleast, problematical. The management at this moment, however, wascounting on the success of a new melodramatic comedy by M. Du Bruel, ayoung author who, after working in collaboration with diverscelebrities, had now produced a piece professedly entirely his own. Ithad been specially composed for the leading lady, a young actress whobegan her stage career as a supernumerary at the Gaite, and had beenpromoted to small parts for the last twelvemonth. But though Mlle. Florine's acting had attracted some attention, she obtained noengagement, and the Panorama accordingly had carried her off. Coralie, another actress, was to make her _debut_ at the same time. 

Lucien was amazed at the power wielded by the press. "This gentlemanis with me, " said Etienne Lousteau, and the box-office clerks bowedbefore him as one man. 

"You will find it no easy matter to get seats, " said the head-clerk. "There is nothing left now but the stage box. "

A certain amount of time was wasted in controversies with thebox-keepers in the lobbies, when Etienne said, "Let us go behindthe scenes; we will speak to the manager, he will take us into thestage-box; and besides, I will introduce you to Florine, the heroineof the evening. "

At a sign from Etienne Lousteau, the doorkeeper of the orchestra tookout a little key and unlocked a door in the thickness of the wall. Lucien, following his friend, went suddenly out of the lightedcorridor into the black darkness of the passage between the house andthe wings. A short flight of damp steps surmounted, one of thestrangest of all spectacles opened out before the provincial poet'seyes. The height of the roof, the slenderness of the props, theladders hung with Argand lamps, the atrocious ugliness of scenerybeheld at close quarters, the thick paint on the actors' faces, andtheir outlandish costumes, made of such coarse materials, the stagecarpenters in greasy jackets, the firemen, the stage manager struttingabout with his hat on his head, the supernumeraries sitting among thehanging back-scenes, the ropes and pulleys, the heterogeneouscollection of absurdities, shabby, dirty, hideous, and gaudy, wassomething so altogether different from the stage seen over thefootlights, that Lucien's astonishment knew no bounds. The curtain wasjust about to fall on a good old-fashioned melodrama entitled _Bertram_, a play adapted from a tragedy by Maturin which Charles Nodier, together with Byron and Sir Walter Scott, held in the highest esteem, though the play was a failure on the stage in Paris. 

"Keep a tight hold of my arm, unless you have a mind to fall through atrap-door, or bring down a forest on your head; you will pull down apalace, or carry off a cottage, if you are not careful, " said Etienne. --"Is Florine in her dressing-room, my pet?" he added, addressing anactress who stood waiting for her cue. 

"Yes, love. Thank you for the things you said about me. You are somuch nicer since Florine has come here. "

"Come, don't spoil your entry, little one. Quick with you, look sharp, and say, 'Stop, wretched man!' nicely, for there are two thousandfrancs of takings. "

Lucien was struck with amazement when the girl's whole face suddenlychanged, and she shrieked, "Stop, wretched man!" a cry that froze theblood in your veins. She was no longer the same creature. 

"So this is the stage, " he said to Lousteau. 

"It is like the bookseller's shop in the Wooden Galleries, or aliterary paper, " said Etienne Lousteau; "it is a kitchen, neither morenor less. "

Nathan appeared at this moment. 

"What brings you here?" inquired Lousteau. 

"Why, I am doing the minor theatres for the _Gazette_ until somethingbetter turns up. "

"Oh! come to supper with us this evening; speak well of Florine, and Iwill do as much for you. "

"Very much at your service, " returned Nathan. 

"You know; she is living in the Rue du Bondy now. "

"Lousteau, dear boy, who is the handsome young man that you havebrought with you?" asked the actress, now returned to the wings. 

"A great poet, dear, that will have a famous name one of these days. --M. Nathan, I must introduce M. Lucien de Rubempre to you, as you areto meet again at supper. "

"You have a good name, monsieur, " said Nathan. 

"Lucien, M. Raoul Nathan, " continued Etienne. 

"I read your book two days ago; and, upon my word, I cannot understandhow you, who have written such a book, and such poetry, can be sohumble to a journalist. "

"Wait till your first book comes out, " said Nathan, and a shrewd smileflitted over his face. 

"I say! I say! here are Ultras and Liberals actually shaking hands!"cried Vernou, spying the trio. 

"In the morning I hold the views of my paper, " said Nathan, "in theevening I think as I please; all journalists see double at night. "

Felicien Vernou turned to Lousteau. 

"Finot is looking for you, Etienne; he came with me, and--here he is!"

"Ah, by the by, there is not a place in the house, is there?" askedFinot. 

"You will always find a place in our hearts, " said the actress, withthe sweetest smile imaginable. 

"I say, my little Florville, are you cured already of your fancy? Theytold me that a Russian prince had carried you off. "

"Who carries off women in these days" said Florville (she who hadcried, "Stop, wretched man!"). "We stayed at Saint-Mande for ten days, and my prince got off with paying the forfeit money to the management. The manager will go down on his knees to pray for some more Russianprinces, " Florville continued, laughing; "the forfeit money was somuch clear gain. "

"And as for you, child, " said Finot, turning to a pretty girl in apeasant's costume, "where did you steal these diamond ear-drops? Haveyou hooked an Indian prince?"

"No, a blacking manufacturer, an Englishman, who has gone off already. It is not everybody who can find millionaire shopkeepers, tired ofdomestic life, whenever they like, as Florine does and Coralie. Aren'tthey just lucky?"

"Florville, you will make a bad entry, " said Lousteau; "the blackinghas gone to your head!"

"If you want a success, " said Nathan, "instead of screaming, 'He issaved!' like a Fury, walk on quite quietly, go to the staircase, andsay, 'He is saved, ' in a chest voice, like Pasta's '_O patria_, ' in_Tancreda_. --There, go along!" and he pushed her towards the stage. 

"It is too late, " said Vernou, "the effect has hung fire. "

"What did she do? the house is applauding like mad, " asked Lousteau. 

"Went down on her knees and showed her bosom; that is her greatresource, " said the blacking-maker's widow. 

"The manager is giving up the stage box to us; you will find me therewhen you come, " said Finot, as Lousteau walked off with Lucien. 

At the back of the stage, through a labyrinth of scenery andcorridors, the pair climbed several flights of stairs and reached alittle room on a third floor, Nathan and Felicien Vernou followingthem. 

"Good-day or good-night, gentlemen, " said Florine. Then, turning to ashort, stout man standing in a corner, "These gentlemen are the rulersof my destiny, " she said, my future is in their hands; but they willbe under our table to-morrow morning, I hope, if M. Lousteau hasforgotten nothing----"

"Forgotten! You are going to have Blondet of the _Debats_, " saidEtienne, "the genuine Blondet, the very Blondet--Blondet himself, inshort. "

"Oh! Lousteau, you dear boy! stop, I must give you a kiss, " and sheflung her arms about the journalist's neck. Matifat, the stout personin the corner, looked serious at this. 

Florine was thin; her beauty, like a bud, gave promise of the flowerto come; the girl of sixteen could only delight the eyes of artistswho prefer the sketch to the picture. All the quick subtlety of hercharacter was visible in the features of the charming actress, who atthat time might have sat for Goethe's Mignon. Matifat, a wealthydruggist of the Rue des Lombards, had imagined that a little Boulevardactress would have no very expensive tastes, but in eleven monthsFlorine had cost him sixty thousand francs. Nothing seemed moreextraordinary to Lucien than the sight of an honest and worthymerchant standing like a statue of the god Terminus in the actress'narrow dressing-room, a tiny place some ten feet square, hung with apretty wall-paper, and adorned with a full-length mirror, a sofa, andtwo chairs. There was a fireplace in the dressing-closet, a carpet onthe floor, and cupboards all round the room. A dresser was putting thefinishing touches to a Spanish costume; for Florine was to take thepart of a countess in an imbroglio. 

"That girl will be the handsomest actress in Paris in five years'time, " said Nathan, turning to Felicien Vernou. 

"By the by, darlings, you will take care of me to-morrow, won't you?"said Florine, turning to the three journalists. "I have engaged cabsfor to-night, for I am going to send you home as tipsy as ShroveTuesday. Matifat has sent in wines--oh! wines worthy of Louis XVIII. , and engaged the Prussian ambassador's cook. "

"We expect something enormous from the look of the gentleman, "remarked Nathan. 

"And he is quite aware that he is treating the most dangerous men inParis, " added Florine. 

Matifat was looking uneasily at Lucien; he felt jealous of the youngman's good looks. 

"But here is some one that I do not know, " Florine continued, confronting Lucien. "Which of you has imported the Apollo Belvederefrom Florence? He is as charming as one of Girodet's figures. "

"He is a poet, mademoiselle, from the provinces. I forgot to presenthim to you; you are so beautiful to-night that you put the _CompleteGuide to Etiquette_ out of a man's head----"

"Is he so rich that he can afford to write poetry?" asked Florine. 

"Poor as Job, " said Lucien. 

"It is a great temptation for some of us, " said the actress. 

Just then the author of the play suddenly entered, and Lucien beheldM. Du Bruel, a short, attenuated young man in an overcoat, a compositehuman blend of the jack-in-office, the owner of house-property, andthe stockbroker. 

"Florine, child, " said this personage, "are you sure of your part, eh?No slips of memory, you know. And mind that scene in the second act, make the irony tell, bring out that subtle touch; say, 'I do not loveyou, ' just as we agreed. "

"Why do you take parts in which you have to say such things?" askedMatifat. 

The druggist's remark was received with a general shout of laughter. 

"What does it matter to you, " said Florine, "so long as I don't saysuch things to you, great stupid?--Oh! his stupidity is the pleasureof my life, " she continued, glancing at the journalist. "Upon my word, I would pay him so much for every blunder, if it would not be the ruinof me. "

"Yes, but you will look at me when you say it, as you do when you arerehearsing, and it gives me a turn, " remonstrated the druggist. 

"Very well, then, I will look at my friend Lousteau here. "

A bell rang outside in the passage. 

"Go out, all of you!" cried Florine; "let me read my part over againand try to understand it. "

Lucien and Lousteau were the last to go. Lousteau set a kiss onFlorine's shoulder, and Lucien heard her say, "Not to-night. Impossible. That stupid old animal told his wife that he was going outinto the country. "

"Isn't she charming?" said Etienne, as they came away. 

"But--but that Matifat, my dear fellow----"

"Oh! you know nothing of Parisian life, my boy. Some things cannot behelped. Suppose that you fell in love with a married woman, it comesto the same thing. It all depends on the way that you look at it. "

Etienne and Lucien entered the stage-box, and found the manager therewith Finot. Matifat was in the ground-floor box exactly opposite witha friend of his, a silk-mercer named Camusot (Coralie's protector), and a worthy little old soul, his father-in-law. All three of thesecity men were polishing their opera-glasses, and anxiously scanningthe house; certain symptoms in the pit appeared to disturb them. Theusual heterogeneous first-night elements filled the boxes--journalistsand their mistresses, _lorettes_ and their lovers, a sprinkling of thedetermined playgoers who never miss a first night if they can help it, and a very few people of fashion who care for this sort of sensation. The first box was occupied by the head of a department, to whom duBruel, maker of vaudevilles, owed a snug little sinecure in theTreasury. 

Lucien had gone from surprise to surprise since the dinner atFlicoteaux's. For two months Literature had meant a life of povertyand want; in Lousteau's room he had seen it at its cynical worst; inthe Wooden Galleries he had met Literature abject and Literatureinsolent. The sharp contrasts of heights and depths; of compromisewith conscience; of supreme power and want of principle; of treacheryand pleasure; of mental elevation and bondage--all this made his headswim, he seemed to be watching some strange unheard-of drama. 

Finot was talking with the manager. "Do you think du Bruel's piecewill pay?" he asked. 

"Du Bruel has tried to do something in Beaumarchais' style. Boulevardaudiences don't care for that kind of thing; they like harrowingsensations; wit is not much appreciated here. Everything depends onFlorine and Coralie to-night; they are bewitchingly pretty andgraceful, wear very short skirts, and dance a Spanish dance, andpossibly they may carry off the piece with the public. The wholeaffair is a gambling speculation. A few clever notices in the papers, and I may make a hundred thousand crowns, if the play takes. "

"Oh! come, it will only be a moderate success, I can see, " said Finot. 

"Three of the theatres have got up a plot, " continued the manager;"they will even hiss the piece, but I have made arrangements to defeattheir kind intentions. I have squared the men in their pay; they willmake a muddle of it. A couple of city men yonder have taken a hundredtickets apiece to secure a triumph for Florine and Coralie, and giventhem to acquaintances able and ready to act as chuckers out. Thefellows, having been paid twice, will go quietly, and a scene of thatsort always makes a good impression on the house. "

"Two hundred tickets! What invaluable men!" exclaimed Finot. 

"Yes. With two more actresses as handsomely kept as Florine andCoralie, I should make something out of the business. "

For the past two hours the word money had been sounding in Lucien'sears as the solution of every difficulty. In the theatre as in thepublishing trade, and in the publishing trade as in thenewspaper-office--it was everywhere the same; there was not a word ofart or of glory. The steady beat of the great pendulum, Money, seemedto fall like hammer-strokes on his heart and brain. And yet while theorchestra played the overture, while the pit was full of noisy tumultof applause and hisses, unconsciously he drew a comparison betweenthis scene and others that came up in his mind. Visions arose beforehim of David and the printing-office, of the poetry that he came toknow in that atmosphere of pure peace, when together they beheld thewonders of Art, the high successes of genius, and visions of gloryborne on stainless wings. He thought of the evenings spent withd'Arthez and his friends, and tears glittered in his eyes. 

"What is the matter with you?" asked Etienne Lousteau. 

"I see poetry fallen into the mire. "

"Ah! you have still some illusions left, my dear fellow. "

"Is there nothing for it but to cringe and submit to thickheads likeMatifat and Camusot, as actresses bow down to journalists, and weourselves to the booksellers?"

"My boy, do you see that dull-brained fellow?" said Etienne, loweringhis voice, and glancing at Finot. "He has neither genius norcleverness, but he is covetous; he means to make a fortune at allcosts, and he is a keen man of business. Didn't you see how he madeforty per cent out of me at Dauriat's, and talked as if he were doingme a favor?--Well, he gets letters from not a few unknown men ofgenius who go down on their knees to him for a hundred francs. "

The words recalled the pen-and-ink sketch that lay on the table in theeditor's office and the words, "Finot, my hundred francs!" Lucien'sinmost soul shrank from the man in disgust. 

"I would sooner die, " he said. 

"Sooner live, " retorted Etienne. 

The curtain rose, and the stage-manager went off to the wings to giveorders. Finot turned to Etienne. 

"My dear fellow, Dauriat has passed his word; I am proprietor ofone-third of his weekly paper. I have agreed to give thirty thousandfrancs in cash, on condition that I am to be editor and director. 'Tisa splendid thing. Blondet told me that the Government intends to takerestrictive measures against the press; there will be no new papersallowed; in six months' time it will cost a million francs to start anew journal, so I struck a bargain though I have only ten thousandfrancs in hand. Listen to me. If you can sell one-half of my share, that is one-sixth of the paper, to Matifat for thirty thousand francs, you shall be editor of my little paper with a salary of two hundredand fifty francs per month. I want in any case to have the control ofmy old paper, and to keep my hold upon it; but nobody need know that, and your name will appear as editor. You will be paid at the rate offive francs per column; you need not pay contributors more than threefrancs, and you keep the difference. That means another four hundredand fifty francs per month. But, at the same time, I reserve the rightto use the paper to attack or defend men or causes, as I please; andyou may indulge your own likes and dislikes so long as you do notinterfere with my schemes. Perhaps I may be a Ministerialist, perhapsUltra, I do not know yet; but I mean to keep up my connections withthe Liberal party (below the surface). I can speak out with you; youare a good fellow. I might, perhaps, give you the Chambers to do foranother paper on which I work; I am afraid I can scarcely keep on withit now. So let Florine do this bit of jockeying; tell her to put thescrew on her druggist. If I can't find the money within forty-eighthours, I must cry off my bargain. Dauriat sold another third to hisprinter and paper-dealer for thirty thousand francs; so he has his ownthird _gratis_, and ten thousand francs to the good, for he only gavefifty thousand for the whole affair. And in another year's time themagazine will be worth two hundred thousand francs, if the Court buysit up; if the Court has the good sense to suppress newspapers, as theysay. "

"You are lucky, " said Lousteau. 

"If you had gone through all that I have endured, you would not saythat of me. I had my fill of misery in those days, you see, and therewas no help for it. My father is a hatter; he still keeps a shop inthe Rue du Coq. Nothing but millions of money or a social cataclysmcan open out the way to my goal; and of the two alternatives, I don'tknow now that the revolution is not the easier. If I bore yourfriend's name, I should have a chance to get on. Hush, here comes themanager. Good-bye, " and Finot rose to his feet, "I am going to theOpera. I shall very likely have a duel on my hands to-morrow, for Ihave put my initials to a terrific attack on a couple of dancers underthe protection of two Generals. I am giving it them hot and strong atthe Opera. "

"Aha?" said the manager. 

"Yes. They are stingy with me, " returned Finot, "now cutting off abox, and now declining to take fifty subscriptions. I have sent in my_ultimatum_; I mean to have a hundred subscriptions out of them and abox four times a month. If they take my terms, I shall have eighthundred readers and a thousand paying subscribers, so we shall havetwelve hundred with the New Year. "

"You will end by ruining us, " said the manager. 

"_You_ are not much hurt with your ten subscriptions. I had two goodnotices put into the _Constitutionnel_. "

"Oh! I am not complaining of you, " cried the manager. 

"Good-bye till to-morrow evening, Lousteau, " said Finot. "You can giveme your answer at the Francais; there is a new piece on there; and asI shall not be able to write the notice, you can take my box. I willgive you preference; you have worked yourself to death for me, and Iam grateful. Felicien Vernou offered twenty thousand francs for athird share of my little paper, and to work without a salary for atwelvemonth; but I want to be absolute master. Good-bye. "

"He is not named Finot" (_finaud_, slyboots) "for nothing, " said Lucien. 

"He is a gallows-bird that will get on in the world, " said Etienne, careless whether the wily schemer overheard the remark or not, as heshut the door of the box. 

"_He_!" said the manager. "He will be a millionaire; he will enjoy therespect of all who know him; he may perhaps have friends some day----"

"Good heavens! what a den!" said Lucien. "And are you going to dragthat excellent creature into such a business?" he continued, lookingat Florine, who gave them side glances from the stage. 

"She will carry it through too. You do not know the devotion and thewiles of these beloved beings, " said Lousteau. 

"They redeem their failings and expiate all their sins by boundlesslove, when they love, " said the manager. "A great love is all thegrander in an actress by reason of its violent contrast with hersurroundings. "

"And he who finds it, finds a diamond worthy of the proudest crownlying in the mud, " returned Lousteau. 

"But Coralie is not attending to her part, " remarked the manager. "Coralie is smitten with our friend here, all unsuspicious of hisconquest, and Coralie will make a fiasco; she is missing her cues, this is the second time she had not heard the prompter. Pray, go intothe corner, monsieur, " he continued. "If Coralie is smitten with you, I will go and tell her that you have left the house. "

"No! no!" cried Lousteau; "tell Coralie that this gentleman is comingto supper, and that she can do as she likes with him, and she willplay like Mlle. Mars. "

The manager went, and Lucien turned to Etienne. "What! do you mean tosay that you will ask that druggist, through Mlle. Florine, to paythirty thousand francs for one-half a share, when Finot gave no morefor the whole of it? And ask without the slightest scruple?----"

Lousteau interrupted Lucien before he had time to finish hisexpostulation. "My dear boy, what country can you come from? Thedruggist is not a man; he is a strong box delivered into our hands byhis fancy for an actress. "

"How about your conscience?"

"Conscience, my dear fellow, is a stick which every one takes up tobeat his neighbor and not for application to his own back. Come, now!who the devil are you angry with? In one day chance has worked amiracle for you, a miracle for which I have been waiting these twoyears, and you must needs amuse yourself by finding fault with themeans? What! you appear to me to possess intelligence; you seem to bein a fair way to reach that freedom from prejudice which is a firstnecessity to intellectual adventurers in the world we live in; and areyou wallowing in scruples worthy of a nun who accuses herself ofeating an egg with concupiscence? . . . If Florine succeeds, I shallbe editor of a newspaper with a fixed salary of two hundred and fiftyfrancs per month; I shall take the important plays and leave thevaudevilles to Vernou, and you can take my place and do the Boulevardtheatres, and so get a foot in the stirrup. You will make three francsper column and write a column a day--thirty columns a month meansninety francs; you will have some sixty francs worth of books to sellto Barbet; and lastly, you can demand ten tickets a month of each ofyour theatres--that is, forty tickets in all--and sell them for fortyfrancs to a Barbet who deals in them (I will introduce you to theman), so you will have two hundred francs coming in every month. Thenif you make yourself useful to Finot, you might get a hundred francsfor an article in this new weekly review of his, in which case youwould show uncommon talent, for all the articles are signed, and youcannot put in slip-shod work as you can on a small paper. In that caseyou would be making a hundred crowns a month. Now, my dear boy, thereare men of ability, like that poor d'Arthez, who dines at Flicoteaux'severy day, who may wait for ten years before they will make a hundredcrowns; and you will be making four thousand francs a year by yourpen, to say nothing of the books you will write for the trade, if youdo work of that kind. 

"Now, a sub-prefect's salary only amounts to a thousand crowns, andthere he stops in his arrondissement, wearing away time like the rungof a chair. I say nothing of the pleasure of going to the theatrewithout paying for your seat, for that is a delight which quicklypalls; but you can go behind the scenes in four theatres. Be hard andsarcastic for a month or two, and you will be simply overwhelmed withinvitations from actresses, and their adorers will pay court to you;you will only dine at Flicoteaux's when you happen to have less thanthirty sous in your pocket and no dinner engagement. At theLuxembourg, at five o'clock, you did not know which way to turn; now, you are on the eve of entering a privileged class, you will be one ofthe hundred persons who tell France what to think. In three days'time, if all goes well, you can, if you choose, make a man's life acurse to him by putting thirty jokes at his expense in print at therate of three a day; you can, if you choose, draw a revenue ofpleasure from the actresses at your theatres; you can wreck a goodplay and send all Paris running after a bad one. If Dauriat declinesto pay you for your _Marguerites_, you can make him come to you, andmeekly and humbly implore you to take two thousand francs for them. Ifyou have the ability, and knock off two or three articles thatthreaten to spoil some of Dauriat's speculations, or to ruin a book onwhich he counts, you will see him come climbing up your stairs like aclematis, and always at the door of your dwelling. As for your novel, the booksellers who would show you more or less politely to the doorat this moment will be standing outside your attic in a string, andthe value of the manuscript, which old Doguereau valued at fourhundred francs will rise to four thousand. These are the advantages ofthe journalist's profession. So let us do our best to keep allnewcomers out of it. It needs an immense amount of brains to make yourway, and a still greater amount of luck. And here are you quibblingover your good fortune! If we had not met to-day, you see, atFlicoteaux's, you might have danced attendance on the booksellers foranother three years, or starved like d'Arthez in a garret. By the timethat d'Arthez is as learned as Bayle and as great a writer of prose asRousseau, we shall have made our fortunes, you and I, and we shallhold his in our hands--wealth and fame to give or to hold. Finot willbe a deputy and proprietor of a great newspaper, and we shall bewhatever we meant to be--peers of France, or prisoner for debt inSainte-Pelagie. "

"So Finot will sell his paper to the highest bidder among theMinisters, just as he sells favorable notices to Mme. Bastienne andruns down Mlle. Virginie, saying that Mme. Bastienne's bonnets aresuperior to the millinery which they praised at first!" said Lucien, recollecting that scene in the office. 

"My dear fellow, you are a simpleton, " Lousteau remarked drily. "Threeyears ago Finot was walking on the uppers of his boots, dining foreighteen sous at Tabar's, and knocking off a tradesman's prospectus(when he could get it) for ten francs. His clothes hung together bysome miracle as mysterious as the Immaculate Conception. _Now_, Finothas a paper of his own, worth about a hundred thousand francs. Whatwith subscribers who pay and take no copies, genuine subscriptions, and indirect taxes levied by his uncle, he is making twenty thousandfrancs a year. He dines most sumptuously every day; he has set up acabriolet within the last month; and now, at last, behold him theeditor of a weekly review with a sixth share, for which he will notpay a penny, a salary of five hundred francs per month, and anotherthousand francs for supplying matter which costs him nothing, and forwhich the firm pays. You yourself, to begin with, if Finot consents topay you fifty francs per sheet, will be only too glad to let him havetwo or three articles for nothing. When you are in his position, youcan judge Finot; a man can only be tried by his peers. And for you, isthere not an immense future opening out before you, if you willblindly minister to his enmity, attack at Finot's bidding, and praisewhen he gives the word? Suppose that you yourself wish to be revengedupon somebody, you can break a foe or friend on the wheel. You haveonly to say to me, 'Lousteau, let us put an end to So-and-so, ' and wewill kill him by a phrase put in the paper morning by morning; andafterwards you can slay the slain with a solemn article in Finot'sweekly. Indeed, if it is a matter of capital importance to you, Finotwould allow you to bludgeon your man in a big paper with ten or twelvethousand subscribers, _if_ you make yourself indispensable to Finot. "

"Then are you sure that Florine can bring her druggist to make thebargain?" asked Lucien, dazzled by these prospects. 

"Quite sure. Now comes the interval, I will go and tell her everythingat once in a word or two; it will be settled to-night. If Florine oncehas her lesson by heart, she will have all my wit and her ownbesides. "

"And there sits that honest tradesman, gaping with open-mouthedadmiration at Florine, little suspecting that you are about to getthirty thousand francs out of him!----"

"More twaddle! Anybody might think that the man was going to berobbed!" cried Lousteau. "Why, my dear boy, if the minister buys thenewspaper, the druggist may make twenty thousand francs in six monthson an investment of thirty thousand. Matifat is not looking at thenewspaper, but at Florine's prospects. As soon as it is known thatMatifat and Camusot--(for they will go shares)--that Matifat andCamusot are proprietors of a review, the newspapers will be full offriendly notices of Florine and Coralie. Florine's name will be made;she will perhaps obtain an engagement in another theatre with a salaryof twelve thousand francs. In fact, Matifat will save a thousandfrancs every month in dinners and presents to journalists. You knownothing of men, nor of the way things are managed. "

"Poor man!" said Lucien, "he is looking forward to an evening'spleasure. "

"And he will be sawn in two with arguments until Florine sees Finot'sreceipt for a sixth share of the paper. And to-morrow I shall beeditor of Finot's paper, and making a thousand francs a month. The endof my troubles is in sight!" cried Florine's lover. 

Lousteau went out, and Lucien sat like one bewildered, lost in theinfinite of thought, soaring above this everyday world. In the WoodenGalleries he had seen the wires by which the trade in books is moved;he has seen something of the kitchen where great reputations are made;he had been behind the scenes; he had seen the seamy side of life, theconsciences of men involved in the machinery of Paris, the mechanismof it all. As he watched Florine on the stage he almost enviedLousteau his good fortune; already, for a few moments he had forgottenMatifat in the background. He was not left alone for long, perhaps fornot more than five minutes, but those minutes seemed an eternity. 

Thoughts rose within him that set his soul on fire, as the spectacleon the stage had heated his senses. He looked at the women with theirwanton eyes, all the brighter for the red paint on their cheeks, atthe gleaming bare necks, the luxuriant forms outlined by thelascivious folds of the basquina, the very short skirts, thatdisplayed as much as possible of limbs encased in scarlet stockingswith green clocks to them--a disquieting vision for the pit. 

A double process of corruption was working within him in parallellines, like two channels that will spread sooner or later in floodtime and make one. That corruption was eating into Lucien's soul, ashe leaned back in his corner, staring vacantly at the curtain, one armresting on the crimson velvet cushion, and his hand drooping over theedge. He felt the fascination of the life that was offered to him, ofthe gleams of light among its clouds; and this so much the more keenlybecause it shone out like a blaze of fireworks against the blankdarkness of his own obscure, monotonous days of toil. 

Suddenly his listless eyes became aware of a burning glance thatreached him through a rent in the curtain, and roused him from hislethargy. Those were Coralie's eyes that glowed upon him. He loweredhis head and looked across at Camusot, who just then entered theopposite box. 

That amateur was a worthy silk-mercer of the Rue des Bourdonnais, stout and substantial, a judge in the commercial court, a father offour children, and the husband of a second wife. At the age offifty-six, with a cap of gray hair on his head, he had the smugappearance of a man who has his eighty thousand francs of income; andhaving been forced to put up with a good deal that he did not like inthe way of business, has fully made up his mind to enjoy the rest ofhis life, and not to quit this earth until he has had his share ofcakes and ale. A brow the color of fresh butter and florid cheeks likea monk's jowl seemed scarcely big enough to contain his exuberantjubilation. Camusot had left his wife at home, and they were applaudingCoralie to the skies. All the rich man's citizen vanity was summed upand gratified in Coralie; in Coralie's lodging he gave himself the airsof a great lord of a bygone day; now, at this moment, he felt that halfof her success was his; the knowledge that he had paid for itconfirmed him in this idea. Camusot's conduct was sanctioned by thepresence of his father-in-law, a little old fogy with powdered hairand leering eyes, highly respected nevertheless. 

Again Lucien felt disgust rising within him. He thought of the yearwhen he loved Mme. De Bargeton with an exalted and disinterested love;and at that thought love, as a poet understands it, spread its whitewings about him; countless memories drew a circle of distant bluehorizon about the great man of Angouleme, and again he fell todreaming. 

Up went the curtain, and there stood Coralie and Florine upon thestage. 

"He is thinking about as much of you as of the Grand Turk, my deargirl, " Florine said in an aside while Coralie was finishing herspeech. 

Lucien could not help laughing. He looked at Coralie. She was one ofthe most charming and captivating actresses in Paris, rivaling Mme. Perrin and Mlle. Fleuriet, and destined likewise to share their fate. Coralie was a woman of a type that exerts at will a power offascination over men. With an oval face of deep ivory tint, a mouthred as a pomegranate, and a chin subtly delicate in its contour as theedge of a porcelain cup, Coralie was a Jewess of the sublime type. Thejet black eyes behind their curving lashes seemed to scorch hereyelids; you could guess how soft they might grow, or how sparks ofthe heat of the desert might flash from them in response to a summonsfrom within. The circles of olive shadow about them were bounded bythick arching lines of eyebrow. Magnificent mental power, well-nighamounting to genius, seemed to dwell in the swarthy forehead beneaththe double curve of ebony hair that lay upon it like a crown, andgleamed in the light like a varnished surface; but like many anotheractress, Coralie had little wit in spite of her aptness at greenroomrepartee, and scarcely any education in spite of her boudoirexperience. Her brain was prompted by her senses, her kindness was theimpulsive warm-heartedness of girls of her class. But who couldtrouble over Coralie's psychology when his eyes were dazzled by thosesmooth, round arms of hers, the spindle-shaped fingers, the fair whiteshoulders, and breast celebrated in the Song of Songs, the flexiblecurving lines of throat, the graciously moulded outlines beneath thescarlet silk stockings? And this beauty, worthy of an Eastern poet, was brought into relief by the conventional Spanish costume of thestage. Coralie was the delight of the pit; all eyes dwelt on theoutlines moulded by the clinging folds of her bodice, and lingeredover the Andalusian contour of the hips from which her skirt hung, fluttering wantonly with every movement. To Lucien, watching thiscreature, who played for him alone, caring no more for Camusot than astreet-boy in the gallery cares for an apple-paring, there came amoment when he set desire above love, and enjoyment above desire, andthe demon of Lust stirred strange thoughts in him. 

"I know nothing of the love that wallows in luxury and wine andsensual pleasure, " he said within himself. "I have lived more withideas than with realities. You must pass through all experience if youmean to render all experience. This will be my first great supper, myfirst orgy in a new and strange world; why should I not know, foronce, the delights which the great lords of the eighteenth centurysought so eagerly of wantons of the Opera? Must one not first learn ofcourtesans and actresses the delights, the perfections, thetransports, the resources, the subtleties of love, if only totranslate them afterwards into the regions of a higher love than this?And what is all this, after all, but the poetry of the senses? Twomonths ago these women seemed to me to be goddesses guarded by dragonsthat no one dared approach; I was envying Lousteau just now, but hereis another handsomer than Florine; why should I not profit by herfancy, when the greatest nobles buy a night with such women with theirrichest treasures? When ambassadors set foot in these depths, theyfling aside all thought of yesterday or to-morrow. I should be a foolto be more squeamish than princes, especially as I love no one asyet. "

Lucien had quite forgotten Camusot. To Lousteau he had expressed theutmost disgust for this most hateful of all partitions, and now hehimself had sunk to the same level, and, carried away by the casuistryof his vehement desire, had given the reins to his fancy. 

"Coralie is raving about you, " said Lousteau as he came in. "Yourcountenance, worthy of the greatest Greek sculptors, has workedunutterable havoc behind the scenes. You are in luck my dear boy. Coralie is eighteen years old, and in a few days' time she may bemaking sixty thousand francs a year by her beauty. She is an honestgirl still. Since her mother sold her three years ago for sixtythousand francs, she has tried to find happiness, and found nothingbut annoyance. She took to the stage in a desperate mood; she has ahorror of her first purchaser, de Marsay; and when she came out of thegalleys, for the king of dandies soon dropped her, she picked up oldCamusot. She does not care much about him, but he is like a father toher, and she endures him and his love. Several times already she hasrefused the handsomest proposals; she is faithful to Camusot, who letsher live in peace. So you are her first love. The first sight of youwent to her heart like a pistol-shot, Florine has gone to herdressing-room to bring the girl to reason. She is crying over yourcruelty; she has forgotten her part, the play will go to pieces, andgood-day to the engagement at the Gymnase which Camusot had plannedfor her. "

"Pooh! . . . Poor thing!" said Lucien. Every instinct of vanity wastickled by the words; he felt his heart swell high with self-conceit. "More adventures have befallen me in this one evening, my dear fellow, than in all the first eighteen years of my life. " And Lucien relatedthe history of his love affairs with Mme. De Bargeton, and of thecordial hatred he bore the Baron du Chatelet. 

"Stay though! the newspaper wants a _bete noire_; we will take him up. The Baron is a buck of the Empire and a Ministerialist; he is the manfor us; I have seen him many a time at the Opera. I can see your greatlady as I sit here; she is often in the Marquise d'Espard's box. TheBaron is paying court to your lady love, a cuttlefish bone that sheis. Wait! Finot has just sent a special messenger round to say thatthey are short of copy at the office. Young Hector Merlin has leftthem in the lurch because they did not pay for white lines. Finot, indespair, is knocking off an article against the Opera. Well now, mydear fellow, you can do this play; listen to it and think it over, andI will go to the manager's office and think out three columns aboutyour man and your disdainful fair one. They will be in no pleasantpredicament to-morrow. "

"So this is how a newspaper is written?" said Lucien. 

"It is always like this, " answered Lousteau. "These ten months that Ihave been a journalist, they have always run short of copy at eighto'clock in the evening. "

Manuscript sent to the printer is spoken of as "copy, " doubtlessbecause the writers are supposed to send in a fair copy of their work;or possibly the word is ironically derived from the Latin word _copia_, for copy is invariably scarce. 

"We always mean to have a few numbers ready in advance, a grand ideathat will never be realized, " continued Lousteau. "It is ten o'clock, you see, and not a line has been written. I shall ask Vernou andNathan for a score of epigrams on deputies, or on 'Chancellor Cruzoe, 'or on the Ministry, or on friends of ours if it needs must be. A manin this pass would slaughter his parent, just as a privateer will loadhis guns with silver pieces taken out of the booty sooner than perish. Write a brilliant article, and you will make brilliant progress inFinot's estimation; for Finot has a lively sense of benefits to come, and that sort of gratitude is better than any kind of pledge, pawntickets always excepted, for they invariably represent somethingsolid. "

"What kind of men can journalists be? Are you to sit down at a tableand be witty to order?"

"Just exactly as a lamp begins to burn when you apply a match--so longas there is any oil in it. "

Lousteau's hand was on the lock when du Bruel came in with themanager. 

"Permit me, monsieur, to take a message to Coralie; allow me to tellher that you will go home with her after supper, or my play will beruined. The wretched girl does not know what she is doing or saying;she will cry when she ought to laugh and laugh when she ought to cry. She has been hissed once already. You can still save the piece, and, after all, pleasure is not a misfortune. "

"I am not accustomed to rivals, sir, " Lucien answered. 

"Pray don't tell her that!" cried the manager. "Coralie is just thegirl to fling Camusot overboard and ruin herself in good earnest. Theproprietor of the _Golden Cocoon_, worthy man, allows her two thousandfrancs a month, and pays for all her dresses and _claqueurs_. "

"As your promise pledges me to nothing, save your play, " said Lucien, with a sultan's airs. 

"But don't look as if you meant to snub that charming creature, "pleaded du Bruel. 

"Dear me! am I to write the notice of your play and smile on yourheroine as well?" exclaimed the poet. 

The author vanished with a signal to Coralie, who began to actforthwith in a marvelous way. Vignol, who played the part of thealcalde, and revealed for the first time his genius as an actor of oldmen, came forward amid a storm of applause to make an announcement tothe house. 

"The piece which we have the honor of playing for you this evening, gentlemen, is the work of MM. Raoul and de Cursy. "

"Why, Nathan is partly responsible, " said Lousteau. "I don't wonderthat he looked in. "

"Coralie_! Coralie_!" shouted the enraptured house. "Florine, too!"roared a voice of thunder from the opposite box, and other voices tookup the cry, "Florine and Coralie!"

The curtain rose, Vignol reappeared between the two actresses; Matifatand Camusot flung wreaths on the stage, and Coralie stooped for herflowers and held them out to Lucien. 

For him those two hours spent in the theatre seemed to be a dream. Thespell that held him had begun to work when he went behind the scenes;and, in spite of its horrors, the atmosphere of the place, itssensuality and dissolute morals had affected the poet's stilluntainted nature. A sort of malaria that infects the soul seems tolurk among those dark, filthy passages filled with machinery, and litwith smoky, greasy lamps. The solemnity and reality of life disappear, the most sacred things are matter for a jest, the most impossiblethings seem to be true. Lucien felt as if he had taken some narcotic, and Coralie had completed the work. He plunged into this joyousintoxication. 

The lights in the great chandelier were extinguished; there was no oneleft in the house except the boxkeepers, busy taking away footstoolsand shutting doors, the noises echoing strangely through the emptytheatre. The footlights, blown out as one candle, sent up a fetid reekof smoke. The curtain rose again, a lantern was lowered from theceiling, and firemen and stage carpenters departed on their rounds. The fairy scenes of the stage, the rows of fair faces in the boxes, the dazzling lights, the magical illusion of new scenery and costumehad all disappeared, and dismal darkness, emptiness, and cold reignedin their stead. It was hideous. Lucien sat on in bewilderment. 

"Well! are you coming, my boy?" Lousteau's voice called from thestage. "Jump down. "

Lucien sprang over. He scarcely recognized Florine and Coralie intheir ordinary quilted paletots and cloaks, with their faces hidden byhats and thick black veils. Two butterflies returned to the chrysalisstage could not be more completely transformed. 

"Will you honor me by giving me your arm?" Coralie asked tremulously. 

"With pleasure, " said Lucien. He could feel the beating of her heartthrobbing against his like some snared bird as she nestled closely tohis side, with something of the delight of a cat that rubs herselfagainst her master with eager silken caresses. 

"So we are supping together!" she said. 

The party of four found two cabs waiting for them at the door in theRue des Fosses-du-Temple. Coralie drew Lucien to one of the two, inwhich Camusot and his father-in-law old Cardot were seated already. She offered du Bruel a fifth place, and the manager drove off withFlorine, Matifat, and Lousteau. 

"These hackney cabs are abominable things, " said Coralie. 

"Why don't you have a carriage?" returned du Bruel. 

"_Why_?" she asked pettishly. "I do not like to tell you before M. Cardot's face; for he trained his son-in-law, no doubt. Would youbelieve it, little and old as he is, M. Cardot only gives Florine fivehundred francs a month, just about enough to pay for her rent and hergrub and her clothes. The old Marquis de Rochegude offered me abrougham two months ago, and he has six hundred thousand francs ayear, but I am an artist and not a common hussy. "

"You shall have a carriage the day after to-morrow, miss, " saidCamusot benignly; "you never asked me for one. "

"As if one _asked_ for such a thing as that? What! you love a woman andlet her paddle about in the mud at the risk of breaking her legs?Nobody but a knight of the yardstick likes to see a draggled skirthem. "

As she uttered the sharp words that cut Camusot to the quick, shegroped for Lucien's knee, and pressed it against her own, and claspedher fingers upon his hand. She was silent. All her power to feelseemed to be concentrated upon the ineffable joy of a moment whichbrings compensation for the whole wretched past of a life such asthese poor creatures lead, and develops within their souls a poetry ofwhich other women, happily ignorant of these violent revulsions, knownothing. 

"You played like Mlle. Mars herself towards the end, " said du Bruel. 

"Yes, " said Camusot, "something put her out at the beginning; but fromthe middle of the second act to the very end, she was enough to driveyou wild with admiration. Half of the success of your play was due toher. "

"And half of her success is due to me, " said du Bruel. 

"This is all much ado about nothing, " said Coralie in an unfamiliarvoice. And, seizing an opportunity in the darkness, she carriedLucien's hand to her lips and kissed it and drenched it with tears. Lucien felt thrilled through and through by that touch, for in thehumility of the courtesan's love there is a magnificence which mightset an example to angels. 

"Are you writing the dramatic criticism, monsieur?" said du Bruel, addressing Lucien; "you can write a charming paragraph about our dearCoralie. "

"Oh! do us that little service!" pleaded Camusot, down on his knees, metaphorically speaking, before the critic. "You will always find meready to do you a good turn at any time. "

"Do leave him his independence, " Coralie exclaimed angrily; "he willwrite what he pleases. Papa Camusot, buy carriages for me instead ofpraises. "

"You shall have them on very easy terms, " Lucien answered politely. "Ihave never written for newspapers before, so I am not accustomed totheir ways, my maiden pen is at your disposal----"

"That is funny, " said du Bruel. 

"Here we are in the Rue de Bondy, " said Cardot. Coralie's sally hadquite crushed the little old man. 

"If you are giving me the first fruits of your pen, the first lovethat has sprung up in my heart shall be yours, " whispered Coralie inthe brief instant that they remained alone together in the cab; thenshe went up to Florine's bedroom to change her dress for a toilettepreviously sent. 

Lucien had no idea how lavishly a prosperous merchant will spend moneyupon an actress or a mistress when he means to enjoy a life ofpleasure. Matifat was not nearly so rich a man as his friend Camusot, and he had done his part rather shabbily, yet the sight of thedining-room took Lucien by surprise. The walls were hung with greencloth with a border of gilded nails, the whole room was artisticallydecorated, lighted by handsome lamps, stands full of flowers stood inevery direction. The drawing-room was resplendent with the furniturein fashion in those days--a Thomire chandelier, a carpet of Easterndesign, and yellow silken hangings relieved by a brown border. Thecandlesticks, fire-irons, and clock were all in good taste; forMatifat had left everything to Grindot, a rising architect, who wasbuilding a house for him, and the young man had taken great pains withthe rooms when he knew that Florine was to occupy them. 

Matifat, a tradesman to the backbone, went about carefully, afraid totouch the new furniture; he seemed to have the totals of the billsalways before his eyes, and to look upon the splendors about him as somuch jewelry imprudently withdrawn from the case. 

"And I shall be obliged to do as much for Florentine!" old Cardot'seyes seemed to say. 

Lucien at once began to understand Lousteau's indifference to thestate of his garret. Etienne was the real king of these festivals;Etienne enjoyed the use of all these fine things. He was standing justnow on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, as if he were themaster of the house, chatting with the manager, who was congratulatingdu Bruel. 

"Copy, copy!" called Finot, coming into the room. "There is nothing inthe box; the printers are setting up my article, and they will soonhave finished. "

"We will manage, " said Etienne. "There is a fire burning in Florine'sboudoir; there is a table there; and if M. Matifat will find us paperand ink, we will knock off the newspaper while Florine and Coralie aredressing. "

Cardot, Camusot, and Matifat disappeared in search of quills, penknives, and everything necessary. Suddenly the door was flung open, and Tullia, one of the prettiest opera-dancers of the day, dashed intothe room. 

