LOST ILLUSIONS

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

PREPARER'S NOTE

 The trilogy known as Lost Illusions consists of: Two Poets A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Eve and David

 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 is a sequel, Scenes from a Courtesan's Life, which is set directly following the end of Eve and David. 

 LOST ILLUSIONS

 INTRODUCTION

The longest, without exception, of Balzac's books, and one whichcontains hardly any passage that is not very nearly of his best, _Illusions Perdues_ suffers, I think, a little in point of compositionfrom the mixture of the Angouleme scenes of its first and third partswith the purely Parisian interest of _Un Grand Homme de Province_. Itis hardly possible to exaggerate the gain in distinctness and lucidityof arrangement derived from putting _Les Deux Poetes_ and _Eve etDavid_ (a much better title than that which has been preferred in the_Edition Definitive_) together in one volume, and reserving thegreatness and decadence of Lucien de Rubempre for another. It isdistinctly awkward that this should be divided, as it is itself anenormous episode, a sort of Herodotean parenthesis, rather than anintegral part of the story. And, as a matter of fact, it joins on muchmore to the _Splendeurs et Miseres des Courtisanes_ than to its actualcompanions. In fact, it is an instance of the somewhat haphazard andarbitrary way in which the actual division of the _Comedie_ hasworked, that it should, dealing as it does wholly and solely withParisian life, be put in the _Scenes de la Vie de Province_, andshould be separated from its natural conclusion not merely as a matterof volumes, but as a matter of divisions. In making the arrangement, however, it is necessary to remember Balzac's own scheme, especiallyas the connection of the three parts in other ways is too close topermit the wrenching of them asunder altogether and finally. Thiscaution given, all that is necessary can be done by devoting the firstpart of the introduction entirely to the first and third or Angoulemeparts, and by consecrating the latter part to the egregious Lucien byhimself. 

There is a double gain in doing this, for, independently of theconnection as above referred to, Lucien has little to do except as anopportunity for the display of virtue by his sister and David Sechard;and the parts in which they appear are among the most interesting ofBalzac's work. The "Idyllic" charm of this marriage for love, combinedas it is with exhibitions of the author's power in more than one ofthe ways in which he loved best to show it, has never escapedattention from Balzac's most competent critics. He himself hadspeculated in print and paper before David Sechard was conceived; hehimself had for all "maniacs, " all men of one idea, the fraternalenthusiasm of a fellow-victim. He could never touch a miser without asort of shudder of interest; and that singular fancy of his fordescribing complicated legal and commercial undertakings came in too. Nor did he spare, in this wide-ranging book, to bring in otherfavorite matters of his, the _hobereau_--or squireen--aristocracy, thetittle-tattle of the country town and so forth. 

The result is a book of multifarious interest, not hampered, as someof its fellows are, by an uncertainty on the author's part as to whatparticular hare he is coursing. Part of the interest, after thedescription of the printing office and of old Sechard's swindling ofhis son, is a doubling, it is true, upon that of _La muse duDepartement_, and is perhaps a little less amusingly done; but it isblended with better matters. Sixte du Chatelet is a considerableaddition to Balzac's gallery of the aristocracy in transition--of theBonaparte _parvenus_ whom perhaps he understood even better than theold nobility, for they were already in his time becoming adulteratedand alloyed; or than the new folk of business and finance, for theywere but in their earliest stages. Nor is the rest of the society ofMadame de Bargeton inferior. 

But the real interest both of _Les Deux Poetes_, and still more of_Eve et David_, between which two, be it always remembered, comes inthe _Distinguished Provincial_, lies in the characters who gave theirname to the last part. In David, the man of one idea, who yet has roomfor an honest love and an all-deserved friendship, Balzac could not gowrong. David Sechard takes a place by himself among the sheep of the_Comedie_. Some may indeed say that this phrase is unfortunate, thatBalzac's sheep have more qualities of the mutton than innocence. It isnot quite to be denied. But David is very far indeed from being a goodimbecile, like Cesar Birotteau, or a man intoxicated out ofcommon-sense by a passion respectable in itself, like Goriot. Hissacrifice of his mania in time is something--nay, it is very much; andhis disinterested devotion to his brother-in-law does not quite passthe limits of sense. 

But what shall we say of Eve? She is good of course, good as gold, asEugenie Grandet herself; and the novelist has been kind enough toallow her to be happier. But has he quite interested us in her lovefor David? Has he even persuaded us that the love existed in a formdeserving the name? Did not Eve rather take her husband to protecthim, to look after him, than either to love, honor, and obey in theorthodox sense, or to love for love's sake only, as some still taketheir husbands and wives even at the end of the nineteenth century?This is a question which each reader must answer for himself; but feware likely to refuse assent to the sentence, "Happy the husband whohas such a wife as Eve Chardon!"

The central part of _Illusions Perdues_, which in reason stands byitself, and may do so ostensibly with considerably less than theintroduction explanatory which Balzac often gives to his own books, isone of the most carefully worked out and diversely important of hisnovels. It should, of course, be read before _Splendeurs et Miseresdes Courtisanes_, which is avowedly its second part, a small piece of_Eve et David_ serving as the link between them. But it is almostsufficient by and to itself. _Lucien de Rubempre ou le Journalisme_would be the most straightforward and descriptive title for it, andone which Balzac in some of his moods would have been content enoughto use. 

The story of it is too continuous and interesting to need elaborateargument, for nobody is likely to miss any important link in it. ButBalzac has nowhere excelled in finesse and success of analysis, thedouble disillusion which introduces itself at once between Madame deBargeton and Lucien, and which makes any _redintegratio amoris_ of avalid kind impossible, because each cannot but be aware that the otherhas anticipated the rupture. It will not, perhaps, be a matter of suchgeneral agreement whether he has or has not exceeded the fair licenseof the novelist in attributing to Lucien those charms of body andgifts of mind which make him, till his moral weakness andworthlessness are exposed, irresistible, and enable him for a time torepair his faults by a sort of fairy good-luck. The sonnets of _LesMarguerites_, which were given to the author by poetical friends--Gautier, it is said, supplied the "Tulip"--are undoubtedly good andsufficient. But Lucien's first article, which is (according to apractice the rashness of which cannot be too much deprecated) givenlikewise, is certainly not very wonderful; and the Paris press musthave been rather at a low ebb if it made any sensation. As we are notfavored with any actual portrait of Lucien, detection is less possiblehere, but the novelist has perhaps a very little abused the privilegeof making a hero, "Like Paris handsome, and like Hector brave, " orrather "Like Paris handsome, and like Phoebus clever. " There is nodoubt, however, that the interest of the book lies partly in the vividand severe picture of journalism given in it, and partly in the way inwhich the character of Lucien is adjusted to show up that of theabstract journalist still farther. 

How far is the picture true? It must be said, in fairness to Balzac, that a good many persons of some competence in France have pronouncedfor its truth there; and if that be so, all one can say is, "So muchthe worse for French journalists. " It is also certain that a lesser, but still not inconsiderable number of persons in England--generallypersons who, not perhaps with Balzac's genius, have like Balzacpublished books, and are not satisfied with their reception by thepress--agree more or less as to England. For myself, I can only saythat I do not believe things have ever been quite so bad in England, and that I am quite sure there never has been any need for them to be. There are, no doubt, spiteful, unprincipled, incompetent practitionersof journalism as of everything else; and it is of course obvious thatwhile advertisements, the favor of the chiefs of parties, and soforth, are temptations to newspaper managers not to hold up a veryhigh standard of honor, anonymity affords to newspaper writers adangerously easy shield to cover malice or dishonesty. But I can onlysay that during long practice in every kind of political and literaryjournalism, I never was seriously asked to write anything I did notthink, and never had the slightest difficulty in confining myself towhat I did think. 

In fact Balzac, like a good many other men of letters who abusejournalism, put himself very much out of court by continuallypractising it, not merely during his struggling period, but long afterhe had made his name, indeed almost to the very last. And it is veryhard to resist the conclusion that when he charged journalismgenerally not merely with envy, hatred, malice, and alluncharitableness, but with hopeless and pervading dishonesty, he hadlittle more ground for it than an inability to conceive how any one, except from vile reasons of this kind, could fail to praise Honore deBalzac. 

At any rate, either his art by itself, or his art assisted andstrengthened by that personal feeling which, as we have seen countedfor much with him, has here produced a wonderfully vivid piece offiction--one, I think, inferior in success to hardly anything hehas done. Whether, as at a late period a very well-informed, well-affected, and well-equipped critic hinted, his picture of theLuciens and the Lousteaus did not a little to propagate both isanother matter. The seriousness with which Balzac took the accusationperhaps shows a little sense of galling. But putting this aside, _UnGrand Homme de Province a Paris_ must be ranked, both for comedy andtragedy, both for scheme and execution, in the first rank of his work. 

The bibliography of this long and curious book--almost the only onewhich contains some verse, some of Balzac's own, some given to him byhis more poetical friends--occupies full ten pages of M. DeLovenjoul's record. The first part, which bore the general title, wasa book from the beginning, and appeared in 1837 in the _Scenes de laVie de Province_. It had five chapters, and the original verse itcontained had appeared in the _Annalaes Romantiques_ ten years earlierwith slight variants. The second part, _Un Grand Homme de Province_, likewise appeared as a book, independently published by Souverain in1839 in two volumes and forty chapters. But two of these chapters hadbeen inserted a few days before the publications in the _Estafette_. Here Canalis was more distinctly identified with Lamartine than in thesubsequent texts. The third part, unlike its forerunners, appearedserially in two papers, _L'Etat_ and _Le Parisien_, in the year 1843, under the title of _David Sechard, ou les Souffrances d'un Inventeur_, and next year became a book under the first title only. But beforethis last issue it had been united to the other two parts, and hadappeared as _Eve et David_ in the first edition of the _Comedie. 

 George Saintsbury

 I

 TWO POETS (Lost Illusions Part I)

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated By Ellen Marriage

 DEDICATION

 To Monsieur Victor Hugo, It was your birthright to be, like a Rafael or a Pitt, a great poet at an age when other men are children; it was your fate, the fate of Chateaubriand and of every man of genius, to struggle against jealousy skulking behind the columns of a newspaper, or crouching in the subterranean places of journalism. For this reason I desired that your victorious name should help to win a victory for this work that I inscribe to you, a work which, if some persons are to be believed, is an act of courage as well as a veracious history. If there had been journalists in the time of Moliere, who can doubt but that they, like marquises, financiers, doctors, and lawyers, would have been within the province of the writer of plays? And why should Comedy, _qui castigat ridendo mores_, make an exception in favor of one power, when the Parisian press spares none? I am happy, monsieur, in this opportunity of subscribing myself your sincere admirer and friend, DE BALZAC. 

 TWO POETS

At the time when this story opens, the Stanhope press and theink-distributing roller were not as yet in general use in smallprovincial printing establishments. Even at Angouleme, so closelyconnected through its paper-mills with the art of typography in Paris, the only machinery in use was the primitive wooden invention to whichthe language owes a figure of speech--"the press groans" was no mererhetorical expression in those days. Leather ink-balls were still usedin old-fashioned printing houses; the pressman dabbed the ink by handon the characters, and the movable table on which the form of type wasplaced in readiness for the sheet of paper, being made of marble, literally deserved its name of "impression-stone. " Modern machineryhas swept all this old-world mechanism into oblivion; the wooden presswhich, with all its imperfections, turned out such beautiful work forthe Elzevirs, Plantin, Aldus, and Didot is so completely forgotten, that something must be said as to the obsolete gear on whichJerome-Nicolas Sechard set an almost superstitious affection, for itplays a part in this chronicle of great small things. 

Sechard had been in his time a journeyman pressman, a "bear" incompositors' slang. The continued pacing to and fro of the pressmanfrom ink-table to press, from press to ink-table, no doubt suggestedthe nickname. The "bears, " however, make matters even by calling thecompositors monkeys, on account of the nimble industry displayed bythose gentlemen in picking out the type from the hundred and fifty-twocompartments of the cases. 