"They agree to take the hundred copies, dear boy!" she cried, addressing Finot; "they won't cost the management anything, for thechorus and the orchestra and the _corps de ballet_ are to take themwhether they like it or not; but your paper is so clever that nobodywill grumble. And you are going to have your boxes. Here is thesubscription for the first quarter, " she continued, holding out acouple of banknotes; "so don't cut me up!"

"It is all over with me!" groaned Finot; "I must suppress myabominable diatribe, and I haven't another notion in my head. "

"What a happy inspiration, divine Lais!" exclaimed Blondet, who hadfollowed the lady upstairs and brought Nathan, Vernou and ClaudeVignon with him. "Stop to supper, there is a dear, or I will crushthee, butterfly as thou art. There will be no professional jealousies, as you are a dancer; and as to beauty, you have all of you too muchsense to show jealousy in public. "

"Oh dear!" cried Finot, "Nathan, Blondet, du Bruel, help friends! Iwant five columns. "

"I can make two of the play, " said Lucien. 

"I have enough for one, " added Lousteau. 

"Very well; Nathan, Vernou, and du Bruel will make the jokes at theend; and Blondet, good fellow, surely will vouchsafe a couple of shortcolumns for the first sheet. I will run round to the printer. It islucky that you brought your carriage, Tullia. "

"Yes, but the Duke is waiting below in it, and he has a GermanMinister with him. "

"Ask the Duke and the Minister to come up, " said Nathan. 

"A German? They are the ones to drink, and they listen too; he shallhear some astonishing things to send home to his Government, " criedBlondet. 

"Is there any sufficiently serious personage to go down to speak tohim?" asked Finot. "Here, du Bruel, you are an official; bring up theDuc de Rhetore and the Minister, and give your arm to Tullia. Dear me!Tullia, how handsome you are to-night!"

"We shall be thirteen at table!" exclaimed Matifat, paling visibly. 

"No, fourteen, " said a voice in the doorway, and Florentine appeared. "I have come to look after 'milord Cardot, '" she added, speaking witha burlesque English accent. 

"And besides, " said Lousteau, "Claude Vignon came with Blondet. "

"I brought him here to drink, " returned Blondet, taking up aninkstand. "Look here, all of you, you must use all your wit beforethose fifty-six bottles of wine drive it out. And, of all things, stirup du Bruel; he is a vaudevillist, he is capable of making bad jokesif you get him to concert pitch. "

And Lucien wrote his first newspaper article at the round table inFlorine's boudoir, by the light of the pink candles lighted byMatifat; before such a remarkable audience he was eager to show whathe could do. 

 THE PANORAMA-DRAMATIQUE. 

 First performance of the _Alcalde in a Fix_, an imbroglio in three acts. --First appearance of Mademoiselle Florine. --Mademoiselle Coralie. --Vignol. 

 People are coming and going, walking and talking, everybody is looking for something, nobody finds anything. General hubbub. The Alcalde has lost his daughter and found his cap, but the cap does not fit; it must belong to some thief. Where is the thief? People walk and talk, and come and go more than ever. Finally the Alcalde finds a man without his daughter, and his daughter without the man, which is satisfactory for the magistrate, but not for the audience. Quiet being resorted, the Alcalde tries to examine the man. Behold a venerable Alcalde, sitting in an Alcalde's great armchair, arranging the sleeves of his Alcalde's gown. Only in Spain do Alcaldes cling to their enormous sleeves and wear plaited lawn ruffles about the magisterial throat, a good half of an Alcalde's business on the stage in Paris. This particular Alcalde, wheezing and waddling about like an asthmatic old man, is Vignol, on whom Potier's mantle has fallen; a young actor who personates old age so admirably that the oldest men in the audience cannot help laughing. With that quavering voice of his, that bald forehead, and those spindle shanks trembling under the weight of a senile frame, he may look forward to a long career of decrepitude. There is something alarming about the young actor's old age; he is so very old; you feel nervous lest senility should be infectious. And what an admirable Alcalde he makes! What a delightful, uneasy smile! what pompous stupidity! what wooden dignity! what judicial hesitation! How well the man knows that black may be white, or white black! How eminently well he is fitted to be Minister to a constitutional monarch! The stranger answers every one of his inquiries by a question; Vignol retorts in such a fashion, that the person under examination elicits all the truth from the Alcalde. This piece of pure comedy, with a breath of Moliere throughout, puts the house in good humor. The people on the stage all seemed to understand what they were about, but I am quite unable to clear up the mystery, or to say wherein it lay; for the Alcalde's daughter was there, personified by a living, breathing Andalusian, a Spaniard with a Spaniard's eyes, a Spaniard's complexion, a Spaniard's gait and figure, a Spaniard from top to toe, with her poniard in her garter, love in her heart, and a cross on the ribbon about her neck. When the act was over, and somebody asked me how the piece was going, I answered, "She wears scarlet stockings with green clocks to them; she has a little foot, no larger than _that_, in her patent leather shoes, and the prettiest pair of ankles in Andalusia!" Oh! that Alcalde's daughter brings your heart into your mouth; she tantalizes you so horribly, that you long to spring upon the stage and offer her your thatched hovel and your heart, or thirty thousand livres per annum and your pen. The Andalusian is the loveliest actress in Paris. Coralie, for she must be called by her real name, can be a countess or a _grisette_, and in which part she would be more charming one cannot tell. She can be anything that she chooses; she is born to achieve all possibilities; can more be said of a boulevard actress?

 With the second act, a Parisian Spaniard appeared upon the scene, with her features cut like a cameo and her dangerous eyes. "Where does she come from?" I asked in my turn, and was told that she came from the greenroom, and that she was Mademoiselle Florine; but, upon my word, I could not believe a syllable of it, such spirit was there in her gestures, such frenzy in her love. She is the rival of the Alcalde's daughter, and married to a grandee cut out to wear an Almaviva's cloak, with stuff sufficient in it for a hundred boulevard noblemen. Mlle. Florine wore neither scarlet stockings with green clocks, nor patent leather shoes, but she appeared in a mantilla, a veil which she put to admirable uses, like the great lady that she is! She showed to admiration that the tigress can be a cat. I began to understand, from the sparkling talk between the two, that some drama of jealousy was going on; and just as everything was put right, the Alcalde's stupidity embroiled everybody again. Torchbearers, rich men, footmen, Figaros, grandees, alcaldes, dames, and damsels--the whole company on the stage began to eddy about, and come and go, and look for one another. The plot thickened, again I left it to thicken; for Florine the jealous and the happy Coralie had entangled me once more in the folds of mantilla and basquina, and their little feet were twinkling in my eyes. 

 I managed, however, to reach the third act without any mishap. The commissary of police was not compelled to interfere, and I did nothing to scandalize the house, wherefore I begin to believe in the influence of that "public and religious morality, " about which the Chamber of Deputies is so anxious, that any one might think there was no morality left in France. I even contrived to gather that a man was in love with two women who failed to return his affection, or else that two women were in love with a man who loved neither of them; the man did not love the Alcalde, or the Alcalde had no love for the man, who was nevertheless a gallant gentleman, and in love with somebody, with himself, perhaps, or with heaven, if the worst came to the worst, for he becomes a monk. And if you want to know any more, you can go to the Panorama-Dramatique. You are hereby given fair warning--you must go once to accustom yourself to those irresistible scarlet stockings with the green clocks, to little feet full of promises, to eyes with a ray of sunlight shining through them, to the subtle charm of a Parisienne disguised as an Andalusian girl, and of an Andalusian masquerading as a Parisienne. You must go a second time to enjoy the play, to shed tears over the love-distracted grandee, and die of laughing at the old Alcalde. The play is twice a success. The author, who writes it, it is said, in collaboration with one of the great poets of the day, was called before the curtain, and appeared with a love-distraught damsel on each arm, and fairly brought down the excited house. The two dancers seemed to have more wit in their legs than the author himself; but when once the fair rivals left the stage, the dialogue seemed witty at once, a triumphant proof of the excellence of the piece. The applause and calls for the author caused the architect some anxiety; but M. De Cursy, the author, being accustomed to volcanic eruptions of the reeling Vesuvius beneath the chandelier, felt no tremor. As for the actresses, they danced the famous bolero of Seville, which once found favor in the sight of a council of reverend fathers, and escaped ecclesiastical censure in spite of its wanton dangerous grace. The bolero in itself would be enough to attract old age while there is any lingering heat of youth in the veins, and out of charity I warn these persons to keep the lenses of their opera-glasses well polished. 

While Lucien was writing a column which was to set a new fashion injournalism and reveal a fresh and original gift, Lousteau indited anarticle of the kind described as _moeurs_--a sketch of contemporarymanners, entitled _The Elderly Beau_. 

"The buck of the Empire, " he wrote, "is invariably long, slender, andwell preserved. He wears a corset and the Cross of the Legion ofHonor. His name was originally Potelet, or something very like it; butto stand well with the Court, he conferred a _du_ upon himself, and_du_ Potelet he is until another revolution. A baron of the Empire, aman of two ends, as his name (_Potelet_, a post) implies, he is payinghis court to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, after a youth gloriously andusefully spent as the agreeable trainbearer of a sister of the manwhom decency forbids me to mention by name. Du Potelet has forgottenthat he was once in waiting upon Her Imperial Highness; but he stillsings the songs composed for the benefactress who took such a tenderinterest in his career, " and so forth and so forth. It was a tissue ofpersonalities, silly enough for the most part, such as they used towrite in those days. Other papers, and notably the _Figaro_, havebrought the art to a curious perfection since. Lousteau compared theBaron to a heron, and introduced Mme. De Bargeton, to whom he waspaying his court, as a cuttlefish bone, a burlesque absurdity whichamused readers who knew neither of the personages. A tale of the lovesof the Heron, who tried in vain to swallow the Cuttlefish bone, whichbroke into three pieces when he dropped it, was irresistiblyludicrous. Everybody remembers the sensation which the pleasantry madein the Faubourg Saint-Germain; it was the first of a series of similararticles, and was one of the thousand and one causes which provokedthe rigorous press legislation of Charles X. 

An hour later, Blondet, Lousteau, and Lucien came back to thedrawing-room, where the other guests were chatting. The Duke was thereand the Minister, the four women, the three merchants, the manager, and Finot. A printer's devil, with a paper cap on his head, waswaiting even then for copy. 

"The men are just going off, if I have nothing to take them, " he said. 

"Stay a bit, here are ten francs, and tell them to wait, " said Finot. 

"If I give them the money, sir, they would take to tippleography, andgood-night to the newspaper. "

"That boy's common-sense is appalling to me, " remarked Finot; and theMinister was in the middle of a prediction of a brilliant future forthe urchin, when the three came in. Blondet read aloud an extremelyclever article against the Romantics; Lousteau's paragraph drewlaughter, and by the Duc de Rhetore's advice an indirect eulogium ofMme. D'Espard was slipped in, lest the whole Faubourg Saint-Germainshould take offence. 

"What have _you_ written?" asked Finot, turning to Lucien. 

And Lucien read, quaking for fear, but the room rang with applausewhen he finished; the actresses embraced the neophyte; and the twomerchants, following suit, half choked the breath out of him. Therewere tears in du Bruel's eyes as he grasped his critic's hand, and themanager invited him to dinner. 

"There are no children nowadays, " said Blondet. "Since M. DeChateaubriand called Victor Hugo a 'sublime child, ' I can only tellyou quite simply that you have spirit and taste, and write like agentleman. "

"He is on the newspaper, " said Finot, as he thanked Etienne, and gavehim a shrewd glance. 

"What jokes have you made?" inquired Lousteau, turning to Blondet anddu Bruel. 

"Here are du Bruel's, " said Nathan. 

 *** "Now, that M. Le Vicomte d'A---- is attracting so much attention, they will perhaps let _me_ alone, " M. Le Vicomte Demosthenes was heard to say yesterday. 

 *** An Ultra, condemning M. Pasquier's speech, said his programme was only a continuation of Decaze's policy. "Yes, " said a lady, "but he stands on a Monarchical basis, he has just the kind of leg for a Court suit. "

"With such a beginning, I don't ask more of you, " said Finot; "it willbe all right. --Run round with this, " he added, turning to the boy;"the paper is not exactly a genuine article, but it is our best numberyet, " and he turned to the group of writers. Already Lucien'scolleagues were privately taking his measure. 

"That fellow has brains, " said Blondet. 

"His article is well written, " said Claude Vignon. 

"Supper!" cried Matifat. 

The Duke gave his arm to Florine, Coralie went across to Lucien, andTullia went in to supper between Emile Blondet and the GermanMinister. 

"I cannot understand why you are making an onslaught on Mme. DeBargeton and the Baron du Chatelet; they say that he isprefect-designate of the Charente, and will be Master of Requestssome day. "

"Mme. De Bargeton showed Lucien the door as if he had been animposter, " said Lousteau. 

"Such a fine young fellow!" exclaimed the Minister. 

Supper, served with new plate, Sevres porcelain, and white damask, wasredolent of opulence. The dishes were from Chevet, the wines from acelebrated merchant on the Quai Saint-Bernard, a personal friend ofMatifat's. For the first time Lucien beheld the luxury of Parisdisplayed; he went from surprise to surprise, but he kept hisastonishment to himself, like a man who had spirit and taste and wrotelike a gentleman, as Blondet had said. 

As they crossed the drawing-room, Coralie bent to Florine, "MakeCamusot so drunk that he will be compelled to stop here all night, "she whispered. 

"So you have hooked your journalist, have you?" returned Florine, using the idiom of women of her class. 

"No, dear; I love him, " said Coralie, with an adorable little shrug ofthe shoulders. 

Those words rang in Lucien's ears, borne to them by the fifth deadlysin. Coralie was perfectly dressed. Every woman possesses somepersonal charm in perfection, and Coralie's toilette brought hercharacteristic beauty into prominence. Her dress, moreover, likeFlorine's, was of some exquisite stuff, unknown as yet to the public, a _mousseline de soie_, with which Camusot had been supplied a few daysbefore the rest of the world; for, as owner of the _Golden Cocoon_, hewas a kind of Providence in Paris to the Lyons silkweavers. 

Love and toilet are like color and perfume for a woman, and Coralie inher happiness looked lovelier than ever. A looked-for delight whichcannot elude the grasp possesses an immense charm for youth; perhapsin their eyes the secret of the attraction of a house of pleasure liesin the certainty of gratification; perhaps many a long fidelity isattributable to the same cause. Love for love's sake, first loveindeed, had blent with one of the strange violent fancies whichsometimes possess these poor creatures; and love and admiration ofLucien's great beauty taught Coralie to express the thoughts in herheart. 

"I should love you if you were ill and ugly, " she whispered as theysat down. 

What a saying for a poet! Camusot utterly vanished, Lucien hadforgotten his existence, he saw Coralie, and had eyes for nothingelse. How should he draw back--this creature, all sensation, allenjoyment of life, tired of the monotony of existence in a countrytown, weary of poverty, harassed by enforced continence, impatient ofthe claustral life of the Rue de Cluny, of toiling without reward? Thefascination of the under world of Paris was upon him; how should herise and leave this brilliant gathering? Lucien stood with one foot inCoralie's chamber and the other in the quicksands of Journalism. Afterso much vain search, and climbing of so many stairs, after standingabout and waiting in the Rue de Sentier, he had found Journalism ajolly boon companion, joyous over the wine. His wrongs had just beenavenged. There were two for whom he had vainly striven to fill the cupof humiliation and pain which he had been made to drink to the dregs, and now to-morrow they should receive a stab in their very hearts. "Here is a real friend!" he thought, as he looked at Lousteau. Itnever crossed his mind that Lousteau already regarded him as adangerous rival. He had made a blunder; he had done his very best whena colorless article would have served him admirably well. Blondet'sremark to Finot that it would be better to come to terms with a man ofthat calibre, had counteracted Lousteau's gnawing jealousy. Hereflected that it would be prudent to keep on good terms with Lucien, and, at the same time, to arrange with Finot to exploit thisformidable newcomer--he must be kept in poverty. The decision was madein a moment, and the bargain made in a few whispered words. 

"He has talent. "

"He will want the more. "

"Ah?"

"Good!"

"A supper among French journalists always fills me with dread, " saidthe German diplomatist, with serene urbanity; he looked as he spoke atBlondet, whom he had met at the Comtesse de Montcornet's. "It is laidupon you, gentlemen, to fulfil a prophecy of Blucher's. "

"What prophecy?" asked Nathan. 

"When Blucher and Sacken arrived on the heights of Montmartre in 1814(pardon me, gentlemen, for recalling a day unfortunate for France), Sacken (a rough brute), remarked, 'Now we will set Paris alight!'--'Take very good care that you don't, ' said Blucher. 'France will dieof _that_, nothing else can kill her, ' and he waved his hand over theglowing, seething city, that lay like a huge canker in the valley ofthe Seine. --There are no journalists in our country, thank Heaven!"continued the Minister after a pause. "I have not yet recovered fromthe fright that the little fellow gave me, a boy of ten, in a papercap, with the sense of an old diplomatist. And to-night I feel as if Iwere supping with lions and panthers, who graciously sheathe theirclaws in my honor. "

"It is clear, " said Blondet, "that we are at liberty to inform Europethat a serpent dropped from your Excellency's lips this evening, andthat the venomous creature failed to inoculate Mlle. Tullia, theprettiest dancer in Paris; and to follow up the story with acommentary on Eve, and the Scriptures, and the first and lasttransgression. But have no fear, you are our guest. "

"It would be funny, " said Finot. 

"We would begin with a scientific treatise on all the serpents foundin the human heart and human body, and so proceed to the _corpsdiplomatique_, " said Lousteau. 

"And we could exhibit one in spirits, in a bottle of brandiedcherries, " said Vernou. 

"Till you yourself would end by believing in the story, " added Vignon, looking at the diplomatist. 

"Gentlemen, " cried the Duc de Rhetore, "let sleeping claws lie. "

"The influence and power of the press is only dawning, " said Finot. "Journalism is in its infancy; it will grow. In ten years' time, everything will be brought into publicity. The light of thought willbe turned on all subjects, and----"

"The blight of thought will be over it all, " corrected Blondet. 

"Here is an apothegm, " cried Claude Vignon. 

"Thought will make kings, " said Lousteau. 

"And undo monarchs, " said the German. 

"And therefore, " said Blondet, "if the press did not exist, it wouldbe necessary to invent it forthwith. But here we have it, and live byit. "

"You will die of it, " returned the German diplomatist. "Can you notsee that if you enlighten the masses, and raise them in the politicalscale, you make it all the harder for the individual to rise abovetheir level? Can you not see that if you sow the seeds of reasoningamong the working-classes, you will reap revolt, and be the first tofall victims? What do they smash in Paris when a riot begins?"

"The street-lamps!" said Nathan; "but we are too modest to fear forourselves, we only run the risk of cracks. "

"As a nation, you have too much mental activity to allow anygovernment to run its course without interference. But for that, youwould make the conquest of Europe a second time, and win with the penall that you failed to keep with the sword. "

"Journalism is an evil, " said Claude Vignon. "The evil may have itsuses, but the present Government is resolved to put it down. Therewill be a battle over it. Who will give way? That is the question. "

"The Government will give way, " said Blondet. "I keep telling peoplethat with all my might! Intellectual power is _the_ great power inFrance; and the press has more wit than all men of intellect puttogether, and the hypocrisy of Tartufe besides. "

"Blondet! Blondet! you are going too far!" called Finot. "Subscribersare present. "

"You are the proprietor of one of those poison shops; you have reasonto be afraid; but I can laugh at the whole business, even if I live byit. "

"Blondet is right, " said Claude Vignon. "Journalism, so far from beingin the hands of a priesthood, came to be first a party weapon, andthen a commercial speculation, carried on without conscience orscruple, like other commercial speculations. Every newspaper, asBlondet says, is a shop to which people come for opinions of the rightshade. If there were a paper for hunchbacks, it would set forthplainly, morning and evening, in its columns, the beauty, the utility, and necessity of deformity. A newspaper is not supposed to enlightenits readers, but to supply them with congenial opinions. Give anynewspaper time enough, and it will be base, hypocritical, shameless, and treacherous; the periodical press will be the death of ideas, systems, and individuals; nay, it will flourish upon their decay. Itwill take the credit of all creations of the brain; the harm that itdoes is done anonymously. We, for instance--I, Claude Vignon; you, Blondet; you, Lousteau; and you, Finot--we are all Platos, Aristides, and Catos, Plutarch's men, in short; we are all immaculate; we maywash our hands of all iniquity. Napoleon's sublime aphorism, suggestedby his study of the Convention, 'No one individual is responsible fora crime committed collectively, ' sums up the whole significance of aphenomenon, moral or immoral, whichever you please. However shamefullya newspaper may behave, the disgrace attaches to no one person. "

"The authorities will resort to repressive legislation, " interposed duBruel. "A law is going to be passed, in fact. "

"Pooh!" retorted Nathan. "What is the law in France against the spiritin which it is received, the most subtle of all solvents?"

"Ideas and opinions can only be counteracted by opinions and ideas, "Vignon continued. "By sheer terror and despotism, and by no othermeans, can you extinguish the genius of the French nation; for thelanguage lends itself admirably to allusion and ambiguity. Epigrambreaks out the more for repressive legislation; it is like steam in anengine without a safety-valve. --The King, for example, does right; ifa newspaper is against him, the Minister gets all the credit of themeasure, and _vice versa_. A newspaper invents a scandalous libel--ithas been misinformed. If the victim complains, the paper gets off withan apology for taking so great a freedom. If the case is taken intocourt, the editor complains that nobody asked him to rectify themistake; but ask for redress, and he will laugh in your face and treathis offence as a mere trifle. The paper scoffs if the victim gains theday; and if heavy damages are awarded, the plaintiff is held up as anunpatriotic obscurantist and a menace to the liberties of the country. In the course of an article purporting to explain that MonsieurSo-and-so is as honest a man as you will find in the kingdom, you areinformed that he is not better than a common thief. The sins of thepress? Pooh! mere trifles; the curtailers of its liberties aremonsters; and give him time enough, the constant reader is persuadedto believe anything you please. Everything which does not suit thenewspaper will be unpatriotic, and the press will be infallible. Onereligion will be played off against another, and the Charter againstthe King. The press will hold up the magistracy to scorn for metingout rigorous justice to the press, and applaud its action when itserves the cause of party hatred. The most sensational fictions willbe invented to increase the circulation; Journalism will descend tomountebanks' tricks worthy of Bobeche; Journalism would serve up itsfather with the Attic salt of its own wit sooner than fail to interestor amuse the public; Journalism will outdo the actor who put his son'sashes into the urn to draw real tears from his eyes, or the mistresswho sacrifices everything to her lover. "

"Journalism is, in fact, the People in folio form, " interruptedBlondet. 

"The people with hypocrisy added and generosity lacking, " said Vignon. "All real ability will be driven out from the ranks of Journalism, asAristides was driven into exile by the Athenians. We shall seenewspapers started in the first instance by men of honor, fallingsooner or later into the hands of men of abilities even lower than theaverage, but endowed with the resistance of flexibility ofindia-rubber, qualities denied to noble genius; nay, perhaps the futurenewspaper proprietor will be the tradesman with capital sufficient tobuy venal pens. We see such things already indeed, but in ten years'time every little youngster that has left school will take himself fora great man, slash his predecessors from the lofty height of anewspaper column, drag them down by the feet, and take their place. 

"Napoleon did wisely when he muzzled the press. I would wager that theOpposition papers would batter down a government of their own settingup, just as they are battering the present government, if any demandwas refused. The more they have, the more they will want in the way ofconcessions. The _parvenu_ journalist will be succeeded by thestarveling hack. There is no salve for this sore. It is a kind ofcorruption which grows more and more obtrusive and malignant; thewider it spreads, the more patiently it will be endured, until the daycomes when newspapers shall so increase and multiply in the earth thatconfusion will be the result--a second Babel. We, all of us, such aswe are, have reason to know that crowned kings are less ungratefulthan kings of our profession; that the most sordid man of business isnot so mercenary nor so keen in speculation; that our brains areconsumed to furnish their daily supply of poisonous trash. And yet we, all of us, shall continue to write, like men who work in quicksilvermines, knowing that they are doomed to die of their trade. 

"Look there, " he continued, "at that young man sitting beside Coralie--what is his name? Lucien! He has a beautiful face; he is a poet; andwhat is more, he is witty--so much the better for him. Well, he willcross the threshold of one of those dens where a man's intellect isprostituted; he will put all his best and finest thought into hiswork; he will blunt his intellect and sully his soul; he will beguilty of anonymous meannesses which take the place of stratagem, pillage, and ratting to the enemy in the warfare of _condottieri_. Andwhen, like hundreds more, he has squandered his genius in the serviceof others who find the capital and do no work, those dealers inpoisons will leave him to starve if he is thirsty, and to die ofthirst if he is starving. "

"Thanks, " said Finot. 

"But, dear me, " continued Claude Vignon, "_I_ knew all this, yet heream I in the galleys, and the arrival of another convict gives mepleasure. We are cleverer, Blondet and I, than Messieurs This andThat, who speculate in our abilities, yet nevertheless we are alwaysexploited by them. We have a heart somewhere beneath the intellect; wehave NOT the grim qualities of the man who makes others work for him. We are indolent, we like to look on at the game, we are meditative, and we are fastidious; they will sweat our brains and blame us forimprovidence. "

"I thought you would be more amusing than this!" said Florine. 

"Florine is right, " said Blondet; "let us leave the cure of publicevils to those quacks the statesmen. As Charlet says, 'Quarrel with myown bread and butter? _Never_!'"

"Do you know what Vignon puts me in mind of?" said Lousteau. "Of oneof those fat women in the Rue du Pelican telling a schoolboy, 'My boy, you are too young to come here. '"

A burst of laughter followed the sally, but it pleased Coralie. Themerchants meanwhile ate and drank and listened. 

"What a nation this is! You see so much good in it and so much evil, "said the Minister, addressing the Duc de Rhetore. --"You are prodigalswho cannot ruin yourselves, gentlemen. "

And so, by the blessing of chance, Lucien, standing on the brink ofthe precipice over which he was destined to fall, heard warnings onall sides. D'Arthez had set him on the right road, had shown him thenoble method of work, and aroused in him the spirit before which allobstacles disappear. Lousteau himself (partly from selfish motives)had tried to warn him away by describing Journalism and Literature intheir practical aspects. Lucien had refused to believe that therecould be so much hidden corruption; but now he had heard thejournalists themselves crying woe for their hurt, he had seen them attheir work, had watched them tearing their foster-mother's heart toread auguries of the future. 

That evening he had seen things as they are. He beheld the veryheart's core of corruption of that Paris which Blucher so aptlydescribed; and so far from shuddering at the sight, he was intoxicatedwith enjoyment of the intellectually stimulating society in which hefound himself. 

These extraordinary men, clad in armor damascened by their vices, these intellects environed by cold and brilliant analysis, seemed sofar greater in his eyes than the grave and earnest members of thebrotherhood. And besides all this, he was reveling in his first tasteof luxury; he had fallen under the spell. His capricious instinctsawoke; for the first time in his life he drank exquisite wines, thiswas his first experience of cookery carried to the pitch of a fineart. A minister, a duke, and an opera-dancer had joined the party ofjournalists, and wondered at their sinister power. Lucien felt ahorrible craving to reign over these kings, and he thought that he hadpower to win his kingdom. Finally, there was this Coralie, made happyby a few words of his. By the bright light of the wax-candles, throughthe steam of the dishes and the fumes of wine, she looked sublimelybeautiful to his eyes, so fair had she grown with love. She was theloveliest, the most beautiful actress in Paris. The brotherhood, theheaven of noble thoughts, faded away before a temptation that appealedto every fibre of his nature. How could it have been otherwise?Lucien's author's vanity had just been gratified by the praises ofthose who know; by the appreciation of his future rivals; the successof his articles and his conquest of Coralie might have turned an olderhead than his. 

During the discussion, moreover, every one at table had made aremarkably good supper, and such wines are not met with every day. Lousteau, sitting beside Camusot, furtively poured cherry-brandyseveral times into his neighbor's wineglass, and challenged him todrink. And Camusot drank, all unsuspicious, for he thought himself, inhis own way, a match for a journalist. The jokes became more personalwhen dessert appeared and the wine began to circulate. The GermanMinister, a keen-witted man of the world, made a sign to the Duke andTullia, and the three disappeared with the first symptoms ofvociferous nonsense which precede the grotesque scenes of an orgy inits final stage. Coralie and Lucien had been behaving like childrenall the evening; as soon as the wine was uppermost in Camusot's head, they made good their escape down the staircase and sprang into a cab. Camusot subsided under the table; Matifat, looking round for him, thought that he had gone home with Coralie, left his guests to smoke, laugh, and argue, and followed Florine to her room. Daylight surprisedthe party, or more accurately, the first dawn of light discovered oneman still able to speak, and Blondet, that intrepid champion, wasproposing to the assembled sleepers a health to Aurora therosy-fingered. 

Lucien was unaccustomed to orgies of this kind. His head was verytolerably clear as he came down the staircase, but the fresh air wastoo much for him; he was horribly drunk. When they reached thehandsome house in the Rue de Vendome, where the actress lived, Coralieand her waiting-woman were obliged to assist the poet to climb to thefirst floor. Lucien was ignominiously sick, and very nearly fainted onthe staircase. 

"Quick, Berenice, some tea! Make some tea, " cried Coralie. 

"It is nothing; it is the air, " Lucien got out, "and I have nevertaken so much before in my life. "

"Poor boy! He is as innocent as a lamb, " said Berenice, a stalwartNorman peasant woman as ugly as Coralie was pretty. Lucien, halfunconscious, was laid at last in bed. Coralie, with Berenice'sassistance, undressed the poet with all a mother's tender care. 

"It is nothing, " he murmured again and again. "It is the air. Thankyou, mamma. "

"How charmingly he says 'mamma, '" cried Coralie, putting a kiss onhis hair. 

"What happiness to love such an angel, mademoiselle! Where did youpick him up? I did not think a man could be as beautiful as you are, "said Berenice, when Lucien lay in bed. He was very drowsy; he knewnothing and saw nothing; Coralie made him swallow several cups of tea, and left him to sleep. 

"Did the porter see us? Was there anyone else about?" she asked. 

"No; I was sitting up for you. "

"Does Victoire know anything?"

"Rather not!" returned Berenice. 

Ten hours later Lucien awoke to meet Coralie's eyes. She had watchedby him as he slept; he knew it, poet that he was. It was almost noon, but she still wore the delicate dress, abominably stained, which shemeant to lay up as a relic. Lucien understood all the self-sacrificeand delicacy of love, fain of its reward. He looked into Coralie'seyes. In a moment she had flung off her clothing and slipped like aserpent to Lucien's side. 

At five o'clock in the afternoon Lucien was still sleeping, cradled inthis voluptuous paradise. He had caught glimpses of Coralie's chamber, an exquisite creation of luxury, a world of rose-color and white. Hehad admired Florine's apartments, but this surpassed them in itsdainty refinement. 

Coralie had already risen; for if she was to play her part as theAndalusian, she must be at the theatre by seven o'clock. Yet she hadreturned to gaze at the unconscious poet, lulled to sleep in bliss;she could not drink too deeply of this love that rose to rapture, drawing close the bond between the heart and the senses, to steep bothin ecstasy. For in that apotheosis of human passion, which of thosethat were twain on earth that they might know bliss to the fullcreates one soul to rise to love in heaven, lay Coralie'sjustification. Who, moreover, would not have found excuse in Lucien'smore than human beauty? To the actress kneeling by the bedside, happyin love within her, it seemed that she had received love'sconsecration. Berenice broke in upon Coralie's rapture. 

"Here comes Camusot!" cried the maid. "And he knows that you arehere. "

Lucien sprang up at once. Innate generosity suggested that he wasdoing Coralie an injury. Berenice drew aside a curtain, and he fledinto a dainty dressing-room, whither Coralie and the maid brought hisclothes with magical speed. 

Camusot appeared, and only then did Coralie's eyes alight on Lucien'sboots, warming in the fender. Berenice had privately varnished them, and put them before the fire to dry; and both mistress and maid alikeforgot that tell-tale witness. Berenice left the room with a scaredglance at Coralie. Coralie flung herself into the depths of a settee, and bade Camusot seat himself in the _gondole_, a round-backed chairthat stood opposite. But Coralie's adorer, honest soul, dared not lookhis mistress in the face; he could not take his eyes off the pair ofboots. 

"Ought I to make a scene and leave Coralie?" he pondered. "Is it worthwhile to make a fuss about a trifle? There is a pair of boots whereveryou go. These would be more in place in a shop window or taking a walkon the boulevard on somebody's feet; here, however, without a pair offeet in them, they tell a pretty plain tale. I am fifty years old, andthat is the truth; I ought to be as blind as Cupid himself. "

There was no excuse for this mean-spirited monologue. The boots werenot the high-lows at present in vogue, which an unobservant man may beallowed to disregard up to a certain point. They were theunmistakable, uncompromising hessians then prescribed by fashion, apair of extremely elegant betasseled boots, which shone in glisteningcontrast against tight-fitting trousers invariably of some lightcolor, and reflected their surroundings like a mirror. The bootsstared the honest silk-mercer out of countenance, and, it must beadded, they pained his heart. 

"What is it?" asked Coralie. 

"Nothing. "

"Ring the bell, " said Coralie, smiling to herself at Camusot's want ofspirit. --"Berenice, " she said, when the Norman handmaid appeared, "just bring me a button-hook, for I must put on these confounded bootsagain. Don't forget to bring them to my dressing-room to-night. "

"What? . . . _your_ boots?" . . . Faltered out Camusot, breathing morefreely. 

"And whose should they be?" she demanded haughtily. "Were youbeginning to believe?--great stupid! Oh! and he would believe it too, "she went on, addressing Berenice. --"I have a man's part inWhat's-his-name's piece, and I have never worn a man's clothes in mylife before. The bootmaker for the theatre brought me these things totry if I could walk in them, until a pair can be made to measure. Heput them on, but they hurt me so much that I have taken them off, andafter all I must wear them. "

"Don't put them on again if they are uncomfortable, " said Camusot. (The boots had made him feel so very uncomfortable himself. )

"Mademoiselle would do better to have a pair made of very thinmorocco, sir, instead of torturing herself as she did just now; butthe management is so stingy. She was crying, sir; if I was a man andloved a woman, I wouldn't let her shed a tear, I know. You ought toorder a pair for her----"

"Yes, yes, " said Camusot. "Are you just getting up, Coralie?"

"Just this moment; I only came in at six o'clock after looking for youeverywhere. I was obliged to keep the cab for seven hours. So much foryour care of me; you forget me for a wine-bottle. I ought to take careof myself now when I am to play every night so long as the _Alcalde_draws. I don't want to fall off after that young man's notice of me. "

"That is a handsome boy, " said Camusot. 

"Do you think so? I don't admire men of that sort; they are too muchlike women; and they do not understand how to love like you stupid oldbusiness men. You are so bored with your own society. "

"Is monsieur dining with madame?" inquired Berenice. 

"No, my mouth is clammy. "

"You were nicely screwed yesterday. Ah! Papa Camusot, I don't like menwho drink, I tell you at once----"

"You will give that young man a present, I suppose?" interruptedCamusot. 

"Oh! yes. I would rather do that than pay as Florine does. There, goaway with you, good-for-nothing that one loves; or give me a carriageto save time in future. "

"You shall go in your own carriage to-morrow to your manager's dinnerat the _Rocher de Cancale_. The new piece will not be given nextSunday. "

"Come, I am just going to dine, " said Coralie, hurrying Camusot out ofthe room. 

An hour later Berenice came to release Lucien. Berenice, Coralie'scompanion since her childhood, had a keen and subtle brain in herunwieldy frame. 

"Stay here, " she said. "Coralie is coming back alone; she even talkedof getting rid of Camusot if he is in your way; but you are too muchof an angel to ruin her, her heart's darling as you are. She wants toclear out of this, she says; to leave this paradise and go and live inyour garret. Oh! there are those that are jealous and envious of you, and they have told her that you haven't a brass farthing, and live inthe Latin Quarter; and I should go, too, you see, to do thehouse-work. --But I have just been comforting her, poor child! I havebeen telling her that you were too clever to do anything so silly. Iwas right, wasn't I, sir? Oh! you will see that you are her darling, herlove, the god to whom she gives her soul; yonder old fool has nothingbut the body. --If you only knew how nice she is when I hear her sayher part over! My Coralie, my little pet, she is! She deserved thatGod in heaven should send her one of His angels. She was sick of thelife. --She was so unhappy with her mother that used to beat her, andsold her. Yes, sir, sold her own child! If I had a daughter, I wouldwait on her hand and foot as I wait on Coralie; she is like my ownchild to me. --These are the first good times she has seen since I havebeen with her; the first time that she has been really applauded. Youhave written something, it seems, and they have got up a famous _claque_for the second performance. Braulard has been going through the playwith her while you were asleep. "

"Who? Braulard?" asked Lucien; it seemed to him that he had heard thename before. 

"He is the head of the _claqueurs_, and she was arranging with him theplaces where she wished him to look after her. Florine might try toplay her some shabby trick, and take all for herself, for all shecalls herself her friend. There is such a talk about your article onthe Boulevards. --Isn't it a bed fit for a prince, " she said, smoothingthe lace bed-spread. 

She lighted the wax-candles, and to Lucien's bewildered fancy, thehouse seemed to be some palace in the _Cabinet des Fees_. Camusot hadchosen the richest stuffs from the _Golden Cocoon_ for the hangings andwindow-curtains. A carpet fit for a king's palace was spread upon thefloor. The carving of the rosewood furniture caught and imprisoned thelight that rippled over its surface. Priceless trifles gleamed fromthe white marble chimney-piece. The rug beside the bed was of swan'sskins bordered with sable. A pair of little, black velvet slipperslined with purple silk told of happiness awaiting the poet of _TheMarguerites_. A dainty lamp hung from the ceiling draped with silk. Theroom was full of flowering plants, delicate white heaths and scentlesscamellias, in stands marvelously wrought. Everything called upassociations of innocence. How was it possible in these rooms to seethe life that Coralie led in its true colors? Berenice noticedLucien's bewildered expression. 

"Isn't it nice?" she said coaxingly. "You would be more comfortablehere, wouldn't you, than in a garret?--You won't let her do anythingrash?" she continued, setting a costly stand before him, covered withdishes abstracted from her mistress' dinner-table, lest the cookshould suspect that her mistress had a lover in the house. 

Lucien made a good dinner. Berenice waiting on him, the dishes were ofwrought silver, the painted porcelain plates had cost a louis d'orapiece. The luxury was producing exactly the same effect upon him thatthe sight of a girl walking the pavement, with her bare flauntingthroat and neat ankles, produces upon a schoolboy. 

"How lucky Camusot is!" cried he. 

"Lucky?" repeated Berenice. "He would willingly give all that he isworth to be in your place; he would be glad to barter his gray hairfor your golden head. "

She gave Lucien the richest wine that Bordeaux keeps for thewealthiest English purchaser, and persuaded Lucien to go to bed totake a preliminary nap; and Lucien, in truth, was quite willing tosleep on the couch that he had been admiring. Berenice had read hiswish, and felt glad for her mistress. 

At half-past ten that night Lucien awoke to look into eyes brimmingover with love. There stood Coralie in most luxurious night attire. Lucien had been sleeping; Lucien was intoxicated with love, and notwith wine. Berenice left the room with the inquiry, "What timeto-morrow morning?"

"At eleven o'clock. We will have breakfast in bed. I am not at home toanybody before two o'clock. "

At two o'clock in the afternoon Coralie and her lover were sittingtogether. The poet to all appearance had come to pay a call. Lucienhad been bathed and combed and dressed. Coralie had sent toColliau's for a dozen fine shirts, a dozen cravats and a dozenpocket-handkerchiefs for him, as well as twelve pairs of gloves ina cedar-wood box. When a carriage stopped at the door, they bothrushed to the window, and watched Camusot alight from a handsomecoupe. 

"I would not have believed that one could so hate a man andluxury----"

"I am too poor to allow you to ruin yourself for me, " he replied. Andthus Lucien passed under the Caudine Forks. 

"Poor pet, " said Coralie, holding him tightly to her, "do you love meso much?--I persuaded this gentleman to call on me this morning, " shecontinued, indicating Lucien to Camusot, who entered the room. "Ithought that we might take a drive in the Champs Elysees to try thecarriage. "

"Go without me, " said Camusot in a melancholy voice; "I shall not dinewith you. It is my wife's birthday, I had forgotten that. "

"Poor Musot, how badly bored you will be!" she said, putting her armsabout his neck. 

She was wild with joy at the thought that she and Lucien would handselthis gift together; she would drive with him in the new carriage; andin her happiness, she seemed to love Camusot, she lavished caressesupon him. 

"If only I could give you a carriage every day!" said the poor fellow. 

"Now, sir, it is two o'clock, " she said, turning to Lucien, who stoodin distress and confusion, but she comforted him with an adorablegesture. 

Down the stairs she went, several steps at a time, drawing Lucienafter her; the elderly merchant following in their wake like a seal onland, and quite unable to catch them up. 

Lucien enjoyed the most intoxicating of pleasures; happiness hadincreased Coralie's loveliness to the highest possible degree; sheappeared before all eyes an exquisite vision in her dainty toilette. All Paris in the Champs Elysees beheld the lovers. 

In an avenue of the Bois de Boulogne they met a caleche; Mme. D'Espardand Mme. De Bargeton looked in surprise at Lucien, and met a scornfulglance from the poet. He saw glimpses of a great future before him, and was about to make his power felt. He could fling them back in aglance some of the revengeful thoughts which had gnawed his heart eversince they planted them there. That moment was one of the sweetest inhis life, and perhaps decided his fate. Once again the Furies seizedon Lucien at the bidding of Pride. He would reappear in the world ofParis; he would take a signal revenge; all the social pettinesshitherto trodden under foot by the worker, the member of thebrotherhood, sprang up again afresh in his soul. 

Now he understood all that Lousteau's attack had meant. Lousteau hadserved his passions; while the brotherhood, that collective mentor, had seemed to mortify them in the interests of tiresome virtues andwork which began to look useless and hopeless in Lucien's eyes. Work!What is it but death to an eager pleasure-loving nature? And how easyit is for the man of letters to slide into a _far niente_ existence ofself-indulgence, into the luxurious ways of actresses and women ofeasy virtues! Lucien felt an overmastering desire to continue thereckless life of the last two days. 

The dinner at the _Rocher de Cancale_ was exquisite. All Florine'ssupper guests were there except the Minister, the Duke, and thedancer; Camusot, too, was absent; but these gaps were filled by twofamous actors and Hector Merlin and his mistress. This charming woman, who chose to be known as Mme. Du Val-Noble, was the handsomest andmost fashionable of the class of women now euphemistically styled_lorettes_. 

Lucien had spent the forty-eight hours since the success of hisarticle in paradise. He was feted and envied; he gainedself-possession; his talk sparkled; he was the brilliant Lucien deRubempre who shone for a few months in the world of letters and art. Finot, with his infallible instinct for discovering ability, scentingit afar as an ogre might scent human flesh, cajoled Lucien, and didhis best to secure a recruit for the squadron under his command. AndCoralie watched the manoeuvres of this purveyor of brains, saw thatLucien was nibbling at the bait, and tried to put him on his guard. 

"Don't make any engagement, dear boy; wait. They want to exploit you;we will talk of it to-night. "

"Pshaw!" said Lucien. "I am sure I am quite as sharp and shrewd asthey can be. "

Finot and Hector Merlin evidently had not fallen out over that affairof the white lines and spaces in the columns, for it was Finot whointroduced Lucien to the journalist. Coralie and Mme. Du Val-Noblewere overwhelmingly amiable and polite to each other, and Mme. DuVal-Noble asked Lucien and Coralie to dine with her. 

Hector Merlin, short and thin, with lips always tightly compressed, was the most dangerous journalist present. Unbounded ambition andjealousy smouldered within him; he took pleasure in the pain ofothers, and fomented strife to turn it to his own account. Hisabilities were but slender, and he had little force of character, butthe natural instinct which draws the upstart towards money and powerserved him as well as fixity of purpose. Lucien and Merlin at oncetook a dislike to one another, for reasons not far to seek. Merlin, unfortunately, proclaimed aloud the thoughts that Lucien kept tohimself. By the time the dessert was put on the table, the mosttouching friendship appeared to prevail among the men, each one ofwhom in his heart thought himself a cleverer fellow than the rest; andLucien as the newcomer was made much of by them all. They chattedfrankly and unrestrainedly. Hector Merlin, alone, did not join in thelaughter. Lucien asked the reason of his reserve. 