In the disastrous year 1793, Sechard, being fifty years old and amarried man, escaped the great Requisition which swept the bulk ofFrench workmen into the army. The old pressman was the only hand leftin the printing-house; and when the master (otherwise the "gaffer")died, leaving a widow, but no children, the business seemed to be onthe verge of extinction; for the solitary "bear" was quite incapableof the feat of transformation into a "monkey, " and in his quality ofpressman had never learned to read or write. Just then, however, aRepresentative of the People being in a mighty hurry to publish theDecrees of the Convention, bestowed a master printer's license onSechard, and requisitioned the establishment. Citizen Sechard acceptedthe dangerous patent, bought the business of his master's widow withhis wife's savings, and took over the plant at half its value. But hewas not even at the beginning. He was bound to print the Decrees ofthe Republic without mistakes and without delay. 

In this strait Jerome-Nicolas Sechard had the luck to discover a nobleMarseillais who had no mind to emigrate and lose his lands, nor yet toshow himself openly and lose his head, and consequently was fain toearn a living by some lawful industry. A bargain was struck. M. LeComte de Maucombe, disguised in a provincial printer's jacket, set up, read, and corrected the decrees which forbade citizens to harboraristocrats under pain of death; while the "bear, " now a "gaffer, "printed the copies and duly posted them, and the pair remained safeand sound. 

In 1795, when the squall of the Terror had passed over, NicolasSechard was obliged to look out for another jack-of-all-trades to becompositor, reader, and foreman in one; and an Abbe who declined theoath succeeded the Comte de Maucombe as soon as the First Consulrestored public worship. The Abbe became a Bishop at the Restoration, and in after days the Count and the Abbe met and sat together on thesame bench of the House of Peers. 

In 1795 Jerome-Nicolas had not known how to read or write; in 1802 hehad made no progress in either art; but by allowing a handsome marginfor "wear and tear" in his estimates, he managed to pay a foreman'swages. The once easy-going journeyman was a terror to his "bears" and"monkeys. " Where poverty ceases, avarice begins. From the day whenSechard first caught a glimpse of the possibility of making a fortune, a growing covetousness developed and sharpened in him a certainpractical faculty for business--greedy, suspicious, and keen-eyed. Hecarried on his craft in disdain of theory. In course of time he hadlearned to estimate at a glance the cost of printing per page or persheet in every kind of type. He proved to unlettered customers thatlarge type costs more to move; or, if small type was under discussion, that it was more difficult to handle. The setting-up of the type wasthe one part of his craft of which he knew nothing; and so great washis terror lest he should not charge enough, that he always made aheavy profit. He never took his eyes off his compositors while theywere paid by the hour. If he knew that a paper manufacturer was indifficulties, he would buy up his stock at a cheap rate and warehousethe paper. So from this time forward he was his own landlord, andowned the old house which had been a printing office from timeimmemorial. 

He had every sort of luck. He was left a widower with but one son. Theboy he sent to the grammar school; he must be educated, not so muchfor his own sake as to train a successor to the business; and Sechardtreated the lad harshly so as to prolong the time of parental rule, making him work at case on holidays, telling him that he must learn toearn his own living, so as to recompense his poor old father, who wasslaving his life out to give him an education. 

Then the Abbe went, and Sechard promoted one of his four compositorsto be foreman, making his choice on the future bishop's recommendationof the man as an honest and intelligent workman. In these ways theworthy printer thought to tide over the time until his son could takea business which was sure to extend in young and clever hands. 

David Sechard's school career was a brilliant one. Old Sechard, as a"bear" who had succeeded in life without any education, entertained avery considerable contempt for attainments in book learning; and whenhe sent his son to Paris to study the higher branches of typography, he recommended the lad so earnestly to save a good round sum in the"working man's paradise" (as he was pleased to call the city), and sodistinctly gave the boy to understand that he was not to draw upon thepaternal purse, that it seemed as if old Sechard saw some way ofgaining private ends of his own by that sojourn in the Land ofSapience. So David learned his trade, and completed his education atthe same time, and Didot's foreman became a scholar; and yet when heleft Paris at the end of 1819, summoned home by his father to take thehelm of business, he had not cost his parent a farthing. 

Now Nicolas Sechard's establishment hitherto had enjoyed a monopoly ofall the official printing in the department, besides the work of theprefecture and the diocese--three connections which should provemighty profitable to an active young printer; but precisely at thisjuncture the firm of Cointet Brothers, paper manufacturers, applied tothe authorities for the second printer's license in Angouleme. Hitherto old Sechard had contrived to reduce this license to a deadletter, thanks to the war crisis of the Empire, and consequent atrophyof commercial enterprise; but he had neglected to buy up the righthimself, and this piece of parsimony was the ruin of the old business. Sechard thought joyfully when he heard the news that the comingstruggle with the Cointets would be fought out by his son and not byhimself. 

"I should have gone to the wall, " he thought, "but a young fellow fromthe Didots will pull through. "

The septuagenarian sighed for the time when he could live at ease inhis own fashion. If his knowledge of the higher branches of the craftof printing was scanty, on the other hand, he was supposed to be pastmaster of an art which workmen pleasantly call "tipple-ography, " anart held in high esteem by the divine author of _Pantagruel_; though oflate, by reason of the persecution of societies yclept of Temperance, the cult has fallen, day by day, into disuse. 

Jerome-Nicolas Sechard, bound by the laws of etymology to be a drysubject, suffered from an inextinguishable thirst. His wife, duringher lifetime, managed to control within reasonable bounds the passionfor the juice of the grape, a taste so natural to the bear that M. DeChateaubriand remarked it among the ursine tribes of the New World. But philosophers inform us that old age is apt to revert to the habitsof youth, and Sechard senior is a case in point--the older he grew, the better he loved to drink. The master-passion had given a stamp oforiginality to an ursine physiognomy; his nose had developed till itreached the proportions of a double great-canon A; his veined cheekslooked like vine-leaves, covered, as they were, with bloated patchesof purple, madder red, and often mottled hues; till altogether, thecountenance suggested a huge truffle clasped about by autumn vinetendrils. The little gray eyes, peering out from beneath thickeyebrows like bushes covered with snow, were agleam with the cunningof avarice that had extinguished everything else in the man, down tothe very instinct of fatherhood. Those eyes never lost their cunningeven when disguised in drink. Sechard put you in mind of one of LaFontaine's Franciscan friars, with the fringe of grizzled hair stillcurling about his bald pate. He was short and corpulent, like one ofthe old-fashioned lamps for illumination, that burn a vast deal of oilto a very small piece of wick; for excess of any sort confirms thehabit of body, and drunkenness, like much study, makes the fat manstouter, and the lean man leaner still. 