"You are just entering the world of letters, I can see, " he said. "Youare a journalist with all your illusions left. You believe infriendship. Here we are friends or foes, as it happens; we strike downa friend with the weapon which by rights should only be turned againstan enemy. You will find out, before very long, that fine sentimentswill do nothing for you. If you are naturally kindly, learn to beill-natured, to be consistently spiteful. If you have never heard thisgolden rule before, I give it you now in confidence, and it is nosmall secret. If you have a mind to be loved, never leave yourmistress until you have made her shed a tear or two; and if you meanto make your way in literature, let other people continually feel yourteeth; make no exception even of your friends; wound theirsusceptibilities, and everybody will fawn upon you. "

Hector Merlin watched Lucien as he spoke, saw that his words went tothe neophyte's heart like a stab, and Hector Merlin was glad. Playfollowed, Lucien lost all his money, and Coralie brought him away; andhe forgot for a while, in the delights of love, the fierce excitementof the gambler, which was to gain so strong a hold upon him. 

When he left Coralie in the morning and returned to the Latin Quarter, he took out his purse and found the money he had lost. At first hefelt miserable over the discovery, and thought of going back at onceto return a gift which humiliated him; but--he had already come as faras the Rue de la Harpe; he would not return now that he had almostreached the Hotel de Cluny. He pondered over Coralie's forethought ashe went, till he saw in it a proof of the maternal love which isblended with passion in women of her stamp. For Coralie and her like, passion includes every human affection. Lucien went from thought tothought, and argued himself into accepting the gift. "I love her, " hesaid; "we shall live together as husband and wife; I will neverforsake her!"

What mortal, short of a Diogenes, could fail to understand Lucien'sfeelings as he climbed the dirty, fetid staircase to his lodging, turned the key that grated in the lock, and entered and looked roundat the unswept brick floor, at the cheerless grate, at the uglypoverty and bareness of the room. 

A package of manuscript was lying on the table. It was his novel; anote from Daniel d'Arthez lay beside it:--

 "Our friends are almost satisfied with your work, dear poet, " d'Arthez wrote. "You will be able to present it with more confidence now, they say, to friends and enemies. We saw your charming article on the Panorama-Dramatique; you are sure to excite as much jealousy in the profession as regret among your friends here. DANIEL. "

"Regrets! What does he mean?" exclaimed Lucien. The polite tone of thenote astonished him. Was he to be henceforth a stranger to thebrotherhood? He had learned to set a higher value on the good opinionand the friendship of the circle in the Rue des Quatre-Vents since hehad tasted of the delicious fruits offered to him by the Eve of thetheatrical underworld. For some moments he stood in deep thought; hesaw his present in the garret, and foresaw his future in Coralie'srooms. Honorable resolution struggled with temptation and swayed himnow this way, now that. He sat down and began to look through hismanuscript, to see in what condition his friends had returned it tohim. What was his amazement, as he read chapter after chapter, to findhis poverty transmuted into riches by the cunning of the pen, and thedevotion of the unknown great men, his friends of the brotherhood. Dialogue, closely packed, nervous, pregnant, terse, and full of thespirit of the age, replaced his conversations, which seemed poor andpointless prattle in comparison. His characters, a little uncertain inthe drawing, now stood out in vigorous contrast of color and relief;physiological observations, due no doubt to Horace Bianchon, suppliedlinks of interpretations between human character and the curiousphenomena of human life--subtle touches which made his men and womenlive. His wordy passages of description were condensed and vivid. Themisshapen, ill-clad child of his brain had returned to him as a lovelymaiden, with white robes and rosy-hued girdle and scarf--an entrancingcreation. Night fell and took him by surprise, reading through risingtears, stricken to earth by such greatness of soul, feeling the worthof such a lesson, admiring the alterations, which taught him more ofliterature and art than all his four years' apprenticeship of studyand reading and comparison. A master's correction of a line made uponthe study always teaches more than all the theories and criticisms inthe world. 

"What friends are these! What hearts! How fortunate I am!" he cried, grasping his manuscript tightly. 

With the quick impulsiveness of a poetic and mobile temperament, herushed off to Daniel's lodging. As he climbed the stairs, and thoughtof these friends, who refused to leave the path of honor, he feltconscious that he was less worthy of them than before. A voice spokewithin him, telling him that if d'Arthez had loved Coralie, he wouldhave had her break with Camusot. And, besides this, he knew that thebrotherhood held journalism in utter abhorrence, and that he himselfwas already, to some small extent, a journalist. All of them, exceptMeyraux, who had just gone out, were in d'Arthez's room when heentered it, and saw that all their faces were full of sorrow anddespair. 

"What is it?" he cried. 

"We have just heard news of a dreadful catastrophe; the greatestthinker of the age, our most loved friend, who was like a light amongus for two years----"

"Louis Lambert!"

"Has fallen a victim to catalepsy. There is no hope for him, " saidBianchon. 

"He will die, his soul wandering in the skies, his body unconscious onearth, " said Michel Chrestien solemnly. 

"He will die as he lived, " said d'Arthez. 

"Love fell like a firebrand in the vast empire of his brain and burnedhim away, " said Leon Giraud. 

"Yes, " said Joseph Bridau, "he has reached a height that we cannot somuch as see. "

"_We_ are to be pitied, not Louis, " said Fulgence Ridal. 

"Perhaps he will recover, " exclaimed Lucien. 

"From what Meyraux has been telling us, recovery seems impossible, "answered Bianchon. "Medicine has no power over the change that isworking in his brain. "

"Yet there are physical means, " said d'Arthez. 

"Yes, " said Bianchon; "we might produce imbecility instead ofcatalepsy. "

"Is there no way of offering another head to the spirit of evil? Iwould give mine to save him!" cried Michel Chrestien. 

"And what would become of European federation?" asked d'Arthez. 

"Ah! true, " replied Michel Chrestien. "Our duty to Humanity comesfirst; to one man afterwards. "

"I came here with a heart full of gratitude to you all, " said Lucien. "You have changed my alloy into golden coin. "

"Gratitude! For what do you take us?" asked Bianchon. 

"We had the pleasure, " added Fulgence. 

"Well, so you are a journalist, are you?" asked Leon Giraud. "The fameof your first appearance has reached even the Latin Quarter. "

"I am not a journalist yet, " returned Lucien. 

"Aha! So much the better, " said Michel Chrestien. 

"I told you so!" said d'Arthez. "Lucien knows the value of a cleanconscience. When you can say to yourself as you lay your head on thepillow at night, 'I have not sat in judgment on another man's work; Ihave given pain to no one; I have not used the edge of my wit to deala stab to some harmless soul; I have sacrificed no one's success to ajest; I have not even troubled the happiness of imbecility; I have notadded to the burdens of genius; I have scorned the easy triumphs ofepigram; in short, I have not acted against my convictions, ' is notthis a viaticum that gives one daily strength?"

"But one can say all this, surely, and yet work on a newspaper, " saidLucien. "If I had absolutely no other way of earning a living, Ishould certainly come to this. "

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Fulgence, his voice rising a note each time; "weare capitulating, are we?"

"He will turn journalist, " Leon Giraud said gravely. "Oh, Lucien, ifyou would only stay and work with us! We are about to bring out aperiodical in which justice and truth shall never be violated; we willspread doctrines that, perhaps, will be of real service tomankind----"

"You will not have a single subscriber, " Lucien broke in withMachiavellian wisdom. 

"There will be five hundred of them, " asserted Michel Chrestien, "butthey will be worth five hundred thousand. "

"You will need a lot of capital, " continued Lucien. 

"No, only devotion, " said d'Arthez. 

"Anybody might take him for a perfumer's assistant, " burst out MichelChrestien, looking at Lucien's head, and sniffing comically. "You wereseen driving about in a very smart turnout with a pair ofthoroughbreds, and a mistress for a prince, Coralie herself. "

"Well, and is there any harm in it?"

"You would not say that if you thought that there was no harm in it, "said Bianchon. 

"I could have wished Lucien a Beatrice, " said d'Arthez, "a noblewoman, who would have been a help to him in life----"

"But, Daniel, " asked Lucien, "love is love wherever you find it, is itnot?"

"Ah!" said the republican member, "on that one point I am anaristocrat. I could not bring myself to love a woman who must rubshoulders with all sorts of people in the green-room; whom an actorkisses on stage; she must lower herself before the public, smile onevery one, lift her skirts as she dances, and dress like a man, thatall the world may see what none should see save I alone. Or if I lovedsuch a woman, she should leave the stage, and my love should cleanseher from the stain of it. "

"And if she would not leave the stage?"

"I should die of mortification, jealousy, and all sorts of pain. Youcannot pluck love out of your heart as you draw a tooth. "

Lucien's face grew dark and thoughtful. 

"When they find out that I am tolerating Camusot, how they willdespise me, " he thought. 

"Look here, " said the fierce republican, with humorous fierceness, "you can be a great writer, but a little play-actor you shall neverbe, " and he took up his hat and went out. 

"He is hard, is Michel Chrestien, " commented Lucien. 

"Hard and salutary, like the dentist's pincers, " said Bianchon. "Michel foresees your future; perhaps in the street, at this moment, he is thinking of you with tears in his eyes. "

D'Arthez was kind, and talked comfortingly, and tried to cheer Lucien. The poet spent an hour with his friends, then he went, but hisconscience treated him hardly, crying to him, "You will be ajournalist--a journalist!" as the witch cried to Macbeth that heshould be king hereafter!

Out in the street, he looked up at d'Arthez's windows, and saw a faintlight shining in them, and his heart sank. A dim foreboding told himthat he had bidden his friends good-bye for the last time. 

As he turned out of the Place de la Sorbonne into the Rue de Cluny, hesaw a carriage at the door of his lodging. Coralie had driven all theway from the Boulevard du Temple for the sake of a moment with herlover and a "good-night. " Lucien found her sobbing in his garret. Shewould be as wretchedly poor as her poet, she wept, as she arranged hisshirts and gloves and handkerchiefs in the crazy chest of drawers. Herdistress was so real and so great, that Lucien, but even now chiddenfor his connection with an actress, saw Coralie as a saint ready toassume the hair-shirt of poverty. The adorable girl's excuse for hervisit was an announcement that the firm of Camusot, Coralie, andLucien meant to invite Matifat, Florine, and Lousteau (the secondtrio) to supper; had Lucien any invitations to issue to people whomight be useful to him? Lucien said that he would take counsel ofLousteau. 

A few moments were spent together, and Coralie hurried away. Shespared Lucien the knowledge that Camusot was waiting for her below. 

Next morning, at eight o'clock, Lucien went to Etienne Lousteau'sroom, found it empty, and hurried away to Florine. Lousteau andFlorine, settled into possession of their new quarters like a marriedcouple, received their friend in the pretty bedroom, and all threebreakfasted sumptuously together. 

"Why, I should advise you, my boy, to come with me to see FelicienVernou, " said Lousteau, when they sat at table, and Lucien hadmentioned Coralie's projected supper; "ask him to be of the party, andkeep well with him, if you can keep well with such a rascal. FelicienVernou does a _feuilleton_ for a political paper; he might perhapsintroduce you, and you could blossom out into leaders in it at yourease. It is a Liberal paper, like ours; you will be a Liberal, that isthe popular party; and besides, if you mean to go over to theMinisterialists, you would do better for yourself if they had reasonto be afraid of you. Then there is Hector Merlin and his Mme. DuVal-Noble; you meet great people at their house--dukes and dandies andmillionaires; didn't they ask you and Coralie to dine with them?"

"Yes, " replied Lucien; "you are going too, and so is Florine. " Lucienand Etienne were now on familiar terms after Friday's debauch and thedinner at the _Rocher de Cancale_. 

"Very well, Merlin is on the paper; we shall come across him prettyoften; he is the chap to follow close on Finot's heels. You would dowell to pay him attention; ask him and Mme. Du Val-Noble to supper. Hemay be useful to you before long; for rancorous people are always inneed of others, and he may do you a good turn if he can reckon on yourpen. "

"Your beginning has made enough sensation to smooth your way, " saidFlorine; "take advantage of it at once, or you will soon beforgotten. "

"The bargain, the great business, is concluded, " Lousteau continued. "That Finot, without a spark of talent in him, is to be editor ofDauriat's weekly paper, with a salary of six hundred francs per month, and owner of a sixth share, for which he has not paid one penny. AndI, my dear fellow, am now editor of our little paper. Everything wentoff as I expected; Florine managed superbly, she could give points toTallyrand himself. "

"We have a hold on men through their pleasures, " said Florine, "whilea diplomatist only works on their self-love. A diplomatist sees a manmade up for the occasion; we know him in his moments of folly, so ourpower is greater. "

"And when the thing was settled, Matifat made the first and last jokeof his whole druggist's career, " put in Lousteau. "He said, 'Thisaffair is quite in my line; I am supplying drugs to the public. '"

"I suspect that Florine put him up to it, " cried Lucien. 

"And by these means, my little dear, your foot is in the stirrup, "continued Lousteau. 

"You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, " remarked Florine. "What lots of young fellows wait for years, wait till they are sick ofwaiting, for a chance to get an article into a paper! You will do likeEmile Blondet. In six months' time you will be giving yourself highand mighty airs, " she added, with a mocking smile, in the language ofher class. 

"Haven't I been in Paris for three years?" said Lousteau, "and onlyyesterday Finot began to pay me a fixed monthly salary of threehundred francs, and a hundred francs per sheet for his paper. "

"Well; you are saying nothing!" exclaimed Florine, with her eyesturned on Lucien. 

"We shall see, " said Lucien. 

"My dear boy, if you had been my brother, I could not have done morefor you, " retorted Lousteau, somewhat nettled, "but I won't answer forFinot. Scores of sharp fellows will besiege Finot for the next twodays with offers to work for low pay. I have promised for you, but youcan draw back if you like. --You little know how lucky you are, " headded after a pause. "All those in our set combine to attack an enemyin various papers, and lend each other a helping hand all round. "

"Let us go in the first place to Felicien Vernou, " said Lucien. He waseager to conclude an alliance with such formidable birds of prey. 

Lousteau sent for a cab, and the pair of friends drove to Vernou'shouse on the second floor up an alley in the Rue Mandar. To Lucien'sgreat astonishment, the harsh, fastidious, and severe critic'ssurroundings were vulgar to the last degree. A marbled paper, cheapand shabby, with a meaningless pattern repeated at regular intervals, covered the walls, and a series of aqua tints in gilt frames decoratedthe apartment, where Vernou sat at table with a woman so plain thatshe could only be the legitimate mistress of the house, and two verysmall children perched on high chairs with a bar in front to preventthe infants from tumbling out. Felicien Vernou, in a cottondressing-gown contrived out of the remains of one of his wife'sdresses, was not over well pleased by this invasion. 

"Have you breakfasted, Lousteau?" he asked, placing a chair forLucien. 

"We have just left Florine; we have been breakfasting with her. "

Lucien could not take his eyes off Mme. Vernou. She looked like astout, homely cook, with a tolerably fair complexion, but commonplaceto the last degree. The lady wore a bandana tied over her night-cap, the strings of the latter article of dress being tied so tightly underthe chin that her puffy cheeks stood out on either side. A shapeless, beltless garment, fastened by a single button at the throat, envelopedher from head to foot in such a fashion that a comparison to amilestone at once suggested itself. Her health left no room for hope;her cheeks were almost purple; her fingers looked like sausages. In amoment it dawned upon Lucien how it was that Vernou was always so illat ease in society; here was the living explanation of hismisanthropy. Sick of his marriage, unable to bring himself to abandonhis wife and family, he had yet sufficient of the artistic temper tosuffer continually from their presence; Vernou was an actor by naturebound never to pardon the success of another, condemned to chronicdiscontent because he was never content with himself. Lucien began tounderstand the sour look which seemed to add to the bleak expressionof envy on Vernou's face; the acerbity of the epigrams with which hisconversation was sown, the journalist's pungent phrases, keen andelaborately wrought as a stiletto, were at once explained. 

"Let us go into my study, " Vernou said, rising from the table; "youhave come on business, no doubt. "

"Yes and no, " replied Etienne Lousteau. "It is a supper, old chap. "

"I have brought a message from Coralie, " said Lucien (Mme. Vernoulooked up at once at the name), "to ask you to supper to-night at herhouse to meet the same company as before at Florine's, and a few morebesides--Hector Merlin and Mme. Du Val-Noble and some others. Therewill be play afterwards. "

"But we are engaged to Mme. Mahoudeau this evening, dear, " put in thewife. 

"What does that matter?" returned Vernou. 

"She will take offence if we don't go; and you are very glad of herwhen you have a bill to discount. "

"This wife of mine, my dear boy, can never be made to understand thata supper engagement for twelve o'clock does not prevent you from goingto an evening party that comes to an end at eleven. She is always withme while I work, " he added. 

"You have so much imagination!" said Lucien, and thereby made a mortalenemy of Vernou. 

"Well, " continued Lousteau, "you are coming; but that is not all. M. De Rubempre is about to be one of us, so you must push him in yourpaper. Give him out for a chap that will make a name for himself inliterature, so that he can put in at least a couple of articles everymonth. "

"Yes, if he means to be one of us, and will attack our enemies, as wewill attack his, I will say a word for him at the Opera to-night, "replied Vernou. 

"Very well--good-bye till to-morrow, my boy, " said Lousteau, shakinghands with every sign of cordiality. "When is your book coming out?"

"That depends on Dauriat; it is ready, " said Vernou _pater-familias_. 

"Are you satisfied?"

"Yes and no----"

"We will get up a success, " said Lousteau, and he rose with a bow tohis colleague's wife. 

The abrupt departure was necessary indeed; for the two infants, engaged in a noisy quarrel, were fighting with their spoons, andflinging the pap in each other's faces. 

"That, my boy, is a woman who all unconsciously will work great havocin contemporary literature, " said Etienne, when they came away. "PoorVernou cannot forgive us for his wife. He ought to be relieved of herin the interests of the public; and a deluge of blood-thirsty reviewsand stinging sarcasms against successful men of every sort would beaverted. What is to become of a man with such a wife and that pair ofabominable brats? Have you seen Rigaudin in Picard's _La Maison enLoterie_? You have? Well, like Rigaudin, Vernou will not fight himself, but he will set others fighting; he would give an eye to put out botheyes in the head of the best friend he has. You will see him using thebodies of the slain for a stepping-stone, rejoicing over every one'smisfortunes, attacking princes, dukes, marquises, and nobles, becausehe himself is a commoner; reviling the work of unmarried men becausehe forsooth has a wife; and everlastingly preaching morality, the joysof domestic life, and the duties of the citizen. In short, this verymoral critic will spare no one, not even infants of tender age. Helives in the Rue Mandar with a wife who might be the _Mamamouchi_ of the_Bourgeois gentilhomme_ and a couple of little Vernous as ugly as sin. He tries to sneer at the Faubourg Saint-Germain, where he will neverset foot, and makes his duchesses talk like his wife. That is the sortof man to raise a howl at the Jesuits, insult the Court, and creditthe Court party with the design of restoring feudal rights and theright of primogeniture--just the one to preach a crusade for Equality, he that thinks himself the equal of no one. If he were a bachelor, hewould go into society; if he were in a fair way to be a Royalist poetwith a pension and the Cross of the Legion of Honor, he would be anoptimist, and journalism offers starting-points by the hundred. Journalism is the giant catapult set in motion by pigmy hatreds. Haveyou any wish to marry after this? Vernou has none of the milk of humankindness in him, it is all turned to gall; and he is emphatically theJournalist, a tiger with two hands that tears everything to pieces, asif his pen had the hydrophobia. "

"It is a case of gunophobia, " said Lucien. "Has he ability?"

"He is witty, he is a writer of articles. He incubates articles; hedoes that all his life and nothing else. The most dogged industrywould fail to graft a book on his prose. Felicien is incapable ofconceiving a work on a large scale, of broad effects, of fittingcharacters harmoniously in a plot which develops till it reaches aclimax. He has ideas, but he has no knowledge of facts; his heroes areutopian creatures, philosophical or Liberal notions masquerading. Heis at pains to write an original style, but his inflated periods wouldcollapse at a pin-prick from a critic; and therefore he goes in terrorof reviews, like every one else who can only keep his head above waterwith the bladders of newspaper puffs. "

"What an article you are making out of him!"

"That particular kind, my boy, must be spoken, and never written. "

"You are turning editor, " said Lucien. 

"Where shall I put you down?"

"At Coralie's. "

"Ah! we are infatuated, " said Lousteau. "What a mistake! Do as I dowith Florine, let Coralie be your housekeeper, and take your fling. "

"You would send a saint to perdition, " laughed Lucien. 

"Well, there is no damning a devil, " retorted Lousteau. 

The flippant tone, the brilliant talk of this new friend, his views oflife, his paradoxes, the axioms of Parisian Machiavelism, --all thesethings impressed Lucien unawares. Theoretically the poet knew thatsuch thoughts were perilous; but he believed them practically useful. 

Arrived in the Boulevard du Temple, the friends agreed to meet at theoffice between four and five o'clock. Hector Merlin would doubtless bethere. Lousteau was right. The infatuation of desire was upon Lucien;for the courtesan who loves knows how to grapple her lover to her byevery weakness in his nature, fashioning herself with incredibleflexibility to his every wish, encouraging the soft, effeminate habitswhich strengthen her hold. Lucien was thirsting already for enjoyment;he was in love with the easy, luxurious, and expensive life which theactress led. 

He found Coralie and Camusot intoxicated with joy. The Gymnase offeredCoralie an engagement after Easter on terms for which she had neverdared to hope. 

"And this great success is owing to you, " said Camusot. 

"Yes, surely. _The Alcalde_ would have fallen flat but for him, " criedCoralie; "if there had been no article, I should have been in foranother six years of the Boulevard theatres. "

She danced up to Lucien and flung her arms round him, putting anindescribable silken softness and sweetness into her enthusiasm. Lovehad come to Coralie. And Camusot? his eyes fell. Looking down afterthe wont of mankind in moments of sharp pain, he saw the seam ofLucien's boots, a deep yellow thread used by the best bootmakers ofthat time, in strong contrast with the glistening leather. The colorof that seam had tinged his thoughts during a previous conversationwith himself, as he sought to explain the presence of a mysteriouspair of hessians in Coralie's fender. He remembered now that he hadseen the name of "Gay, Rue de la Michodiere, " printed in black letterson the soft white kid lining. 

"You have a handsome pair of boots, sir, " he said. 

"Like everything else about him, " said Coralie. 

"I should be very glad of your bootmaker's address. "

"Oh, how like the Rue des Bourdonnais to ask for a tradesman'saddress, " cried Coralie. "Do _you_ intend to patronize a young man'sbootmaker? A nice young man you would make! Do keep to your owntop-boots; they are the kind for a steady-going man with a wife andfamily and a mistress. "

"Indeed, if you would take off one of your boots, sir, I should bevery much obliged, " persisted Camusot. 

"I could not get it on again without a button-hook, " said Lucien, flushing up. 

"Berenice will fetch you one; we can do with some here, " jeeredCamusot. 

"Papa Camusot!" said Coralie, looking at him with cruel scorn, "havethe courage of your pitiful baseness. Come, speak out! You think thatthis gentleman's boots are very like mine, do you not?--I forbid youto take off your boots, " she added, turning to Lucien. --"Yes, M. Camusot. Yes, you saw some boots lying about in the fender here theother day, and that is the identical pair, and this gentleman washiding in my dressing-room at the time, waiting for them; and he hadpassed the night here. That was what you were thinking, _hein_? Thinkso; I would rather you did. It is the simple truth. I am deceivingyou. And if I am? I do it to please myself. "

She sat down. There was no anger in her face, no embarrassment; shelooked from Camusot to Lucien. The two men avoided each other's eyes. 

"I will believe nothing that you do not wish me to believe, " saidCamusot. "Don't play with me, Coralie; I was wrong----"

"I am either a shameless baggage that has taken a sudden fancy; or apoor, unhappy girl who feels what love really is for the first time, the love that all women long for. And whichever way it is, you mustleave me or take me as I am, " she said, with a queenly gesture thatcrushed Camusot. 

"Is it really true?" he asked, seeing from their faces that this wasno jest, yet begging to be deceived. 

"I love mademoiselle, " Lucien faltered out. 

At that word, Coralie sprang to her poet and held him tightly to her;then, with her arms still about him, she turned to the silk-mercer, asif to bid him see the beautiful picture made by two young lovers. 

"Poor Musot, take all that you gave to me back again; I do not want tokeep anything of yours; for I love this boy here madly, not for hisintellect, but for his beauty. I would rather starve with him thanhave millions with you. "

Camusot sank into a low chair, hid his face in his hands, and said nota word. 

"Would you like us to go away?" she asked. There was a note offerocity in her voice which no words can describe. 

Cold chills ran down Lucien's spine; he beheld himself burdened with awoman, an actress, and a household. 

"Stay here, Coralie; keep it all, " the old tradesman said at last, ina faint, unsteady voice that came from his heart; "I don't wantanything back. There is the worth of sixty thousand francs here in thefurniture; but I could not bear to think of my Coralie in want. Andyet, it will not be long before you come to want. However great thisgentleman's talent may be, he can't afford to keep you. We old fellowsmust expect this sort of thing. Coralie, let me come and see yousometimes; I may be of use to you. And--I confess it; I cannot livewithout you. "

The poor man's gentleness, stripped as he was of his happiness just ashappiness had reached its height, touched Lucien deeply. Coralie wasquite unsoftened by it. 

"Come as often as you wish, poor Musot, " she said; "I shall like youall the better when I don't pretend to love you. "

Camusot seemed to be resigned to his fate so long as he was not drivenout of the earthly paradise, in which his life could not have been alljoy; he trusted to the chances of life in Paris and to the temptationsthat would beset Lucien's path; he would wait a while, and all thathad been his should be his again. Sooner or later, thought the wilytradesman, this handsome young fellow would be unfaithful; he wouldkeep a watch on him; and the better to do this and use his opportunitywith Coralie, he would be their friend. The persistent passion thatcould consent to such humiliation terrified Lucien. Camusot's proposalof a dinner at Very's in the Palais Royal was accepted. 

"What joy!" cried Coralie, as soon as Camusot had departed. "You willnot go back now to your garret in the Latin Quarter; you will livehere. We shall always be together. You can take a room in the RueCharlot for the sake of appearances, and _vogue le galere_!"

She began to dance her Spanish dance, with an excited eagerness thatrevealed the strength of the passion in her heart. 

"If I work hard I may make five hundred francs a month, " Lucien said. 

"And I shall make as much again at the theatre, without countingextras. Camusot will pay for my dresses as before. He is fond of me!We can live like Croesus on fifteen hundred francs a month. "

"And the horses? and the coachman? and the footman?" inquiredBerenice. 

"I will get into debt, " said Coralie. And she began to dance withLucien. 

"I must close with Finot after this, " Lucien exclaimed. 

"There!" said Coralie, "I will dress and take you to your office. Iwill wait outside in the boulevard for you with the carriage. "

Lucien sat down on the sofa and made some very sober reflections as hewatched Coralie at her toilet. It would have been wiser to leaveCoralie free than to start all at once with such an establishment; butCoralie was there before his eyes, and Coralie was so lovely, sograceful, so bewitching, that the more picturesque aspects of bohemiawere in evidence; and he flung down the gauntlet to fortune. 

Berenice was ordered to superintend Lucien's removal and installation;and Coralie, triumphant, radiant, and happy, carried off her love, herpoet, and must needs go all over Paris on the way to the RueSaint-Fiacre. Lucien sprang lightly up the staircase, and entered theoffice with an air of being quite at home. Coloquinte was there withthe stamped paper still on his head; and old Giroudeau told him again, hypocritically enough, that no one had yet come in. 

"But the editor and contributors _must_ meet somewhere or other toarrange about the journal, " said Lucien. 

"Very likely; but I have nothing to do with the writing of the paper, "said the Emperor's captain, resuming his occupation of checking offwrappers with his eternal broum! broum!

Was it lucky or unlucky? Finot chanced to come in at that very momentto announce his sham abdication and to bid Giroudeau watch over hisinterests. 

"No shilly-shally with this gentleman; he is on the staff, " Finotadded for his uncle's benefit, as he grasped Lucien by the hand. 

"Oh! is he on the paper?" exclaimed Giroudeau, much surprised at thisfriendliness. "Well, sir, you came on without much difficulty. "

"I want to make things snug for you here, lest Etienne shouldbamboozle you, " continued Finot, looking knowingly at Lucien. "Thisgentleman will be paid three francs per column all round, includingtheatres. "

"You have never taken any one on such terms before, " said Giroudeau, opening his eyes. 

"And he will take the four Boulevard theatres. See that nobody sneakshis boxes, and that he gets his share of tickets. --I should adviseyou, nevertheless, to have them sent to your address, " he added, turning to Lucien. --"And he agrees to write besides ten miscellaneousarticles of two columns each, for fifty francs per month, for oneyear. Does that suit you?"

"Yes, " said Lucien. Circumstances had forced his hand. 

"Draw up the agreement, uncle, and we will sign it when we comedownstairs. "

"Who is the gentleman?" inquired Giroudeau, rising and taking off hisblack silk skull-cap. 

"M. Lucien de Rubempre, who wrote the article on _The Alcalde_. "

"Young man, you have a gold mine _there_, " said the old soldier, tappingLucien on the forehead. "I am not literary myself, but I read thatarticle of yours, and I liked it. That is the kind of thing! There'sgaiety for you! 'That will bring us new subscribers, ' says I tomyself. And so it did. We sold fifty more numbers. "

"Is my agreement with Lousteau made out in duplicate and ready tosign?" asked Finot, speaking aside. 

"Yes. "

"Then ante-date this gentleman's agreement by one day, so thatLousteau will be bound by the previous contract. "

Finot took his new contributor's arm with a friendliness that charmedLucien, and drew him out on the landing to say:--

"Your position is made for you. I will introduce you to _my_ staffmyself, and to-night Lousteau will go round with you to the theatres. You can make a hundred and fifty francs per month on this little paperof ours with Lousteau as its editor, so try to keep well with him. Therogue bears a grudge against me as it is, for tying his hands so faras you are concerned; but you have ability, and I don't choose thatyou shall be subjected to the whims of the editor. You might let mehave a couple of sheets every month for my review, and I will pay youtwo hundred francs. This is between ourselves, don't mention it toanybody else; I should be laid open to the spite of every one whosevanity is mortified by your good fortune. Write four articles, fillyour two sheets, sign two with your own name, and two with apseudonym, so that you may not seem to be taking the bread out ofanybody else's mouth. You owe your position to Blondet and Vignon;they think that you have a future before you. So keep out of scrapes, and, above all things, be on your guard against your friends. As forme, we shall always get on well together, you and I. Help me, and Iwill help you. You have forty francs' worth of boxes and tickets tosell, and sixty francs' worth of books to convert into cash. With thatand your work on the paper, you will be making four hundred and fiftyfrancs every month. If you use your wits, you will find ways of makinganother two hundred francs at least among the publishers; they willpay you for reviews and prospectuses. But you are mine, are you not? Ican count upon you. "

Lucien squeezed Finot's hand in transports of joy which no words canexpress. 

"Don't let any one see that anything has passed between us, " saidFinot in his ear, and he flung open a door of a room in the roof atthe end of a long passage on the fifth floor. 

A table covered with a green cloth was drawn up to a blazing fire, andseated in various chairs and lounges Lucien discovered Lousteau, Felicien Vernou, Hector Merlin, and two others unknown to him, alllaughing or smoking. A real inkstand, full of ink this time, stood onthe table among a great litter of papers; while a collection of pens, the worse for wear, but still serviceable for journalists, told thenew contributor very plainly that the mighty enterprise was carried onin this apartment. 

"Gentlemen, " said Finot, "the object of this gathering is theinstallation of our friend Lousteau in my place as editor of thenewspaper which I am compelled to relinquish. But although my opinionswill necessarily undergo a transformation when I accept the editorshipof a review of which the politics are known to you, my _convictions_remain the same, and we shall be friends as before. I am quite at yourservice, and you likewise will be ready to do anything for me. Circumstances change; principles are fixed. Principles are the pivoton which the hands of the political barometer turn. "

There was an instant shout of laughter. 

"Who put that into your mouth?" asked Lousteau. 

"Blondet!" said Finot. 

"Windy, showery, stormy, settled fair, " said Merlin; "we will all rowin the same boat. "

"In short, " continued Finot, "not to muddle our wits with metaphors, any one who has an article or two for me will always find Finot. --Thisgentleman, " turning to Lucien, "will be one of you. --I have arrangedwith him, Lousteau. "

Every one congratulated Finot on his advance and new prospects. 

"So there you are, mounted on our shoulders, " said a contributorwhom Lucien did not know. "You will be the Janus of Journal----"

"So long as he isn't the Janot, " put in Vernou. 

"Are you going to allow us to make attacks on our _betes noires_?"

"Any one you like. "

"Ah, yes!" said Lousteau; "but the paper must keep on its lines. M. Chatelet is very wroth; we shall not let him off for a week yet. "

"What has happened?" asked Lucien. 

"He came here to ask for an explanation, " said Vernou. "The Imperialbuck found old Giroudeau at home; and old Giroudeau told him, with allthe coolness in the world, that Philippe Bridau wrote the article. Philippe asked the Baron to mention the time and the weapons, andthere it ended. We are engaged at this moment in offering excuses tothe Baron in to-morrow's issue. Every phrase is a stab for him. "

"Keep your teeth in him and he will come round to me, " said Finot;"and it will look as if I were obliging him by appeasing you. He cansay a word to the Ministry, and we can get something or other out ofhim--an assistant schoolmaster's place, or a tobacconist's license. Itis a lucky thing for us that we flicked him on the raw. Does anybodyhere care to take a serious article on Nathan for my new paper?"

"Give it to Lucien, " said Lousteau. "Hector and Vernou will writearticles in their papers at the same time. "

"Good-day, gentlemen; we shall meet each other face to face atBarbin's, " said Finot, laughing. 

Lucien received some congratulations on his admission to the mightyarmy of journalists, and Lousteau explained that they could be sure ofhim. "Lucien wants you all to sup in a body at the house of the fairCoralie. "

"Coralie is going on at the Gymnase, " said Lucien. 

"Very well, gentlemen; it is understood that we push Coralie, eh? Puta few lines about her new engagement in your papers, and say somethingabout her talent. Credit the management of the Gymnase with tack anddiscernment; will it do to say intelligence?"

"Yes, say intelligence, " said Merlin; "Frederic has something ofScribe's. "

"Oh! Well, then, the manager of the Gymnase is the most perspicaciousand far-sighted of men of business, " said Vernou. 

"Look here! don't write your articles on Nathan until we have come toan understanding; you shall hear why, " said Etienne Lousteau. "Weought to do something for our new comrade. Lucien here has two booksto bring out--a volume of sonnets and a novel. The power of theparagraph should make him a great poet due in three months; and wewill make use of his sonnets (_Marguerites_ is the title) to run downodes, ballads, and reveries, and all the Romantic poetry. "

"It would be a droll thing if the sonnets were no good after all, "said Vernou. --"What do you yourself think of your sonnets, Lucien?"

"Yes, what do you think of them?" asked one of the two whom Lucien didnot know. 

"They are all right, gentlemen; I give you my word, " said Lousteau. 

"Very well, that will do for me, " said Vernou; "I will heave your bookat the poets of the sacristy; I am tired of them. "

"If Dauriat declines to take the _Marguerites_ this evening, we willattack him by pitching into Nathan. "

"But what will Nathan say?" cried Lucien. 

His five colleagues burst out laughing. 

"Oh! he will be delighted, " said Vernou. "You will see how we managethese things. "

"So he is one of us?" said one of the two journalists. 

"Yes, yes, Frederic; no tricks. --We are all working for you, Lucien, you see; you must stand by us when your turn comes. We are all friendsof Nathan's, and we are attacking him. Now, let us divide Alexander'sempire. --Frederic, will you take the Francais and the Odeon?"

"If these gentlemen are willing, " returned the person addressed asFrederic. The others nodded assent, but Lucien saw a gleam of jealousyhere and there. 

"I am keeping the Opera, the Italiens, and the Opera-Comique, " put inVernou. 

"And how about me? Am I to have no theatres at all?" asked the secondstranger. 

"Oh well, Hector can let you have the Varietes, and Lucien can spareyou the Porte Saint-Martin. --Let him have the Porte Saint-Martin, Lucien, he is wild about Fanny Beaupre; and you can take theCirque-Olympique in exchange. I shall have Bobino and the Funambulesand Madame Saqui. Now, what have we for to-morrow?"

"Nothing. "

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. "

"Gentlemen, be brilliant for my first number. The Baron du Chateletand his cuttlefish bone will not last for a week, and the writer of _LeSolitaire_ is worn out. "

"And 'Sosthenes-Demosthenes' is stale too, " said Vernou; "everybodyhas taken it up. "

"The fact is, we want a new set of ninepins, " said Frederic. 

"Suppose that we take the virtuous representatives of the Right?"suggested Lousteau. "We might say that M. De Bonald has sweaty feet. "

"Let us begin a series of sketches of Ministerialist orators, "suggested Hector Merlin. 

"You do that, youngster; you know them; they are your own party, " saidLousteau; "you could indulge any little private grudges of your own. Pitch into Beugnot and Syrieys de Mayrinhac and the rest. You mighthave the sketches ready in advance, and we shall have something tofall back upon. "

"How if we invented one or two cases of refusal of burial withaggravating circumstances?" asked Hector. 

"Do not follow in the tracks of the big Constitutional papers; theyhave pigeon-holes full of ecclesiastical _canards_, " retorted Vernou. 

"_Canards_?" repeated Lucien. 

"That is our word for a scrap of fiction told for true, put in toenliven the column of morning news when it is flat. We owe thediscovery to Benjamin Franklin, the inventor of the lightningconductor and the republic. That journalist completely deceived theEncyclopaedists by his transatlantic _canards_. Raynal gives two of themfor facts in his _Histoire philosophique des Indes_. "

"I did not know that, " said Vernou. "What were the stories?"

"One was a tale about an Englishman and a negress who helped him toescape; he sold the woman for a slave after getting her with childhimself to enhance her value. The other was the eloquent defence of ayoung woman brought before the authorities for bearing a child out ofwedlock. Franklin owned to the fraud in Necker's house when he came toParis, much to the confusion of French philosophism. Behold how theNew World twice set a bad example to the Old!"

"In journalism, " said Lousteau, "everything that is probable is true. That is an axiom. "

"Criminal procedure is based on the same rule, " said Vernou. 

"Very well, we meet here at nine o'clock, " and with that they rose, and the sitting broke up with the most affecting demonstrations ofintimacy and good-will. 

"What have you done to Finot, Lucien, that he should make a specialarrangement with you? You are the only one that he has bound tohimself, " said Etienne Lousteau, as they came downstairs. 

"I? Nothing. It was his own proposal, " said Lucien. 

"As a matter of fact, if you should make your own terms with him, Ishould be delighted; we should, both of us, be the better for it. "

On the ground floor they found Finot. He stepped across to Lousteauand asked him into the so-called private office. Giroudeau immediatelyput a couple of stamped agreements before Lucien. 

"Sign your agreement, " he said, "and the new editor will think thewhole thing was arranged yesterday. "

Lucien, reading the document, overheard fragments of a tolerably warmdispute within as to the line of conduct and profits of the paper. Etienne Lousteau wanted his share of the blackmail levied byGiroudeau; and, in all probability, the matter was compromised, forthe pair came out perfectly good friends. 

"We will meet at Dauriat's, Lucien, in the Wooden Galleries at eighto'clock, " said Etienne Lousteau. 

A young man appeared, meanwhile, in search of employment, wearing thesame nervous shy look with which Lucien himself had come to the officeso short a while ago; and in his secret soul Lucien felt amused as hewatched Giroudeau playing off the same tactics with which the oldcampaigner had previously foiled him. Self-interest opened his eyes tothe necessity of the manoeuvres which raised well-nigh insurmountablebarriers between beginners and the upper room where the elect weregathered together. 

"Contributors don't get very much as it is, " he said, addressingGiroudeau. 

"If there were more of you, there would be so much less, " retorted thecaptain. "So there!"

The old campaigner swung his loaded cane, and went down coughing asusual. Out in the street he was amazed to see a handsome carriagewaiting on the boulevard for Lucien. 

"_You_ are the army nowadays, " he said, "and we are the civilians. "

"Upon my word, " said Lucien, as he drove away with Coralie, "theseyoung writers seem to me to be the best fellows alive. Here am I ajournalist, sure of making six hundred francs a month if I work like ahorse. But I shall find a publisher for my two books, and I will writeothers; for my friends will insure a success. And so, Coralie, '_voguele galere_!' as you say. "

"You will make your way, dear boy; but you must not be as good-naturedas you are good-looking; it would be the ruin of you. Be ill-natured, that is the proper thing. "

Coralie and Lucien drove in the Bois de Boulogne, and again they metthe Marquise d'Espard, Mme. De Bargeton and the Baron du Chatelet. Mme. De Bargeton gave Lucien a languishing glance which might be takenas a greeting. Camusot had ordered the best possible dinner; andCoralie, feeling that she was rid of her adorer, was more charming tothe poor silk-mercer than she had ever been in the fourteen monthsduring which their connection lasted; he had never seen her so kindly, so enchantingly lovely. 

"Come, " he thought, "let us keep near her anyhow!"

In consequence, Camusot made secret overtures. He promised Coralie anincome of six thousand livres; he would transfer the stock in thefunds into her name (his wife knew nothing about the investment) ifonly she would consent to be his mistress still. He would shut hiseyes to her lover. 

"And betray such an angel? . . . Why, just look at him, you oldfossil, and look at yourself!" and her eyes turned to her poet. Camusot had pressed Lucien to drink till the poet's head was rathercloudy. 

There was no help for it; Camusot made up his mind to wait till sheerwant should give him this woman a second time. 

"Then I can only be your friend, " he said, as he kissed her on theforehead. 

Lucien went from Coralie and Camusot to the Wooden Galleries. What achange had been wrought in his mind by his initiation into Journalism!He mixed fearlessly now with the crowd which surged to and fro in thebuildings; he even swaggered a little because he had a mistress; andhe walked into Dauriat's shop in an offhand manner because he was ajournalist. 

He found himself among distinguished men; gave a hand to Blondet andNathan and Finot, and to all the coterie with whom he had beenfraternizing for a week. He was a personage, he thought, and heflattered himself that he surpassed his comrades. That little flick ofthe wine did him admirable service; he was witty, he showed that hecould "howl with the wolves. "

And yet, the tacit approval, the praises spoken and unspoken on whichhe had counted, were not forthcoming. He noticed the first stirringsof jealousy among a group, less curious, perhaps, than anxious to knowthe place which this newcomer might take, and the exact portion of thesum-total of profits which he would probably secure and swallow. Lucien only saw smiles on two faces--Finot, who regarded him as a mineto be exploited, and Lousteau, who considered that he had proprietaryrights in the poet, looked glad to see him. Lousteau had begun alreadyto assume the airs of an editor; he tapped sharply on the window-panesof Dauriat's private office. 

"One moment, my friend, " cried a voice within as the publisher's faceappeared above the green curtains. 

The moment lasted an hour, and finally Lucien and Etienne wereadmitted into the sanctum. 

"Well, have you thought over our friend's proposal?" asked EtienneLousteau, now an editor. 

"To be sure, " said Dauriat, lolling like a sultan in his chair. "Ihave read the volume. And I submitted it to a man of taste, a goodjudge; for I don't pretend to understand these things myself. Imyself, my friend, buy reputations ready-made, as the Englishmanbought his love affairs. --You are as great as a poet as you arehandsome as a man, my boy, " pronounced Dauriat. "Upon my word andhonor (I don't tell you that as a publisher, mind), your sonnets aremagnificent; no sign of effort about them, as is natural when a manwrites with inspiration and verve. You know your craft, in fact, oneof the good points of the new school. Your volume of _Marguerites_ is afine book, but there is no business in it, and it is not worth mywhile to meddle with anything but a very big affair. In conscience, Iwon't take your sonnets. It would be impossible to push them; there isnot enough in the thing to pay the expenses of a big success. You willnot keep to poetry besides; this book of yours will be your first andlast attempt of the kind. You are young; you bring me the everlastingvolume of early verse which every man of letters writes when he leavesschool, he thinks a lot of it at the time, and laughs at it later on. Lousteau, your friend, has a poem put away somewhere among his oldsocks, I'll warrant. Haven't you a poem that you thought a good dealof once, Lousteau?" inquired Dauriat, with a knowing glance at theother. 

"How should I be writing prose otherwise, eh?" asked Lousteau. 

"There, you see! He has never said a word to me about it, for ourfriend understands business and the trade, " continued Dauriat. "For methe question is not whether you are a great poet, I know that, " headded, stroking down Lucien's pride; "you have a great deal, a verygreat deal of merit; if I were only just starting in business, Ishould make the mistake of publishing your book. But in the firstplace, my sleeping partners and those at the back of me are cuttingoff my supplies; I dropped twenty thousand francs over poetry lastyear, and that is enough for them; they will not hear of any more justnow, and they are my masters. Nevertheless, that is not the question. I admit that you may be a great poet, but will you be a prolificwriter? Will you hatch sonnets regularly? Will you run into tenvolumes? Is there business in it? Of course not. You will be adelightful prose writer; you have too much sense to spoil your stylewith tagging rhymes together. You have a chance to make thirtythousand francs per annum by writing for the papers, and you will notexchange that chance for three thousand francs made with difficulty byyour hemistiches and strophes and tomfoolery----"

"You know that he is on the paper, Dauriat?" put in Lousteau. 

"Yes, " Dauriat answered. "Yes, I saw his article, and in his owninterests I decline the _Marguerites_. Yes, sir, in six months' time Ishall have paid you more money for the articles that I shall ask youto write than for your poetry that will not sell. "

"And fame?" said Lucien. 

Dauriat and Lousteau laughed. 

"Oh dear!" said Lousteau, "there be illusions left. "

"Fame means ten years of sticking to work, and a hundred thousandfrancs lost or made in the publishing trade. If you find anybody madenough to print your poetry for you, you will feel some respect for mein another twelvemonth, when you have had time to see the outcome ofthe transaction"

"Have you the manuscript here?" Lucien asked coldly. 

"Here it is, my friend, " said Dauriat. The publisher's manner towardsLucien had sweetened singularly. 

Lucien took up the roll without looking at the string, so sure he feltthat Dauriat had read his _Marguerites_. He went out with Lousteau, seemingly neither disconcerted nor dissatisfied. Dauriat went withthem into the shop, talking of his newspaper and Lousteau's daily, while Lucien played with the manuscript of the _Marguerites_. 

"Do you suppose that Dauriat has read your sonnets or sent them to anyone else?" Etienne Lousteau snatched an opportunity to whisper. 

"Yes, " said Lucien. 

"Look at the string. " Lucien looked down at the blot of ink, and sawthat the mark on the string still coincided; he turned white withrage. 

"Which of the sonnets was it that you particularly liked?" he asked, turning to the publisher. 

"They are all of them remarkable, my friend; but the sonnet on the_Marguerite_ is delightful, the closing thought is fine, and exquisitelyexpressed. I felt sure from that sonnet that your prose work wouldcommand a success, and I spoke to Finot about you at once. Writearticles for us, and we will pay you well for them. Fame is a veryfine thing, you see, but don't forget the practical and solid, andtake every chance that turns up. When you have made money, you canwrite poetry. "

The poet dashed out of the shop to avoid an explosion. He was furious. Lousteau followed. 

"Well, my boy, pray keep cool. Take men as they are--for means to anend. Do you wish for revenge?"

"At any price, " muttered the poet. 

"Here is a copy of Nathan's book. Dauriat has just given it to me. Thesecond edition is coming out to-morrow; read the book again, and knockoff an article demolishing it. Felicien Vernou cannot endure Nathan, for he thinks that Nathan's success will injure his own forthcomingbook. It is a craze with these little minds to fancy that there is notroom for two successes under the sun; so he will see that your articlefinds a place in the big paper for which he writes. "

"But what is there to be said against the book; it is good work!"cried Lucien. 

"Oh, I say! you must learn your trade, " said Lousteau, laughing. "Given that the book was a masterpiece, under the stroke of your penit must turn to dull trash, dangerous and unwholesome stuff. "

"But how?"

"You turn all the good points into bad ones. "

"I am incapable of such a juggler's feat. "

"My dear boy, a journalist is a juggler; a man must make up his mindto the drawbacks of the calling. Look here! I am not a bad fellow;this is the way _I_ should set to work myself. Attention! You mightbegin by praising the book, and amuse yourself a while by saying whatyou really think. 'Good, ' says the reader, 'this critic is notjealous; he will be impartial, no doubt, ' and from that point yourpublic will think that your criticism is a piece of conscientiouswork. Then, when you have won your reader's confidence, you willregret that you must blame the tendency and influence of such workupon French literature. 'Does not France, ' you will say, 'sway thewhole intellectual world? French writers have kept Europe in the pathof analysis and philosophical criticism from age to age by theirpowerful style and the original turn given by them to ideas. ' Here, for the benefit of the philistine, insert a panegyric on Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, Montesquieu, and Buffon. Hold forth upon theinexorable French language; show how it spreads a varnish, as it were, over thought. Let fall a few aphorisms, such as--'A great writer inFrance is invariably a great man; he writes in a language whichcompels him to think; it is otherwise in other countries'--and so on, and so on. Then, to prove your case, draw a comparison betweenRabener, the German satirical moralist, and La Bruyere. Nothing givesa critic such an air as an apparent familiarity with foreignliterature. Kant is Cousin's pedestal. 

"Once on that ground you bring out a word which sums up the French menof genius of the eighteenth century for the benefit of simpletons--youcall that literature the 'literature of ideas. ' Armed with thisexpression, you fling all the mighty dead at the heads of theillustrious living. You explain that in the present day a new form ofliterature has sprung up; that dialogue (the easiest form of writing)is overdone, and description dispenses with any need for thinking onthe part of the author or reader. You bring up the fiction ofVoltaire, Diderot, Sterne, and Le Sage, so trenchant, so compact ofthe stuff of life; and turn from them to the modern novel, composed ofscenery and word-pictures and metaphor and the dramatic situations, ofwhich Scott is full. Invention may be displayed in such work, butthere is no room for anything else. 'The romance after the manner ofScott is a mere passing fashion in literature, ' you will say, andfulminate against the fatal way in which ideas are diluted and beatenthin; cry out against a style within the reach of any intellect, forany one can commence author at small expense in a way of literature, which you can nickname the 'literature of imagery. '

"Then you fall upon Nathan with your argument, and establish itbeyound cavil that he is a mere imitator with an appearance of genius. The concise grand style of the eighteenth century is lacking; you showthat the author substitutes events for sentiments. Action and stir isnot life; he gives you pictures, but no ideas. 

"Come out with such phrases, and people will take them up. --In spiteof the merits of the work, it seems to you to be a dangerous, nay, afatal precedent. It throws open the gates of the temple of Fame to thecrowd; and in the distance you descry a legion of petty authorshastening to imitate this novel and easy style of writing. 

"Here you launch out into resounding lamentations over the decadenceand decline of taste, and slip in eulogies of Messieurs Etienne Jouy, Tissot, Gosse, Duval, Jay, Benjamin Constant, Aignan, Baour-Lormian, Villemain, and the whole Liberal-Bonapartist chorus who patronizeVernou's paper. Next you draw a picture of that glorious phalanx ofwriters repelling the invasion of the Romantics; these are theupholders of ideas and style as against metaphor and balderdash; themodern representatives of the school of Voltaire as opposed to theEnglish and German schools, even as the seventeen heroic deputies ofthe Left fought the battle for the nation against the Ultras of theRight. 

"And then, under cover of names respected by the immense majority ofFrenchmen (who will always be against the Government), you can crushNathan; for although his work is far above the average, it confirmsthe bourgeois taste for literature without ideas. And after that, youunderstand, it is no longer a question of Nathan and his book, but ofFrance and the glory of France. It is the duty of all honest andcourageous pens to make strenuous opposition to these foreignimportations. And with that you flatter your readers. Shrewd Frenchmother-wit is not easily caught napping. If publishers, by ways whichyou do not choose to specify, have stolen a success, the readingpublic very soon judges for itself, and corrects the mistakes made bysome five hundred fools, who always rush to the fore. 

"Say that the publisher who sold a first edition of the book isaudacious indeed to issue a second, and express regret that so clevera man does not know the taste of the country better. There is the gistof it. Just a sprinkle of the salt of wit and a dash of vinegar tobring out the flavor, and Dauriat will be done to a turn. But mindthat you end with seeming to pity Nathan for a mistake, and speak ofhim as of a man from whom contemporary literature may look for greatthings if he renounces these ways. "

Lucien was amazed at this talk from Lousteau. As the journalist spoke, the scales fell from his eyes; he beheld new truths of which he hadnever before caught so much as a glimpse. 

"But all this that you are saying is quite true and just, " said he. 

"If it were not, how could you make it tell against Nathan's book?"asked Lousteau. "That is the first manner of demolishing a book, myboy; it is the pickaxe style of criticism. But there are plenty ofother ways. Your education will complete itself in time. When you areabsolutely obliged to speak of a man whom you do not like, forproprietors and editors are sometimes under compulsion, you bring outa neutral special article. You put the title of the book at the headof it, and begin with general remarks, on the Greeks and the Romans ifyou like, and wind up with--'and this brings us to Mr. So-and-so'sbook, which will form the subject of a second article. ' The secondarticle never appears, and in this way you snuff out the book betweentwo promises. But in this case you are writing down, not Nathan, butDauriat; he needs the pickaxe style. If the book is really good, thepickaxe does no harm; but it goes to the core of it if it is bad. Inthe first case, no one but the publisher is any the worse; in thesecond, you do the public a service. Both methods, moreover, areequally serviceable in political criticism. "

Etienne Lousteau's cruel lesson opened up possibilities for Lucien'simagination. He understood this craft to admiration. 

"Let us go to the office, " said Lousteau; "we shall find our friendsthere, and we will agree among ourselves to charge at Nathan; theywill laugh, you will see. "

Arrived in the Rue Saint-Fiacre, they went up to the room in the roofwhere the paper was made up, and Lucien was surprised and gratified noless to see the alacrity with which his comrades proceeded to demolishNathan's book. Hector Merlin took up a piece of paper and wrote a fewlines for his own newspaper. --

 "A second edition of M. Nathan's book is announced. We had intended to keep silence with regard to that work, but its apparent success obliges us to publish an article, not so much upon the book itself as upon certain tendencies of the new school of literature. "

At the head of the "Facetiae" in the morning's paper, Lousteauinserted the following note:--

 "M. Dauriat is bringing out a second edition of M. Nathan's book. Evidently he does not know the legal maxim, _Non bis in idem_. All honor to rash courage. "

Lousteau's words had been like a torch for burning; Lucien's hotdesire to be revenged on Dauriat took the place of conscience andinspiration. For three days he never left Coralie's room; he sat atwork by the fire, waited upon by Berenice; petted, in moments ofweariness, by the silent and attentive Coralie; till, at the end ofthat time, he had made a fair copy of about three columns ofcriticism, and an astonishingly good piece of work. 

It was nine o'clock in the evening when he ran round to the office, found his associates, and read over his work to an attentive audience. Felicien said not a syllable. He took up the manuscript, and made offwith it pell-mell down the staircase. 

"What has come to him?" cried Lucien. 

"He has taken your article straight to the printer, " said HectorMerlin. "'Tis a masterpiece; not a line to add, nor a word to takeout. "

"There was no need to do more than show you the way, " said Lousteau. 

"I should like to see Nathan's face when he reads this to-morrow, "said another contributor, beaming with gentle satisfaction. 

"It is as well to have you for a friend, " remarked Hector Merlin. 

"Then it will do?" Lucien asked quickly. 

"Blondet and Vignon will feel bad, " said Lousteau. 

"Here is a short article which I have knocked together for you, " beganLucien; "if it takes, I could write you a series. "

"Read it over, " said Lousteau, and Lucien read the first of thedelightful short papers which made the fortune of the littlenewspaper; a series of sketches of Paris life, a portrait, a type, anordinary event, or some of the oddities of the great city. Thisspecimen--"The Man in the Street"--was written in a way that was freshand original; the thoughts were struck out by the shock of the words, the sounding ring of the adverbs and adjectives caught the reader'sear. The paper was as different from the serious and profound articleon Nathan as the _Lettres persanes_ from the _Esprit des lois_. 

"You are a born journalist, " said Lousteau. "It shall go in to-morrow. Do as much of this sort of thing as you like. "

"Ah, by the by, " said Merlin, "Dauriat is furious about those twobombshells hurled into his magazine. I have just come from him. He washurling imprecations, and in such a rage with Finot, who told him thathe had sold his paper to you. As for me, I took him aside and justsaid a word in his ear. 'The _Marguerites_ will cost you dear, ' I toldhim. 'A man of talent comes to you, you turn the cold shoulder on him, and send him into the arms of the newspapers. '"

"Dauriat will be dumfounded by the article on Nathan, " said Lousteau. "Do you see now what journalism is, Lucien? Your revenge is beginningto tell. The Baron Chatelet came here this morning for your address. There was a cutting article upon him in this morning's issue; he is aweakling, that buck of the Empire, and he has lost his head. Have youseen the paper? It is a funny article. Look, 'Funeral of the Heron, and the Cuttlefish-bone's lament. ' Mme. De Bargeton is called theCuttlefish-bone now, and no mistake, and Chatelet is known everywhereas Baron Heron. "

Lucien took up the paper, and could not help laughing at Vernou'sextremely clever skit. 

"They will capitulate soon, " said Hector Merlin. 

Lucien merrily assisted at the manufacture of epigrams and jokes atthe end of the paper; and the associates smoked and chatted over theday's adventures, over the foibles of some among their number, or somenew bit of personal gossip. From their witty, malicious, banteringtalk, Lucien gained a knowledge of the inner life of literature, andof the manners and customs of the craft. 

"While they are setting up the paper, I will go round with you andintroduce you to the managers of your theatres, and take you behindthe scenes, " said Lousteau. "And then we will go to thePanorama-Dramatique, and have a frolic in their dressing-rooms. "

Arm-in-arm, they went from theatre to theatre. Lucien was introducedto this one and that, and enthroned as a dramatic critic. Managerscomplimented him, actresses flung him side glances; for every one ofthem knew that this was the critic who, by a single article, hadgained an engagement at the Gymnase, with twelve thousand francs ayear, for Coralie, and another for Florine at the Panorama-Dramatiquewith eight thousand francs. Lucien was a man of importance. The littleovations raised Lucien in his own eyes, and taught him to know hispower. At eleven o'clock the pair arrived at the Panorama-Dramatique;Lucien with a careless air that worked wonders. Nathan was there. Nathan held out a hand, which Lucien squeezed. 

"Ah! my masters, so you have a mind to floor me, have you?" saidNathan, looking from one to the other. 

"Just you wait till to-morrow, my dear fellow, and you shall see howLucien has taken you in hand. Upon my word, you will be pleased. Apiece of serious criticism like that is sure to do a book good. "

Lucien reddened with confusion. 

"Is it severe?" inquired Nathan. 

"It is serious, " said Lousteau. 

"Then there is no harm done, " Nathan rejoined. "Hector Merlin in thegreenroom of the Vaudeville was saying that I had been cut up. "

"Let him talk, and wait, " cried Lucien, and took refuge in Coralie'sdressing-room. Coralie, in her alluring costume, had just come off thestage. 

Next morning, as Lucien and Coralie sat at breakfast, a carriage drovealong the Rue de Vendome. The street was quiet enough, so that theycould hear the light sound made by an elegant cabriolet; and there wasthat in the pace of the horse, and the manner of pulling up at thedoor, which tells unmistakably of a thoroughbred. Lucien went to thewindow, and there, in fact, beheld a splendid English horse, and noless a person than Dauriat flinging the reins to his man as he steppeddown. 

"'Tis the publisher, Coralie, " said Lucien. 

"Let him wait, Berenice, " Coralie said at once. 

Lucien smiled at her presence of mind, and kissed her with a greatrush of tenderness. This mere girl had made his interests hers in awonderful way; she was quick-witted where he was concerned. Theapparition of the insolent publisher, the sudden and complete collapseof that prince of charlatans, was due to circumstances almost entirelyforgotten, so utterly has the book trade changed during the lastfifteen years. 

From 1816 to 1827, when newspaper reading-rooms were only justbeginning to lend new books, the fiscal law pressed more heavily thanever upon periodical publications, and necessity created the inventionof advertisements. Paragraphs and articles in the newspapers were theonly means of advertisement known in those days; and French newspapersbefore the year 1822 were so small, that the largest sheet of thosetimes was not so large as the smallest daily paper of ours. Dauriatand Ladvocat, the first publishers to make a stand against the tyrannyof journalists, were also the first to use the placards which caughtthe attention of Paris by strange type, striking colors, vignettes, and (at a later time) by lithograph illustrations, till a placardbecame a fairy-tale for the eyes, and not unfrequently a snare for thepurse of the amateur. So much originality indeed was expended onplacards in Paris, that one of that peculiar kind of maniacs, known asa collector, possesses a complete series. 

At first the placard was confined to the shop-windows and stalls uponthe Boulevards in Paris; afterwards it spread all over France, till itwas supplanted to some extent by a return to advertisements in thenewspapers. But the placard, nevertheless, which continues to strikethe eye, after the advertisement and the book which is advertised areboth forgotten, will always be among us; it took a new lease of lifewhen walls were plastered with posters. 

Newspaper advertising, the offspring of heavy stamp duties, a highrate of postage, and the heavy deposits of caution-money required bythe government as security for good behavior, is within the reach ofall who care to pay for it, and has turned the fourth page of everyjournal into a harvest field alike for the speculator and the InlandRevenue Department. The press restrictions were invented in the timeof M. De Villele, who had a chance, if he had but known it, ofdestroying the power of journalism by allowing newspapers to multiplytill no one took any notice of them; but he missed his opportunity, and a sort of privilege was created, as it were, by the almostinsuperable difficulties put in the way of starting a new venture. So, in 1821, the periodical press might be said to have power of life anddeath over the creations of the brain and the publishing trade. A fewlines among the items of news cost a fearful amount. Intrigues weremultiplied in newspaper offices; and of a night when the columns weredivided up, and this or that article was put in or left out to suitthe space, the printing-room became a sort of battlefield; so much so, that the largest publishing firms had writers in their pay to insertshort articles in which many ideas are put in little space. Obscurejournalists of this stamp were only paid after the insertion of theitems, and not unfrequently spent the night in the printing-office tomake sure that their contributions were not omitted; sometimes puttingin a long article, obtained heaven knows how, sometimes a few lines ofa puff. 

The manners and customs of journalism and of the publishing houseshave since changed so much, that many people nowadays will not believewhat immense efforts were made by writers and publishers of books tosecure a newspaper puff; the martyrs of glory, and all those who arecondemned to the penal servitude of a life-long success, were reducedto such shifts, and stooped to depths of bribery and corruption asseem fabulous to-day. Every kind of persuasion was brought to bear onjournalists--dinners, flattery, and presents. The following story willthrow more light on the close connection between the critic and thepublisher than any quantity of flat assertions. 

There was once upon a time an editor of an important paper, a cleverwriter with a prospect of becoming a statesman; he was young in thosedays, and fond of pleasure, and he became the favorite of a well-knownpublishing house. One Sunday the wealthy head of the firm wasentertaining several of the foremost journalists of the time in thecountry, and the mistress of the house, then a young and pretty woman, went to walk in her park with the illustrious visitor. The head-clerkof the firm, a cool, steady, methodical German with nothing butbusiness in his head, was discussing a project with one of thejournalists, and as they chatted they walked on into the woods beyondthe park. In among the thickets the German thought he caught a glimpseof his hostess, put up his eyeglass, made a sign to his youngcompanion to be silent, and turned back, stepping softly. --"What didyou see?" asked the journalist. --"Nothing particular, " said the clerk. "Our affair of the long article is settled. To-morrow we shall have atleast three columns in the _Debats_. "

Another anecdote will show the influence of a single article. 

A book of M. De Chateaubriand's on the last of the Stuarts was forsome time a "nightingale" on the bookseller's shelves. A singlearticle in the _Journal des Debats_ sold the work in a week. In thosedays, when there were no lending libraries, a publisher would sell anedition of ten thousand copies of a book by a Liberal if it was wellreviewed by the Opposition papers; but then the Belgian piratededitions were not as yet. 

The preparatory attacks made by Lucien's friends, followed up by hisarticle on Nathan, proved efficacious; they stopped the sale of hisbook. Nathan escaped with the mortification; he had been paid; he hadnothing to lose; but Dauriat was like to lose thirty thousand francs. The trade in new books may, in fact, be summed up much on this wise. Aream of blank paper costs fifteen francs, a ream of printed paper isworth anything between a hundred sous and a hundred crowns, accordingto its success; a favorable or unfavorable review at a critical timeoften decides the question; and Dauriat having five hundred reams ofprinted paper on hand, hurried to make terms with Lucien. The sultanwas now the slave. 

After waiting for some time, fidgeting and making as much noise as hecould while parleying with Berenice, he at last obtained speech ofLucien; and, arrogant publisher though he was, he came in with theradiant air of a courtier in the royal presence, mingled, however, with a certain self-sufficiency and easy good humor. 

"Don't disturb yourselves, my little dears! How nice they look, justlike a pair of turtle-doves! Who would think now, mademoiselle, thathe, with that girl's face of his, could be a tiger with claws ofsteel, ready to tear a reputation to rags, just as he tears yourwrappers, I'll be bound, when you are not quick enough to unfastenthem, " and he laughed before he had finished his jest. 

"My dear boy----" he began, sitting down beside Lucien. --"Mademoiselle, I am Dauriat, " he said, interrupting himself. Hejudged it expedient to fire his name at her like a pistol shot, forhe considered that Coralie was less cordial than she should have been. 

"Have you breakfasted, monsieur; will you keep us company?" askedCoralie. 

"Why, yes; it is easier to talk at table, " said Dauriat. "Besides, byaccepting your invitation I shall have a right to expect you to dinewith my friend Lucien here, for we must be close friends now, hand andglove!"

"Berenice! Bring oysters, lemons, fresh butter, and champagne, " saidCoralie. 

"You are too clever not to know what has brought me here, " saidDauriat, fixing his eyes on Lucien. 

"You have come to buy my sonnets. "

"Precisely. First of all, let us lay down our arms on both sides. " Ashe spoke he took out a neat pocketbook, drew from it three bills for athousand francs each, and laid them before Lucien with a suppliantair. "Is monsieur content?" asked he. 

"Yes, " said the poet. A sense of beatitude, for which no words exist, flooded his soul at the sight of that unhoped wealth. He controlledhimself, but he longed to sing aloud, to jump for joy; he was ready tobelieve in Aladdin's lamp and in enchantment; he believed in his owngenius, in short. 

"Then the _Marguerites_ are mine, " continued Dauriat; "but you willundertake not to attack my publications, won't you?"

"The _Marguerites_ are yours, but I cannot pledge my pen; it is at theservice of my friends, as theirs are mine. "

"But you are one of my authors now. All my authors are my friends. Soyou won't spoil my business without warning me beforehand, so that Iam prepared, will you?"

"I agree to that. "

"To your fame!" and Dauriat raised his glass. 

"I see that you have read the _Marguerites_, " said Lucien. 

Dauriat was not disconcerted. 

"My boy, a publisher cannot pay a greater compliment than by buyingyour _Marguerites_ unread. In six months' time you will be a great poet. You will be written up; people are afraid of you; I shall have nodifficulty in selling your book. I am the same man of business that Iwas four days ago. It is not I who have changed; it is _you_. Last weekyour sonnets were so many cabbage leaves for me; to-day your positionhas ranked them beside Delavigne. "

"Ah well, " said Lucien, "if you have not read my sonnets, you haveread my article. " With the sultan's pleasure of possessing a fairmistress, and the certainty of success, he had grown satirical andadorably impertinent of late. 

"Yes, my friend; do you think I should have come here in such a hurrybut for that? That terrible article of yours is very well written, worse luck. Oh! you have a very great gift, my boy. Take my advice andmake the most of your vogue, " he added, with good humor, which maskedthe extreme insolence of the speech. "But have you yourself a copy ofthe paper? Have you seen your article in print?"

"Not yet, " said Lucien, "though this is the first long piece of prosewhich I have published; but Hector will have sent a copy to my addressin the Rue Charlot. "

"Here--read!" . . . Cried Dauriat, copying Talma's gesture in _Manlius_. 

Lucien took the paper but Coralie snatched it from him. 

"The first-fruits of your pen belong to me, as you well know, " shelaughed. 

Dauriat was unwontedly courtier-like and complimentary. He was afraidof Lucien, and therefore he asked him to a great dinner which he wasgiving to a party of journalists towards the end of the week, andCoralie was included in the invitation. He took the _Marguerites_ awaywith him when he went, asking _his_ poet to look in when he pleased inthe Wooden Galleries, and the agreement should be ready for hissignature. Dauriat never forgot the royal airs with which heendeavored to overawe superficial observers, and to impress them withthe notion that he was a Maecenas rather than a publisher; at thismoment he left the three thousand francs, waving away in lordlyfashion the receipt which Lucien offered, kissed Coralie's hand, andtook his departure. 

"Well, dear love, would you have seen many of these bits of paper ifyou had stopped in your hole in the Rue de Cluny, prowling about amongthe musty old books in the Bibliotheque de Sainte-Genevieve?" askedCoralie, for she knew the whole story of Lucien's life by this time. "Those little friends of yours in the Rue des Quatre-Vents are greatninnies, it seems to me. "

His brothers of the _cenacle_! And Lucien could hear the verdict andlaugh. 

He had seen himself in print; he had just experienced the ineffablejoy of the author, that first pleasurable thrill of gratified vanitywhich comes but once. The full import and bearing of his articlebecame apparent to him as he read and re-read it. The garb of print isto manuscript as the stage is to women; it brings beauties and defectsto light, killing and giving life; the fine thoughts and the faultsalike stare you in the face. 

Lucien, in his excitement and rapture, gave not another thought toNathan. Nathan was a stepping-stone for him--that was all; and he(Lucien) was happy exceedingly--he thought himself rich. The moneybrought by Dauriat was a very Potosi for the lad who used to go aboutunnoticed through the streets of Angouleme and down the steep pathinto L'Houmeau to Postel's garret, where his whole family had livedupon an income of twelve hundred francs. The pleasures of his life inParis must inevitably dim the memories of those days; but so keen werethey, that, as yet, he seemed to be back again in the Place du Murier. He thought of Eve, his beautiful, noble sister, of David his friend, and of his poor mother, and he sent Berenice out to change one of thenotes. While she went he wrote a few lines to his family, and on themaid's return he sent her to the coach-office with a packet of fivehundred francs addressed to his mother. He could not trust himself; hewanted to sent the money at once; later he might not be able to do it. Both Lucien and Coralie looked upon this restitution as a meritoriousaction. Coralie put her arms about her lover and kissed him, andthought him a model son and brother; she could not make enough of him, for generosity is a trait of character which delights these kindlycreatures, who always carry their hearts in their hands. 

"We have a dinner now every day for a week, " she said; "we will make alittle carnival; you have worked quite hard enough. "

Coralie, fain to delight in the beauty of a man whom all other womenshould envy her, took Lucien back to Staub. He was not dressed finelyenough for her. Thence the lovers went to drive in the Bois deBoulogne, and came back to dine at Mme. Du Val-Noble's. Rastignac, Bixiou, des Lupeaulx, Finot, Blondet, Vignon, the Baron de Nucingen, Beaudenord, Philippe Bridau, Conti, the great musician, all theartists and speculators, all the men who seek for violent sensationsas a relief from immense labors, gave Lucien a welcome among them. AndLucien had gained confidence; he gave himself out in talk as though hehad not to live by his wit, and was pronounced to be a "clever fellow"in the slang of the coterie of semi-comrades. 

"Oh! we must wait and see what he has in him, " said Theodore Gaillard, a poet patronized by the Court, who thought of starting a Royalistpaper to be entitled the _Reveil_ at a later day. 

After dinner, Merlin and Lucien, Coralie and Mme. Du Val-Noble, wentto the Opera, where Merlin had a box. The whole party adjournedthither, and Lucien triumphant reappeared upon the scene of his firstserious check. 

He walked in the lobby, arm in arm with Merlin and Blondet, lookingthe dandies who had once made merry at his expense between the eyes. Chatelet was under his feet. He clashed glances with de Marsay, Vandenesse, and Manerville, the bucks of that day. And indeed Lucien, beautiful and elegantly arrayed, had caused a discussion in theMarquise d'Espard's box; Rastignac had paid a long visit, and theMarquise and Mme. De Bargeton put up their opera-glasses at Coralie. Did the sight of Lucien send a pang of regret through Mme. DeBargeton's heart? This thought was uppermost in the poet's mind. Thelonging for revenge aroused in him by the sight of the Corinne ofAngouleme was as fierce as on that day when the lady and her cousinhad cut him in the Champs-Elysees. 

"Did you bring an amulet with you from the provinces?"--It was Blondetwho made this inquiry some few days later, when he called at eleveno'clock in the morning and found that Lucien was not yet risen. --"Hisgood looks are making ravages from cellar to garret, high and low, "continued Blondet, kissing Coralie on the forehead. "I have come toenlist you, dear fellow, " he continued, grasping Lucien by the hand. "Yesterday, at the Italiens, the Comtesse de Montcornet asked me tobring you to her house. You will not give a refusal to a charmingwoman? You meet people of the first fashion there. "

"If Lucien is nice, he will not go to see your Countess, " put inCoralie. "What call is there for him to show his face in fine society?He would only be bored there. "

"Have you a vested interest in him? Are you jealous of fine ladies?"

"Yes, " cried Coralie. "They are worse than we are. "

"How do you know that, my pet?" asked Blondet. 

"From their husbands, " retorted she. "You are forgetting that I oncehad six months of de Marsay. "

"Do you suppose, child, that _I_ am particularly anxious to take sucha handsome fellow as your poet to Mme. De Montcornet's house? If youobject, let us consider that nothing has been said. But I don't fancythat the women are so much in question as a poor devil that Lucienpilloried in his newspaper; he is begging for mercy and peace. TheBaron du Chatelet is imbecile enough to take the thing seriously. TheMarquise d'Espard, Mme. De Bargeton, and Mme. De Montcornet's set havetaken up the Heron's cause; and I have undertaken to reconcilePetrarch and his Laura--Mme. De Bargeton and Lucien. "

"Aha!" cried Lucien, the glow of the intoxication of revenge throbbingfull-pulsed through every vein. "Aha! so my foot is on their necks!You make me adore my pen, worship my friends, bow down to thefate-dispensing power of the press. I have not written a singlesentence as yet upon the Heron and the Cuttlefish-bone. --I will go withyou, my boy, " he cried, catching Blondet by the waist; "yes, I will go;but first, the couple shall feel the weight of _this_, for so light asit is. " He flourished the pen which had written the article upon Nathan. 

"To-morrow, " he cried, "I will hurl a couple of columns at theirheads. Then, we shall see. Don't be frightened, Coralie, it is notlove but revenge; revenge! And I will have it to the full!"

"What a man it is!" said Blondet. "If you but knew, Lucien, how raresuch explosions are in this jaded Paris, you might appreciateyourself. You will be a precious scamp" (the actual expression was atrifle stronger); "you are in a fair way to be a power in the land. "

"He will get on, " said Coralie. 

"Well, he has come a good way already in six weeks. "

"And if he should climb so high that he can reach a sceptre bytreading over a corpse, he shall have Coralie's body for astepping-stone, " said the girl. 

"You are a pair of lovers of the Golden Age, " said Blondet. --"Icongratulate you on your big article, " he added, turning to Lucien. "There were a lot of new things in it. You are past master!"

Lousteau called with Hector Merlin and Vernou. Lucien was immenselyflattered by this attention. Felicien Vernou brought a hundred francsfor Lucien's article; it was felt that such a contributor must be wellpaid to attach him to the paper. 

Coralie, looking round at the chapter of journalists, ordered in abreakfast from the _Cadran bleu_, the nearest restaurant, and asked hervisitors to adjourn to her handsomely furnished dining-room whenBerenice announced that the meal was ready. In the middle of therepast, when the champagne had gone to all heads, the motive of thevisit came out. 

"You do not mean to make an enemy of Nathan, do you?" asked Lousteau. "Nathan is a journalist, and he has friends; he might play you an uglytrick with your first book. You have your _Archer of Charles IX. _ tosell, have you not? We went round to Nathan this morning; he is in aterrible way. But you will set about another article, and puff praisein his face. "

"What! After my article against his book, would you have me say----"began Lucien. 

The whole party cut him short with a shout of laughter. 

"Did you ask him to supper here the day after to-morrow?" askedBlondet. 

"You article was not signed, " added Lousteau. "Felicien, not beingquite such a new hand as you are, was careful to put an initial C atthe bottom. You can do that now with all your articles in his paper, which is pure unadulterated Left. We are all of us in the Opposition. Felicien was tactful enough not to compromise your future opinions. Hector's shop is Right Centre; you might sign your work on it with anL. If you cut a man up, you do it anonymously; if you praise him, itis just as well to put your name to your article. "

"It is not the signatures that trouble me, " returned Lucien, "but Icannot see anything to be said in favor of the book. "

"Then did you really think as you wrote?" asked Hector. 

"Yes. "

"Oh! I thought you were cleverer than that, youngster, " said Blondet. "No. Upon my word, as I looked at that forehead of yours, I creditedyou with the omnipotence of the great mind--the power of seeing bothsides of everything. In literature, my boy, every idea is reversible, and no man can take upon himself to decide which is the right or wrongside. Everything is bi-lateral in the domain of thought. Ideas arebinary. Janus is a fable signifying criticism and the symbol ofGenius. The Almighty alone is triform. What raises Moliere andCorneille above the rest of us but the faculty of saying one thingwith an Alceste or an Octave, and another with a Philinte or a Cinna?Rousseau wrote a letter against dueling in the _Nouvelle_ Heloise, andanother in favor of it. Which of the two represented his own opinion?will you venture to take it upon yourself to decide? Which of us couldgive judgement for Clarissa or Lovelace, Hector or Achilles? Who wasHomer's hero? What did Richardson himself think? It is the function ofcriticism to look at a man's work in all its aspects. We draw up ourcase, in short. "

"Do you really stick to your written opinions?" asked Vernou, with asatirical expression. "Why, we are retailers of phrases; that is howwe make a livelihood. When you try to do a good piece of work--towrite a book, in short--you can put your thoughts, yourself into it, and cling to it, and fight for it; but as for newspaper articles, readto-day and forgotten to-morrow, they are worth nothing in my eyes butthe money that is paid for them. If you attach any importance to suchdrivel, you might as well make the sign of the Cross and invoke heavenwhen you sit down to write a tradesman's circular. "

Every one apparently was astonished at Lucien's scruples. The lastrags of the boyish conscience were torn away, and he was invested withthe _toga virilis_ of journalism. 

"Do you know what Nathan said by way of comforting himself after yourcriticism?" asked Lousteau. 

"How should I know?"

"Nathan exclaimed, 'Paragraphs pass away; but a great work lives!' Hewill be here to supper in two days, and he will be sure to fall flatat your feet, and kiss your claws, and swear that you are a greatman. "

"That would be a funny thing, " was Lucien's comment. 

"_Funny_" repeated Blondet. "He can't help himself. "

"I am quite willing, my friends, " said Lucien, on whom the wine hadbegun to take effect. "But what am I to say?"

"Oh well, refute yourself in three good columns in Merlin's paper. Wehave been enjoying the sight of Nathan's wrath; we have just beentelling him that he owes us no little gratitude for getting up a hotcontroversy that will sell his second edition in a week. In his eyesat this present moment you are a spy, a scoundrel, a caitiff wretch;the day after to-morrow you will be a genius, an uncommonly cleverfellow, one of Plutarch's men. Nathan will hug you and call you hisbest friend. Dauriat has been to see you; you have your three thousandfrancs; you have worked the trick! Now you want Nathan's respect andesteem. Nobody ought to be let in except the publisher. We must notimmolate any one but an enemy. We should not talk like this if it werea question of some outsider, some inconvenient person who had made aname for himself without us and was not wanted; but Nathan is one ofus. Blondet got some one to attack him in the _Mercure_ for the pleasureof replying in the _Debats_. For which reason the first edition went offat once. "

"My friends, upon my word and honor, I cannot write two words inpraise of that book----"

"You will have another hundred francs, " interrupted Merlin. "Nathanwill have brought you in ten louis d'or, to say nothing of an articlethat you might put in Finot's paper; you would get a hundred francsfor writing that, and another hundred francs from Dauriat--total, twenty louis. "

"But what am I to say?"

"Here is your way out of the difficulty, " said Blondet, after somethought. "Say that the envy that fastens on all good work, like waspson ripe fruit, has attempted to set its fangs in this production. Thecaptious critic, trying his best to find fault, has been obliged toinvent theories for that purpose, and has drawn a distinction betweentwo kinds of literature--'the literature of ideas and the literatureof imagery, ' as he calls them. On the heads of that, youngster, saythat to give expression to ideas through imagery is the highest formof art. Try to show that all poetry is summed up in that, and lamentthat there is so little poetry in French; quote foreign criticisms onthe unimaginative precision of our style, and then extol M. De Canalisand Nathan for the services they have done France by infusing a lessprosaic spirit into the language. Knock your previous argument topieces by calling attention to the fact that we have made progresssince the eighteenth century. (Discover the 'progress, ' a beautifulword to mystify the bourgeois public. ) Say that the new methods inliterature concentrate all styles, comedy and tragedy, description, character-drawing and dialogues, in a series of pictures set in thebrilliant frame of a plot which holds the reader's interest. TheNovel, which demands sentiment, style, and imagery, is the greatestcreation of modern days; it is the successor of stage comedy grownobsolete with its restrictions. Facts and ideas are all within theprovince of fiction. The intellect of an incisive moralist, like LaBruyere, the power of treating character as Moliere could treat it, the grand machinery of a Shakespeare, together with the portrayal ofthe most subtle shades of passion (the one treasury left untouched byour predecessors)--for all this the modern novel affords free scope. How far superior is all this to the cut-and-dried logic-chopping, thecold analysis to the eighteenth century!--'The Novel, ' saysententiously, 'is the Epic grown amusing. ' Instance _Corinne_, bringMme. De Stael up to support your argument. The eighteenth centurycalled all things in question; it is the task of the nineteenth toconclude and speak the last word; and the last word of the nineteenthcentury has been for realities--realities which live however and move. Passion, in short, an element unknown in Voltaire's philosophy, hasbeen brought into play. Here a diatribe against Voltaire, and as forRousseau, his characters are polemics and systems masquerading. Julieand Claire are entelechies--informing spirit awaiting flesh and bones. 

"You might slip off on a side issue at this, and say that we owe a newand original literature to the Peace and the Restoration of theBourbons, for you are writing for a Right Centre paper. 

"Scoff at Founders of Systems. And cry with a glow of fine enthusiasm, 'Here are errors and misleading statements in abundance in ourcontemporary's work, and to what end? To depreciate a fine work, todeceive the public, and to arrive at this conclusion--"A book thatsells, does not sell. "' _Proh pudor_! (Mind you put _Proh pudor_! 'tis aharmless expletive that stimulates the reader's interest. ) Foresee theapproaching decadence of criticism, in fact. Moral--'There is but onekind of literature, the literature which aims to please. Nathan hasstarted upon a new way; he understands his epoch and fulfils therequirements of his age--the demand for drama, the natural demand of acentury in which the political stage has become a permanent puppetshow. Have we not seen four dramas in a score of years--theRevolution, the Directory, the Empire, and the Restoration?' Withthat, wallow in dithyramb and eulogy, and the second edition shallvanish like smoke. This is the way to do it. Next Saturday put areview in our magazine, and sign it 'de Rubempre, ' out in full. 

"In that final article say that 'fine work always brings aboutabundant controversy. This week such and such a paper contained suchand such an article on Nathan's book, and such another paper made avigorous reply. ' Then you criticise the critics 'C' and 'L'; pay me apassing compliment on the first article in the _Debats_, and end byaverring that Nathan's work is the great book of the epoch; which isall as if you said nothing at all; they say the same of everythingthat comes out. 

"And so, " continued Blondet, "you will have made four hundred francsin a week, to say nothing of the pleasure of now and again saying whatyou really think. A discerning public will maintain that either C or Lor Rubempre is in the right of it, or mayhap all the three. Mythology, beyond doubt one of the grandest inventions of the human brain, placesTruth at the bottom of a well; and what are we to do without buckets?You will have supplied the public with three for one. There you are, my boy, Go ahead!"

Lucien's head was swimming with bewilderment. Blondet kissed him onboth cheeks. 

"I am going to my shop, " said he. And every man likewise departed tohis shop. For these "_hommes forts_, " a newspaper office was nothing buta shop. 

They were to meet again in the evening at the Wooden Galleries, andLucien would sign his treaty of peace with Dauriat. Florine andLousteau, Lucien and Coralie, Blondet and Finot, were to dine at thePalais-Royal; du Bruel was giving the manager of thePanorama-Dramatique a dinner. 

"They are right, " exclaimed Lucien, when he was alone with Coralie. "Men are made to be tools in the hands of stronger spirits. Fourhundred francs for three articles! Doguereau would scarcely give me asmuch for a book which cost me two years of work. "

"Write criticism, " said Coralie, "have a good time! Look at me, I aman Andalusian girl to-night, to-morrow I may be a gypsy, and a man thenight after. Do as I do, give them grimaces for their money, and letus live happily. "

Lucien, smitten with love of Paradox, set himself to mount and ridethat unruly hybrid product of Pegasus and Balaam's ass; started out ata gallop over the fields of thought while he took a turn in the Bois, and discovered new possibilities in Blondet's outline. 

He dined as happy people dine, and signed away all his rights in the_Marguerites_. It never occurred to him that any trouble might arisefrom that transaction in the future. He took a turn of work at theoffice, wrote off a couple of columns, and came back to the Rue deVendome. Next morning he found the germs of yesterday's ideas hadsprung up and developed in his brain, as ideas develop while theintellect is yet unjaded and the sap is rising; and thoroughly did heenjoy the projection of this new article. He threw himself into itwith enthusiasm. At the summons of the spirit of contradiction, newcharms met beneath his pen. He was witty and satirical, he rose to yetnew views of sentiment, of ideas and imagery in literature. Withsubtle ingenuity, he went back to his own first impressions ofNathan's work, when he read it in the newsroom of the Cour duCommerce; and the ruthless, bloodthirsty critic, the lively mocker, became a poet in the final phrases which rose and fell with majesticrhythm like the swaying censer before the altar. 

"One hundred francs, Coralie!" cried he, holding up eight sheets ofpaper covered with writing while she dressed. 

The mood was upon him; he went on to indite, stroke by stroke, thepromised terrible article on Chatelet and Mme. De Bargeton. Thatmorning he experienced one of the keenest personal pleasures ofjournalism; he knew what it was to forge the epigram, to whet andpolish the cold blade to be sheathed in a victim's heart, to make ofthe hilt a cunning piece of workmanship for the reader to admire. Forthe public admires the handle, the delicate work of the brain, whilethe cruelty is not apparent; how should the public know that the steelof the epigram, tempered in the fire of revenge, has been plungeddeftly, to rankle in the very quick of a victim's vanity, and isreeking from wounds innumerable which it has inflicted? It is ahideous joy, that grim, solitary pleasure, relished without witnesses;it is like a duel with an absent enemy, slain at a distance by aquill; a journalist might really possess the magical power oftalismans in Eastern tales. Epigram is distilled rancor, thequintessence of a hate derived from all the worst passions of man, even as love concentrates all that is best in human nature. The mandoes not exist who cannot be witty to avenge himself; and, by the samerule, there is not one to whom love does not bring delight. Cheap andeasy as this kind of wit may be in France, it is always relished. Lucien's article was destined to raise the previous reputation of thepaper for venomous spite and evil-speaking. His article probed twohearts to the depths; it dealt a grievous wound to Mme. De Bargeton, his Laura of old days, as well as to his rival, the Baron du Chatelet. 

"Well, let us go for a drive in the Bois, " said Coralie, "the horsesare fidgeting. There is no need to kill yourself. "

"We will take the article on Nathan to Hector. Journalism is reallyvery much like Achilles' lance, it salves the wounds that it makes, "said Lucien, correcting a phrase here and there. 