For thirty years Jerome-Nicolas-Sechard had worn the famous municipalthree-cornered hat, which you may still see here and there on the headof the towncrier in out-of-the-way places. His breeches and waistcoatwere of greenish velveteen, and he wore an old-fashioned browngreatcoat, gray cotton stockings, and shoes with silver buckles tothem. This costume, in which the workman shone through the burgess, was so thoroughly in keeping with the man's character, defects, andway of life, that he might have come ready dressed into the world. Youcould no more imagine him apart from his clothes than you could thinkof a bulb without its husk. If the old printer had not long sincegiven the measure of his blind greed, the very nature of the man cameout in the manner of his abdication. 

Knowing, as he did, that his son must have learned his business prettythoroughly in the great school of the Didots, he had yet beenruminating for a long while over the bargain that he meant to drivewith David. All that the father made, the son, of course, was bound tolose, but in business this worthy knew nothing of father or son. If, in the first instance, he had looked on David as his only child, laterhe came to regard him as the natural purchaser of the business, whoseinterests were therefore his own. Sechard meant to sell dear; David, of course, to buy cheap; his son, therefore, was an antagonist, and itwas his duty to get the better of him. The transformation of sentimentinto self-seeking, ordinarily slow, tortuous, and veiled by hypocrisyin better educated people, was swift and direct in the old "bear, " whodemonstrated the superiority of shrewd tipple-ography overbook-learned typography. 

David came home, and the old man received him with all the cordialitywhich cunning folk can assume with an eye to business. He was as fullof thought for him as any lover for his mistress; giving him his arm, telling him where to put his foot down so as to avoid the mud, warmingthe bed for him, lighting a fire in his room, making his supper ready. The next day, after he had done his best to fluster his son's witsover a sumptuous dinner, Jerome-Nicolas Sechard, after copiouspotations, began with a "Now for business, " a remark so singularlymisplaced between two hiccoughs, that David begged his parent topostpone serious matters until the morrow. But the old "bear" was byno means inclined to put off the long-expected battle; he was too wellprepared to turn his tipsiness to good account. He had dragged thechain these fifty years, he would not wear it another hour; to-morrowhis son should be the "gaffer. "

Perhaps a word or two about the business premises may be said here. The printing-house had been established since the reign of Louis XIV. In the angle made by the Rue de Beaulieu and the Place du Murier; ithad been devoted to its present purposes for a long time past. Theground floor consisted of a single huge room lighted on the side nextthe street by an old-fashioned casement, and by a large sash windowthat gave upon the yard at the back. A passage at the side led to theprivate office; but in the provinces the processes of typographyexcite such a lively interest, that customers usually preferred toenter by way of the glass door in the street front, though they atonce descended three steps, for the floor of the workshop lay belowthe level of the street. The gaping newcomer always failed to note theperils of the passage through the shop; and while staring at thesheets of paper strung in groves across the ceiling, ran against therows of cases, or knocked his hat against the tie-bars that securedthe presses in position. Or the customer's eyes would follow the agilemovements of a compositor, picking out type from the hundred andfifty-two compartments of his case, reading his copy, verifying thewords in the composing-stick, and leading the lines, till a ream ofdamp paper weighted with heavy slabs, and set down in the middle ofthe gangway, tripped up the bemused spectator, or he caught his hipagainst the angle of a bench, to the huge delight of boys, "bears, "and "monkeys. " No wight had ever been known to reach the further endwithout accident. A couple of glass-windowed cages had been built outinto the yard at the back; the foreman sat in state in the one, themaster printer in the other. Out in the yard the walls were agreeablydecorated by trellised vines, a tempting bit of color, considering theowner's reputation. On the one side of the space stood the kitchen, onthe other the woodshed, and in a ramshackle penthouse against the hallat the back, the paper was trimmed and damped down. Here, too, theforms, or, in ordinary language, the masses of set-up type, werewashed. Inky streams issuing thence blended with the ooze from thekitchen sink, and found their way into the kennel in the streetoutside; till peasants coming into the town of a market day believedthat the Devil was taking a wash inside the establishment. 

As to the house above the printing office, it consisted of three roomson the first floor and a couple of attics in the roof. The first roomdid duty as dining-room and lobby; it was exactly the same length asthe passage below, less the space taken up by the old-fashioned woodenstaircase; and was lighted by a narrow casement on the street and abull's-eye window looking into the yard. The chief characteristic ofthe apartment was a cynic simplicity, due to money-making greed. Thebare walls were covered with plain whitewash, the dirty brick floorhad never been scoured, the furniture consisted of three ricketychairs, a round table, and a sideboard stationed between the two doorsof a bedroom and a sitting-room. Windows and doors alike were dingywith accumulated grime. Reams of blank paper or printed matter usuallyencumbered the floor, and more frequently than not the remains ofSechard's dinner, empty bottles and plates, were lying about on thepackages. 

The bedroom was lighted on the side of the yard by a window withleaded panes, and hung with the old-world tapestry that decoratedhouse fronts in provincial towns on Corpus Christi Day. For furnitureit boasted a vast four-post bedstead with canopy, valances and quiltof crimson serge, a couple of worm-eaten armchairs, twotapestry-covered chairs in walnut wood, an aged bureau, and a timepieceon the mantel-shelf. The Seigneur Rouzeau, Jerome-Nicolas' master andpredecessor, had furnished the homely old-world room; it was just ashe had left it. 

The sitting-room had been partly modernized by the late Mme. Sechard;the walls were adorned with a wainscot, fearful to behold, paintedthe color of powder blue. The panels were decorated with wall-paper--Oriental scenes in sepia tint--and for all furniture, half-a-dozenchairs with lyre-shaped backs and blue leather cushions were rangedround the room. The two clumsy arched windows that gave upon the Placedu Murier were curtainless; there was neither clock nor candle sconcenor mirror above the mantel-shelf, for Mme. Sechard had died beforeshe carried out her scheme of decoration; and the "bear, " unable toconceive the use of improvements that brought in no return in money, had left it at this point. 