The lovers started forth in splendor to show themselves to the Pariswhich had but lately given Lucien the cold shoulder, and now wasbeginning to talk about him. To have Paris talking of you! and thisafter you have learned how large the great city is, how hard it is tobe anybody there--it was this thought that turned Lucien's head withexultation. 

"Let us go by way of your tailor's, dear boy, and tell him to be quickwith your clothes, or try them on if they are ready. If you are goingto your fine ladies' houses, you shall eclipse that monster of a deMarsay and young Rastignac and any Ajuda-Pinto or Maxime de Traillesor Vandenesse of them all. Remember that your mistress is Coralie! Butyou will not play me any tricks, eh?"

Two days afterwards, on the eve of the supper-party at Coralie'shouse, there was a new play at the Ambigu, and it fell to Lucien towrite the dramatic criticism. Lucien and Coralie walked together afterdinner from the Rue de Vendome to the Panorama-Dramatique, going alongthe Cafe Turc side of the Boulevard du Temple, a lounge muchfrequented at that time. People wondered at his luck, and praisedCoralie's beauty. Chance remarks reached his ears; some said thatCoralie was the finest woman in Paris, others that Lucien was a matchfor her. The romantic youth felt that he was in his atmosphere. Thiswas the life for him. The brotherhood was so far away that it wasalmost out of sight. Only two months ago, how he had looked up tothose lofty great natures; now he asked himself if they were not justa trifle ridiculous with their notions and their Puritanism. Coralie'scareless words had lodged in Lucien's mind, and begun already to bearfruit. He took Coralie to her dressing-room, and strolled about like asultan behind the scenes; the actresses gave him burning glances andflattering speeches. 

"I must go to the Ambigu and attend to business, " said he. 

At the Ambigu the house was full; there was not a seat left for him. Indignant complaints behind the scenes brought no redress; thebox-office keeper, who did not know him as yet, said that they had sentorders for two boxes to his paper, and sent him about his business. 

"I shall speak of the play as I find it, " said Lucien, nettled atthis. 

"What a dunce you are!" said the leading lady, addressing thebox-office keeper, "that is Coralie's adorer. "

The box-office keeper turned round immediately at this. "I will speakto the manager at once, sir, " he said. 

In all these small details Lucien saw the immense power wielded by thepress. His vanity was gratified. The manager appeared to say that theDuc de Rhetore and Tullia the opera-dancer were in the stage-box, andthey had consented to allow Lucien to join them. 

"You have driven two people to distraction, " remarked the young Duke, mentioning the names of the Baron du Chatelet and Mme. De Bargeton. 

"Distraction? What will it be to-morrow?" said Lucien. "So far, myfriends have been mere skirmishers, but I have given them red-hot shotto-night. To-morrow you will know why we are making game of 'Potelet. 'The article is called 'Potelet from 1811 to 1821. ' Chatelet will be abyword, a name for the type of courtiers who deny their benefactor andrally to the Bourbons. When I have done with him, I am going to Mme. De Montcornet's. "

Lucien's talk was sparkling. He was eager that this great personageshould see how gross a mistake Mesdames d'Espard and de Bargeton hadmade when they slighted Lucien de Rubempre. But he showed the tip ofhis ear when he asserted his right to bear the name of Rubempre, theDuc de Rhetore having purposely addressed him as Chardon. 

"You should go over to the Royalists, " said the Duke. "You have provedyourself a man of ability; now show your good sense. The one way ofobtaining a patent of nobility and the right to bear the title of yourmother's family, is by asking for it in return for services to berendered to the Court. The Liberals will never make a count of you. The Restoration will get the better of the press, you see, in the longrun, and the press is the only formidable power. They have borne withit too long as it is; the press is sure to be muzzled. Take advantageof the last moments of liberty to make yourself formidable, and youwill have everything--intellect, nobility, and good looks; nothingwill be out of your reach. So if you are a Liberal, let it be simplyfor the moment, so that you can make a better bargain for yourRoyalism. "

With that the Duke entreated Lucien to accept an invitation to dinner, which the German Minister (of Florine's supper-party) was about tosend. Lucien fell under the charm of the noble peer's arguments; thesalons from which he had been exiled for ever, as he thought, but afew months ago, would shortly open their doors for him! He wasdelighted. He marveled at the power of the press; Intellect and thePress, these then were the real powers in society. Another thoughtshaped itself in his mind--Was Etienne Lousteau sorry that he hadopened the gate of the temple to a newcomer? Even now he (Lucien) felton his own account that it was strongly advisable to put difficultiesin the way of eager and ambitious recruits from the provinces. If apoet should come to him as he had flung himself into Etienne's arms, he dared not think of the reception that he would give him. 

The youthful Duke meanwhile saw that Lucien was deep in thought, andmade a pretty good guess at the matter of his meditations. He himselfhad opened out wide horizons of public life before an ambitious poet, with a vacillating will, it is true, but not without aspirations; andthe journalists had already shown the neophyte, from a pinnacle of thetemple, all the kingdoms of the world of letters and its riches. 

Lucien himself had no suspicion of a little plot that was being woven, nor did he imagine that M. De Rhetore had a hand in it. M. De Rhetorehad spoken of Lucien's cleverness, and Mme. D'Espard's set had takenalarm. Mme. De Bargeton had commissioned the Duke to sound Lucien, andwith that object in view, the noble youth had come to theAmbigu-Comique. 

Do not believe in stories of elaborate treachery. Neither the greatworld nor the world of journalists laid any deep schemes; definiteplans are not made by either; their Machiavelism lives from hand tomouth, so to speak, and consists, for the most part, in being alwayson the spot, always on the alert to turn everything to account, alwayson the watch for the moment when a man's ruling passion shall deliverhim into the hands of his enemies. The young Duke had seen throughLucien at Florine's supper-party; he had just touched his vainsusceptibilities; and now he was trying his first efforts in diplomacyupon the living subject. 

Lucien hurried to the Rue Saint-Fiacre after the play to write hisarticle. It was a piece of savage and bitter criticism, written inpure wantonness; he was amusing himself by trying his power. Themelodrama, as a matter of fact, was a better piece than the _Alcalde_;but Lucien wished to see whether he could damn a good play and sendeverybody to see a bad one, as his associates had said. 

He unfolded the sheet at breakfast next morning, telling Coralie as hedid so that he had cut up the Ambigu-Comique; and not a littleastonished was he to find below his paper on Mme. De Bargeton andChatelet a notice of the Ambigu, so mellowed and softened in thecourse of the night, that although the witty analysis was stillpreserved, the judgment was favorable. The article was more likely tofill the house than to empty it. No words can describe his wrath. Hedetermined to have a word or two with Lousteau. He had already begunto think himself an indespensable man, and he vowed that he would notsubmit to be tyrannized over and treated like a fool. To establish hispower beyond cavil, he wrote the article for Dauriat's review, summingup and weighing all the various opinions concerning Nathan's book; andwhile he was in the humor, he hit off another of his short sketchesfor Lousteau's newspaper. Inexperienced journalists, in the firsteffervescence of youth, make a labor of love of ephemeral work, andlavish their best thought unthriftily thereon. 

The manager of the Panorama-Dramatique gave a first performance of avaudeville that night, so that Florine and Coralie might be free forthe evening. There were to be cards before supper. Lousteau came forthe short notice of the vaudeville; it had been written beforehandafter the general rehearsal, for Etienne wished to have the paper offhis mind. Lucien read over one of the charming sketches of Parisianwhimsicalities which made the fortune of the paper, and Lousteaukissed him on both eyelids, and called him the providence ofjournalism. 

"Then why do you amuse yourself by turning my article inside out?"asked Lucien. He had written his brilliant sketch simply and solely togive emphasis to his grievance. 

"_I_?" exclaimed Lousteau. 

"Well, who else can have altered my article?"

"You do not know all the ins and outs yet, dear fellow. The Ambigupays for thirty copies, and only takes nine for the manager and boxoffice-keeper and their mistresses, and for the three lessees of thetheatre. Every one of the Boulevard theatres pays eight hundred francsin this way to the paper; and there is quite as much again in boxesand orders for Finot, to say nothing of the contributions of thecompany. And if the minor theatres do this, you may imagine what thebig ones do! Now you understand? We are bound to show a good deal ofindulgence. "

"I understand this, that I am not at liberty to write as I think----"

"Eh! what does that matter, so long as you turn an honest penny?"cried Lousteau. "Besides, my boy, what grudge had you against thetheatre? You must have had some reason for it, or you would not havecut up the play as you did. If you slash for the sake of slashing, thepaper will get into trouble, and when there is good reason for hittinghard it will not tell. Did the manager leave you out in the cold?"

"He had not kept a place for me. "

"Good, " said Lousteau. "I shall let him see your article, and tell himthat I softened it down; you will find it serves you better than if ithad appeared in print. Go and ask him for tickets to-morrow, and hewill sign forty blank orders every month. I know a man who can get ridof them for you; I will introduce you to him, and he will buy them allup at half-price. There is a trade done in theatre tickets, just asBarbet trades in reviewers' copies. This is another Barbet, the leaderof the _claque_. He lives near by; come and see him, there is timeenough. "

"But, my dear fellow, it is a scandalous thing that Finot should levyblackmail in matters intellectual. Sooner or later----"

"Really!" cried Lousteau, "where do you come from? For what do youtake Finot? Beneath his pretence of good-nature, his ignorance andstupidity, and those Turcaret's airs of his, there is all the cunningof his father the hatter. Did you notice an old soldier of the Empirein the den at the office? That is Finot's uncle. The uncle is not onlyone of the right sort, he has the luck to be taken for a fool; and hetakes all that kind of business upon his shoulders. An ambitious manin Paris is well off indeed if he has a willing scapegoat at hand. Inpublic life, as in journalism, there are hosts of emergencies in whichthe chiefs cannot afford to appear. If Finot should enter on apolitical career, his uncle would be his secretary, and receive allthe contributions levied in his department on big affairs. Anybodywould take Giroudeau for a fool at first sight, but he has just enoughshrewdness to be an inscrutable old file. He is on picket duty; hesees that we are not pestered with hubbub, beginners wanting a job, oradvertisements. No other paper has his equal, I think. "

"He plays his part well, " said Lucien; "I saw him at work. "

Etienne and Lucien reached a handsome house in the Rue duFaubourg-du-Temple. 

"Is M. Braulard in?" Etienne asked of the porter. 

"_Monsieur_?" said Lucien. "Then, is the leader of the _claque_'Monsieur'?"

"My dear boy, Braulard has twenty thousand francs of income. All thedramatic authors of the Boulevards are in his clutches, and have astanding account with him as if he were a banker. Orders andcomplimentary tickets are sold here. Braulard knows where to get ridof such merchandise. Now for a turn at statistics, a useful scienceenough in its way. At the rate of fifty complimentary tickets everyevening for each theatre, you have two hundred and fifty ticketsdaily. Suppose, taking one with another, that they are worth a coupleof francs apiece, Braulard pays a hundred and twenty-five francs dailyfor them, and takes his chance of making cent per cent. In this wayauthors' tickets alone bring him in about four thousand francs everymonth, or forty-eight thousand francs per annum. Allow twenty thousandfrancs for loss, for he cannot always place all his tickets----"

"Why not?"

"Oh! the people who pay at the door go in with the holders ofcomplimentary tickets for unreserved seats, and the theatre reservesthe right of admitting those who pay. There are fine warm evenings tobe reckoned with besides, and poor plays. Braulard makes, perhaps, thirty thousand francs every year in this way, and he has his_claqueurs_ besides, another industry. Florine and Coralie pay tributeto him; if they did not, there would be no applause when they come onor go off. "

Lousteau gave this explanation in a low voice as they went up thestair. 

"Paris is a queer place, " said Lucien; it seemed to him that he sawself-interest squatting in every corner. 

A smart maid-servant opened the door. At the sight of EtienneLousteau, the dealer in orders and tickets rose from a sturdy chairbefore a large cylinder desk, and Lucien beheld the leader of the_claque_, Braulard himself, dressed in a gray molleton jacket, footedtrousers, and red slippers; for all the world like a doctor or asolicitor. He was a typical self-made man, Lucien thought--avulgar-looking face with a pair of exceedingly cunning gray eyes, hands made for hired applause, a complexion over which hard livinghad passed like rain over a roof, grizzled hair, and a somewhat huskyvoice. 

"You have come from Mlle. Florine, no doubt, sir, and this gentlemanfor Mlle. Coralie, " said Braulard; "I know you very well by sight. Don't trouble yourself, sir, " he continued, addressing Lucien; "I ambuying the Gymnase connection, I will look after your lady, and I willgive her notice of any tricks they may try to play on her. "

"That is not an offer to be refused, my dear Braulard, but we havecome about the press orders for the Boulevard theatres--I as editor, and this gentleman as dramatic critic. "

"Oh!--ah, yes! Finot has sold his paper. I heard about it. He isgetting on, is Finot. I have asked him to dine with me at the end ofthe week; if you will do me the honor and pleasure of coming, you maybring your ladies, and there will be a grand jollification. AdeleDupuis is coming, and Ducange, and Frederic du Petit-Mere, and Mlle. Millot, my mistress. We shall have good fun and better liquor. "

"Ducange must be in difficulties. He has lost his lawsuit. "

"I have lent him ten thousand francs; if _Calas_ succeeds, it will repaythe loan, so I have been organizing a success. Ducange is a cleverman; he has brains----"

Lucien fancied that he must be dreaming when he heard a _claqueur_appraising a writer's value. 

"Coralie has improved, " continued Braulard, with the air of acompetent critic. "If she is a good girl, I will take her part, forthey have got up a cabal against her at the Gymnase. This is how Imean to do it. I will have a few well-dressed men in the balconies tosmile and make a little murmur, and the applause will follow. That isa dodge which makes a position for an actress. I have a liking forCoralie, and you ought to be satisfied, for she has feeling. Aha! Ican hiss any one on the stage if I like. "

"But let us settle this business about the tickets, " put in Lousteau. 

"Very well, I will come to this gentleman's lodging for them at thebeginning of the month. He is a friend of yours, and I will treat himas I do you. You have five theatres; you will get thirty tickets--thatwill be something like seventy-five francs a month. Perhaps you willbe wanting an advance?" added Braulard, lifting a cash-box full ofcoin out of his desk. 

"No, no, " said Lousteau; "we will keep that shift against a rainyday. "

"I will work with Coralie, sir, and we will come to an understanding, "said Braulard, addressing Lucien, who was looking about him, notwithout profound astonishment. There was a bookcase in Braulard'sstudy, there were framed engravings and good furniture; and as theypassed through the drawing room, he noticed that the fittings wereneither too luxurious nor yet mean. The dining-room seemed to be thebest ordered room, he remarked on this jokingly. 

"But Braulard is an epicure, " said Lousteau; "his dinners are famousin dramatic literature, and they are what you might expect from hiscash-box. "

"I have good wine, " Braulard replied modestly. --"Ah! here are mylamplighters, " he added, as a sound of hoarse voices and strangefootsteps came up from the staircase. 

Lucien on his way down saw a march past of _claqueurs_ and retailers oftickets. It was an ill smelling squad, attired in caps, seedytrousers, and threadbare overcoats; a flock of gallows-birds withbluish and greenish tints in their faces, neglected beards, and astrange mixture of savagery and subservience in their eyes. A horriblepopulation lives and swarms upon the Paris boulevards; selling watchguards and brass jewelry in the streets by day, applauding under thechandeliers of the theatre at night, and ready to lend themselves toany dirty business in the great city. 

"Behold the Romans!" laughed Lousteau; "behold fame incarnate foractresses and dramatic authors. It is no prettier than our own whenyou come to look at it close. "

"It is difficult to keep illusions on any subject in Paris, " answeredLucien as they turned in at his door. "There is a tax upon everything--everything has its price, and anything can be made to order--evensuccess. "

Thirty guests were assembled that evening in Coralie's rooms, herdining room would not hold more. Lucien had asked Dauriat and themanager of the Panorama-Dramatique, Matifat and Florine, Camusot, Lousteau, Finot, Nathan, Hector Merlin and Mme. Du Val-Noble, FelicienVernou, Blondet, Vignon, Philippe Bridau, Mariette, Giroudeau, Cardotand Florentine, and Bixiou. He had also asked all his friends of theRue des Quatre-Vents. Tullia the dancer, who was not unkind, saidgossip, to du Bruel, had come without her duke. The proprietors of thenewspapers, for whom most of the journalists wrote, were also of theparty. 

At eight o'clock, when the lights of the candles in the chandeliersshone over the furniture, the hangings, and the flowers, the roomswore the festal air that gives to Parisian luxury the appearance of adream; and Lucien felt indefinable stirrings of hope and gratifiedvanity and pleasure at the thought that he was the master of thehouse. But how and by whom the magic wand had been waved he no longersought to remember. Florine and Coralie, dressed with the fancifulextravagance and magnificent artistic effect of the stage, smiled onthe poet like two fairies at the gates of the Palace of Dreams. AndLucien was almost in a dream. 

His life had been changed so suddenly during the last few months; hehad gone so swiftly from the depths of penury to the last extreme ofluxury, that at moments he felt as uncomfortable as a dreaming man whoknows that he is asleep. And yet, he looked round at the fair realityabout him with a confidence to which envious minds might have giventhe name of fatuity. 

Lucien himself had changed. He had grown paler during these days ofcontinual enjoyment; languor had lent a humid look to his eyes; inshort, to use Mme. D'Espard's expression, he looked like a man who isloved. He was the handsomer for it. Consciousness of his powers andhis strength was visible in his face, enlightened as it was by loveand experience. Looking out over the world of letters and of men, itseemed to him that he might go to and fro as lord of it all. Soberreflection never entered his romantic head unless it was driven in bythe pressure of adversity, and just now the present held not a carefor him. The breath of praise swelled the sails of his skiff; all theinstruments of success lay there to his hand; he had an establishment, a mistress whom all Paris envied him, a carriage, and untold wealth inhis inkstand. Heart and soul and brain were alike transformed withinhim; why should he care to be over nice about the means, when thegreat results were visibly there before his eyes. 

As such a style of living will seem, and with good reason, to beanything but secure to economists who have any experience of Paris, itwill not be superfluous to give a glance to the foundation, uncertainas it was, upon which the prosperity of the pair was based. 

Camusot had given Coralie's tradesmen instructions to grant her creditfor three months at least, and this had been done without herknowledge. During those three months, therefore, horses and servants, like everything else, waited as if by enchantment at the bidding oftwo children, eager for enjoyment, and enjoying to their hearts'content. 

Coralie had taken Lucien's hand and given him a glimpse of thetransformation scene in the dining-room, of the splendidly appointedtable, of chandeliers, each fitted with forty wax-lights, of theroyally luxurious dessert, and a menu of Chevet's. Lucien kissed heron the forehead and held her closely to his heart. 

"I shall succeed, child, " he said, "and then I will repay you for suchlove and devotion. "

"Pshaw!" said Coralie. "Are you satisfied?"

"I should be very hard to please if I were not. "

"Very well, then, that smile of yours pays for everything, " she said, and with a serpentine movement she raised her head and laid her lipsagainst his. 

When they went back to the others, Florine, Lousteau, Matifat, andCamusot were setting out the card-tables. Lucien's friends began toarrive, for already these folk began to call themselves "Lucien'sfriends"; and they sat over the cards from nine o'clock till midnight. Lucien was unacquainted with a single game, but Lousteau lost athousand francs, and Lucien could not refuse to lend him the moneywhen he asked for it. 

Michel, Fulgence, and Joseph appeared about ten o'clock; and Lucien, chatting with them in a corner, saw that they looked sober and seriousenough, not to say ill at ease. D'Arthez could not come, he wasfinishing his book; Leon Giraud was busy with the first number of hisreview; so the brotherhood had sent three artists among their number, thinking that they would feel less out of their element in anuproarious supper party than the rest. 

"Well, my dear fellows, " said Lucien, assuming a slightly patronizingtone, "the 'comical fellow' may become a great public character yet, you see. "

"I wish I may be mistaken; I don't ask better, " said Michel. 

"Are you living with Coralie until you can do better?" asked Fulgence. 

"Yes, " said Lucien, trying to look unconscious. "Coralie had anelderly adorer, a merchant, and she showed him the door, poor fellow. I am better off than your brother Philippe, " he added, addressingJoseph Bridau; "he does not know how to manage Mariette. "

"You are a man like another now; in short, you will make your way, "said Fulgence. 

"A man that will always be the same for you, under all circumstances, "returned Lucien. 

Michel and Fulgence exchanged incredulous scornful smiles at this. Lucien saw the absurdity of his remark. 

"Coralie is wonderfully beautiful, " exclaimed Joseph Bridau. "What amagnificent portrait she would make!"

"Beautiful and good, " said Lucien; "she is an angel, upon my word. Andyou shall paint her portrait; she shall sit to you if you like foryour Venetian lady brought by the old woman to the senator. "

"All women who love are angelic, " said Michel Chrestien. 

Just at that moment Raoul Nathan flew upon Lucien, and grasped bothhis hands and shook them in a sudden access of violent friendship. 

"Oh, my good friend, you are something more than a great man, you havea heart, " cried he, "a much rarer thing than genius in these days. Youare a devoted friend. I am yours, in short, through thick and thin; Ishall never forget all that you have done for me this week. "

Lucien's joy had reached the highest point; to be thus caressed by aman of whom everyone was talking! He looked at his three friends ofthe brotherhood with something like a superior air. Nathan'sappearance upon the scene was the result of an overture from Merlin, who sent him a proof of the favorable review to appear in to-morrow'sissue. 

"I only consented to write the attack on condition that I should beallowed to reply to it myself, " Lucien said in Nathan's ear. "I am oneof you. " This incident was opportune; it justified the remark whichamused Fulgence. Lucien was radiant. 

"When d'Arthez's book comes out, " he said, turning to the three, "I amin a position to be useful to him. That thought in itself would induceme to remain a journalist. "

"Can you do as you like?" Michel asked quickly. 

"So far as one can when one is indispensable, " said Lucien modestly. 

It was almost midnight when they sat down to supper, and the fun grewfast and furious. Talk was less restrained in Lucien's house than atMatifat's, for no one suspected that the representatives of thebrotherhood and the newspaper writers held divergent opinions. Youngintellects, depraved by arguing for either side, now came intoconflict with each other, and fearful axioms of the journalisticjurisprudence, then in its infancy, hurtled to and fro. Claude Vignon, upholding the dignity of criticism, inveighed against the tendency ofthe smaller newspapers, saying that the writers of personalitieslowered themselves in the end. Lousteau, Merlin, and Finot took up thecudgels for the system known by the name of _blague_; puffery, gossip, and humbug, said they, was the test of talent, and set the hall-mark, as it were, upon it. "Any man who can stand that test has real power, "said Lousteau. 

"Besides, " cried Merlin, "when a great man receives ovations, thereought to be a chorus in insults to balance, as in a Roman triumph. "

"Oho!" put in Lucien; "then every one held up to ridicule in printwill fancy that he has made a success. "

"Any one would think that the question interested you, " exclaimedFinot. 

"And how about our sonnets, " said Michel Chrestien; "is that the waythey will win us the fame of a second Petrarch?"

"Laura already counts for something in his fame, " said Dauriat, a pun[Laure (l'or)] received with acclamations. 

"_Faciamus experimentum in anima vili_, " retorted Lucien with a smile. 

"And woe unto him whom reviewers shall spare, flinging him crowns athis first appearance, for he shall be shelved like the saints in theirshrines, and no man shall pay him the slightest attention, " saidVernou. 

"People will say, 'Look elsewhere, simpleton; you have had your duealready, ' as Champcenetz said to the Marquis de Genlis, who waslooking too fondly at his wife, " added Blondet. 

"Success is the ruin of a man in France, " said Finot. "We are sojealous of one another that we try to forget, and to make othersforget, the triumphs of yesterday. "

"Contradiction is the life of literature, in fact, " said ClaudeVignon. 

"In art as in nature, there are two principles everywhere at strife, "exclaimed Fulgence; "and victory for either means death. "

"So it is with politics, " added Michel Chrestien. 

"We have a case in point, " said Lousteau. "Dauriat will sell a coupleof thousand copies of Nathan's book in the coming week. And why?Because the book that was cleverly attacked will be ably defended. "

Merlin took up the proof of to-morrow's paper. "How can such anarticle fail to sell an edition?" he asked. 

"Read the article, " said Dauriat. "I am a publisher wherever I am, even at supper. "

Merlin read Lucien's triumphant refutation aloud, and the whole partyapplauded. 

"How could that article have been written unless the attack hadpreceded it?" asked Lousteau. 

Dauriat drew the proof of the third article from his pocket and readit over, Finot listening closely; for it was to appear in the secondnumber of his own review, and as editor he exaggerated his enthusiasm. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, "so and not otherwise would Bossuet have writtenif he had lived in our day. "

"I am sure of it, " said Merlin. "Bossuet would have been a journalistto-day. "

"To Bossuet the Second!" cried Claude Vignon, raising his glass withan ironical bow. 

"To my Christopher Columbus!" returned Lucien, drinking a health toDauriat. 

"Bravo!" cried Nathan. 

"Is it a nickname?" Merlin inquired, looking maliciously from Finot toLucien. 

"If you go on at this pace, you will be quite beyond us, " saidDauriat; "these gentlemen" (indicating Camusot and Matifat) "cannotfollow you as it is. A joke is like a bit of thread; if it is spun toofine, it breaks, as Bonaparte said. "

"Gentlemen, " said Lousteau, "we have been eye-witnesses of a strange, portentous, unheard-of, and truly surprising phenomenon. Admire therapidity with which our friend here has been transformed from aprovincial into a journalist!"

"He is a born journalist, " said Dauriat. 

"Children!" called Finot, rising to his feet, "all of us here presenthave encouraged and protected our amphitryon in his entrance upon acareer in which he has already surpassed our hopes. In two months hehas shown us what he can do in a series of excellent articles known tous all. I propose to baptize him in form as a journalist. "

"A crown of roses! to signalize a double conquest, " cried Bixiou, glancing at Coralie. 

Coralie made a sign to Berenice. That portly handmaid went toCoralie's dressing-room and brought back a box of tumbled artificialflowers. The more incapable members of the party were grotesquelytricked out in these blossoms, and a crown of roses was soon woven. Finot, as high priest, sprinkled a few drops of champagne on Lucien'sgolden curls, pronouncing with delicious gravity the words--"In thename of the Government Stamp, the Caution-money, and the Fine, Ibaptize thee, Journalist. May thy articles sit lightly on thee!"

"And may they be paid for, including white lines!" cried Merlin. 

Just at that moment Lucien caught sight of three melancholy faces. Michel Chrestien, Joseph Bridau, and Fulgence Ridal took up their hatsand went out amid a storm of invective. 

"Queer customers!" said Merlin. 

"Fulgence used to be a good fellow, " added Lousteau, "before theyperverted his morals. "

"Who are 'they'?" asked Claude Vignon. 

"Some very serious young men, " said Blondet, "who meet at aphilosophico-religious symposium in the Rue des Quatre-Vents, andworry themselves about the meaning of human life----"

"Oh! oh!"

"They are trying to find out whether it goes round in a circle, ormakes some progress, " continued Blondet. "They were very hard put toit between the straight line and the curve; the triangle, warranted byScripture, seemed to them to be nonsense, when, lo! there arose amongthem some prophet or other who declared for the spiral. "

"Men might meet to invent more dangerous nonsense than that!"exclaimed Lucien, making a faint attempt to champion the brotherhood. 

"You take theories of that sort for idle words, " said Felicien Vernou;"but a time comes when the arguments take the form of gunshot and theguillotine. "

"They have not come to that yet, " said Bixiou; "they have only come asfar as the designs of Providence in the invention of champagne, thehumanitarian significance of breeches, and the blind deity who keepsthe world going. They pick up fallen great men like Vico, Saint-Simon, and Fourier. I am much afraid that they will turn poor Joseph Bridau'shead among them. "

"Bianchon, my old schoolfellow, gives me the cold shoulder now, " saidLousteau; "it is all their doing----"

"Do they give lectures on orthopedy and intellectual gymnastics?"asked Merlin. 

"Very likely, " answered Finot, "if Bianchon has any hand in theirtheories. "

"Pshaw!" said Lousteau; "he will be a great physician anyhow. "

"Isn't d'Arthez their visible head?" asked Nathan, "a little youngsterthat is going to swallow all of us up. "

"He is a genius!" cried Lucien. 

"Genius, is he! Well, give me a glass of sherry!" said Claude Vignon, smiling. 

Every one, thereupon, began to explain his character for the benefitof his neighbor; and when a clever man feels a pressing need ofexplaining himself, and of unlocking his heart, it is pretty clearthat wine has got the upper hand. An hour later, all the men in thecompany were the best friends in the world, addressing each other asgreat men and bold spirits, who held the future in their hands. Lucien, in his quality of host, was sufficiently clearheaded toapprehend the meaning of the sophistries which impressed him andcompleted his demoralization. 

"The Liberal party, " announced Finot, "is compelled to stir updiscussion somehow. There is no fault to find with the action of theGovernment, and you may imagine what a fix the Opposition is in. Whichof you now cares to write a pamphlet in favor of the system ofprimogeniture, and raise a cry against the secret designs of theCourt? The pamphlet will be paid for handsomely. "

"I will write it, " said Hector Merlin. "It is my own point of view. "

"Your party will complain that you are compromising them, " said Finot. "Felicien, you must undertake it; Dauriat will bring it out, and wewill keep the secret. "

"How much shall I get?"

"Six hundred francs. Sign it 'Le Comte C, three stars. '"

"It's a bargain, " said Felicien Vernou. 

"So you are introducing the _canard_ to the political world, " remarkedLousteau. 

"It is simply the Chabot affair carried into the region of abstractideas, " said Finot. "Fasten intentions on the Government, and then letloose public opinion. "

"How a Government can leave the control of ideas to such a pack ofscamps as we are, is matter for perpetual and profound astonishment tome, " said Claude Vignon. 

"If the Ministry blunders so far as to come down into the arena, wecan give them a drubbing. If they are nettled by it, the thing willrankle in people's minds, and the Government will lose its hold on themasses. The newspaper risks nothing, and the authorities haveeverything to lose. "

"France will be a cipher until newspapers are abolished by law, " saidClaude Vignon. "You are making progress hourly, " he added, addressingFinot. "You are a modern order of Jesuits, lacking the creed, thefixed idea, the discipline, and the union. "

They went back to the card-tables; and before long the light of thecandles grew feeble in the dawn. 

"Lucien, your friends from the Rue des Quatre-Vents looked as dismalas criminals going to be hanged, " said Coralie. 

"They were the judges, not the criminals, " replied the poet. 

"Judges are more amusing than _that_, " said Coralie. 

For a month Lucien's whole time was taken up with supper parties, dinner engagements, breakfasts, and evening parties; he was swept awayby an irresistible current into a vortex of dissipation and easy work. He no longer thought of the future. The power of calculation amid thecomplications of life is the sign of a strong will which poets, weaklings, and men who live a purely intellectual life can nevercounterfeit. Lucien was living from hand to mouth, spending his moneyas fast as he made it, like many another journalist; nor did he giveso much as a thought to those periodically recurrent days of reckoningwhich chequer the life of the bohemian in Paris so sadly. 

In dress and figure he was a rival for the great dandies of the day. Coralie, like all zealots, loved to adorn her idol. She ruined herselfto give her beloved poet the accoutrements which had so stirred hisenvy in the Garden of the Tuileries. Lucien had wonderful canes, and acharming eyeglass; he had diamond studs, and scarf-rings, andsignet-rings, besides an assortment of waistcoats marvelous to behold, and in sufficient number to match every color in a variety of costumes. His transition to the estate of dandy swiftly followed. When he went tothe German Minister's dinner, all the young men regarded him withsuppressed envy; yet de Marsay, Vandenesse, Ajuda-Pinto, Maxime deTrailles, Rastignac, Beaudenord, Manerville, and the Duc deMaufrigneuse gave place to none in the kingdom of fashion. Men offashion are as jealous among themselves as women, and in the same way. Lucien was placed between Mme. De Montcornet and Mme. D'Espard, inwhose honor the dinner was given; both ladies overwhelmed him withflatteries. 

"Why did you turn your back on society when you would have been sowell received?" asked the Marquise. "Every one was prepared to makemuch of you. And I have a quarrel with you too. You owed me a call--Iam still waiting to receive it. I saw you at the Opera the other day, and you would not deign to come to see me nor to take any notice ofme. "

"Your cousin, madame, so unmistakably dismissed me--"

"Oh! you do not know women, " the Marquise d'Espard broke in upon him. "You have wounded the most angelic heart, the noblest nature that Iknow. You do not know all that Louise was trying to do for you, norhow tactfully she laid her plans for you. --Oh! and she would havesucceeded, " the Marquise continued, replying to Lucien's muteincredulity. "Her husband is dead now; died, as he was bound to die, of an indigestion; could you doubt that she would be free sooner orlater? And can you suppose that she would like to be Madame Chardon?It was worth while to take some trouble to gain the title of Comtessede Rubempre. Love, you see, is a great vanity, which requires thelesser vanities to be in harmony with itself--especially in marriage. I might love you to madness--which is to say, sufficiently to marryyou--and yet I should find it very unpleasant to be called MadameChardon. You can see that. And now that you understand thedifficulties of Paris life, you will know how many roundabout ways youmust take to reach your end; very well, then, you must admit thatLouise was aspiring to an all but impossible piece of Court favor; shewas quite unknown, she is not rich, and therefore she could not affordto neglect any means of success. 

"You are clever, " the Marquise d'Espard continued; "but we women, whenwe love, are cleverer than the cleverest man. My cousin tried to makethat absurd Chatelet useful--Oh!" she broke off, "I owe not a littleamusement to you; your articles on Chatelet made me laugh heartily. "

Lucien knew not what to think of all this. Of the treachery and badfaith of journalism he had had some experience; but in spite of hisperspicacity, he scarcely expected to find bad faith or treachery insociety. There were some sharp lessons in store for him. 

"But, madame, " he objected, for her words aroused a lively curiosity, "is not the Heron under your protection?"

"One is obliged to be civil to one's worst enemies in society, "protested she; "one may be bored, but one must look as if the talk wasamusing, and not seldom one seems to sacrifice friends the better toserve them. Are you still a novice? You mean to write, and yet youknow nothing of current deceit? My cousin apparently sacrificed you tothe Heron, but how could she dispense with his influence for you? Ourfriend stands well with the present ministry; and we have made him seethat your attacks will do him service--up to a certain point, for wewant you to make it up again some of these days. Chatelet has receivedcompensations for his troubles; for, as des Lupeaulx said, 'While thenewspapers are making Chatelet ridiculous, they will leave theMinistry in peace. '"

There was a pause; the Marquise left Lucien to his own reflections. 

"M. Blondet led me to hope that I should have the pleasure of seeingyou in my house, " said the Comtesse de Montcornet. "You will meet afew artists and men of letters, and some one else who has the keenestdesire to become acquainted with you--Mlle. Des Touches, the owner oftalents rare among our sex. You will go to her house, no doubt. Mlle. De Touches (or Camille Maupin, if you prefer it) is prodigiously rich, and presides over one of the most remarkable salons in Paris. She hasheard that you are as handsome as you are clever, and is dying to meetyou. "

Lucien could only pour out incoherent thanks and glance enviously atEmile Blondet. There was as great a difference between a great ladylike Mme. De Montcornet and Coralie as between Coralie and a girl outof the streets. The Countess was young and witty and beautiful, withthe very white fairness of women of the north. Her mother was thePrincess Scherbellof, and the Minister before dinner had paid her themost respectful attention. 

By this time the Marquise had made an end of trifling disdainfullywith the wing of a chicken. 

"My poor Louise felt so much affection for you, " she said. "She tookme into her confidence; I knew her dreams of a great career for you. She would have borne a great deal, but what scorn you showed her whenyou sent back her letters! Cruelty we can forgive; those who hurt usmust have still some faith in us; but indifference! Indifference islike polar snows, it extinguishes all life. So, you must see that youhave lost a precious affection through your own fault. Why break withher? Even if she had scorned you, you had your way to make, had younot?--your name to win back? Louise thought of all that. "

"Then why was she silent?"

"_Eh! mon Dieu!_" cried the Marquise, "it was I myself who advised hernot to take you into her confidence. Between ourselves, you know, youseemed so little used to the ways of the world, that I took alarm. Iwas afraid that your inexperience and rash ardor might wreck ourcarefully-made schemes. Can you recollect yourself as you were then?You must admit that if you could see your double to-day, you would saythe same yourself. You are not like the same man. That was ourmistake. But would one man in a thousand combine such intellectualgifts with such wonderful aptitude for taking the tone of society? Idid not think that you would be such an astonishing exception. Youwere transformed so quickly, you acquired the manner of Paris soeasily, that I did not recognize you in the Bois de Boulogne a monthago. "

Lucien heard the great lady with inexpressible pleasure; theflatteries were spoken with such a petulant, childlike, confiding air, and she seemed to take such a deep interest in him, that he thought ofhis first evening at the Panorama-Dramatique, and began to fancy thatsome such miracle was about to take place a second time. Everythinghad smiled upon him since that happy evening; his youth, he thought, was the talisman that worked this change. He would prove this greatlady; she should not take him unawares. 

"Then, what were these schemes which have turned to chimeras, madame?"asked he. 

"Louise meant to obtain a royal patent permitting you to bear the nameand title of Rubempre. She wished to put Chardon out of sight. Youropinions have put that out of the question now, but _then_ it would nothave been so hard to manage, and a title would mean a fortune for you. 

"You will look on these things as trifles and visionary ideas, " shecontinued; "but we know something of life, and we know, too, all thesolid advantages of a Count's title when it is borne by a fashionableand extremely charming young man. Announce 'M. Chardon' and 'M. LeComte de Rubempre' before heiresses or English girls with a million totheir fortune, and note the difference of the effect. The Count mightbe in debt, but he would find open hearts; his good looks, broughtinto relief by his title, would be like a diamond in a rich setting;M. Chardon would not be so much as noticed. WE have not invented thesenotions; they are everywhere in the world, even among the burgeois. You are turning your back on fortune at this minute. Do you see thatgood-looking young man? He is the Vicomte Felix de Vandenesse, one ofthe King's private secretaries. The King is fond enough of young menof talent, and Vandenesse came from the provinces with baggage nearlyas light as yours. You are a thousand times cleverer than he; but doyou belong to a great family, have you a name? You know des Lupeaulx;his name is very much like yours, for he was born a Chardin; well, hewould not sell his little farm of Lupeaulx for a million, he will beComte des Lupeaulx some day, and perhaps his grandson may be a duke. --You have made a false start; and if you continue in that way, it willbe all over with you. See how much wiser M. Emile Blondet has been! Heis engaged on a Government newspaper; he is well looked on by those inauthority; he can afford to mix with Liberals, for he holds soundopinions; and soon or later he will succeed. But then he understoodhow to choose his opinions and his protectors. 

"Your charming neighbor" (Mme. D'Espard glanced at Mme. De Montcornet)"was a Troisville; there are two peers of France in the family and twodeputies. She made a wealthy marriage with her name; she sees a greatdeal of society at her house; she has influence, she will move thepolitical world for young M. Blondet. Where will a Coralie take you?In a few years' time you will be hopelessly in debt and weary ofpleasure. You have chosen badly in love, and you are arranging yourlife ill. The woman whom you delight to wound was at the Opera theother night, and this was how she spoke of you. She deplored the wayin which you were throwing away your talent and the prime of youth;she was thinking of you, and not of herself, all the while. "

"Ah! if you were only telling me the truth, madame!" cried Lucien. 

"What object should I have in telling lies?" returned the Marquise, with a glance of cold disdain which annihilated him. He was so dashedby it, that the conversation dropped, for the Marquise was offended, and said no more. 

Lucien was nettled by her silence, but he felt that it was due to hisown clumsiness, and promised himself that he would repair his error. He turned to Mme. De Montcornet and talked to her of Blondet, extolling that young writer for her benefit. The Countess was graciousto him, and asked him (at a sign from Mme. D'Espard) to spend anevening at her house. It was to be a small and quiet gathering towhich only friends were invited--Mme. De Bargeton would be there inspite of her mourning; Lucien would be pleased, she was sure, to meetMme. De Bargeton. 

"Mme. La Marquise says that all the wrong is on my side, " said Lucien;"so surely it rests with her cousin, does it not, to decide whethershe will meet me?"

"Put an end to those ridiculous attacks, which only couple her namewith the name of a man for whom she does not care at all, and you willsoon sign a treaty of peace. You thought that she had used you ill, Iam told, but I myself have seen her in sadness because you hadforsaken her. Is it true that she left the provinces on your account?"

Lucien smiled; he did not venture to make any other reply. 

"Oh! how could you doubt the woman who made such sacrifices for you?Beautiful and intellectual as she is, she deserves besides to be lovedfor her own sake; and Mme. De Bargeton cared less for you than foryour talents. Believe me, women value intellect more than good looks, "added the Countess, stealing a glance at Emile Blondet. 

In the Minister's hotel Lucien could see the differences between thegreat world and that other world beyond the pale in which he hadlately been living. There was no sort of resemblance between the twokinds of splendor, no single point in common. The loftiness anddisposition of the rooms in one of the handsomest houses in theFaubourg Saint-Germain, the ancient gilding, the breadth of decorativestyle, the subdued richness of the accessories, all this was strangeand new to him; but Lucien had learned very quickly to take luxury forgranted, and he showed no surprise. His behavior was as far removedfrom assurance or fatuity on the one hand as from complacency andservility upon the other. His manner was good; he found favor in theeyes of all who were not prepared to be hostile, like the younger men, who resented his sudden intrusion into the great world, and feltjealous of his good looks and his success. 

When they rose from table, he offered his arm to Mme. D'Espard, andwas not refused. Rastignac, watching him, saw that the Marquise wasgracious to Lucien, and came in the character of a fellow-countrymanto remind the poet that they had met once before at Mme. DuVal-Noble's. The young patrician seemed anxious to find an ally inthe great man from his own province, asked Lucien to breakfast withhim some morning, and offered to introduce him to some young men offashion. Lucien was nothing loath. 

"The dear Blondet is coming, " said Rastignac. 

The two were standing near the Marquis de Ronquerolles, the Duc deRhetore, de Marsay, and General Montriveau. The Minister came acrossto join the group. 

"Well, " said he, addressing Lucien with a bluff German heartiness thatconcealed his dangerous subtlety; "well, so you have made your peacewith Mme. D'Espard; she is delighted with you, and we all know, " headded, looking round the group, "how difficult it is to please her. "

"Yes, but she adores intellect, " said Rastignac, "and my illustriousfellow-countryman has wit enough to sell. "

"He will soon find out that he is not doing well for himself, " Blondetput in briskly. "He will come over; he will soon be one of us. "

Those who stood about Lucien rang the changes on this theme; the olderand responsible men laid down the law with one or two profoundremarks; the younger ones made merry at the expense of the Liberals. 

"He simply tossed up head or tails for Right or Left, I am sure, "remarked Blondet, "but now he will choose for himself. "

Lucien burst out laughing; he thought of his talk with Lousteau thatevening in the Luxembourg Gardens. 

"He has taken on a bear-leader, " continued Blondet, "one EtienneLousteau, a newspaper hack who sees a five-franc piece in a column. Lousteau's politics consist in a belief that Napoleon will return, and(and this seems to me to be still more simple) in a confidence in thegratitude and patriotism of their worships the gentlemen of the Left. As a Rubempre, Lucien's sympathies should lean towards thearistocracy; as a journalist, he ought to be for authority, or he willnever be either Rubempre or a secretary-general. "

The Minister now asked Lucien to take a hand at whist; but, to thegreat astonishment of those present, he declared that he did not knowthe game. 

"Come early to me on the day of that breakfast affair, " Rastignacwhispered, "and I will teach you to play. You are a discredit to theroyal city of Angouleme; and, to repeat M. De Talleyrand's saying, youare laying up an unhappy old age for yourself. "

Des Lupeaulx was announced. He remembered Lucien, whom he had met atMme. Du Val-Noble's, and bowed with a semblance of friendliness whichthe poet could not doubt. Des Lupeaulx was in favor, he was a Masterof Requests, and did the Ministry secret services; he was, moreover, cunning and ambitious, slipping himself in everywhere; he waseverybody's friend, for he never knew whom he might need. He sawplainly that this was a young journalist whose social success wouldprobably equal his success in literature; saw, too, that the poet wasambitious, and overwhelmed him with protestations and expressions offriendship and interest, till Lucien felt as if they were old friendsalready, and took his promises and speeches for more than their worth. Des Lupeaulx made a point of knowing a man thoroughly well if hewanted to get rid of him or feared him as a rival. So, to allappearance, Lucien was well received. He knew that much of his successwas owing to the Duc de Rhetore, the Minister, Mme. D'Espard, and Mme. De Montcornet, and went to spend a few moments with the two ladiesbefore taking leave, and talked his very best for them. 

"What a coxcomb!" said des Lupeaulx, turning to the Marquise when hehad gone. 

"He will be rotten before he is ripe, " de Marsay added, smiling. "Youmust have private reasons of your own, madame, for turning his head inthis way. "

When Lucien stepped into the carriage in the courtyard, he foundCoralie waiting for him. She had come to fetch him. The littleattention touched him; he told her the history of his evening; and, tohis no small astonishment, the new notions which even now were runningin his head met with Coralie's approval. She strongly advised him toenlist under the ministerial banner. 

"You have nothing to expect from the Liberals but hard knocks, " shesaid. "They plot and conspire; they murdered the Duc de Berri. Willthey upset the Government? Never! You will never come to anythingthrough them, while you will be Comte de Rubempre if you throw in yourlot with the other side. You might render services to the State, andbe a peer of France, and marry an heiress. Be an Ultra. It is theproper thing besides, " she added, this being the last word with her onall subjects. "I dined with the Val-Noble; she told me that TheodoreGaillard is really going to start his little Royalist _Revue_, so as toreply to your witticisms and the jokes in the _Miroir_. To hear themtalk, M. Villele's party will be in office before the year is out. Tryto turn the change to account before they come to power; and saynothing to Etienne and your friends, for they are quite equal toplaying you some ill turn. "

A week later, Lucien went to Mme. De Montcornet's house, and saw thewoman whom he had so loved, whom later he had stabbed to the heartwith a jest. He felt the most violent agitation at the sight of her, for Louise also had undergone a transformation. She was the Louisethat she would always have been but for her detention in the provinces--she was a great lady. There was a grace and refinement in hermourning dress which told that she was a happy widow; Lucien fanciedthat this coquetry was aimed in some degree at him, and he was right;but, like an ogre, he had tasted flesh, and all that evening hevacillated between Coralie's warm, voluptuous beauty and the dried-up, haughty, cruel Louise. He could not make up his mind to sacrifice theactress to the great lady; and Mme. De Bargeton--all the old feelingreviving in her at the sight of Lucien, Lucien's beauty, Lucien'scleverness--was waiting and expecting that sacrifice all evening; andafter all her insinuating speeches and her fascinations, she had hertrouble for her pains. She left the room with a fixed determination tobe revenged. 

"Well, dear Lucien, " she had said, and in her kindness there was bothgenerosity and Parisian grace; "well, dear Lucien, so you, that wereto have been my pride, took me for your first victim; and I forgaveyou, my dear, for I felt that in such a revenge there was a trace oflove still left. "

With that speech, and the queenly way in which it was uttered, Mme. DeBargeton recovered her position. Lucien, convinced that he was athousand times in the right, felt that he had been put in the wrong. Not one word of the causes of the rupture! not one syllable of theterrible farewell letter! A woman of the world has a wonderful geniusfor diminishing her faults by laughing at them; she can obliteratethem all with a smile or a question of feigned surprise, and she knowsthis. She remembers nothing, she can explain everything; she isamazed, asks questions, comments, amplifies, and quarrels with you, till in the end her sins disappear like stains on the application of alittle soap and water; black as ink you knew them to be; and lo! in amoment, you behold immaculate white innocence, and lucky are you ifyou do not find that you yourself have sinned in some way beyondredemption. 

In a moment old illusions regained their power over Lucien and Louise;they talked like friends, as before; but when the lady, with ahesitating sigh, put the question, "Are you happy?" Lucien was notready with a prompt, decided answer; he was intoxicated with gratifiedvanity; Coralie, who (let us admit it) had made life easy for him, hadturned his head. A melancholy "No" would have made his fortune, but hemust needs begin to explain his position with regard to Coralie. Hesaid that he was loved for his own sake; he said a good many foolishthings that a man will say when he is smitten with a tender passion, and thought the while that he was doing a clever thing. 

Mme. De Bargeton bit her lips. There was no more to be said. Mme. D'Espard brought Mme. De Montcornet to her cousin, and Lucien becamethe hero of the evening, so to speak. He was flattered, petted, andmade much of by the three women; he was entangled with art which nowords can describe. His social success in this fine and brilliantcircle was at least as great as his triumphs in journalism. BeautifulMlle. Des Touches, so well known as "Camille Maupin, " asked him to oneof her Wednesday dinners; his beauty, now so justly famous, seemed tohave made an impression upon her. Lucien exerted himself to show thathis wit equaled his good looks, and Mlle. Des Touches expressed heradmiration with a playful outspokenness and a pretty fervor offriendship which deceives those who do not know life in Paris to itsdepths, nor suspect how continual enjoyment whets the appetite fornovelty. 

"If she should like me as much as I like her, we might abridge theromance, " said Lucien, addressing de Marsay and Rastignac. 

"You both of you write romances too well to care to live them, "returned Rastignac. "Can men and women who write ever fall in lovewith each other? A time is sure to come when they begin to make littlecutting remarks. "

"It would not be a bad dream for you, " laughed de Marsay. "Thecharming young lady is thirty years old, it is true, but she has anincome of eighty thousand livres. She is adorably capricious, and herstyle of beauty wears well. Coralie is a silly little fool, my dearboy, well enough for a start, for a young spark must have a mistress;but unless you make some great conquest in the great world, an actresswill do you harm in the long run. Now, my boy, go and cut out Conti. Here he is, just about to sing with Camille Maupin. Poetry has takenprecedence of music ever since time began. "

But when Lucien heard Mlle. Des Touches' voice blending with Conti's, his hopes fled. 

"Conti sings too well, " he told des Lupeaulx; and he went back to Mme. De Bargeton, who carried him off to Mme. D'Espard in another room. 

"Well, will you not interest yourself in him?" asked Mme. De Bargeton. 

The Marquise spoke with an air half kindly, half insolent. "Let M. Chardon first put himself in such a position that he will notcompromise those who take an interest in him, " she said. "If he wishesto drop his patronymic and to bear his mother's name, he should at anyrate be on the right side, should he not?"

"In less than two months I will arrange everything, " said Lucien. 

"Very well, " returned Mme. D'Espard. "I will speak to my father anduncle; they are in waiting, they will speak to the Chancellor foryou. "

The diplomatist and the two women had very soon discovered Lucien'sweak side. The poet's head was turned by the glory of the aristocracy;every man who entered the rooms bore a sounding name mounted in aglittering title, and he himself was plain Chardon. Unspeakablemortification filled him at the sound of it. Wherever he had beenduring the last few days, that pang had been constantly present withhim. He felt, moreover, a sensation quite as unpleasant when he wentback to his desk after an evening spent in the great world, in whichhe made a tolerable figure, thanks to Coralie's carriage and Coralie'sservants. 

He learned to ride, in order to escort Mme. D'Espard, Mlle. DesTouches, and the Comtesse de Montcornet when they drove in the Bois, aprivilege which he had envied other young men so greatly when he firstcame to Paris. Finot was delighted to give his right-hand man an orderfor the Opera, so Lucien wasted many an evening there, andthenceforward he was among the exquisites of the day. 

The poet asked Rastignac and his new associates to a breakfast, andmade the blunder of giving it in Coralie's rooms in the Rue deVendome; he was too young, too much of a poet, too self-confident, todiscern certain shades and distinctions in conduct; and how should anactress, a good-hearted but uneducated girl, teach him life? Hisguests were anything but charitably disposed towards him; it wasclearly proven to their minds that Lucien the critic and the actresswere in collusion for their mutual interests, and all of the young menwere jealous of an arrangement which all of them stigmatized. The mostpitiless of those who laughed that evening at Lucien's expense wasRastignac himself. Rastignac had made and held his position by verysimilar means; but so careful had he been of appearances, that hecould afford to treat scandal as slander. 

Lucien proved an apt pupil at whist. Play became a passion with him;and so far from disapproving, Coralie encouraged his extravagance withthe peculiar short-sightedness of an all-absorbing love, which seesnothing beyond the moment, and is ready to sacrifice anything, eventhe future, to the present enjoyment. Coralie looked on cards as asafe-guard against rivals. A great love has much in common withchildhood--a child's heedless, careless, spendthrift ways, a child'slaughter and tears. 

In those days there lived and flourished a set of young men, some ofthem rich, some poor, and all of them idle, called "free-livers"(_viveurs_); and, indeed, they lived with incredible insolence--unabashed and unproductive consumers, and yet more intrepiddrinkers. These spendthrifts mingled the roughest practical jokes witha life not so much reckless as suicidal; they drew back from noimpossibility, and gloried in pranks which, nevertheless, wereconfined within certain limits; and as they showed the most originalwit in their escapades, it was impossible not to pardon them. 

No sign of the times more plainly discovered the helotism to which theRestoration had condemned the young manhood of the epoch. The youngermen, being at a loss to know what to do with themselves, werecompelled to find other outlets for their superabundant energy besidesjournalism, or conspiracy, or art, or letters. They squandered theirstrength in the wildest excesses, such sap and luxuriant power wasthere in young France. The hard workers among these gilded youthswanted power and pleasure; the artists wished for money; the idlesought to stimulate their appetites or wished for excitement; one andall of them wanted a place, and one and all were shut out frompolitics and public life. Nearly all the "free-livers" were men ofunusual mental powers; some held out against the enervating life, others were ruined by it. The most celebrated and the cleverest amongthem was Eugene Rastignac, who entered, with de Marsay's help, upon apolitical career, in which he has since distinguished himself. Thepractical jokes, in which the set indulged became so famous, that nota few vaudevilles have been founded upon them. 

Blondet introduced Lucien to this society of prodigals, of which hebecame a brilliant ornament, ranking next to Bixiou, one of the mostmischievous and untiring scoffing wits of his time. All through thatwinter Lucien's life was one long fit of intoxication, with intervalsof easy work. He continued his series of sketches of contemporarylife, and very occasionally made great efforts to write a few pages ofserious criticism, on which he brought his utmost power of thought tobear. But study was the exception, not the rule, and only undertakenat the bidding of necessity; dinners and breakfasts, parties ofpleasure and play, took up most of his time, and Coralie absorbed allthat was left. He would not think of the morrow. He saw besides thathis so-called friends were leading the same life, earning money easilyby writing publishers' prospectuses and articles paid for byspeculators; all of them lived beyond their incomes, none of themthought seriously of the future. 

Lucien had been admitted into the ranks of journalism and ofliterature on terms of equality; he foresaw immense difficulties inthe way if he should try to rise above the rest. Every one was willingto look upon him as an equal; no one would have him for a superior. Unconsciously he gave up the idea of winning fame in literature, forit seemed easier to gain success in politics. 

"Intrigue raises less opposition than talent, " du Chatelet had saidone day (for Lucien and the Baron had made up their quarrel); "a plotbelow the surface rouses no one's attention. Intrigue, moreover, issuperior to talent, for it makes something out of nothing; while, forthe most part, the immense resources of talent only injure a man. "

So Lucien never lost sight of his principal idea; and thoughto-morrow, following close upon the heels of to-day in the midst of anorgy, never found the promised work accomplished, Lucien was assiduousin society. He paid court to Mme. De Bargeton, the Marquise d'Espard, and the Comtesse de Montcornet; he never missed a single party givenby Mlle. Des Touches, appearing in society after a dinner given byauthors or publishers, and leaving the salons for a supper given inconsequence of a bet. The demands of conversation and the excitementof play absorbed all the ideas and energy left by excess. The poet hadlost the lucidity of judgment and coolness of head which must bepreserved if a man is to see all that is going on around him, andnever to lose the exquisite tact which the _parvenu_ needs at everymoment. How should he know how many a time Mme. De Bargeton left himwith wounded susceptibilities, how often she forgave him or added onemore condemnation to the rest?

Chatelet saw that his rival had still a chance left, so he becameLucien's friend. He encouraged the poet in dissipation that wasted hisenergies. Rastignac, jealous of his fellow-countryman, and thinking, besides, that Chatelet would be a surer and more useful ally thanLucien, had taken up the Baron's cause. So, some few days after themeeting of the Petrarch and Laura of Angouleme, Rastignac broughtabout the reconciliation between the poet and the elderly beau at asumptuous supper given at the _Rocher de Cancale_. Lucien never returnedhome till morning, and rose in the middle of the day; Coralie wasalways at his side, he could not forego a single pleasure. Sometimeshe saw his real position, and made good resolutions, but they came tonothing in his idle, easy life; and the mainspring of will grew slack, and only responded to the heaviest pressure of necessity. 

Coralie had been glad that Lucien should amuse himself; she hadencouraged him in this reckless expenditure, because she thought thatthe cravings which she fostered would bind her lover to her. Buttender-hearted and loving as she was, she found courage to adviseLucien not to forget his work, and once or twice was obliged to remindhim that he had earned very little during the month. Their debts weregrowing frightfully fast. The fifteen hundred francs which remainedfrom the purchase-money of the _Marguerites_ had been swallowed up atonce, together with Lucien's first five hundred livres. In threemonths he had only made a thousand francs, yet he felt as though hehad been working tremendously hard. But by this time Lucien hadadopted the "free-livers" pleasant theory of debts. 

Debts are becoming to a young man, but after the age offive-and-twenty they are inexcusable. It should be observed that thereare certain natures in which a really poetic temper is united with aweakened will; and these while absorbed in feeling, that they maytransmute personal experience, sensation, or impression into somepermanent form are essentially deficient in the moral sense whichshould accompany all observation. Poets prefer rather to receive theirown impressions than to enter into the souls of others to study themechanism of their feelings and thoughts. So Lucien neither asked hisassociates what became of those who disappeared from among them, norlooked into the futures of his so-called friends. Some of them wereheirs to property, others had definite expectations; yet others eitherpossessed names that were known in the world, or a most robust beliefin their destiny and a fixed resolution to circumvent the law. Lucien, too, believed in his future on the strength of various profoundaxiomatic sayings of Blondet's: "Everything comes out all right atlast--If a man has nothing, his affairs cannot be embarrassed--We havenothing to lose but the fortune that we seek--Swim with the stream; itwill take you somewhere--A clever man with a footing in society canmake a fortune whenever he pleases. "

That winter, filled as it was with so many pleasures and dissipations, was a necessary interval employed in finding capital for the newRoyalist paper; Theodore Gaillard and Hector Merlin only brought outthe first number of the _Reveil_ in March 1822. The affair had beensettled at Mme. Du Val-Noble's house. Mme. Du val-Noble exercised acertain influence over the great personages, Royalist writers, andbankers who met in her splendid rooms--"fit for a tale out of the_Arabian Nights_, " as the elegant and clever courtesan herself used tosay--to transact business which could not be arranged elsewhere. Theeditorship had been promised to Hector Merlin. Lucien, Merlin'sintimate, was pretty certain to be his right-hand man, and a_feuilleton_ in a Ministerial paper had been promised to him besides. All through the dissipations of that winter Lucien had been secretlymaking ready for this change of front. Child as he was, he fanciedthat he was a deep politician because he concealed the preparation forthe approaching transformation-scene, while he was counting uponMinisterial largesses to extricate himself from embarrassment and tolighten Coralie's secret cares. Coralie said nothing of her distress;she smiled now, as always; but Berenice was bolder, she kept Lucieninformed of their difficulties; and the budding great man, moved, after the fashion of poets, by the tale of disasters, would vow thathe would begin to work in earnest, and then forget his resolution, anddrown his fleeting cares in excess. One day Coralie saw the poeticbrow overcast, and scolded Berenice, and told her lover thateverything would be settled. 

Mme. D'Espard and Mme. De Bargeton were waiting for Lucien'sprofession of his new creed, so they said, before applying throughChatelet for the patent which should permit Lucien to bear the so-muchdesired name. Lucien had proposed to dedicate the _Marguerites_ to Mme. D'Espard, and the Marquise seemed to be not a little flattered by acompliment which authors have been somewhat chary of paying since theybecame a power in the land; but when Lucien went to Dauriat and askedafter his book, that worthy publisher met him with excellent reasonsfor the delay in its appearance. Dauriat had this and that in hand, which took up all his time; a new volume by Canalis was coming out, and he did not want the two books to clash; M. De Lamartine's secondseries of _Meditations_ was in the press, and two important collectionsof poetry ought not to appear together. 

By this time, however, Lucien's needs were so pressing that he hadrecourse to Finot, and received an advance on his work. When, at asupper-party that evening, the poet journalist explained his positionto his friends in the fast set, they drowned his scruples inchampagne, iced with pleasantries. Debts! There was never yet a man ofany power without debts! Debts represented satisfied cravings, clamorous vices. A man only succeeds under the pressure of the ironhand of necessity. Debts forsooth!

"Why, the one pledge of which a great man can be sure, is given him byhis friend the pawnbroker, " cried Blondet. 

"If you want everything, you must owe for everything, " called Bixiou. 

"No, " corrected des Lupeaulx, "if you owe for everything, you have hadeverything. "

The party contrived to convince the novice that his debts were agolden spur to urge on the horses of the chariot of his fortunes. There is always the stock example of Julius Caesar with his debt offorty millions, and Friedrich II. On an allowance of one ducat amonth, and a host of other great men whose failings are held up forthe corruption of youth, while not a word is said of theirwide-reaching ideas, their courage equal to all odds. 

Creditors seized Coralie's horses, carriage, and furniture at last, for an amount of four thousand francs. Lucien went to Lousteau andasked his friend to meet his bill for the thousand francs lent to paygaming debts; but Lousteau showed him certain pieces of stamped paper, which proved that Florine was in much the same case. Lousteau wasgrateful, however, and offered to take the necessary steps for thesale of Lucien's _Archer of Charles IX. _

"How came Florine to be in this plight?" asked Lucien. 

"The Matifat took alarm, " said Lousteau. "We have lost him; but ifFlorine chooses, she can make him pay dear for his treachery. I willtell you all about it. "

Three days after this bootless errand, Lucien and Coralie werebreakfasting in melancholy spirits beside the fire in their prettybedroom. Berenice had cooked a dish of eggs for them over the grate;for the cook had gone, and the coachman and servants had taken leave. They could not sell the furniture, for it had been attached; there wasnot a single object of any value in the house. A goodly collection ofpawntickets, forming a very instructive octavo volume, represented allthe gold, silver, and jewelry. Berenice had kept back a couple ofspoons and forks, that was all. 

Lousteau's newspaper was of service now to Coralie and Lucien, littleas they suspected it; for the tailor, dressmaker, and milliner wereafraid to meddle with a journalist who was quite capable of writingdown their establishments. 

Etienne Lousteau broke in upon their breakfast with a shout of"Hurrah! Long live _The Archer of Charles IX. _! And I have converted ahundred francs worth of books into cash, children. We will go halves. "

He handed fifty francs to Coralie, and sent Berenice out in quest of amore substantial breakfast. 

"Hector Merlin and I went to a booksellers' trade dinner yesterday, and prepared the way for your romance with cunning insinuations. Dauriat is in treaty, but Dauriat is haggling over it; he won't givemore than four thousand francs for two thousand copies, and you wantsix thousand francs. We made you out twice as great as Sir WalterScott! Oh! you have such novels as never were in the inwards of you. It is not a mere book for sale, it is a big business; you are notsimply the writer of one more or less ingenious novel, you are goingto write a whole series. The word 'series' did it! So, mind you, don'tforget that you have a great historical series on hand--_La GrandeMademoiselle_, or _The France of Louis Quatorze_; _Cotillon I. _, or _TheEarly Days of Louis Quinze_; _The Queen and the Cardinal_, or _Paris andthe Fronde_; _The Son of the Concini_, or _Richelieu's Intrigue_. Thesenovels will be announced on the wrapper of the book. We call thismanoeuvre 'giving a success a toss in the coverlet, ' for the titlesare all to appear on the cover, till you will be better known for thebooks that you have not written than for the work you have done. And'In the Press' is a way of gaining credit in advance for work that youwill do. Come, now, let us have a little fun! Here comes thechampagne. You can understand, Lucien, that our men opened eyes as bigas saucers. By the by, I see that you have saucers still left. "

"They are attached, " explained Coralie. 

"I understand, and I resume. Show a publisher one manuscript volumeand he will believe in all the rest. A publisher asks to see yourmanuscript, and gives you to understand that he is going to read it. Why disturb his harmless vanity? They never read a manuscript; theywould not publish so many if they did. Well, Hector and I allowed itto leak out that you might consider an offer of five thousand francsfor three thousand copies, in two editions. Let me have your _Archer_;the day after to-morrow we are to breakfast with the publishers, andwe will get the upper hand of them. "

"Who are they?" asked Lucien. 

"Two partners named Fendant and Cavalier; they are two good fellows, pretty straightforward in business. One of them used to be with Vidaland Porchon, the other is the cleverest hand on the Quai desAugustins. They only started in business last year, and have lost alittle on translations of English novels; so now my gentlemen have amind to exploit the native product. There is a rumor current thatthose dealers in spoiled white paper are trading on other people'scapital; but I don't think it matters very much to you who finds themoney, so long as you are paid. "

Two days later, the pair went to a breakfast in the Rue Serpente, inLucien's old quarter of Paris. Lousteau still kept his room in the Ruede la Harpe; and it was in the same state as before, but this timeLucien felt no surprise; he had been initiated into the life ofjournalism; he knew all its ups and downs. Since that evening of hisintroduction to the Wooden Galleries, he had been paid for many anarticle, and gambled away the money along with the desire to write. Hehad filled columns, not once but many times, in the ingenious waysdescribed by Lousteau on that memorable evening as they went to thePalais Royal. He was dependent upon Barbet and Braulard; he traffickedin books and theatre-tickets; he shrank no longer from any attack, from writing any panegyric; and at this moment he was in some sortrejoicing to make all he could out of Lousteau before turning his backon the Liberals. His intimate knowledge of the party would stand himin good stead in future. And Lousteau, on his side, was privatelyreceiving five hundred francs of purchase-money, under the name ofcommission, from Fendant and Cavalier for introducing the future SirWalter Scott to two enterprising tradesmen in search of a FrenchAuthor of "Waverley. "

The firm of Fendant and Cavalier had started in business without anycapital whatsoever. A great many publishing houses were established atthat time in the same way, and are likely to be established so long aspapermakers and printers will give credit for the time required toplay some seven or eight of the games of chance called "newpublications. " At that time, as at present, the author's copyright waspaid for in bills at six, nine, and twelve months--a method of paymentdetermined by the custom of the trade, for booksellers settle accountsbetween themselves by bills at even longer dates. Papermakers andprinters are paid in the same way, so that in practice thepublisher-bookseller has a dozen or a score of works on sale for atwelvemonth before he pays for them. Even if only two or three of thesehit the public taste, the profitable speculations pay for the bad, andthe publisher pays his way by grafting, as it were, one book uponanother. But if all of them turn out badly; or if, for his misfortune, the publisher-bookseller happens to bring out some really good literaturewhich stays on hand until the right public discovers and appreciatesit; or if it costs too much to discount the paper that he receives, then, resignedly, he files his schedule, and becomes a bankrupt withan untroubled mind. He was prepared all along for something of thekind. So, all the chances being in favor of the publishers, theystaked other people's money, not their own upon the gaming-table ofbusiness speculation. 

This was the case with Fendant and Cavalier. Cavalier brought hisexperience, Fendant his industry; the capital was a joint-stockaffair, and very accurately described by that word, for it consistedin a few thousand francs scraped together with difficulty by themistresses of the pair. Out of this fund they allowed each other afairly handsome salary, and scrupulously spent it all in dinners tojournalists and authors, or at the theatre, where their business wastransacted, as they said. This questionably honest couple were bothsupposed to be clever men of business, but Fendant was more slipperythan Cavalier. Cavalier, true to his name, traveled about, Fendantlooked after business in Paris. A partnership between two publishersis always more or less of a duel, and so it was with Fendant andCavalier. 

They had brought out plenty of romances already, such as the _Tour duNord_, _Le Marchand de Benares_, _La Fontaine du Sepulcre_, and _Tekeli_, translations of the works of Galt, an English novelist who neverattained much popularity in France. The success of translations ofScott had called the attention of the trade to English novels. Therace of publishers, all agog for a second Norman conquest, wereseeking industriously for a second Scott, just as at a rather laterday every one must needs look for asphalt in stony soil, or bitumen inmarshes, and speculate in projected railways. The stupidity of theParis commercial world is conspicuous in these attempts to do the samething twice, for success lies in contraries; and in Paris, of allplaces in the world, success spoils success. So beneath the title of_Strelitz, or Russia a Hundred Years Ago_, Fendant and Cavalier rashlyadded in big letters the words, "In the style of Scott. "

Fendant and Cavalier were in great need of a success. A single goodbook might float their sunken bales, they thought; and there was thealluring prospect besides of articles in the newspapers, the great wayof promoting sales in those days. A book is very seldom bought andsold for its just value, and purchases are determined byconsiderations quite other than the merits of the work. So Fendant andCavalier thought of Lucien as a journalist, and of his book as asalable article, which would help them to tide over their monthlysettlement. 

The partners occupied the ground floor of one of the greatold-fashioned houses in the Rue Serpente; their private office hadbeen contrived at the further end of a suite of large drawing-rooms, now converted into warehouses for books. Lucien and Etienne found thepublishers in their office, the agreement drawn up, and the billsready. Lucien wondered at such prompt action. 

Fendant was short and thin, and by no means reassuring of aspect. Withhis low, narrow forehead, sunken nose, and hard mouth, he looked likea Kalmuck Tartar; a pair of small, wide-awake black eyes, the crabbedirregular outline of his countenance, a voice like a cracked bell--theman's whole appearance, in fact, combined to give the impression thatthis was a consummate rascal. A honeyed tongue compensated for thesedisadvantages, and he gained his ends by talk. Cavalier, a stout, thick-set young fellow, looked more like the driver of a mail coachthan a publisher; he had hair of a sandy color, a fiery redcountenance, and the heavy build and untiring tongue of a commercialtraveler. 

"There is no need to discuss this affair, " said Fendant, addressingLucien and Lousteau. "I have read the work, it is very literary, andso exactly the kind of thing we want, that I have sent it off as it isto the printer. The agreement is drawn on the lines laid down, andbesides, we always make the same stipulations in all cases. The billsfall due in six, nine, and twelve months respectively; you will meetwith no difficulty in discounting them, and we will refund you thediscount. We have reserved the right of giving a new title to thebook. We don't care for _The Archer of Charles IX. _; it doesn't ticklethe reader's curiosity sufficiently; there were several kings of thatname, you see, and there were so many archers in the Middle Ages. Ifyou had only called it the _Soldier of Napoleon_, now! But _The Archerof Charles IX. _!--why, Cavalier would have to give a course of historylessons before he could place a copy anywhere in the provinces. "

"If you but knew the class of people that we have to do with!"exclaimed Cavalier. 

"_Saint Bartholomew_ would suit better, " continued Fendant. 

"_Catherine de' Medici, or France under Charles IX. _, would sound morelike one of Scott's novels, " added Cavalier. 

"We will settle it when the work is printed, " said Fendant. 

"Do as you please, so long as I approve your title, " said Lucien. 

The agreement was read over, signed in duplicate, and each of thecontracting parties took their copy. Lucien put the bills in hispocket with unequaled satisfaction, and the four repaired to Fendant'sabode, where they breakfasted on beefsteaks and oysters, kidneys inchampagne, and Brie cheese; but if the fare was something of thehomeliest, the wines were exquisite; Cavalier had an acquaintance atraveler in the wine trade. Just as they sat down to table the printerappeared, to Lucien's surprise, with the first two proof-sheets. 

"We want to get on with it, " Fendant said; "we are counting on yourbook; we want a success confoundedly badly. "

The breakfast, begun at noon, lasted till five o'clock. 

"Where shall we get cash for these things?" asked Lucien as they cameaway, somewhat heated and flushed with the wine. 

"We might try Barbet, " suggested Etienne, and they turned down to theQuai des Augustins. 

"Coralie is astonished to the highest degree over Florine's loss. Florine only told her about it yesterday; she seemed to lay the blameof it on you, and was so vexed, that she was ready to throw you over. "

"That's true, " said Lousteau. Wine had got the better of prudence, andhe unbosomed himself to Lucien, ending up with: "My friend--for youare my friend, Lucien; you lent me a thousand francs, and you haveonly once asked me for the money--shun play! If I had never touched acard, I should be a happy man. I owe money all round. At this moment Ihave the bailiffs at my heels; indeed, when I go to the Palais Royal, I have dangerous capes to double. "

In the language of the fast set, doubling a cape meant dodging acreditor, or keeping out of his way. Lucien had not heard theexpression before, but he was familiar with the practice by this time. 

"Are your debts so heavy?"

"A mere trifle, " said Lousteau. "A thousand crowns would pull methrough. I have resolved to turn steady and give up play, and I havedone a little 'chantage' to pay my debts. "

"What is 'chantage'?" asked Lucien. 

"It is an English invention recently imported. A 'chanteur' is a manwho can manage to put a paragraph in the papers--never an editor nor aresponsible man, for they are not supposed to know anything about it, and there is always a Giroudeau or a Philippe Bridau to be found. Abravo of this stamp finds up somebody who has his own reasons for notwanting to be talked about. Plenty of people have a few peccadilloes, or some more or less original sin, upon their consciences; there areplenty of fortunes made in ways that would not bear looking into;sometimes a man has kept the letter of the law, and sometimes he hasnot; and in either case, there is a tidbit of tattle for the inquirer, as, for instance, that tale of Fouche's police surrounding the spiesof the Prefect of Police, who, not being in the secret of thefabrication of forged English banknotes, were just about to pounce onthe clandestine printers employed by the Minister, or there is thestory of Prince Galathionne's diamonds, the Maubreuile affair, or thePombreton will case. The 'chanteur' gets possession of somecompromising letter, asks for an interview; and if the man that madethe money does not buy silence, the 'chanteur' draws a picture of thepress ready to take the matter up and unravel his private affairs. Therich man is frightened, he comes down with the money, and the tricksucceeds. 

"You are committed to some risky venture, which might easily bewritten down in a series of articles; a 'chanteur' waits upon you, andoffers to withdraw the articles--for a consideration. 'Chanteurs' aresent to men in office, who will bargain that their acts and not theirprivate characters are to be attacked, or they are heedless of theircharacters, and anxious only to shield the woman they love. One ofyour acquaintance, that charming Master of Requests des Lupeaulx, is akind of agent for affairs of this sort. The rascal has made a positionfor himself in the most marvelous way in the very centre of power; heis the middle-man of the press and the ambassador of the Ministers; heworks upon a man's self-love; he bribes newspapers to pass over a loanin silence, or to make no comment on a contract which was never put upfor public tender, and the jackals of Liberal bankers get a share outof it. That was a bit of 'chantage' that you did with Dauriat; he gaveyou a thousand crowns to let Nathan alone. In the eighteenth century, when journalism was still in its infancy, this kind of blackmail waslevied by pamphleteers in the pay of favorites and great lords. Theoriginal inventor was Pietro Aretino, a great Italian. Kings went infear of him, as stage-players go in fear of a newspaper to-day. "

"What did you do to the Matifat to make the thousand crowns?"

"I attacked Florine in half a dozen papers. Florine complained toMatifat. Matifat went to Braulard to find out what the attacks meant. I did my 'chantage' for Finot's benefit, and Finot put Braulard on thewrong scent; Braulard told the man of drugs that _you_ were demolishingFlorine in Coralie's interest. Then Giroudeau went round to Matifatand told him (in confidence) that the whole business could beaccommodated if he (Matifat) would consent to sell his sixth share inFinot's review for ten thousand francs. Finot was to give me athousand crowns if the dodge succeeded. Well, Matifat was only tooglad to get back ten thousand francs out of the thirty thousandinvested in a risky speculation, as he thought, for Florine had beentelling him for several days past that Finot's review was doing badly;and, instead of paying a dividend, something was said of calling upmore capital. So Matifat was just about to close with the offer, whenthe manager of the Panorama-Dramatique comes to him with someaccommodation bills that he wanted to negotiate before filing hisschedule. To induce Matifat to take them of him, he let out a word ofFinot's trick. Matifat, being a shrewd man of business, took the hint, held tight to his sixth, and is laughing in his sleeve at us. Finotand I are howling with despair. We have been so misguided as to attacka man who has no affection for his mistress, a heartless, soullesswretch. Unluckily, too, for us, Matifat's business is not amenable tothe jurisdiction of the press, and he cannot be made to smart for itthrough his interests. A druggist is not like a hatter or a milliner, or a theatre or a work of art; he is above criticism; you can't rundown his opium and dyewoods, nor cocoa beans, paint, and pepper. Florine is at her wits' end; the Panorama closes to-morrow, and whatwill become of her she does not know. "

"Coralie's engagement at the Gymnase begins in a few days, " saidLucien; "she might do something for Florine. "

"Not she!" said Lousteau. "Coralie is not clever, but she is not quitesimple enough to help herself to a rival. We are in a mess with avengeance. And Finot is in such a hurry to buy back his sixth----"

"Why?"

"It is a capital bit of business, my dear fellow. There is a chance ofselling the paper for three hundred thousand francs; Finot would haveone-third, and his partners besides are going to pay him a commission, which he will share with des Lupeaulx. So I propose to do another turnof 'chantage. '"

"'Chantage' seems to mean your money or your life?"

"It is better than that, " said Lousteau; "it is your money or yourcharacter. A short time ago the proprietor of a minor newspaper wasrefused credit. The day before yesterday it was announced in hiscolumns that a gold repeater set with diamonds belonging to a certainnotability had found its way in a curious fashion into the hands of aprivate soldier in the Guards; the story promised to the readers mighthave come from the _Arabian Nights_. The notability lost no time inasking that editor to dine with him; the editor was distinctly againer by the transaction, and contemporary history has lost ananecdote. Whenever the press makes vehement onslaughts upon some onein power, you may be sure that there is some refusal to do a servicebehind it. Blackmailing with regard to private life is the terror ofthe richest Englishman, and a great source of wealth to the press inEngland, which is infinitely more corrupt than ours. We are childrenin comparison! In England they will pay five or six thousand francsfor a compromising letter to sell again. "

"Then how can you lay hold of Matifat?" asked Lucien. 

"My dear boy, that low tradesman wrote the queerest letters toFlorine; the spelling, style, and matter of them is ludicrous to thelast degree. We can strike him in the very midst of his Lares andPenates, where he feels himself safest, without so much as mentioninghis name; and he cannot complain, for he lives in fear and terror ofhis wife. Imagine his wrath when he sees the first number of a littleserial entitled the _Amours of a Druggist_, and is given fair warningthat his love-letters have fallen into the hands of certainjournalists. He talks about the 'little god Cupid, ' he tells Florinethat she enables him to cross the desert of life (which looks as if hetook her for a camel), and spells 'never' with two v's. There isenough in that immensely funny correspondence to bring an influx ofsubscribers for a fortnight. He will shake in his shoes lest ananonymous letter should supply his wife with the key to the riddle. The question is whether Florine will consent to appear to persecuteMatifat. She has some principles, which is to say, some hopes, stillleft. Perhaps she means to keep the letters and make something forherself out of them. She is cunning, as befits my pupil. But as soonas she finds out that a bailiff is no laughing matter, or Finot givesher a suitable present or hopes of an engagement, she will give me theletters, and I will sell them to Finot. Finot will put thecorrespondence in his uncle's hands, and Giroudeau will bring Matifatto terms. "

These confidences sobered Lucien. His first thought was that he hadsome extremely dangerous friends; his second, that it would beimpolitic to break with them; for if Mme. D'Espard, Mme. De Bargeton, and Chatelet should fail to keep their word with him, he might needtheir terrible power yet. By this time Etienne and Lucien had reachedBarbet's miserable bookshop on the Quai. Etienne addressed Barbet:

"We have five thousand francs' worth of bills at six, nine, and twelvemonths, given by Fendant and Cavalier. Are you willing to discountthem for us?"

"I will give you three thousand francs for them, " said Barbet withimperturbable coolness. 

"Three thousand francs!" echoed Lucien. 

"Nobody else will give you as much, " rejoined the bookseller. "Thefirm will go bankrupt before three months are out; but I happen toknow that they have some good books that are hanging on hand; theycannot afford to wait, so I shall buy their stock for cash and paythem with their own bills, and get the books at a reduction of twothousand francs. That's how it is. "

"Do you mind losing a couple of thousand francs, Lucien?" askedLousteau. 

"Yes!" Lucien answered vehemently. He was dismayed by this firstrebuff. 

"You are making a mistake, " said Etienne. 

"You won't find any one that will take their paper, " said Barbet. "Your book is their last stake, sir. The printer will not trust them;they are obliged to leave the copies in pawn with him. If they make ahit now, it will only stave off bankruptcy for another six months, sooner or later they will have to go. They are cleverer at tipplingthan at bookselling. In my own case, their bills mean business; andthat being so, I can afford to give more than a professionaldiscounter who simply looks at the signatures. It is abill-discounter's business to know whether the three names on a billare each good for thirty per cent in case of bankruptcy. And here atthe outset you only offer two signatures, and neither of them worthten per cent. "

The two journalists exchanged glances in surprise. Here was a littlescrub of a bookseller putting the essence of the art and mystery ofbill-discounting in these few words. 

"That will do, Barbet, " said Lousteau. "Can you tell us of abill-broker that will look at us?"

"There is Daddy Chaboisseau, on the Quai Saint-Michel, you know. Hetided Fendant over his last monthly settlement. If you won't listen tomy offer, you might go and see what he says to you; but you would onlycome back to me, and then I shall offer you two thousand francsinstead of three. "

Etienne and Lucien betook themselves to the Quai Saint-Michel, andfound Chaboisseau in a little house with a passage entry. Chaboisseau, a bill-discounter, whose dealings were principally with the booktrade, lived in a second-floor lodging furnished in the most eccentricmanner. A brevet-rank banker and millionaire to boot, he had a tastefor the classical style. The cornice was in the classical style; thebedstead, in the purest classical taste, dated from the time of theEmpire, when such things were in fashion; the purple hangings fellover the wall like the classic draperies in the background of one ofDavid's pictures. Chairs and tables, lamps and sconces, and everyleast detail had evidently been sought with patient care in furniturewarehouses. There was the elegance of antiquity about the classicrevival as well as its fragile and somewhat arid grace. The manhimself, like his manner of life, was in grotesque contrast with theairy mythological look of his rooms; and it may be remarked that themost eccentric characters are found among men who give their wholeenergies to money-making. 

Men of this stamp are, in a certain sense, intellectual libertines. Everything is within their reach, consequently their fancy is jaded, and they will make immense efforts to shake off their indifference. The student of human nature can always discover some hobby, someaccessible weakness and sensitive spot in their heart. Chaboisseaumight have entrenched himself in antiquity as in an impregnable camp. 

"The man will be an antique to match, no doubt, " said Etienne, smiling. 

Chaboisseau, a little old person with powdered hair, wore a greenishcoat and snuff-brown waistcoat; he was tricked out besides in blacksmall-clothes, ribbed stockings, and shoes that creaked as he cameforward to take the bills. After a short scrutiny, he returned them toLucien with a serious countenance. 

"MM Fendant and Cavalier are delightful young fellows; they haveplenty of intelligence; but, I have no money, " he said blandly. 

"My friend here would be willing to meet you in the matter ofdiscount----" Etienne began. 

"I would not take the bills on any consideration, " returned the littlebroker. The words slid down upon Lousteau's suggestion like the bladeof the guillotine on a man's neck. 

The two friends withdrew; but as Chaboisseau went prudently out withthem across the ante-chamber, Lucien noticed a pile of second-handbooks. Chaboisseau had been in the trade, and this was a recentpurchase. Shining conspicuous among them, he noticed a copy of a workby the architect Ducereau, which gives exceedingly accurate plans ofvarious royal palaces and chateaux in France. 

"Could you let me have that book?" he asked. 

"Yes, " said Chaboisseau, transformed into a bookseller. 

"How much?"

"Fifty francs. "

"It is dear, but I want it. And I can only pay you with one of thebills which you refuse to take. "

"You have a bill there for five hundred francs at six months; I willtake that one of you, " said Chaboisseau. 

Apparently at the last statement of accounts, there had been a balanceof five hundred francs in favor of Fendant and Cavalier. 

They went back to the classical department. Chaboisseau made out alittle memorandum, interest so much and commission so much, totaldeduction thirty francs, then he subtracted fifty francs forDucerceau's book; finally, from a cash-box full of coin, he took fourhundred and twenty francs. 

"Look here, though, M. Chaboisseau, the bills are either all of themgood, or all bad alike; why don't you take the rest?"

"This is not discounting; I am paying myself for a sale, " said the oldman. 

Etienne and Lucien were still laughing at Chaboisseau, withoutunderstanding him, when they reached Dauriat's shop, and Etienne askedGabusson to give them the name of a bill-broker. Gabusson thusappealed to gave them a letter of introduction to a broker in theBoulevard Poissonniere, telling them at the same time that this wasthe "oddest and queerest party" (to use his own expression) that he, Gabusson, had come across. The friends took a cab by the hour, andwent to the address. 

"If Samanon won't take your bills, " Gabusson had said, "nobody elsewill look at them. "

A second-hand bookseller on the ground floor, a second-handclothes-dealer on the first story, and a seller of indecent prints onthe second, Samanon carried on a fourth business--he was amoney-lender into the bargain. No character in Hoffmann's romances, nosinister-brooding miser of Scott's, can compare with this freak ofhuman and Parisian nature (always admitting that Samanon was human). In spite of himself, Lucien shuddered at the sight of the dried-uplittle old creature, whose bones seemed to be cutting a leather skin, spotted with all sorts of little green and yellow patches, like aportrait by Titian or Veronese when you look at it closely. One ofSamanon's eyes was fixed and glassy, the other lively and bright; heseemed to keep that dead eye for the bill-discounting part of hisprofession, and the other for the trade in the pornographiccuriosities upstairs. A few stray white hairs escaping from under asmall, sleek, rusty black wig, stood erect above a sallow foreheadwith a suggestion of menace about it; a hollow trench in either cheekdefined the outline of the jaws; while a set of projecting teeth, still white, seemed to stretch the skin of the lips with the effectof an equine yawn. The contrast between the ill-assorted eyes andgrinning mouth gave Samanon a passably ferocious air; and the verybristles on the man's chin looked stiff and sharp as pins. 

Nor was there the slightest sign about him of any desire to redeem asinister appearance by attention to the toilet; his threadbare jacketwas all but dropping to pieces; a cravat, which had once been black, was frayed by contact with a stubble chin, and left on exhibition athroat as wrinkled as a turkey-gobbler's. 

This was the individual whom Etienne and Lucien discovered in hisfilthy counting-house, busily affixing tickets to the backs of aparcel of books from a recent sale. In a glance, the friends exchangedthe innumerable questions raised by the existence of such a creature;then they presented Gabusson's introduction and Fendant and Cavalier'sbills. Samanon was still reading the note when a third comer entered, the wearer of a short jacket, which seemed in the dimly-lighted shopto be cut out of a piece of zinc roofing, so solid was it by reason ofalloy with all kinds of foreign matter. Oddly attired as he was, theman was an artist of no small intellectual power, and ten years laterhe was destined to assist in the inauguration of the great butill-founded Saint-Simonian system. 

"I want my coat, my black trousers, and satin waistcoat, " said thisperson, pressing a numbered ticket on Samanon's attention. Samanontouched the brass button of a bell-pull, and a woman came down fromsome upper region, a Normande apparently, to judge by her rich, freshcomplexion. 

"Let the gentleman have his clothes, " said Samanon, holding out a handto the newcomer. "It's a pleasure to do business with you, sir; butthat youngster whom one of your friends introduced to me took me inmost abominably. "

"Took _him_ in!" chuckled the newcomer, pointing out Samanon to the twojournalists with an extremely comical gesture. The great man droppedthirty sous into the money-lender's yellow, wrinkled hand; like theNeapolitan _lazzaroni_, he was taking his best clothes out of pawn for astate occasion. The coins dropped jingling into the till. 

"What queer business are you up to?" asked Lousteau of the artist, anopium-eater who dwelt among visions of enchanted palaces till heeither could not or would not create. 