Hither, _pede titubante_, Jerome-Nicolas Sechard brought his son, andpointed to a sheet of paper lying on the table--a valuation of plantdrawn up by the foreman under his direction. 

"Read that, my boy, " said Jerome-Nicolas, rolling a drunken eye fromthe paper to his son, and back to the paper. "You will see what ajewel of a printing-house I am giving you. "

"'Three wooden presses, held in position by iron tie-bars, cast-ironplates----'"

"An improvement of my own, " put in Sechard senior. 

"'----Together with all the implements, ink-tables, balls, benches, et cetera, sixteen hundred francs!' Why, father, " cried David, lettingthe sheet fall, "these presses of yours are old sabots not worth ahundred crowns; they are only fit for firewood. "

"Sabots?" cried old Sechard, "_Sabots_? There, take the inventory andlet us go downstairs. You will soon see whether your paltry iron-workcontrivances will work like these solid old tools, tried and trusty. You will not have the heart after that to slander honest old pressesthat go like mail coaches, and are good to last you your lifetimewithout needing repairs of any sort. Sabots! Yes, sabots that are liketo hold salt enough to cook your eggs with--sabots that your fatherhas plodded on with these twenty years; they have helped him to makeyou what you are. "

The father, without coming to grief on the way, lurched down the worn, knotty staircase that shook under his tread. In the passage he openedthe door of the workshop, flew to the nearest press (artfully oiledand cleaned for the occasion) and pointed out the strong oaken cheeks, polished up by the apprentice. 

"Isn't it a love of a press?"

A wedding announcement lay in the press. The old "bear" folded downthe frisket upon the tympan, and the tympan upon the form, ran in thecarriage, worked the lever, drew out the carriage, and lifted thefrisket and tympan, all with as much agility as the youngest of thetribe. The press, handled in this sort, creaked aloud in such finestyle that you might have thought some bird had dashed itself againstthe window pane and flown away again. 

"Where is the English press that could go at that pace?" the parentasked of his astonished son. 

Old Sechard hurried to the second, and then to the third in order, repeating the manoeuvre with equal dexterity. The third presenting tohis wine-troubled eye a patch overlooked by the apprentice, with anotable oath he rubbed it with the skirt of his overcoat, much as ahorse-dealer polishes the coat of an animal that he is trying to sell. 

"With those three presses, David, you can make your nine thousandfrancs a year without a foreman. As your future partner, I am opposedto your replacing these presses by your cursed cast-iron machinery, that wears out the type. You in Paris have been making such a to-doover that damned Englishman's invention--a foreigner, an enemy ofFrance who wants to help the ironfounders to a fortune. Oh! you wantedStanhopes, did you? Thanks for your Stanhopes, that cost two thousandfive hundred francs apiece, about twice as much as my three jewels puttogether, and maul your type to pieces, because there is no give inthem. I haven't book-learning like you, but you keep this well inmind, the life of the Stanhope is the death of the type. Those threepresses will serve your turn well enough, the printing will beproperly done, and folk here in Angouleme won't ask any more of you. You may print with presses made of wood or iron or gold or silver, _they_ will never pay you a farthing more. "

"'Item, '" pursued David, "'five thousand pounds weight of type fromM. Vaflard's foundry----'" Didot's apprentice could not help smilingat the name. 

"Laugh away! After twelve years of wear, that type is as good as new. That is what I call a typefounder! M. Vaflard is an honest man, whouses hard metal; and, to my way of thinking, the best typefounder isthe one you go to most seldom. "

"'----Taken at ten thousand francs, '" continued David. "Ten thousandfrancs, father! Why, that is two francs a pound, and the Messrs. Didotonly ask thirty-six sous for their _Cicero_! These nail-heads of yourswill only fetch the price of old metal--fivepence a pound. "

"You call M. Gille's italics, running-hand and round-hand, 'nail-heads, ' do you? M. Gille, that used to be printer to the Emperor!And type that costs six francs a pound! masterpieces of engraving, bought only five years ago. Some of them are as bright yet as when theycame from the foundry. Look here!"

Old Sechard pounced upon some packets of unused sorts, and held themout for David to see. 

"I am not book-learned; I don't know how to read or write; but, allthe same, I know enough to see that M. Gille's sloping letters are thefathers of your Messrs. Didot's English running-hand. Here is theround-hand, " he went on, taking up an unused pica type. 

David saw that there was no way of coming to terms with his father. Itwas a case of Yes or No--of taking or leaving it. The very ropesacross the ceiling had gone down into the old "bear's" inventory, andnot the smallest item was omitted; jobbing chases, wetting-boards, paste-pots, rinsing-trough, and lye-brushes had all been put down andvalued separately with miserly exactitude. The total amounted tothirty thousand francs, including the license and the goodwill. Davidasked himself whether or not this thing was feasible. 

Old Sechard grew uneasy over his son's silence; he would rather havehad stormy argument than a wordless acceptance of the situation. Chaffering in these sorts of bargains means that a man can look afterhis interests. "A man who is ready to pay you anything you ask willpay nothing, " old Sechard was saying to himself. While he tried tofollow his son's train of thought, he went through the list of oddsand ends of plant needed by a country business, drawing David now to ahot-press, now to a cutting-press, bragging of its usefulness andsound condition. 

"Old tools are always the best tools, " said he. "In our line ofbusiness they ought to fetch more than the new, like goldbeaters'tools. "

Hideous vignettes, representing Hymen and Cupids, skeletons raisingthe lids of their tombs to describe a V or an M, and huge borders ofmasks for theatrical posters became in turn objects of tremendousvalue through old Jerome-Nicolas' vinous eloquence. Old custom, hetold his son, was so deeply rooted in the district that he (David)would only waste his pains if he gave them the finest things in life. He himself had tried to sell them a better class of almanac than the_Double Liegeois_ on grocers' paper; and what came of it?--the original_Double Liegeois_ sold better than the most sumptuous calendars. Davidwould soon see the importance of these old-fashioned things when hefound he could get more for them than for the most costly new-fangledarticles. 

"Aha! my boy, Paris is Paris, and the provinces are the provinces. Ifa man came in from L'Houmeau with an order for wedding cards, and youwere to print them without a Cupid and garlands, he would not believethat he was properly married; you would have them all back again ifyou sent them out with a plain M on them after the style of yourMessrs. Didot. They may be fine printers, but their inventions won'ttake in the provinces for another hundred years. So there you are. "

A generous man is a bad bargain-driver. David's nature was of thesensitive and affectionate type that shrinks from a dispute, and givesway at once if an opponent touches his feelings. His loftiness offeeling, and the fact that the old toper had himself well in hand, puthim still further at a disadvantage in a dispute about money matterswith his own father, especially as he credited that father with thebest intentions, and took his covetous greed for a printer'sattachment to his old familiar tools. Still, as Jerome-Nicolas Sechardhad taken the whole place over from Rouzeau's widow for ten thousandfrancs, paid in assignats, it stood to reason that thirty thousandfrancs in coin at the present day was an exorbitant demand. 

"Father, you are cutting my throat!" exclaimed David. 

"_I_, " cried the old toper, raising his hand to the lines of cordacross the ceiling, "I who gave you life? Why, David, what do yousuppose the license is worth? Do you know that the sheet ofadvertisements alone, at fivepence a line, brought in five hundredfrancs last month? You turn up the books, lad, and see what we make byplacards and the registers at the Prefecture, and the work for themayor's office, and the bishop too. You are a do-nothing that has nomind to get on. You are haggling over the horse that will carry you tosome pretty bit of property like Marsac. "

Attached to the valuation of plant there was a deed of partnershipbetween Sechard senior and his son. The good father was to let hishouse and premises to the new firm for twelve hundred francs perannum, reserving one of the two rooms in the roof for himself. So longas David's purchase-money was not paid in full, the profits were to bedivided equally; as soon as he paid off his father, he was to be madesole proprietor of the business. 

David made a mental calculation of the value of the license, thegoodwill, and the stock of paper, leaving the plant out of account. Itwas just possible, he thought, to clear off the debt. He accepted theconditions. Old Sechard, accustomed to peasants' haggling, knowingnothing of the wider business views of Paris, was amazed at such aprompt conclusion. 

"Can he have been putting money by?" he asked himself. "Or is hescheming out, at this moment, some way of not paying me?"

With this notion in his head, he tried to find out whether David hadany money with him; he wanted to be paid something on account. The oldman's inquisitiveness roused his son's distrust; David remained closebuttoned up to the chin. 

Next day, old Sechard made the apprentice move all his own householdstuff up into the attic until such time as an empty market cart couldtake it out on the return journey into the country; and David enteredinto possession of three bare, unfurnished rooms on the day that sawhim installed in the printing-house, without one sou wherewith to payhis men's wages. When he asked his father, as a partner, to contributehis share towards the working expenses, the old man pretended not tounderstand. He had found the printing-house, he said, and he was notbound to find the money too. He had paid his share. Pressed close byhis son's reasoning, he answered that when he himself had paidRouzeau's widow he had not had a penny left. If he, a poor, ignorantworking man, had made his way, Didot's apprentice should do stillbetter. Besides, had not David been earning money, thanks to aneducation paid for by the sweat of his old father's brow? Now surelywas the time when the education would come in useful. 

"What have you done with your 'polls?'" he asked, returning to thecharge. He meant to have light on a problem which his son leftunresolved the day before. 

"Why, had I not to live?" David asked indignantly, "and books to buybesides?"

"Oh! you bought books, did you? You will make a poor man of business. A man that buys books is hardly fit to print them, " retorted the"bear. "

Then David endured the most painful of humiliations--the sense ofshame for a parent; there was nothing for it but to be passive whilehis father poured out a flood of reasons--sordid, whining, contemptible, money-getting reasons--in which the niggardly old manwrapped his refusal. David crushed down his pain into the depths ofhis soul; he saw that he was alone; saw that he had no one to look tobut himself; saw, too, that his father was trying to make money out ofhim; and in a spirit of philosophical curiosity, he tried to find outhow far the old man would go. He called old Sechard's attention to thefact that he had never as yet made any inquiry as to his mother'sfortune; if that fortune would not buy the printing-house, it might gosome ways towards paying the working expenses. 

"Your mother's fortune?" echoed old Sechard; "why, it was her beautyand intelligence!"

David understood his father thoroughly after that answer; heunderstood that only after an interminable, expensive, and disgracefullawsuit could he obtain any account of the money which by rights washis. The noble heart accepted the heavy burden laid upon it, seeingclearly beforehand how difficult it would be to free himself from theengagements into which he had entered with his father. 

"I will work, " he said to himself. "After all, if I have a rough timeof it, so had the old man; besides, I shall be working for myself, shall I not?"

"I am leaving you a treasure, " said Sechard, uneasy at his son'ssilence. 

David asked what the treasure might be. 

"Marion!" said his father. 

Marion, a big country girl, was an indispensable part of theestablishment. It was Marion who damped the paper and cut it to size;Marion did the cooking, washing, and marketing; Marion unloaded thepaper carts, collected accounts, and cleaned the ink-balls; and ifMarion had but known how to read, old Sechard would have put her toset up type into the bargain. 

Old Sechard set out on foot for the country. Delighted as he was withhis sale of the business, he was not quite easy in his mind as to thepayment. To the throes of the vendor, the agony of uncertainty as tothe completion of the purchase inevitably succeeds. Passion of everysort is essentially Jesuitical. Here was a man who thought thateducation was useless, forcing himself to believe in the influence ofeducation. He was mortgaging thirty thousand francs upon the ideas ofhonor and conduct which education should have developed in his son;David had received a good training, so David would sweat blood andwater to fulfil his engagements; David's knowledge would discover newresources; and David seemed to be full of fine feelings, so--Davidwould pay! Many a parent does in this way, and thinks that he hasacted a father's part; old Sechard was quite of that opinion by thetime that he had reached his vineyard at Marsac, a hamlet some fourleagues out of Angouleme. The previous owner had built a nice littlehouse on the bit of property, and from year to year had added otherbits of land to it, until in 1809 the old "bear" bought the whole, andwent thither, exchanging the toil of the printing press for the laborof the winepress. As he put it himself, "he had been in that line solong that he ought to know something about it. "

During the first twelvemonth of rural retirement, Sechard seniorshowed a careful countenance among his vine props; for he was alwaysin his vineyard now, just as, in the old days, he had lived in hisshop, day in, day out. The prospect of thirty thousand francs was evenmore intoxicating than sweet wine; already in imagination he fingeredthe coin. The less the claim to the money, the more eager he grew topouch it. Not seldom his anxieties sent him hurrying from Marsac toAngouleme; he would climb up the rocky staircases into the old cityand walk into his son's workshop to see how business went. There stoodthe presses in their places; the one apprentice, in a paper cap, wascleaning the ink-balls; there was a creaking of a press over theprinting of some trade circular, the old type was still unchanged, andin the dens at the end of the room he saw his son and the foremanreading books, which the "bear" took for proof-sheets. Then he wouldjoin David at dinner and go back to Marsac, chewing the cud of uneasyreflection. 