"_He_ lends you a good deal more than an ordinary pawnbroker on anythingyou pledge; and, besides, he is so awfully charitable, he allows youto take your clothes out when you must have something to wear. I amgoing to dine with the Kellers and my mistress to-night, " hecontinued; "and to me it is easier to find thirty sous than twohundred francs, so I keep my wardrobe here. It has brought thecharitable usurer a hundred francs in the last six months. Samanon hasdevoured my library already, volume by volume" (_livre a livre_). 

"And sou by sou, " Lousteau said with a laugh. 

"I will let you have fifteen hundred francs, " said Samanon, lookingup. 

Lucien started, as if the bill-broker had thrust a red-hot skewerthrough his heart. Samanon was subjecting the bills and their dates toa close scrutiny. 

"And even then, " he added, "I must see Fendant first. He ought todeposit some books with me. You aren't worth much" (turning toLucien); "you are living with Coralie, and your furniture has beenattached. "

Lousteau, watching Lucien, saw him take up his bills, and dash outinto the street. "He is the devil himself!" exclaimed the poet. Forseveral seconds he stood outside gazing at the shop front. The wholeplace was so pitiful, that a passer-by could not see it withoutsmiling at the sight, and wondering what kind of business a man coulddo among those mean, dirty shelves of ticketed books. 

A very few moments later, the great man, in incognito, came out, verywell dressed, smiled at his friends, and turned to go with them in thedirection of the Passage des Panoramas, where he meant to complete histoilet by the polishing of his boots. 

"If you see Samanon in a bookseller's shop, or calling on apaper-merchant or a printer, you may know that it is all over withthat man, " said the artist. "Samanon is the undertaker come to takethe measurements for a coffin. "

"You won't discount your bills now, Lucien, " said Etienne. 

"If Samanon will not take them, nobody else will; he is the _ultimaratio_, " said the stranger. "He is one of Gigonnet's lambs, a spy forPalma, Werbrust, Gobseck, and the rest of those crocodiles who swim inthe Paris money-market. Every man with a fortune to make, or unmake, is sure to come across one of them sooner or later. "

"If you cannot discount your bills at fifty per cent, " remarkedLousteau, "you must exchange them for hard cash. "

"How?"

"Give them to Coralie; Camusot will cash them for her. --You aredisgusted, " added Lousteau, as Lucien cut him short with a start. "What nonsense! How can you allow such a silly scruple to turn thescale, when your future is in the balance?"

"I shall take this money to Coralie in any case, " began Lucien. 

"Here is more folly!" cried Lousteau. "You will not keep yourcreditors quiet with four hundred francs when you must have fourthousand. Let us keep a little and get drunk on it, if we lose therest at _rouge et noir_. "

"That is sound advice, " said the great man. 

Those words, spoken not four paces from Frascati's, were magnetic intheir effect. The friends dismissed their cab and went up to thegaming-table. 

At the outset they won three thousand francs, then they lost and fellto five hundred; again they won three thousand seven hundred francs, and again they lost all but a five-franc piece. After another turn ofluck they staked two thousand francs on an even number to double thestake at a stroke; an even number had not turned up for five times insuccession, and this was the sixth time. They punted the whole sum, and an odd number turned up once more. 

After two hours of all-absorbing, frenzied excitement, the two dasheddown the staircase with the hundred francs kept back for the dinner. Upon the steps, between two pillars which support the littlesheet-iron veranda to which so many eyes have been upturned in longingor despair, Lousteau stopped and looked into Lucien's flushed, excitedface. 

"Let us just try fifty francs, " he said. 

And up the stairs again they went. An hour later they owned a thousandcrowns. Black had turned up for the fifth consecutive time; theytrusted that their previous luck would not repeat itself, and put thewhole sum on the red--black turned up for the sixth time. They hadlost. It was now six o'clock. 

"Let us just try twenty-five francs, " said Lucien. 

The new venture was soon made--and lost. The twenty-five francs wentin five stakes. Then Lucien, in a frenzy, flung down his lasttwenty-five francs on the number of his age, and won. No words candescribe how his hands trembled as he raked in the coins which thebank paid him one by one. He handed ten louis to Lousteau. 

"Fly!" he cried; "take it to Very's. "

Lousteau took the hint and went to order dinner. Lucien, left alone, laid his thirty louis on the red and won. Emboldened by the innervoice which a gambler always hears, he staked the whole again on thered, and again he won. He felt as if there were a furnace within him. Without heeding the voice, he laid a hundred and twenty louis on theblack and lost. Then to the torturing excitement of suspense succeededthe delicious feeling of relief known to the gambler who has nothingleft to lose, and must perforce leave the palace of fire in which hisdreams melt and vanish. 

He found Lousteau at Very's, and flung himself upon the cookery (tomake use of Lafontaine's expression), and drowned his cares in wine. By nine o'clock his ideas were so confused that he could not imaginewhy the portress in the Rue de Vendome persisted in sending him to theRue de la Lune. 

"Mlle. Coralie has gone, " said the woman. "She has taken lodgingselsewhere. She left her address with me on this scrap of paper. "

Lucien was too far gone to be surprised at anything. He went back tothe cab which had brought him, and was driven to the Rue de la Lune, making puns to himself on the name of the street as he went. 

The news of the failure of the Panorama-Dramatique had come like athunder-clap. Coralie, taking alarm, made haste to sell her furniture(with the consent of her creditors) to little old Cardot, whoinstalled Florentine in the rooms at once. The tradition of the houseremained unbroken. Coralie paid her creditors and satisfied thelandlord, proceeding with her "washing-day, " as she called it, whileBerenice bought the absolutely indispensable necessaries to furnish afourth-floor lodging in the Rue de la Lune, a few doors from theGymnase. Here Coralie was waiting for Lucien's return. She had broughther love unsullied out of the shipwreck and twelve hundred francs. 

Lucien, more than half intoxicated, poured out his woes to Coralie andBerenice. 

"You did quite right, my angel, " said Coralie, with her arms about hisneck. "Berenice can easily negotiate your bills with Braulard. "

The next morning Lucien awoke to an enchanted world of happiness madeabout him by Coralie. She was more loving and tender in those daysthan she had ever been; perhaps she thought that the wealth of love inher heart should make him amends for the poverty of their lodging. Shelooked bewitchingly charming, with the loose hair straying from underthe crushed white silk handkerchief about her head; there was softlaughter in her eyes; her words were as bright as the first rays ofsunrise that shone in through the windows, pouring a flood of goldupon such charming poverty. 

Not that the room was squalid. The walls were covered with a sea-greenpaper, bordered with red; there was one mirror over the chimney-piece, and a second above the chest of drawers. The bare boards were coveredwith a cheap carpet, which Berenice had bought in spite of Coralie'sorders, and paid for out of her own little store. A wardrobe, with aglass door and a chest, held the lovers' clothing, the mahogany chairswere covered with blue cotton stuff, and Berenice had managed to savea clock and a couple of china vases from the catastrophe, as well asfour spoons and forks and half-a-dozen little spoons. The bedroom wasentered from the dining-room, which might have belonged to a clerkwith an income of twelve hundred francs. The kitchen was next thelanding, and Berenice slept above in an attic. The rent was not morethan a hundred crowns. 

The dismal house boasted a sham carriage entrance, the porter's boxbeing contrived behind one of the useless leaves of the gate, andlighted by a peephole through which that personage watched the comingsand goings of seventeen families, for this hive was a "good-payingproperty, " in auctioneer's phrase. 

Lucien, looking round the room, discovered a desk, an easy-chair, paper, pens, and ink. The sight of Berenice in high spirits (she wasbuilding hopes on Coralie's _debut_ at the Gymnase), and of Coralieherself conning her part with a knot of blue ribbon tied about it, drove all cares and anxieties from the sobered poet's mind. 

"So long as nobody in society hears of this sudden comedown, we shallpull through, " he said. "After all, we have four thousand five hundredfrancs before us. I will turn my new position in Royalist journalismto account. To-morrow we shall start the _Reveil_; I am an old hand now, and I will make something out. "

And Coralie, seeing nothing but love in the words, kissed the lipsthat uttered them. By this time Berenice had set the table near thefire and served a modest breakfast of scrambled eggs, a couple ofcutlets, coffee, and cream. Just then there came a knock at the door, and Lucien, to his astonishment, beheld three of his loyal friends ofold days--d'Arthez, Leon Giraud, and Michel Chrestien. He was deeplytouched, and asked them to share the breakfast. 

"No; we have come on more serious business than condolence, " saidd'Arthez; "we know the whole story, we have just come from the Rue deVendome. You know my opinions, Lucien. Under any other circumstances Ishould be glad to hear that you had adopted my political convictions;but situated as you are with regard to the Liberal Press, it isimpossible for you to go over to the Ultras. Your life will besullied, your character blighted for ever. We have come to entreat youin the name of our friendship, weakened though it may be, not to soilyourself in this way. You have been prominent in attacking theRomantics, the Right, and the Government; you cannot now declare forthe Government; the Right, and the Romantics. "

"My reasons for the change are based on lofty grounds; the end willjustify the means, " said Lucien. 

"Perhaps you do not fully comprehend our position on the side of theGovernment, " said Leon Giraud. "The Government, the Court, theBourbons, the Absolutist Party, or to sum up in the generalexpression, the whole system opposed to the constitutional system, maybe divided upon the question of the best means of extinguishing theRevolution, but is unanimous as to the advisability of extinguishingthe newspapers. The _Reveil_, the _Foudre_, and the _Drapeau Blanc_ haveall been founded for the express purpose of replying to the slander, gibes, and railing of the Liberal press. I cannot approve them, for itis precisely this failure to recognize the grandeur of our priesthoodthat has led us to bring out a serious and self-respecting paper;which perhaps, " he added parenthetically, "may exercise a worthyinfluence before very long, and win respect, and carry weight; butthis Royalist artillery is destined for a first attempt at reprisals, the Liberals are to be paid back in their own coin--shaft for shaft, wound for wound. 

"What can come of it Lucien? The majority of newspaper readers inclinefor the Left; and in the press, as in warfare, the victory is with thebig battalions. You will be blackguards, liars, enemies of the people;the other side will be defenders of their country, martyrs, men to beheld in honor, though they may be even more hypocritical and slipperythan their opponents. In these ways the pernicious influence of thepress will be increased, while the most odious form of journalism willreceive sanction. Insult and personalities will become a recognizedprivilege of the press; newspapers have taken this tone in thesubscribers' interests; and when both sides have recourse to the sameweapons, the standard is set and the general tone of journalism takenfor granted. When the evil is developed to its fullest extent, restrictive laws will be followed by prohibitions; there will be areturn of the censorship of the press imposed after the assassinationof the Duc de Berri, and repealed since the opening of the Chambers. And do you know what the nation will conclude from the debate? Thepeople will believe the insinuations of the Liberal press; they willthink that the Bourbons mean to attack the rights of property acquiredby the Revolution, and some fine day they will rise and shake off theBourbons. You are not only soiling your life, Lucien, you are goingover to the losing side. You are too young, too lately a journalist, too little initiated into the secret springs of motive and the tricksof the craft, you have aroused too much jealousy, not to fall a victimto the general hue and cry that will be raised against you in theLiberal newspapers. You will be drawn into the fray by party spiritnow still at fever-heat; though the fever, which spent itself inviolence in 1815 and 1816, now appears in debates in the Chamber andpolemics in the papers. "

"I am not quite a featherhead, my friends, " said Lucien, "though youmay choose to see a poet in me. Whatever may happen, I shall gain onesolid advantage which no Liberal victory can give me. By the time yourvictory is won, I shall have gained my end. "

"We will cut off--your hair, " said Michel Chrestien, with a laugh. 

"I shall have my children by that time, " said Lucien; "and if you cutoff my head, it will not matter. "

The three could make nothing of Lucien. Intercourse with the greatworld had developed in him the pride of caste, the vanities of thearistocrat. The poet thought, and not without reason, that there was afortune in his good looks and intellect, accompanied by the name andtitle of Rubempre. Mme. D'Espard and Mme. De Bargeton held him fast bythis clue, as a child holds a cockchafer by a string. Lucien's flightwas circumscribed. The words, "He is one of us, he is sound, "accidentally overheard but three days ago in Mlle. De Touches' salon, had turned his head. The Duc de Lenoncourt, the Duc de Navarreins, theDuc de Grandlieu, Rastignac, Blondet, the lovely Duchesse deMaufrigneuse, the Comte d'Escrignon, and des Lupeaulx, all the mostinfluential people at Court in fact, had congratulated him on hisconversion, and completed his intoxication. 

"Then there is no more to be said, " d'Arthez rejoined. "You, of allmen, will find it hard to keep clean hands and self-respect. I knowyou, Lucien; you will feel it acutely when you are despised by thevery men to whom you offer yourself. "

The three took leave, and not one of them gave him a friendlyhandshake. Lucien was thoughtful and sad for a few minutes. 

"Oh! never mind those ninnies, " cried Coralie, springing upon his kneeand putting her beautiful arms about his neck. "They take lifeseriously, and life is a joke. Besides, you are going to be CountLucien de Rubempre. I will wheedle the _Chancellerie_ if there is noother way. I know how to come round that rake of a des Lupeaulx, whowill sign your patent. Did I not tell you, Lucien, that at the lastyou should have Coralie's dead body for a stepping stone?"

Next day Lucien allowed his name to appear in the list of contributorsto the _Reveil_. His name was announced in the prospectus with aflourish of trumpets, and the Ministry took care that a hundredthousand copies should be scattered abroad far and wide. There was adinner at Robert's, two doors away from Frascati's, to celebrate theinauguration, and the whole band of Royalist writers for the presswere present. Martainville was there, and Auger and Destains, and ahost of others, still living, who "did Monarchy and religion, " to usethe familiar expression coined for them. Nathan had also enlistedunder the banner, for he was thinking of starting a theatre, and notunreasonably held that it was better to have the licensing authoritiesfor him than against him. 

"We will pay the Liberals out, " cried Merlin. 

"Gentlemen, " said Nathan, "if we are for war, let us have war inearnest; we must not carry it on with pop-guns. Let us fall upon allClassicals and Liberals without distinction of age or sex, and putthem all to the sword with ridicule. There must be no quarter. "

"We must act honorably; there must be no bribing with copies of booksor presents; no taking money of publishers. We must inaugurate aRestoration of Journalism. "

"Good!" said Martainville. "_Justum et tenacem propositi virum_! Let usbe implacable and virulent. I will give out La Fayette for the princeof harlequins that he is!"

"And I will undertake the heroes of the _Constitutionnel_, " addedLucien; "Sergeant Mercier, M. Jouy's Complete Works, and 'theillustrious orators of the Left. '"

A war of extermination was unanimously resolved upon, and by oneo'clock in the morning all shades of opinion were merged and drowned, together with every glimmer of sense, in a flaming bowl of punch. 

"We have had a fine Monarchical and Religious jollification, " remarkedan illustrious reveler in the doorway as he went. 

That comment appeared in the next day's issue of the _Miroir_ throughthe good offices of a publisher among the guests, and became historic. Lucien was supposed to be the traitor who blabbed. His defection gavethe signal for a terrific hubbub in the Liberal camp; Lucien was thebutt of the Opposition newspapers, and ridiculed unmercifully. Thewhole history of his sonnets was given to the public. Dauriat was saidto prefer a first loss of a thousand crowns to the risk of publishingthe verses; Lucien was called "the Poet sans Sonnets;" and onemorning, in that very paper in which he had so brilliant a beginning, he read the following lines, significant enough for him, but barelyintelligible to other readers:

 *** "If M. Dauriat persistently withholds the Sonnets of the future Petrarch from publication, we will act like generous foes. We will open our own columns to his poems, which must be piquant indeed, to judge by the following specimen obligingly communicated by a friend of the author. "

And close upon that ominous preface followed a sonnet entitled "TheThistle" (_le Chardon)_:

 A chance-come seedling, springing up one day Among the flowers in a garden fair, Made boast that splendid colors bright and rare Its claims to lofty lineage should display. 

 So for a while they suffered it to stay; But with such insolence it flourished there, That, out of patience with its braggart's air, They bade it prove its claims without delay. 

 It bloomed forthwith; but ne'er was blundering clown Upon the boards more promptly hooted down; The sister flowers began to jeer and laugh. 

 The owner flung it out. At close of day A solitary jackass came to bray-- A common Thistle's fitting epitaph. 

Lucien read the words through scalding tears. 

Vernou touched elsewhere on Lucien's gambling propensities, and spokeof the forthcoming _Archer of Charles IX. _ as "anti-national" in itstendency, the writer siding with Catholic cut-throats against theirCalvinist victims. 

Another week found the quarrel embittered. Lucien had counted upon hisfriend Etienne; Etienne owed him a thousand francs, and there had beenbesides a private understanding between them; but Etienne Lousteauduring the interval became his sworn foe, and this was the manner ofit. 

For the past three months Nathan had been smitten with Florine'scharms, and much at a loss how to rid himself of Lousteau his rival, who was in fact dependent upon the actress. And now came Nathan'sopportunity, when Florine was frantic with distress over the failureof the Panorama-Dramatique, which left her without an engagement. Hewent as Lucien's colleague to beg Coralie to ask for a part forFlorine in a play of his which was about to be produced at theGymnase. Then Nathan went to Florine and made capital with her out ofthe service done by the promise of a conditional engagement. Ambitionturned Florine's head; she did not hesitate. She had had time to gaugeLousteau pretty thoroughly. Lousteau's courses were weakening hiswill, and here was Nathan with his ambitions in politics andliterature, and energies strong as his cravings. Florine proposed toreappear on the stage with renewed eclat, so she handed over Matifat'scorrespondence to Nathan. Nathan drove a bargain for them withMatifat, and took the sixth share of Finot's review in exchange forthe compromising billets. After this, Florine was installed insumptuously furnished apartments in the Rue Hauteville, where she tookNathan for her protector in the face of the theatrical andjournalistic world. 

Lousteau was terribly overcome. He wept (towards the close of a dinnergiven by his friends to console him in his affliction). In the courseof that banquet it was decided that Nathan had not acted unfairly;several writers present--Finot and Vernou, for instance, --knew ofFlorine's fervid admiration for dramatic literature; but they allagreed that Lucien had behaved very ill when he arranged that businessat the Gymnase; he had indeed broken the most sacred laws offriendship. Party-spirit and zeal to serve his new friends had led theRoyalist poet on to sin beyond forgiveness. 

"Nathan was carried away by passion, " pronounced Bixiou, "while this'distinguished provincial, ' as Blondet calls him, is simply schemingfor his own selfish ends. "

And so it came to pass that deep plots were laid by all parties aliketo rid themselves of this little upstart intruder of a poet who wantedto eat everybody up. Vernou bore Lucien a personal grudge, andundertook to keep a tight hand on him; and Finot declared that Lucienhad betrayed the secret of the combination against Matifat, andthereby swindled him (Finot) out of fifty thousand francs. Nathan, acting on Florine's advice, gained Finot's support by selling him thesixth share for fifteen thousand francs, and Lousteau consequentlylost his commission. His thousand crowns had vanished away; he couldnot forgive Lucien for this treacherous blow (as he supposed it) dealtto his interests. The wounds of vanity refuse to heal if oxide ofsilver gets into them. 

No words, no amount of description, can depict the wrath of an authorin a paroxysm of mortified vanity, nor the energy which he discoverswhen stung by the poisoned darts of sarcasm; but, on the other hand, the man that is roused to fighting-fury by a personal attack usuallysubsides very promptly. The more phlegmatic race, who take thesethings quietly, lay their account with the oblivion which speedilyovertakes the spiteful article. These are the truly courageous men ofletters; and if the weaklings seem at first to be the strong men, theycannot hold out for any length of time. 

During that first fortnight, while the fury was upon him, Lucienpoured a perfect hailstorm of articles into the Royalist papers, inwhich he shared the responsibilities of criticism with Hector Merlin. He was always in the breach, pounding away with all his might in the_Reveil_, backed up by Martainville, the only one among his associateswho stood by him without an afterthought. Martainville was not in thesecret of certain understandings made and ratified amid after-dinnerjokes, or at Dauriat's in the Wooden Galleries, or behind the scenesat the Vaudeville, when journalists of either side met on neutralground. 

When Lucien went to the greenroom of the Vaudeville, he met with nowelcome; the men of his own party held out a hand to shake, the otherscut him; and all the while Hector Merlin and Theodore Gaillardfraternized unblushingly with Finot, Lousteau, and Vernou, and therest of the journalists who were known for "good fellows. "

The greenroom of the Vaudeville in those days was a hotbed of gossip, as well as a neutral ground where men of every shade of opinion couldmeet; so much so that the President of a court of law, after reprovinga learned brother in a certain council chamber for "sweeping thegreenroom with his gown, " met the subject of his strictures, gown togown, in the greenroom of the Vaudeville. Lousteau, in time, shookhands again with Nathan; Finot came thither almost every evening; andLucien, whenever he could spare the time, went to the Vaudeville towatch the enemies, who showed no sign of relenting towards theunfortunate boy. 

In the time of the Restoration party hatred was far more bitter thanin our day. Intensity of feeling is diminished in our high-pressureage. The critic cuts a book to pieces and shakes hands with the authorafterwards, and the victim must keep on good terms with hisslaughterer, or run the gantlet of innumerable jokes at his expense. If he refuses, he is unsociable, eaten up with self-love, he is sulkyand rancorous, he bears malice, he is a bad bed-fellow. To-day let anauthor receive a treacherous stab in the back, let him avoid thesnares set for him with base hypocrisy, and endure the most unhandsometreatment, he must still exchange greetings with his assassin, who, for that matter, claims the esteem and friendship of his victim. Everything can be excused and justified in an age which hastransformed vice into virtue and virtue into vice. Good-fellowship hascome to be the most sacred of our liberties; the representatives ofthe most opposite opinions courteously blunt the edge of their words, and fence with buttoned foils. But in those almost forgotten days thesame theatre could scarcely hold certain Royalist and Liberaljournalists; the most malignant provocation was offered, glances werelike pistol-shots, the least spark produced an explosion of quarrel. Who has not heard his neighbor's half-smothered oath on the entranceof some man in the forefront of the battle on the opposing side? Therewere but two parties--Royalists and Liberals, Classics and Romantics. You found the same hatred masquerading in either form, and no longerwondered at the scaffolds of the Convention. 

Lucien had been a Liberal and a hot Voltairean; now he was a rabidRoyalist and a Romantic. Martainville, the only one among hiscolleagues who really liked him and stood by him loyally, was morehated by the Liberals than any man on the Royalist side, and this factdrew down all the hate of the Liberals on Lucien's head. Martainville's staunch friendship injured Lucien. Political partiesshow scanty gratitude to outpost sentinels, and leave leaders offorlorn hopes to their fate; 'tis a rule of warfare which holdsequally good in matters political, to keep with the main body of thearmy if you mean to succeed. The spite of the small Liberal papersfastened at once on the opportunity of coupling the two names, andflung them into each other's arms. Their friendship, real orimaginary, brought down upon them both a series of articles written bypens dipped in gall. Felicien Vernou was furious with jealousy ofLucien's social success; and believed, like all his old associates, inthe poet's approaching elevation. 

The fiction of Lucien's treason was embellished with every kind ofaggravating circumstance; he was called Judas the Less, Martainvillebeing Judas the Great, for Martainville was supposed (rightly orwrongly) to have given up the Bridge of Pecq to the foreign invaders. Lucien said jestingly to des Lupeaulx that he himself, surely, hadgiven up the Asses' Bridge. 

Lucien's luxurious life, hollow though it was, and founded onexpectations, had estranged his friends. They could not forgive himfor the carriage which he had put down--for them he was still rollingabout in it--nor yet for the splendors of the Rue de Vendome which hehad left. All of them felt instinctively that nothing was beyond thereach of this young and handsome poet, with intellect enough and tospare; they themselves had trained him in corruption; and, therefore, they left no stone unturned to ruin him. 

Some few days before Coralie's first appearance at the Gymnase, Lucienand Hector Merlin went arm-in-arm to the Vaudeville. Merlin wasscolding his friend for giving a helping hand to Nathan in Florine'saffair. 

"You then and there made two mortal enemies of Lousteau and Nathan, "he said. "I gave you good advice, and you took no notice of it. Yougave praise, you did them a good turn--you will be well punished foryour kindness. Florine and Coralie will never live in peace on thesame stage; both will wish to be first. You can only defend Coralie inour papers; and Nathan not only has a pull as a dramatic author, hecan control the dramatic criticism in the Liberal newspapers. He hasbeen a journalist a little longer than you!"

The words responded to Lucien's inward misgivings. Neither Nathan norGaillard was treating him with the frankness which he had a right toexpect, but so new a convert could hardly complain. Gaillard utterlyconfounded Lucien by saying roundly that newcomers must give proofs oftheir sincerity for some time before their party could trust them. There was more jealousy than he had imagined in the inner circles ofRoyalist and Ministerial journalism. The jealousy of curs fighting fora bone is apt to appear in the human species when there is a loaf todivide; there is the same growling and showing of teeth, the samecharacteristics come out. 

In every possible way these writers of articles tried to injure eachother with those in power; they brought reciprocal accusations oflukewarm zeal; they invented the most treacherous ways of getting ridof a rival. There had been none of this internecine warfare among theLiberals; they were too far from power, too hopelessly out of favor;and Lucien, amid the inextricable tangle of ambitions, had neither thecourage to draw sword and cut the knot, or the patience to unravel it. He could not be the Beaumarchais, the Aretino, the Freron of hisepoch; he was not made of such stuff; he thought of nothing but hisone desire, the patent of nobility; for he saw clearly that for himsuch a restoration meant a wealthy marriage, and, the title oncesecured, chance and his good looks would do the rest. This was all hisplan, and Etienne Lousteau, who had confided so much to him, knew hissecret, knew how to deal a deathblow to the poet of Angouleme. Thatvery night, as Lucien and Merlin went to the Vaudeville, Etienne hadlaid a terrible trap, into which an inexperienced boy could not butfall. 

"Here is our handsome Lucien, " said Finot, drawing des Lupeaulx in thedirection of the poet, and shaking hands with feline amiability. "Icannot think of another example of such rapid success, " continuedFinot, looking from des Lupeaulx to Lucien. "There are two sorts ofsuccess in Paris: there is a fortune in solid cash, which any one canamass, and there is the intangible fortune of connections, position, or a footing in certain circles inaccessible for certain persons, however rich they may be. Now my friend here----"

"Our friend, " interposed des Lupeaulx, smiling blandly. 

"Our friend, " repeated Finot, patting Lucien's hand, "has made abrilliant success from this point of view. Truth to tell, Lucien hasmore in him, more gift, more wit than the rest of us that envy him, and he is enchantingly handsome besides; his old friends cannotforgive him for his success--they call it luck. "

"Luck of that sort never comes to fools or incapables, " said desLupeaulx. "Can you call Bonaparte's fortune luck, eh? There were ascore of applicants for the command of the army in Italy, just asthere are a hundred young men at this moment who would like to have anentrance to Mlle. Des Touches' house; people are coupling her namewith yours already in society, my dear boy, " said des Lupeaulx, clapping Lucien on the shoulder. "Ah! you are in high favor. Mme. D'Espard, Mme. De Bargeton, and Mme. De Montcornet are wild about you. You are going to Mme. Firmiani's party to-night, are you not, and tothe Duchesse de Grandlieu's rout to-morrow?"

"Yes, " said Lucien. 

"Allow me to introduce a young banker to you, a M. Du Tillet; youought to be acquainted, he has contrived to make a great fortune in ashort time. "

Lucien and du Tillet bowed, and entered into conversation, and thebanker asked Lucien to dinner. Finot and des Lupeaulx, a well-matchedpair, knew each other well enough to keep upon good terms; they turnedaway to continue their chat on one of the sofas in the greenroom, andleft Lucien with du Tillet, Merlin, and Nathan. 

"By the way, my friend, " said Finot, "tell me how things stand. Isthere really somebody behind Lucien? For he is the _bete noire_ of mystaff; and before allowing them to plot against him, I thought Ishould like to know whether, in your opinion, it would be better tobaffle them and keep well with him. "

The Master of Requests and Finot looked at each other very closely fora moment or two. 

"My dear fellow, " said des Lupeaulx, "how can you imagine that theMarquise d'Espard, or Chatelet, or Mme. De Bargeton--who has procuredthe Baron's nomination to the prefecture and the title of Count, so asto return in triumph to Angouleme--how can you suppose that any ofthem will forgive Lucien for his attacks on them? They dropped himdown in the Royalist ranks to crush him out of existence. At thismoment they are looking round for any excuse for not fulfilling thepromises they made to that boy. Help them to some; you will do thegreatest possible service to the two women, and some day or other theywill remember it. I am in their secrets; I was surprised to find howmuch they hated the little fellow. This Lucien might have rid himselfof his bitterest enemy (Mme. De Bargeton) by desisting from hisattacks on terms which a woman loves to grant--do you take me? He isyoung and handsome, he should have drowned her hate in torrents oflove, he would be Comte de Rubempre by this time; the Cuttlefish-bonewould have obtained some sinecure for him, some post in the RoyalHousehold. Lucien would have made a very pretty reader to LouisXVIII. ; he might have been librarian somewhere or other, Master ofRequests for a joke, Master of Revels, what you please. The young foolhas missed his chance. Perhaps that is his unpardonable sin. Insteadof imposing his conditions, he has accepted them. When Lucien wascaught with the bait of the patent of nobility, the Baron Chateletmade a great step. Coralie has been the ruin of that boy. If he hadnot had the actress for his mistress, he would have turned again tothe Cuttlefish-bone; and he would have had her too. "

"Then we can knock him over?"

"How?" des Lupeaulx asked carelessly. He saw a way of gaining creditwith the Marquise d'Espard for this service. 

"He is under contract to write for Lousteau's paper, and we can thebetter hold him to his agreement because he has not a sou. If wetickle up the Keeper of the Seals with a facetious article, and provethat Lucien wrote it, he will consider that Lucien is unworthy of theKing's favor. We have a plot on hand besides. Coralie will be ruined, and our distinguished provincial will lose his head when his mistressis hissed off the stage and left without an engagement. When once thepatent is suspended, we will laugh at the victim's aristocraticpretensions, and allude to his mother the nurse and his father theapothecary. Lucien's courage is only skindeep, he will collapse; wewill send him back to his provinces. Nathan made Florine sell meMatifat's sixth share of the review, I was able to buy; Dauriat and Iare the only proprietors now; we might come to an understanding, youand I, and the review might be taken over for the benefit of theCourt. I stipulated for the restitution of my sixth before I undertookto protect Nathan and Florine; they let me have it, and I must helpthem; but I wished to know first how Lucien stood----"

"You deserve your name, " said des Lupeaulx. "I like a man of yoursort----"

"Very well. Then can you arrange a definite engagement for Florine?"asked Finot. 

"Yes, but rid us of Lucien, for Rastignac and de Marsay never wish tohear of him again. "

"Sleep in peace, " returned Finot. "Nathan and Merlin will always havearticles ready for Gaillard, who will promise to take them; Lucienwill never get a line into the paper. We will cut off his supplies. There is only Martainville's paper left him in which to defend himselfand Coralie; what can a single paper do against so many?"

"I will let you know the weak points of the Ministry; but get Luciento write that article and hand over the manuscript, " said desLupeaulx, who refrained carefully from informing Finot that Lucien'spromised patent was nothing but a joke. 

When des Lupeaulx had gone, Finot went to Lucien, and taking thegood-natured tone which deceives so many victims, he explained thathe could not possibly afford to lose his contributor, and at the sametime he shrank from taking proceedings which might ruin him with hisfriends of the other side. Finot himself liked a man who was strongenough to change his opinions. They were pretty sure to come acrossone another, he and Lucien, and might be mutually helpful in athousand little ways. Lucien, besides, needed a sure man in theLiberal party to attack the Ultras and men in office who might refuseto help him. 

"Suppose that they play you false, what will you do?" Finot ended. "Suppose that some Minister fancies that he has you fast by the halterof your apostasy, and turns the cold shoulder on you? You will be gladto set on a few dogs to snap at his legs, will you not? Very well. Butyou have made a deadly enemy of Lousteau; he is thirsting for yourblood. You and Felicien are not on speaking terms. I only remain toyou. It is a rule of the craft to keep a good understanding with everyman of real ability. In the world which you are about to enter you cando me services in return for mine with the press. But business first. Let me have purely literary articles; they will not compromise you, and we shall have executed our agreement. "

Lucien saw nothing but good-fellowship and a shrewd eye to business inFinot's offer; Finot and des Lupeaulx had flattered him, and he was ina good humor. He actually thanked Finot!

Ambitious men, like all those who can only make their way by the helpof others and of circumstances, are bound to lay their plans verycarefully and to adhere very closely to the course of conduct on whichthey determine; it is a cruel moment in the lives of such aspirantswhen some unknown power brings the fabric of their fortunes to somesevere test and everything gives way at once; threads are snapped orentangled, and misfortune appears on every side. Let a man lose hishead in the confusion, it is all over with him; but if he can resistthis first revolt of circumstances, if he can stand erect until thetempest passes over, or make a supreme effort and reach the serenesphere about the storm--then he is really strong. To every man, unlesshe is born rich, there comes sooner or later "his fatal week, " as itmust be called. For Napoleon, for instance, that week was the Retreatfrom Moscow. It had begun now for Lucien. 

Social and literary success had come to him too easily; he had hadsuch luck that he was bound to know reverses and to see men andcircumstances turn against him. 

The first blow was the heaviest and the most keenly felt, for ittouched Lucien where he thought himself invulnerable--in his heart andhis love. Coralie might not be clever, but hers was a noble nature, and she possessed the great actress' faculty of suddenly standingaloof from self. This strange phenomenon is subject, until itdegenerates into a habit with long practice, to the caprices ofcharacter, and not seldom to an admirable delicacy of feeling inactresses who are still young. Coralie, to all appearance bold andwanton, as the part required, was in reality girlish and timid, andlove had wrought in her a revulsion of her woman's heart against thecomedian's mask. Art, the supreme art of feigning passion and feeling, had not yet triumphed over nature in her; she shrank before a greataudience from the utterance that belongs to Love alone; and Coraliesuffered besides from another true woman's weakness--she neededsuccess, born stage queen though she was. She could not confront anaudience with which she was out of sympathy; she was nervous when sheappeared on the stage, a cold reception paralyzed her. Each new partgave her the terrible sensations of a first appearance. Applauseproduced a sort of intoxication which gave her encouragement withoutflattering her vanity; at a murmur of dissatisfaction or before asilent house, she flagged; but a great audience following attentively, admiringly, willing to be pleased, electrified Coralie. She felt atonce in communication with the nobler qualities of all thoselisteners; she felt that she possessed the power of stirring theirsouls and carrying them with her. But if this action and reaction ofthe audience upon the actress reveals the nervous organization ofgenius, it shows no less clearly the poor child's sensitiveness anddelicacy. Lucien had discovered the treasures of her nature; hadlearned in the past months that this woman who loved him was still somuch of a girl. And Coralie was unskilled in the wiles of an actress--she could not fight her own battles nor protect herself against themachinations of jealousy behind the scenes. Florine was jealous ofher, and Florine was as dangerous and depraved as Coralie was simpleand generous. Roles must come to find Coralie; she was too proud toimplore authors or to submit to dishonoring conditions; she would notgive herself to the first journalist who persecuted her with hisadvances and threatened her with his pen. Genius is rare enough in theextraordinary art of the stage; but genius is only one condition ofsuccess among many, and is positively hurtful unless it is accompaniedby a genius for intrigue in which Coralie was utterly lacking. 

Lucien knew how much his friend would suffer on her first appearanceat the Gymnase, and was anxious at all costs to obtain a success forher; but all the money remaining from the sale of the furniture andall Lucien's earnings had been sunk in costumes, in the furniture of adressing-room, and the expenses of a first appearance. 

A few days later, Lucien made up his mind to a humiliating step forlove's sake. He took Fendant and Cavalier's bills, and went to the_Golden Cocoon_ in the Rue des Bourdonnais. He would ask Camusot todiscount them. The poet had not fallen so low that he could make thisattempt quite coolly. There had been many a sharp struggle first, andthe way to that decision had been paved with many dreadful thoughts. Nevertheless, he arrived at last in the dark, cheerless little privateoffice that looked out upon a yard, and found Camusot seated gravelythere; this was not Coralie's infatuated adorer, not the easy-natured, indolent, incredulous libertine whom he had known hitherto as Camusot, but a heavy father of a family, a merchant grown old in shrewdexpedients of business and respectable virtues, wearing a magistrate'smask of judicial prudery; this Camusot was the cool, business-likehead of the firm surrounded by clerks, green cardboard boxes, pigeonholes, invoices, and samples, and fortified by the presence of awife and a plainly-dressed daughter. Lucien trembled from head to footas he approached; for the worthy merchant, like the money-lenders, turned cool, indifferent eyes upon him. 

"Here are two or three bills, monsieur, " he said, standing beside themerchant, who did not rise from his desk. "If you will take them ofme, you will oblige me extremely. "

"You have taken something of _me_, monsieur, " said Camusot; "I do notforget it. "

On this, Lucien explained Coralie's predicament. He spoke in a lowvoice, bending to murmur his explanation, so that Camusot could hearthe heavy throbbing of the humiliated poet's heart. It was no part ofCamusot's plans that Coralie should suffer a check. He listened, smiling to himself over the signatures on the bills (for, as a judgeat the Tribunal of Commerce, he knew how the booksellers stood), butin the end he gave Lucien four thousand five hundred francs for them, stipulating that he should add the formula "For value received insilks. "

Lucien went straight to Braulard, and made arrangements for a goodreception. Braulard promised to come to the dress-rehearsal, todetermine on the points where his "Romans" should work their fleshyclappers to bring down the house in applause. Lucien gave the rest ofthe money to Coralie (he did not tell her how he had come by it), andallayed her anxieties and the fears of Berenice, who was sorelytroubled over their daily expenses. 

Martainville came several times to hear Coralie rehearse, and he knewmore of the stage than most men of his time; several Royalist writershad promised favorable articles; Lucien had not a suspicion of theimpending disaster. 

A fatal event occurred on the evening before Coralie's _debut_. D'Arthez's book had appeared; and the editor of Merlin's paper, considering Lucien to be the best qualified man on the staff, gave himthe book to review. He owed his unlucky reputation to those articleson Nathan's work. There were several men in the office at the time, for all the staff had been summoned; Martainville was explaining thatthe party warfare with the Liberals must be waged on certain lines. Nathan, Merlin, all the contributors, in fact, were talking of LeonGiraud's paper, and remarking that its influence was the morepernicious because the language was guarded, cool, moderate. Peoplewere beginning to speak of the circle in the Rue des Quatre-Vents as asecond Convention. It had been decided that the Royalist papers wereto wage a systematic war of extermination against these dangerousopponents, who, indeed, at a later day, were destined to sow thedoctrines that drove the Bourbons into exile; but that was only afterthe most brilliant of Royalist writers had joined them for the sake ofa mean revenge. 

D'Arthez's absolutist opinions were not known; it was taken forgranted that he shared the views of his clique, he fell under the sameanathema, and he was to be the first victim. His book was to behonored with "a slashing article, " to use the consecrated formula. Lucien refused to write the article. Great was the commotion among theleading Royalist writers thus met in conclave. Lucien was told plainlythat a renegade could not do as he pleased; if it did not suit hisviews to take the side of the Monarchy and Religion, he could go backto the other camp. Merlin and Martainville took him aside and beggedhim, as his friends, to remember that he would simply hand Coralieover to the tender mercies of the Liberal papers, for she would findno champions on the Royalist and Ministerial side. Her acting wascertain to provoke a hot battle, and the kind of discussion whichevery actress longs to arouse. 

"You don't understand it in the least, " said Martainville; "if sheplays for three months amid a cross-fire of criticism, she will makethirty thousand francs when she goes on tour in the provinces at theend of the season; and here are you about to sacrifice Coralie andyour own future, and to quarrel with your own bread and butter, allfor a scruple that will always stand in your way, and ought to be gotrid of at once. "

Lucien was forced to choose between d'Arthez and Coralie. His mistresswould be ruined unless he dealt his friend a death-blow in the _Reveil_and the great newspaper. Poor poet! He went home with death in hissoul; and by the fireside he sat and read that finest production ofmodern literature. Tears fell fast over it as the pages turned. For along while he hesitated, but at last he took up the pen and wrote asarcastic article of the kind that he understood so well, taking thebook as children might take some bright bird to strip it of itsplumage and torture it. His sardonic jests were sure to tell. Again heturned to the book, and as he read it over a second time, his betterself awoke. In the dead of night he hurried across Paris, and stoodoutside d'Arthez's house. He looked up at the windows and saw thefaint pure gleam of light in the panes, as he had so often seen it, with a feeling of admiration for the noble steadfastness of that trulygreat nature. For some moments he stood irresolute on the curbstone;he had not courage to go further; but his good angel urged him on. Hetapped at the door and opened, and found d'Arthez sitting reading in afireless room. 

"What has happened?" asked d'Arthez, for news of some dreadful kindwas visible in Lucien's ghastly face. 

"Your book is sublime, d'Arthez, " said Lucien, with tears in his eyes, "and they have ordered me to write an attack upon it. "

"Poor boy! the bread that they give you is hard indeed!" said d'Arthez

"I only ask for one favor, keep my visit a secret and leave me to myhell, to the occupations of the damned. Perhaps it is impossible toattain to success until the heart is seared and callous in every mostsensitive spot. "

"The same as ever!" cried d'Arthez. 

"Do you think me a base poltroon? No, d'Arthez; no, I am a boy halfcrazed with love, " and he told his story. 

"Let us look at the article, " said d'Arthez, touched by all thatLucien said of Coralie. 

Lucien held out the manuscript; d'Arthez read, and could not helpsmiling. 

"Oh, what a fatal waste of intellect!" he began. But at the sight ofLucien overcome with grief in the opposite armchair, he checkedhimself. 

"Will you leave it with me to correct? I will let you have it againto-morrow, " he went on. "Flippancy depreciates a work; serious andconscientious criticism is sometimes praise in itself. I know a way tomake your article more honorable both for yourself and for me. Besides, I know my faults well enough. "

"When you climb a hot, shadowless hillside, you sometimes find fruitto quench your torturing thirst; and I have found it here and now, "said Lucien, as he sprang sobbing to d'Arthez's arms and kissed hisfriend on the forehead. "It seems to me that I am leaving myconscience in your keeping; some day I will come to you and ask for itagain. "

"I look upon a periodical repentance as great hypocrisy, " d'Arthezsaid solemnly; "repentance becomes a sort of indemnity for wrongdoing. Repentance is virginity of the soul, which we must keep for God; a manwho repents twice is a horrible sycophant. I am afraid that you regardrepentance as absolution. "

Lucien went slowly back to the Rue de la Lune, stricken dumb by thosewords. 

Next morning d'Arthez sent back his article, recast throughout, andLucien sent it in to the review; but from that day melancholy preyedupon him, and he could not always disguise his mood. That evening, when the theatre was full, he experienced for the first time theparoxysm of nervous terror caused by a _debut_; terror aggravated inhis case by all the strength of his love. Vanity of every kind wasinvolved. He looked over the rows of faces as a criminal eyes thejudges and the jury on whom his life depends. A murmur would have sethim quivering; any slight incident upon the stage, Coralie's exits andentrances, the slightest modulation of the tones of her voice, wouldperturb him beyond all reason. 

The play in which Coralie made her first appearance at the Gymnase wasa piece of the kind which sometimes falls flat at first, andafterwards has immense success. It fell flat that night. Coralie wasnot applauded when she came on, and the chilly reception reacted uponher. The only applause came from Camusot's box, and various personsposted in the balcony and galleries silenced Camusot with repeatedcries of "Hush!" The galleries even silenced the _claqueurs_ when theyled off with exaggerated salvos. Martainville applauded bravely;Nathan, Merlin, and the treacherous Florine followed his example; butit was clear that the piece was a failure. A crowd gathered inCoralie's dressing-room and consoled her, till she had no courageleft. She went home in despair, less for her own sake than forLucien's. 

"Braulard has betrayed us, " Lucien said. 