Avarice, like love, has the gift of second sight, instinctivelyguessing at future contingencies, and hugging its presentiments. Sechard senior living at a distance, far from the workshop and themachinery which possessed such a fascination for him, reminding him, as it did, of days when he was making his way, could _feel_ that therewere disquieting symptoms of inactivity in his son. The name ofCointet Brothers haunted him like a dread; he saw Sechard & Sondropping into the second place. In short, the old man scentedmisfortune in the wind. 

His presentiments were too well founded; disaster was hovering overthe house of Sechard. But there is a tutelary deity for misers, and bya chain of unforeseen circumstances that tutelary deity was soordering matters that the purchase-money of his extortionate bargainwas to be tumbled after all into the old toper's pouch. 

Indifferent to the religious reaction brought about by theRestoration, indifferent no less to the Liberal movement, Davidpreserved a most unlucky neutrality on the burning questions of theday. In those times provincial men of business were bound to professpolitical opinions of some sort if they meant to secure custom; theywere forced to choose for themselves between the patronage of theLiberals on the one hand or the Royalists on the other. And Love, moreover, had come to David's heart, and with his scientificpreoccupation and finer nature he had not room for the dogged greed ofwhich our successful man of business is made; it choked the keenmoney-getting instinct which would have led him to study thedifferences between the Paris trade and the business of a provincialprinting-house. The shades of opinion so sharply defined in thecountry are blurred and lost in the great currents of Parisianbusiness life. Cointet Brothers set themselves deliberately toassimilate all shades of monarchical opinion. They let every one knowthat they fasted of a Friday and kept Lent; they haunted thecathedral; they cultivated the society of the clergy; and inconsequence, when books of devotion were once more in demand, CointetBrothers were the first in this lucrative field. They slandered David, accusing him of Liberalism, Atheism, and what not. How, asked they, could any one employ a man whose father had been a Septembrist, aBonapartist, and a drunkard to boot? The old man was sure to leaveplenty of gold pieces behind him. They themselves were poor men withfamilies to support, while David was a bachelor and could do as hepleased; he would have plenty one of these days; he could afford totake things easily; whereas . . . And so forth and so forth. 

Such tales against David, once put into circulation, produced theireffect. The monopoly of the prefectorial and diocesan work passedgradually into the hands of Cointet Brothers; and before long David'skeen competitors, emboldened by his inaction, started a second localsheet of advertisements and announcements. The older establishment wasleft at length with the job-printing orders from the town, and thecirculation of the _Charente Chronicle_ fell off by one-half. Meanwhilethe Cointets grew richer; they had made handsome profits on theirdevotional books; and now they offered to buy Sechard's paper, to haveall the trade and judicial announcements of the department in theirown hands. 

The news of this proposal sent by David to his father brought the oldvinegrower from Marsac into the Place du Murier with the swiftness ofthe raven that scents the corpses on a battlefield. 

"Leave me to manage the Cointets, " said he to his son; "don't youmeddle in this business. "

The old man saw what the Cointets meant; and they took alarm at hisclearsighted sagacity. His son was making a blunder, he said, and he, Sechard, had come to put a stop to it. 

"What was to become of the connection if David gave up the paper? Itall depended upon the paper. All the attorneys and solicitors and menof business in L'Houmeau were Liberals to a man. The Cointets hadtried to ruin the Sechards by accusing them of Liberalism, and by sodoing gave them a plank to cling to--the Sechards should keep theLiberal business. Sell the paper indeed! Why, you might as well sellthe stock-in-trade and the license!"

Old Sechard asked the Cointets sixty thousand francs for the printingbusiness, so as not to ruin his son; he was fond of his son; he wastaking his son's part. The vinegrower brought his son to the front togain his point, as a peasant brings in his wife. 

His son was unwilling to do this, that, or the other; it variedaccording to the offers which he wrung one after another from theCointets, until, not without an effort, he drew them on to givetwenty-two thousand francs for the _Charente Chronicle_. But, at thesame time, David must pledge himself thenceforward to print nonewspaper whatsoever, under a penalty of thirty thousand francs fordamages. 

That transaction dealt the deathblow to the Sechard establishment; butthe old vinegrower did not trouble himself much on that head. Murderusually follows robbery. Our worthy friend intended to pay himselfwith the ready money. To have the cash in his own hands he would havegiven in David himself over and above the bargain, and so much themore willingly since that this nuisance of a son could claim one-halfof the unexpected windfall. Taking this fact into consideration, therefore, the generous parent consented to abandon his share of thebusiness but not the business premises; and the rental was stillmaintained at the famous sum of twelve hundred francs per annum. 

The old man came into town very seldom after the paper was sold to theCointets. He pleaded his advanced age, but the truth was that he tooklittle interest in the establishment now that it was his no longer. Still, he could not quite shake off his old kindness for hisstock-in-trade; and when business brought him into Angouleme, it wouldhave been hard to say which was the stronger attraction to the old house--his wooden presses or the son whom (as a matter of form) he asked forrent. The old foreman, who had gone over to the rival establishment, knew exactly how much this fatherly generosity was worth; the old foxmeant to reserve a right to interfere in his son's affairs, and hadtaken care to appear in the bankruptcy as a privileged creditor forarrears of rent. 