Coralie was heartstricken. The next day found her in a high fever, utterly unfit to play, face to face with the thought that she had beencut short in her career. Lucien hid the papers from her, and lookedthem over in the dining-room. The reviewers one and all attributed thefailure of the piece to Coralie; she had overestimated her strength;she might be the delight of a boulevard audience, but she was out ofher element at the Gymnase; she had been inspired by a laudableambition, but she had not taken her powers into account; she hadchosen a part to which she was quite unequal. Lucien read on through apile of penny-a-lining, put together on the same system as his attackupon Nathan. Milo of Crotona, when he found his hands fast in the oakwhich he himself had cleft, was not more furious than Lucien. He grewhaggard with rage. His friends gave Coralie the most treacherousadvice, in the language of kindly counsel and friendly interest. Sheshould play (according to these authorities) all kind of roles, whichthe treacherous writers of these unblushing _feuilletons_ knew to beutterly unsuited to her genius. And these were the Royalist papers, led off by Nathan. As for the Liberal press, all the weapons whichLucien had used were now turned against him. 

Coralie heard a sob, followed by another and another. She sprang outof bed to find Lucien, and saw the papers. Nothing would satisfy herbut she must read them all; and when she had read them, she went backto bed, and lay there in silence. 

Florine was in the plot; she had foreseen the outcome; she had studiedCoralie's part, and was ready to take her place. The management, unwilling to give up the piece, was ready to take Florine in Coralie'sstead. When the manager came, he found poor Coralie sobbing andexhausted on her bed; but when he began to say, in Lucien's presence, that Florine knew the part, and that the play must be given thatevening, Coralie sprang up at once. 

"I will play!" she cried, and sank fainting on the floor. 

So Florine took the part, and made her reputation in it; for the piecesucceeded, the newspapers all sang her praises, and from that timeforth Florine was the great actress whom we all know. Florine'ssuccess exasperated Lucien to the highest degree. 

"A wretched girl, whom you helped to earn her bread! If the Gymnaseprefers to do so, let the management pay you to cancel yourengagement. I shall be the Comte de Rubempre; I will make my fortune, and you shall be my wife. "

"What nonsense!" said Coralie, looking at him with wan eyes. 

"Nonsense!" repeated he. "Very well, wait a few days, and you shalllive in a fine house, you shall have a carriage, and I will write apart for you!"

He took two thousand francs and hurried to Frascati's. For seven hoursthe unhappy victim of the Furies watched his varying luck, andoutwardly seemed cool and self-contained. He experienced both extremesof fortune during that day and part of the night that followed; at onetime he possessed as much as thirty thousand francs, and he came outat last without a sou. In the Rue de la Lune he found Finot waitingfor him with a request for one of his short articles. Lucien so farforgot himself, that he complained. 

"Oh, it is not all rosy, " returned Finot. "You made yourright-about-face in such a way that you were bound to lose the supportof the Liberal press, and the Liberals are far stronger in print thanall the Ministerialist and Royalist papers put together. A man shouldnever leave one camp for another until he has made a comfortable berthfor himself, by way of consolation for the losses that he must expect;and in any case, a prudent politician will see his friends first, andgive them his reasons for going over, and take their opinions. You canstill act together; they sympathize with you, and you agree to givemutual help. Nathan and Merlin did that before they went over. Hawksdon't pike out hawks' eyes. You were as innocent as a lamb; you willbe forced to show your teeth to your new party to make anything out ofthem. You have been necessarily sacrificed to Nathan. I cannot concealfrom you that your article on d'Arthez has roused a terrific hubbub. Marat is a saint compared with you. You will be attacked, and yourbook will be a failure. How far have things gone with your romance?"

"These are the last proof sheets. "

"All the anonymous articles against that young d'Arthez in theMinisterialist and Ultra papers are set down to you. The _Reveil_ ispoking fun at the set in the Rue des Quatre-Vents, and the hits arethe more telling because they are funny. There is a whole seriouspolitical coterie at the back of Leon Giraud's paper; they will comeinto power too, sooner or later. "

"I have not written a line in the _Reveil_ this week past. "

"Very well. Keep my short articles in mind. Write fifty of themstraight off, and I will pay you for them in a lump; but they must beof the same color as the paper. " And Finot, with seeming carelessness, gave Lucien an edifying anecdote of the Keeper of the Seals, a pieceof current gossip, he said, for the subject of one of the papers. 

Eager to retrieve his losses at play, Lucien shook off his dejection, summoned up his energy and youthful force, and wrote thirty articlesof two columns each. These finished, he went to Dauriat's, partlybecause he felt sure of meeting Finot there, and he wished to give thearticles to Finot in person; partly because he wished for anexplanation of the non-appearance of the _Marguerites_. He found thebookseller's shop full of his enemies. All the talk immediately ceasedas he entered. Put under the ban of journalism, his courage rose, andonce more he said to himself, as he had said in the alley at theLuxembourg, "I will triumph. "

Dauriat was neither amiable or inclined to patronize; he was sarcasticin tone, and determined not to bate an inch of his rights. The_Marguerites_ should appear when it suited his purpose; he should waituntil Lucien was in a position to secure the success of the book; itwas his, he had bought it outright. When Lucien asserted that Dauriatwas bound to publish the _Marguerites_ by the very nature of thecontract, and the relative positions of the parties to the agreement, Dauriat flatly contradicted him, said that no publisher could becompelled by law to publish at a loss, and that he himself was thebest judge of the expediency of producing the book. There was, besides, a remedy open to Lucien, as any court of law would admit--thepoet was quite welcome to take his verses to a Royalist publisher uponthe repayment of the thousand crowns. 

Lucien went away. Dauriat's moderate tone had exasperated him evenmore than his previous arrogance at their first interview. So the_Marguerites_ would not appear until Lucien had found a host offormidable supporters, or grown formidable himself! He walked homeslowly, so oppressed and out of heart that he felt ready for suicide. Coralie lay in bed, looking white and ill. 

"She must have a part, or she will die, " said Berenice, as Luciendressed for a great evening party at Mlle. Des Touches' house in theRue du Mont Blanc. Des Lupeaulx and Vignon and Blondet were to bethere, as well as Mme. D'Espard and Mme. De Bargeton. 

The party was given in honor of Conti, the great composer, ownerlikewise of one of the most famous voices off the stage, Cinti, Pasta, Garcia, Levasseur, and two or three celebrated amateurs in society notexcepted. Lucien saw the Marquise, her cousin, and Mme. De Montcornetsitting together, and made one of the party. The unhappy young fellowto all appearances was light-hearted, happy, and content; he jested, he was the Lucien de Rubempre of his days of splendor, he would notseem to need help from any one. He dwelt on his services to theRoyalist party, and cited the hue and cry raised after him by theLiberal press as a proof of his zeal. 

"And you will be well rewarded, my friend, " said Mme. De Bargeton, with a gracious smile. "Go to the _Chancellerie_ the day after to-morrowwith 'the Heron' and des Lupeaulx, and you will find your patentsigned by His Majesty. The Keeper of the Seals will take it to-morrowto the Tuileries, but there is to be a meeting of the Council, and hewill not come back till late. Still, if I hear the result to-morrowevening, I will let you know. Where are you living?"

"I will come to you, " said Lucien, ashamed to confess that he wasliving in the Rue de la Lune. 

"The Duc de Lenoncourt and the Duc de Navarreins have made mention ofyou to the King, " added the Marquise; "they praised your absolute andentire devotion, and said that some distinction ought to avenge yourtreatment in the Liberal press. The name and title of Rubempre, towhich you have a claim through your mother, would become illustriousthrough you, they said. The King gave his lordship instructions thatevening to prepare a patent authorizing the Sieur Lucien Chardon tobear the arms and title of the Comtes de Rubempre, as grandson of thelast Count by the mother's side. 'Let us favor the songsters'(_chardonnerets_) 'of Pindus, ' said his Majesty, after reading yoursonnet on the Lily, which my cousin luckily remembered to give theDuke. --'Especially when the King can work miracles, and change thesong-bird into an eagle, ' M. De Navarreins replied. "

Lucien's expansion of feeling would have softened the heart of anywoman less deeply wounded than Louise d'Espard de Negrepelisse; buther thirst for vengeance was only increased by Lucien's graciousness. Des Lupeaulx was right; Lucien was wanting in tact. It never crossedhis mind that this history of the patent was one of the mystificationsat which Mme. D'Espard was an adept. Emboldened with success and theflattering distinction shown to him by Mlle. Des Touches, he stayedtill two o'clock in the morning for a word in private with hishostess. Lucien had learned in Royalist newspaper offices that Mlle. Des Touches was the author of a play in which _La petite Fay_, themarvel of the moment was about to appear. As the rooms emptied, hedrew Mlle. Des Touches to a sofa in the boudoir, and told the story ofCoralie's misfortune and his own so touchingly, that Mlle. Des Touchespromised to give the heroine's part to his friend. 

That promise put new life into Coralie. But the next day, as theybreakfasted together, Lucien opened Lousteau's newspaper, and foundthat unlucky anecdote of the Keeper of the Seals and his wife. Thestory was full of the blackest malice lurking in the most caustic wit. Louis XVIII. Was brought into the story in a masterly fashion, andheld up to ridicule in such a way that prosecution was impossible. Here is the substance of a fiction for which the Liberal partyattempted to win credence, though they only succeeded in adding onemore to the tale of their ingenious calumnies. 

The King's passion for pink-scented notes and a correspondence full ofmadrigals and sparkling wit was declared to be the last phase of thetender passion; love had reached the Doctrinaire stage; or had passed, in other words, from the concrete to the abstract. The illustriouslady, so cruelly ridiculed under the name of Octavie by Beranger, hadconceived (so it was said) the gravest fears. The correspondence waslanguishing. The more Octavie displayed her wit, the cooler grew theroyal lover. At last Octavie discovered the cause of her decline; herpower was threatened by the novelty and piquancy of a correspondencebetween the august scribe and the wife of his Keeper of the Seals. That excellent woman was believed to be incapable of writing a note;she was simply and solely godmother to the efforts of audaciousambition. Who could be hidden behind her petticoats? Octavie decided, after making observations of her own, that the King was correspondingwith his Minister. 

She laid her plans. With the help of a faithful friend, she arrangedthat a stormy debate should detain the Minister at the Chamber; thenshe contrived to secure a _tete-a-tete_, and to convince outragedMajesty of the fraud. Louis XVIII. Flew into a royal and truly Bourbonpassion, but the tempest broke on Octavie's head. He would not believeher. Octavie offered immediate proof, begging the King to write a notewhich must be answered at once. The unlucky wife of the Keeper of theSeals sent to the Chamber for her husband; but precautions had beentaken, and at that moment the Minister was on his legs addressing theChamber. The lady racked her brains and replied to the note with suchintellect as she could improvise. 

"Your Chancellor will supply the rest, " cried Octavie, laughing at theKing's chagrin. 

There was not a word of truth in the story; but it struck home tothree persons--the Keeper of the Seals, his wife, and the King. It wassaid that des Lupeaulx had invented the tale, but Finot always kepthis counsel. The article was caustic and clever, the Liberal papersand the Orleanists were delighted with it, and Lucien himself laughed, and thought of it merely as a very amusing _canard_. 

He called next day for des Lupeaulx and the Baron du Chatelet. TheBaron had just been to thank his lordship. The Sieur Chatelet, newlyappointed Councillor Extraordinary, was now Comte du Chatelet, with apromise of the prefecture of the Charente so soon as the presentprefect should have completed the term of office necessary to receivethe maximum retiring pension. The Comte _du_ Chatelet (for the _du_ hadbeen inserted in the patent) drove with Lucien to the _Chancellerie_, and treated his companion as an equal. But for Lucien's articles, hesaid, his patent would not have been granted so soon; Liberalpersecution had been a stepping-stone to advancement. Des Lupeaulx waswaiting for them in the Secretary-General's office. That functionarystarted with surprise when Lucien appeared and looked at des Lupeaulx. 

"What!" he exclaimed, to Lucien's utter bewilderment. "Do you dare tocome here, sir? Your patent was made out, but his lordship has torn itup. Here it is!" (the Secretary-General caught up the first torn sheetthat came to hand). "The Minister wished to discover the author ofyesterday's atrocious article, and here is the manuscript, " added thespeaker, holding out the sheets of Lucien's article. "You callyourself a Royalist, sir, and you are on the staff of that detestablepaper which turns the Minister's hair gray, harasses the Centre, andis dragging the country headlong to ruin? You breakfast on the_Corsair_, the _Miroir_, the _Constitutionnel_, and the _Courier_; youdine on the _Quotidienne_ and the _Reveil_, and then sup withMartainville, the worst enemy of the Government! Martainville urges theGovernment on to Absolutist measures; he is more likely to bring onanother Revolution than if he had gone over to the extreme Left. You area very clever journalist, but you will never make a politician. TheMinister denounced you to the King, and the King was so angry that hescolded M. Le Duc de Navarreins, his First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. Your enemies will be all the more formidable because they have hithertobeen your friends. Conduct that one expects from an enemy is atrociousin a friend. "

"Why, really, my dear fellow, are you a child?" said des Lupeaulx. "You have compromised me. Mme. D'Espard, Mme. De Bargeton, and Mme. DeMontcornet, who were responsible for you, must be furious. The Duke issure to have handed on his annoyance to the Marquise, and the Marquisewill have scolded her cousin. Keep away from them and wait. "

"Here comes his lordship--go!" said the Secretary-General. 

Lucien went out into the Place Vendome; he was stunned by thisbludgeon blow. He walked home along the Boulevards trying to thinkover his position. He saw himself a plaything in the hands of envy, treachery, and greed. What was he in this world of contendingambitions? A child sacrificing everything to the pursuit of pleasureand the gratification of vanity; a poet whose thoughts never wentbeyond the moment, a moth flitting from one bright gleaming object toanother. He had no definite aim; he was the slave of circumstance--meaning well, doing ill. Conscience tortured him remorselessly. Andto crown it all, he was penniless and exhausted with work and emotion. His articles could not compare with Merlin's or Nathan's work. 

He walked at random, absorbed in these thoughts. As he passed some ofthe reading-rooms which were already lending books as well asnewspapers, a placard caught his eyes. It was an advertisement of abook with a grotesque title, but beneath the announcement he saw hisname in brilliant letters--"By Lucien Chardon de Rubempre. " So hisbook had come out, and he had heard nothing of it! All the newspaperswere silent. He stood motionless before the placard, his arms hangingat his sides. He did not notice a little knot of acquaintances--Rastignac and de Marsay and some other fashionable young men; nor didhe see that Michel Chrestien and Leon Giraud were coming towards him. 

"Are you M. Chardon?" It was Michel who spoke, and there was that inthe sound of his voice that set Lucien's heartstrings vibrating. 

"Do you not know me?" he asked, turning very pale. 

Michel spat in his face. 

"Take that as your wages for your article against d'Arthez. Ifeverybody would do as I do on his own or his friend's behalf, thepress would be as it ought to be--a self-respecting and respectedpriesthood. "

Lucien staggered back and caught hold of Rastignac. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, addressing Rastignac and de Marsay, "you willnot refuse to act as my seconds. But first, I wish to make matterseven and apology impossible. "

He struck Michel a sudden, unexpected blow in the face. The restrushed in between the Republican and Royalist, to prevent a streetbrawl. Rastignac dragged Lucien off to the Rue Taitbout, only a fewsteps away from the Boulevard de Gand, where this scene took place. Itwas the hour of dinner, or a crowd would have assembled at once. DeMarsay came to find Lucien, and the pair insisted that he should dinewith them at the Cafe Anglais, where they drank and made merry. 

"Are you a good swordsman?" inquired de Marsay. 

"I have never had a foil in my hands. "

"A good shot?"

"Never fired a pistol in my life. "

"Then you have luck on your side. You are a formidable antagonist tostand up to; you may kill your man, " said de Marsay. 

Fortunately, Lucien found Coralie in bed and asleep. 

She had played without rehearsal in a one-act play, and taken herrevenge. She had met with genuine applause. Her enemies had not beenprepared for this step on her part, and her success had determined themanager to give her the heroine's part in Camille Maupin's play. Hehad discovered the cause of her apparent failure, and was indignantwith Florine and Nathan. Coralie should have the protection of themanagement. 

At five o'clock that morning, Rastignac came for Lucien. 

"The name of your street my dear fellow, is particularly appropriatefor your lodgings; you are up in the sky, " he said, by way ofgreeting. "Let us be first upon the ground on the road toClignancourt; it is good form, and we ought to set them an example. "

"Here is the programme, " said de Marsay, as the cab rattled throughthe Faubourg Saint-Denis: "You stand up at twenty-five paces, comingnearer, till you are only fifteen apart. You have, each of you, fivepaces to take and three shots to fire--no more. Whatever happens, thatmust be the end of it. We load for your antagonist, and his secondsload for you. The weapons were chosen by the four seconds at agunmaker's. We helped you to a chance, I will promise you; horsepistols are to be the weapons. "

For Lucien, life had become a bad dream. He did not care whether helived or died. The courage of suicide helped him in some sort to carrythings off with a dash of bravado before the spectators. He stood inhis place; he would not take a step, a piece of recklessness which theothers took for deliberate calculation. They thought the poet anuncommonly cool hand. Michel Chrestien came as far as his limit; bothfired twice and at the same time, for either party was considered tobe equally insulted. Michel's first bullet grazed Lucien's chin;Lucien's passed ten feet above Chrestien's head. The second shot hitLucien's coat collar, but the buckram lining fortunately saved itswearer. The third bullet struck him in the chest, and he dropped. 

"Is he dead?" asked Michel Chrestien. 

"No, " said the surgeon, "he will pull through. "

"So much the worse, " answered Michel. 

"Yes; so much the worse, " said Lucien, as his tears fell fast. 

By noon the unhappy boy lay in bed in his own room. With untold painsthey had managed to remove him, but it had taken five hours to bringhim to the Rue de la Lune. His condition was not dangerous, butprecautions were necessary lest fever should set in and bring abouttroublesome complications. Coralie choked down her grief and anguish. She sat up with him at night through the anxious weeks of his illness, studying her parts by his bedside. Lucien was in danger for two longmonths; and often at the theatre Coralie acted her frivolous role withone thought in her heart, "Perhaps he is dying at this moment. "

Lucien owed his life to the skill and devotion of a friend whom he hadgrievously hurt. Bianchon had come to tend him after hearing the storyof the attack from d'Arthez, who told it in confidence, and excusedthe unhappy poet. Bianchon suspected that d'Arthez was generouslytrying to screen the renegade; but on questioning Lucien during alucid interval in the dangerous nervous fever, he learned that hispatient was only responsible for the one serious article in HectorMerlin's paper. 

Before the first month was out, the firm of Fendant and Cavalier filedtheir schedule. Bianchon told Coralie that Lucien must on no accounthear the news. The famous _Archer of Charles IX. _, brought out with anabsurd title, had been a complete failure. Fendant, being anxious torealize a little ready money before going into bankruptcy, had soldthe whole edition (without Cavalier's knowledge) to dealers in printedpaper. These, in their turn, had disposed of it at a cheap rate tohawkers, and Lucien's book at that moment was adorning the bookstallsalong the Quays. The booksellers on the Quai des Augustins, who hadpreviously taken a quantity of copies, now discovered that after thissudden reduction of the price they were like to lose heavily on theirpurchases; the four duodecimo volumes, for which they had paid fourfrancs fifty centimes, were being given away for fifty sous. Great wasthe outcry in the trade; but the newspapers preserved a profoundsilence. Barbet had not foreseen this "clearance;" he had a belief inLucien's abilities; for once he had broken his rule and taken twohundred copies. The prospect of a loss drove him frantic; the thingshe said of Lucien were fearful to hear. Then Barbet took a heroicresolution. He stocked his copies in a corner of his shop, with theobstinacy of greed, and left his competitors to sell their wares at aloss. Two years afterwards, when d'Arthez's fine preface, the meritsof the book, and one or two articles by Leon Giraud had raised thevalue of the book, Barbet sold his copies, one by one, at ten francseach. 

Lucien knew nothing of all this, but Berenice and Coralie could notrefuse to allow Hector Merlin to see his dying comrade, and HectorMerlin made him drink, drop by drop, the whole of the bitter draughtbrewed by the failure of Fendant and Cavalier, made bankrupts by hisfirst ill-fated book. Martainville, the one friend who stood by Lucienthrough thick and thin, had written a magnificent article on his work;but so great was the general exasperation against the editor of_L'Aristarque_, _L'Oriflamme_, and _Le Drapeau Blanc_, that hischampionship only injured Lucien. In vain did the athlete return theLiberal insults tenfold, not a newspaper took up the challenge inspite of all his attacks. 

Coralie, Berenice, and Bianchon might shut the door on Lucien'sso-called friends, who raised a great outcry, but it was impossibleto keep out creditors and writs. After the failure of Fendant andCavalier, their bills were taken into bankruptcy according to thatprovision of the Code of Commerce most inimical to the claims of thirdparties, who in this way lose the benefit of delay. 

Lucien discovered that Camusot was proceeding against him with greatenergy. When Coralie heard the name, and for the first time learnedthe dreadful and humiliating step which her poet had taken for hersake, the angelic creature loved him ten times more than before, andwould not approach Camusot. The bailiff bringing the warrant of arrestshrank back from the idea of dragging his prisoner out of bed, andwent back to Camusot before applying to the President of the Tribunalof Commerce for an order to remove the debtor to a private hospital. Camusot hurried at once to the Rue de la Lune, and Coralie went downto him. 

When she came up again she held the warrants, in which Lucien wasdescribed as a tradesman, in her hand. How had she obtained thosepapers from Camusot? What promise had she given? Coralie kept a sad, gloomy silence, but when she returned she looked as if all the lifehad gone out of her. She played in Camille Maupin's play, andcontributed not a little to the success of that illustrious literaryhermaphrodite; but the creation of this character was the last flickerof a bright, dying lamp. On the twentieth night, when Lucien had sofar recovered that he had regained his appetite and could walk abroad, and talked of getting to work again, Coralie broke down; a secrettrouble was weighing upon her. Berenice always believed that she hadpromised to go back to Camusot to save Lucien. 

Another mortification followed. Coralie was obliged to see her partgiven to Florine. Nathan had threatened the Gymnase with war if themanagement refused to give the vacant place to Coralie's rival. Coralie had persisted till she could play no longer, knowing thatFlorine was waiting to step into her place. She had overtasked herstrength. The Gymnase had advanced sums during Lucien's illness, shehad no money to draw; Lucien, eager to work though he was, was not yetstrong enough to write, and he helped besides to nurse Coralie and torelieve Berenice. From poverty they had come to utter distress; but inBianchon they found a skilful and devoted doctor, who obtained creditfor them of the druggist. The landlord of the house and thetradespeople knew by this time how matters stood. The furniture wasattached. The tailor and dressmaker no longer stood in awe of thejournalist, and proceeded to extremes; and at last no one, with theexception of the pork-butcher and the druggist, gave the two unluckychildren credit. For a week or more all three of them--Lucien, Berenice, and the invalid--were obliged to live on the variousingenious preparations sold by the pork-butcher; the inflammatory dietwas little suited to the sick girl, and Coralie grew worse. Sheer wantcompelled Lucien to ask Lousteau for a return of the loan of athousand francs lost at play by the friend who had deserted him in hishour of need. Perhaps, amid all his troubles, this step cost him mostcruel suffering. 

Lousteau was not to be found in the Rue de la Harpe. Hunted down likea hare, he was lodging now with this friend, now with that. Lucienfound him at last at Flicoteaux's; he was sitting at the very table atwhich Lucien had found him that evening when, for his misfortune, heforsook d'Arthez for journalism. Lousteau offered him dinner, andLucien accepted the offer. 

As they came out of Flicoteaux's with Claude Vignon (who happened tobe dining there that day) and the great man in obscurity, who kept hiswardrobe at Samanon's, the four among them could not produce enoughspecie to pay for a cup of coffee at the Cafe Voltaire. They loungedabout the Luxembourg in the hope of meeting with a publisher; and, asit fell out, they met with one of the most famous printers of the day. Lousteau borrowed forty francs of him, and divided the money into fourequal parts. 

Misery had brought down Lucien's pride and extinguished sentiment; heshed tears as he told the story of his troubles, but each one of hiscomrades had a tale as cruel as his own; and when the three versionshad been given, it seemed to the poet that he was the leastunfortunate among the four. All of them craved a respite fromremembrance and thoughts which made trouble doubly hard to bear. 

Lousteau hurried to the Palais Royal to gamble with his remaining ninefrancs. The great man unknown to fame, though he had a divinemistress, must needs hie him to a low haunt of vice to wallow inperilous pleasure. Vignon betook himself to the _Rocher de Cancale_ todrown memory and thought in a couple of bottles of Bordeaux; Lucienparted company with him on the threshold, declining to share thatsupper. When he shook hands with the one journalist who had not beenhostile to him, it was with a cruel pang in his heart. 

"What shall I do?" he asked aloud. 

"One must do as one can, " the great critic said. "Your book is good, but it excited jealousy, and your struggle will be hard and long. Genius is a cruel disease. Every writer carries a canker in his heart, a devouring monster, like the tapeworm in the stomach, which destroysall feeling as it arises in him. Which is the stronger? The man or thedisease? One has need be a great man, truly, to keep the balancebetween genius and character. The talent grows, the heart withers. Unless a man is a giant, unless he has the thews of a Hercules, hemust be content either to lose his gift or to live without a heart. You are slender and fragile, you will give way, " he added, as heturned into the restaurant. 

Lucien returned home, thinking over that terrible verdict. He beheldthe life of literature by the light of the profound truths uttered byVignon. 

"Money! money!" a voice cried in his ears. 

Then he drew three bills of a thousand francs each, due respectivelyin one, two, and three months, imitating the handwriting of hisbrother-in-law, David Sechard, with admirable skill. He endorsed thebills, and took them next morning to Metivier, the paper-dealer in theRue Serpente, who made no difficulty about taking them. Lucien wrote afew lines to give his brother-in-law notice of this assault upon hiscash-box, promising, as usual in such cases, to be ready to meet thebills as they fell due. 

When all debts, his own and Coralie's, were paid, he put the threehundred francs which remained into Berenice's hands, bidding her torefuse him money if he asked her for it. He was afraid of a return ofthe gambler's frenzy. Lucien worked away gloomily in a sort of cold, speechless fury, putting forth all his powers into witty articles, written by the light of the lamp at Coralie's bedside. Whenever helooked up in search of ideas, his eyes fell on that beloved face, white as porcelain, fair with the beauty that belongs to the dying, and he saw a smile on her pale lips, and her eyes, grown bright with amore consuming pain than physical suffering, always turned on hisface. 

Lucien sent in his work, but he could not leave the house to worryeditors, and his articles did not appear. When he at last made up hismind to go to the office, he met with a cool reception from TheodoreGaillard, who had advanced him money, and turned his literary diamondsto good account afterwards. 

"Take care, my dear fellow, you are falling off, " he said. "You mustnot let yourself down, your work wants inspiration!"

"That little Lucien has written himself out with his romance and hisfirst articles, " cried Felicien Vernou, Merlin, and the whole chorusof his enemies, whenever his name came up at Dauriat's or theVaudeville. "The work he is sending us is pitiable. "

"To have written oneself out" (in the slang of journalism), is averdict very hard to live down. It passed everywhere from mouth tomouth, ruining Lucien, all unsuspicious as he was. And, indeed, hisburdens were too heavy for his strength. In the midst of a heavystrain of work, he was sued for the bills which he had drawn in DavidSechard's name. He had recourse to Camusot's experience, and Coralie'ssometime adorer was generous enough to assist the man she loved. Theintolerable situation lasted for two whole months; the days beingdiversified by stamped papers handed over to Desroches, a friend ofBixiou, Blondet, and des Lupeaulx. 

Early in August, Bianchon told them that Coralie's condition washopeless--she had only a few days to live. Those days were spent intears by Berenice and Lucien; they could not hide their grief from thedying girl, and she was broken-hearted for Lucien's sake. 

Some strange change was working in Coralie. She would have Lucienbring a priest; she must be reconciled to the Church and die in peace. Coralie died as a Christian; her repentance was sincere. Her agony anddeath took all energy and heart out of Lucien. He sank into a lowchair at the foot of the bed, and never took his eyes off her tillDeath brought the end of her suffering. It was five o'clock in themorning. Some singing-bird lighting upon a flower-pot on thewindow-sill, twittered a few notes. Berenice, kneeling by the bedside, was covering a hand fast growing cold with kisses and tears. On thechimney-piece there lay eleven sous. 

Lucien went out. Despair made him beg for money to lay Coralie in hergrave. He had wild thoughts of flinging himself at the Marquised'Espard's feet, of entreating the Comte du Chatelet, Mme. DeBargeton, Mlle. Des Touches, nay, that terrible dandy of a de Marsay. All his pride had gone with his strength. He would have enlisted as acommon soldier at that moment for money. He walked on with aslouching, feverish gait known to all the unhappy, reached CamilleMaupin's house, entered, careless of his disordered dress, and sent ina message. He entreated Mlle. Des Touches to see him for a moment. 

"Mademoiselle only went to bed at three o'clock this morning, " saidthe servant, "and no one would dare to disturb her until she rings. "

"When does she ring?"

"Never before ten o'clock. "

Then Lucien wrote one of those harrowing appeals in which thewell-dressed beggar flings all pride and self-respect to the winds. One evening, not so very long ago, when Lousteau had told him of theabject begging letters which Finot received, Lucien had thought itimpossible that any creature would sink so low; and now, carried awayby his pen, he had gone further, it may be, than other unluckywretches upon the same road. He did not suspect, in his fever andimbecility, that he had just written a masterpiece of pathos. On hisway home along the Boulevards, he met Barbet. 

"Barbet!" he begged, holding out his hand. "Five hundred francs!"

"No. Two hundred, " returned the other. 

"Ah! then you have a heart. "

"Yes; but I am a man of business as well. I have lost a lot of moneythrough you, " he concluded, after giving the history of the failure ofFendant and Cavalier, "will you put me in the way of making some?"

Lucien quivered. 

"You are a poet. You ought to understand all kinds of poetry, "continued the little publisher. "I want a few rollicking songs at thismoment to put along with some more by different authors, or they willbe down upon me over the copyright. I want to have a good collectionto sell on the streets at ten sous. If you care to let me have tengood drinking-songs by to-morrow morning, or something spicy, --youknow the sort of thing, eh!--I will pay you two hundred francs. "

When Lucien returned home, he found Coralie stretched out straight andstiff on a pallet-bed; Berenice, with many tears, had wrapped her in acoarse linen sheet, and put lighted candles at the four corners of thebed. Coralie's face had taken that strange, delicate beauty of deathwhich so vividly impresses the living with the idea of absolute calm;she looked like some white girl in a decline; it seemed as if thosepale, crimson lips must open and murmur the name which had blendedwith the name of God in the last words that she uttered before shedied. 

Lucien told Berenice to order a funeral which should not cost morethan two hundred francs, including the service at the shabby littlechurch of the Bonne-Nouvelle. As soon as she had gone out, he sat downto a table, and beside the dead body of his love he composed tenrollicking songs to fit popular airs. The effort cost him untoldanguish, but at last the brain began to work at the bidding ofNecessity, as if suffering were not; and already Lucien had learned toput Claude Vignon's terrible maxims in practice, and to raise abarrier between heart and brain. What a night the poor boy spent overthose drinking songs, writing by the light of the tall wax candleswhile the priest recited the prayers for the dead!

Morning broke before the last song was finished. Lucien tried it overto a street-song of the day, to the consternation of Berenice and thepriest, who thought that he was mad:--

 Lads, 'tis tedious waste of time To mingle song and reason; Folly calls for laughing rhyme, Sense is out of season. Let Apollo be forgot When Bacchus fills the drinking-cup; Any catch is good, I wot, If good fellows take it up. Let philosophers protest, Let us laugh, And quaff, And a fig for the rest!

 As Hippocrates has said, Every jolly fellow, When a century has sped, Still is fit and mellow. No more following of a lass With the palsy in your legs? --While your hand can hold a glass, You can drain it to the dregs, With an undiminished zest. Let us laugh, And quaff, And a fig for the rest!

 Whence we come we know full well. Whiter are we going? Ne'er a one of us can tell, 'Tis a thing past knowing. Faith! what does it signify, Take the good that Heaven sends; It is certain that we die, Certain that we live, my friends. Life is nothing but a jest. Let us laugh, And quaff, And a fig for the rest!

He was shouting the reckless refrain when d'Arthez and Bianchonarrived, to find him in a paroxysm of despair and exhaustion, utterlyunable to make a fair copy of his verses. A torrent of tears followed;and when, amid his sobs, he had told his story, he saw the tearsstanding in his friends' eyes. 

"This wipes out many sins, " said d'Arthez. 

"Happy are they who suffer for their sins in this world, " the priestsaid solemnly. 

At the sight of the fair, dead face smiling at Eternity, whileCoralie's lover wrote tavern-catches to buy a grave for her, andBarbet paid for the coffin--of the four candles lighted about the deadbody of her who had thrilled a great audience as she stood behind thefootlights in her Spanish basquina and scarlet green-clockedstockings; while beyond in the doorway, stood the priest who hadreconciled the dying actress with God, now about to return to thechurch to say a mass for the soul of her who had "loved much, "--allthe grandeur and the sordid aspects of the scene, all that sorrowcrushed under by Necessity, froze the blood of the great writer andthe great doctor. They sat down; neither of them could utter a word. 

Just at that moment a servant in livery announced Mlle. Des Touches. That beautiful and noble woman understood everything at once. Shestepped quickly across the room to Lucien, and slipped twothousand-franc notes into his hand as she grasped it. 

"It is too late, " he said, looking up at her with dull, hopeless eyes. 

The three stayed with Lucien, trying to soothe his despair withcomforting words; but every spring seemed to be broken. At noon allthe brotherhood, with the exception of Michel Chrestien (who, however, had learned the truth as to Lucien's treachery), was assembled in thepoor little church of the Bonne-Nouvelle; Mlle. De Touches waspresent, and Berenice and Coralie's dresser from the theatre, with acouple of supernumeraries and the disconsolate Camusot. All the menaccompanied the actress to her last resting-place in Pere Lachaise. Camusot, shedding hot tears, had solemnly promised Lucien to buy thegrave in perpetuity, and to put a headstone above it with the words:

 CORALIE

 AGED NINETEEN YEARS

 August, 1822

Lucien stayed there, on the sloping ground that looks out over Paris, until the sun had set. 

"Who will love me now?" he thought. "My truest friends despise me. Whatever I might have done, she who lies here would have thought mewholly noble and good. I have no one left to me now but my sister andmother and David. And what do they think of me at home?"

Poor distinguished provincial! He went back to the Rue de la Lune; butthe sight of the rooms was so acutely painful, that he could not stayin them, and he took a cheap lodging elsewhere in the same street. Mlle. Des Touches' two thousand francs and the sale of the furniturepaid the debts. 

Berenice had two hundred francs left, on which they lived for twomonths. Lucien was prostrate; he could neither write nor think; hegave way to morbid grief. Berenice took pity upon him. 

"Suppose that you were to go back to your own country, how are you toget there?" she asked one day, by way of reply to an exclamation ofLucien's. 

"On foot. "

"But even so, you must live and sleep on the way. Even if you walktwelve leagues a day, you will want twenty francs at least. "

"I will get them together, " he said. 

He took his clothes and his best linen, keeping nothing but strictnecessaries, and went to Samanon, who offered fifty francs for hisentire wardrobe. In vain he begged the money-lender to let him haveenough to pay his fare by the coach; Samanon was inexorable. In aparoxysm of fury, Lucien rushed to Frascati's, staked the proceeds ofthe sale, and lost every farthing. Back once more in the wretched roomin the Rue de la Lune, he asked Berenice for Coralie's shawl. The goodgirl looked at him, and knew in a moment what he meant to do. He hadconfessed to his loss at the gaming-table; and now he was going tohang himself. 

"Are you mad, sir? Go out for a walk, and come back again at midnight. I will get the money for you; but keep to the Boulevards, do not gotowards the Quais. "

Lucien paced up and down the Boulevards. He was stupid with grief. Hewatched the passers-by and the stream of traffic, and felt that he wasalone, and a very small atom in this seething whirlpool of Paris, churned by the strife of innumerable interests. His thoughts went backto the banks of his Charente; a craving for happiness and home awokein him; and with the craving, came one of the sudden febrile bursts ofenergy which half-feminine natures like his mistake for strength. Hewould not give up until he had poured out his heart to David Sechard, and taken counsel of the three good angels still left to him on earth. 

As he lounged along, he caught sight of Berenice--Berenice in herSunday clothes, speaking to a stranger at the corner of the Rue de laLune and the filthy Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, where she had taken herstand. 

"What are you doing?" asked Lucien, dismayed by a sudden suspicion. 

"Here are your twenty francs, " said the girl, slipping four five-francpieces into the poet's hand. "They may cost dear yet; but you can go, "and she had fled before Lucien could see the way she went; for, injustice to him, it must be said that the money burned his hand, hewanted to return it, but he was forced to keep it as the final brandset upon him by life in Paris. 

ADDENDUM

Note: A Distinguished Provincial at Paris is part two of a trilogy. Part one is entitled Two Poets and part three is Eve and David. Inother addendum references parts one and three are usually combinedunder the title Lost Illusions. 

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. 

Barbet A Man of Business The Seamy Side of History The Middle Classes

Beaudenord, Godefroid de The Ball at Sceaux The Firm of Nucingen

Berenice Lost Illusions

Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country ParsonIn addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another Study of Woman La Grande Breteche

Blondet, Emile Jealousies of a Country Town Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve The Firm of Nucingen The Peasantry

Blondet, Virginie Jealousies of a Country Town The Secrets of a Princess The Peasantry Another Study of Woman The Member for Arcis A Daughter of Eve

Braulard Cousin Betty Cousin Pons

Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman Pierre Grassou Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis

Bruel, Jean Francois du A Bachelor's Establishment The Government Clerks A Start in Life A Prince of Bohemia The Middle Classes A Daughter of Eve

Bruel, Claudine Chaffaroux, Madame du A Bachelor's Establishment A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Middle Classes

Cabirolle, Agathe-Florentine A Start in Life Lost Illusions A Bachelor's Establishment

Camusot A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons The Muse of the Department Cesar Birotteau At the Sign of the Cat and Racket

Canalis, Constant-Cyr-Melchior, Baron de Letters of Two Brides Modeste Mignon The Magic Skin Another Study of Woman A Start in Life Beatrix The Unconscious Humorists The Member for Arcis

Cardot, Jean-Jerome-Severin A Start in Life Lost Illusions

 A Bachelor's Establishment At the Sign of the Cat and Racket Cesar Birotteau

Carigliano, Duchesse de At the Sign of the Cat and Racket The Peasantry The Member for Arcis

Cavalier The Seamy Side of History

Chaboisseau The Government Clerks A Man of Business

Chatelet, Sixte, Baron du Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Thirteen

Chatelet, Marie-Louise-Anais de Negrepelisse, Baronne du Lost Illusions The Government Clerks

Chrestien, Michel A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess

Collin, Jacques Father Goriot Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Member for Arcis

Coloquinte A Bachelor's Establishment

Coralie, Mademoiselle A Start in Life A Bachelor's Establishment

Dauriat Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Modeste Mignon

Desroches (son) A Bachelor's Establishment Colonel Chabert A Start in Life A Woman of Thirty The Commission in Lunacy The Government Clerks Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Firm of Nucingen A Man of Business The Middle Classes

Arthez, Daniel d' Letters of Two Brides The Member for Arcis The Secrets of a Princess

Espard, Jeanne-Clementine-Athenais de Blamont-Chauvry, Marquise d' The Commission in Lunacy Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Letters of Two Brides Another Study of Woman The Gondreville Mystery The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve Beatrix

Finot, Andoche Cesar Birotteau A Bachelor's Establishment Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Government Clerks A Start in Life Gaudissart the Great The Firm of Nucingen

Foy, Maximilien-Sebastien Cesar Birotteau

Gaillard, Theodore Beatrix Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Unconscious Humorists

Gaillard, Madame Theodore Jealousies of a Country Town A Bachelor's Establishment Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Beatrix The Unconscious Humorists

Galathionne, Prince and Princess (both not in each story) The Secrets of a Princess The Middle Classes Father Goriot A Daughter of Eve Beatrix

Gentil Lost Illusions

Giraud, Leon A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Unconscious Humorists

Giroudeau A Start in Life A Bachelor's Establishment

Grindot Cesar Birotteau Lost Illusions A Start in Life Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Beatrix The Middle Classes Cousin Betty

Lambert, Louis Louis Lambert A Seaside Tragedy

Listomere, Marquis de The Lily of the Valley A Study of Woman

Listomere, Marquise de The Lily of the Valley Lost Illusions A Study of Woman A Daughter of Eve

Lousteau, Etienne A Bachelor's Establishment Scenes from a Courtesan's Life A Daughter of Eve Beatrix The Muse of the Department Cousin Betty A Prince of Bohemia A Man of Business The Middle Classes The Unconscious Humorists

Lupeaulx, Clement Chardin des The Muse of the Department Eugenie Grandet A Bachelor's Establishment The Government Clerks Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Ursule Mirouet

Manerville, Paul Francois-Joseph, Comte de The Thirteen The Ball at Sceaux Lost Illusions A Marriage Settlement

Marsay, Henri de The Thirteen The Unconscious Humorists Another Study of Woman The Lily of the Valley Father Goriot Jealousies of a Country Town Ursule Mirouet A Marriage Settlement Lost Illusions Letters of Two Brides The Ball at Sceaux Modeste Mignon The Secrets of a Princess The Gondreville Mystery A Daughter of Eve

Matifat (wealthy druggist) Cesar Birotteau A Bachelor's Establishment Lost Illusions The Firm of Nucingen Cousin Pons

Meyraux Louis Lambert

Montcornet, Marechal, Comte de Domestic Peace Lost Illusions

 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Peasantry A Man of Business Cousin Betty

Montriveau, General Marquis Armand de The Thirteen Father Goriot Lost Illusions Another Study of Woman Pierrette The Member for Arcis

Nathan, Raoul Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve Letters of Two Brides The Seamy Side of History The Muse of the Department A Prince of Bohemia A Man of Business The Unconscious Humorists

Nathan, Madame Raoul The Muse of the Department Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Government Clerks A Bachelor's Establishment Ursule Mirouet Eugenie Grandet The Imaginary Mistress A Prince of Bohemia

Negrepelisse, De The Commission in Lunacy Lost Illusions

Nucingen, Baron Frederic de The Firm of Nucingen Father Goriot Pierrette Cesar Birotteau Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Another Study of Woman The Secrets of a Princess A Man of Business Cousin Betty The Muse of the Department The Unconscious Humorists

Nucingen, Baronne Delphine de Father Goriot The Thirteen Eugenie Grandet Cesar Birotteau Melmoth Reconciled Lost Illusions The Commission in Lunacy Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Modeste Mignon The Firm of Nucingen Another Study of Woman A Daughter of Eve The Member for Arcis

Palma (banker) The Firm of Nucingen Cesar Birotteau Gobseck Lost Illusions The Ball at Sceaux

Pombreton, Marquis de Lost Illusions Jealousies of a Country Town

Rastignac, Eugene de Father Goriot Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Ball at Sceaux The Commission in Lunacy A Study of Woman Another Study of Woman The Magic Skin The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve The Gondreville Mystery The Firm of Nucingen Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis The Unconscious Humorists

Rhetore, Duc Alphonse de A Bachelor's Establishment

 Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Letters of Two Brides Albert Savarus The Member for Arcis

Ridal, Fulgence A Bachelor's Establishment The Unconscious Humorists

Rubempre, Lucien-Chardon de Lost Illusions The Government Clerks Ursule Mirouet Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Samanon The Government Clerks A Man of Business Cousin Betty

Sechard, David Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Sechard, Madame David Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Tillet, Ferdinand du Cesar Birotteau The Firm of Nucingen The Middle Classes A Bachelor's Establishment Pierrette Melmoth Reconciled The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve The Member for Arcis Cousin Betty The Unconscious Humorists

Touches, Mademoiselle Felicite des Beatrix Lost Illusions A Bachelor's Establishment Another Study of Woman A Daughter of Eve Honorine Beatrix The Muse of the Department

Vandenesse, Comte Felix de The Lily of the Valley Lost Illusions Cesar Birotteau Letters of Two Brides A Start in Life The Marriage Settlement The Secrets of a Princess Another Study of Woman The Gondreville Mystery A Daughter of Eve

Vernou, Felicien A Bachelor's Establishment Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life A Daughter of Eve Cousin Betty

Vignon, Claude A Daughter of Eve Honorine Beatrix Cousin Betty The Unconscious Humorists