The causes of David's heedlessness throw a light on the character ofthat young man. Only a few days after his establishment in thepaternal printing office, he came across an old school friend in thedirest poverty. Lucien Chardon, a young fellow of one-and-twenty orthereabouts, was the son of a surgeon-major who had retired with awound from the republican army. Nature had meant M. Chardon senior fora chemist; chance opened the way for a retail druggist's business inAngouleme. After many years of scientific research, death cut him offin the midst of his incompleted experiments, and the great discoverythat should have brought wealth to the family was never made. Chardonhad tried to find a specific for the gout. Gout is a rich man'smalady; the rich will pay large sums to recover health when they havelost it, and for this reason the druggist deliberately selected goutas his problem. Halfway between the man of science on the one side andthe charlatan on the other, he saw that the scientific method was theone road to assured success, and had studied the causes of thecomplaint, and based his remedy on a certain general theory oftreatment, with modifications in practice for varying temperaments. Then, on a visit to Paris undertaken to solicit the approval of the_Academie des Sciences_, he died, and lost all the fruits of his labors. 

It may have been that some presentiment of the end had led the countrydruggist to do all that in him lay to give his boy and girl a goodeducation; the family had been living up to the income brought in bythe business; and now when they were left almost destitute, it was anaggravation of their misfortune that they had been brought up in theexpectations of a brilliant future; for these hopes were extinguishedby their father's death. The great Desplein, who attended Chardon inhis last illness, saw him die in convulsions of rage. 

The secret of the army surgeon's ambition lay in his passionate lovefor his wife, the last survivor of the family of Rubempre, saved as bya miracle from the guillotine in 1793. He had gained time by declaringthat she was pregnant, a lie told without the girl's knowledge orconsent. Then, when in a manner he had created a claim to call her hiswife, he had married her in spite of their common poverty. Thechildren of this marriage, like all children of love, inherited themother's wonderful beauty, that gift so often fatal when accompaniedby poverty. The life of hope and hard work and despair, in all ofwhich Mme. Chardon had shared with such keen sympathy, had left deeptraces in her beautiful face, just as the slow decline of a scantyincome had changed her ways and habits; but both she and her childrenconfronted evil days bravely enough. She sold the druggist's shop inthe Grand' Rue de L'Houmeau, the principal suburb of Angouleme; but itwas impossible for even one woman to exist on the three hundred francsof income brought in by the investment of the purchase-money, so themother and daughter accepted the position, and worked to earn aliving. The mother went out as a monthly nurse, and for her gentlemanners was preferred to any other among the wealthy houses, where shelived without expense to her children, and earned some seven francs aweek. To save her son the embarrassment of seeing his mother reducedto this humble position, she assumed the name of Madame Charlotte; andpersons requiring her services were requested to apply to M. Postel, M. Chardon's successor in the business. Lucien's sister worked for alaundress, a decent woman much respected in L'Houmeau, and earnedfifteen daily sous. As Mme. Prieur's forewoman she had a certainposition in the workroom, which raised her slightly above the class ofworking-girls. 

The two women's slender earnings, together with Mme. Chardon's threehundred francs of _rentes_, amounted to about eight hundred francs ayear, and on this sum three persons must be fed, clothed, and lodged. Yet, with all their frugal thrift, the pittance was scarcelysufficient; nearly the whole of it was needed for Lucien. Mme. Chardonand her daughter Eve believed in Lucien as Mahomet's wife believed inher husband; their devotion for his future knew no bounds. Theirpresent landlord was the successor to the business, for M. Postel letthem have rooms at the further end of a yard at the back of thelaboratory for a very low rent, and Lucien slept in the poor garretabove. A father's passion for natural science had stimulated the boy, and at first induced him to follow in the same path. Lucien was one ofthe most brilliant pupils at the grammar school of Angouleme, and whenDavid Sechard left, his future friend was in the third form. 

When chance brought the school-fellows together again, Lucien wasweary of drinking from the rude cup of penury, and ready for any ofthe rash, decisive steps that youth takes at the age of twenty. David's generous offer of forty francs a month if Lucien would come tohim and learn the work of a printer's reader came in time; David hadno need whatever of a printer's reader, but he saved Lucien fromdespair. The ties of a school friendship thus renewed were soon drawncloser than ever by the similarity of their lot in life and thedissimilarity of their characters. Both felt high swelling hopes ofmanifold success; both consciously possessed the high order ofintelligence which sets a man on a level with lofty heights, consignedthough they were socially to the lowest level. Fate's injustice was astrong bond between them. And then, by different ways, following eachhis own bent of mind, they had attained to poesy. Lucien, destined forthe highest speculative fields of natural science, was aiming with hotenthusiasm at fame through literature; while David, with thatmeditative temperament which inclines to poetry, was drawn by histastes towards natural science. 

The exchange of roles was the beginning of an intellectualcomradeship. Before long, Lucien told David of his own father'sfarsighted views of the application of science to manufacture, whileDavid pointed out the new ways in literature that Lucien must followif he meant to succeed. Not many days had passed before the youngmen's friendship became a passion such as is only known in earlymanhood. Then it was that David caught a glimpse of Eve's fair face, and loved, as grave and meditative natures can love. The _et nunc etsemper et in secula seculorum_ of the Liturgy is the device taken bymany a sublime unknown poet, whose works consist in magnificent epicsconceived and lost between heart and heart. With a lover's insight, David read the secret hopes set by the mother and sister on Lucien'spoet's brow; and knowing their blind devotion, it was very sweet tohim to draw nearer to his love by sharing her hopes and herself-sacrifice. And in this way Lucien came to be David's chosenbrother. As there are ultras who would fain be more Royalist than theKing, so David outdid the mother and sister in his belief in Lucien'sgenius; he spoiled Lucien as a mother spoils her child. 

Once, under pressure of the lack of money which tied their hands, thetwo were ruminating after the manner of young men over ways ofpromptly realizing a large fortune; and, after fruitless shakings ofall the trees already stripped by previous comers, Lucien bethoughthimself of two of his father's ideas. M. Chardon had talked of amethod of refining sugar by a chemical process, which would reduce thecost of production by one-half; and he had another plan for employingan American vegetable fibre for making paper, something after theChinese fashion, and effecting an enormous saving in the cost of rawmaterial. David, knowing the importance of a question raised alreadyby the Didots, caught at this latter notion, saw a fortune in it, andlooked upon Lucien as the benefactor whom he could never repay. 

Any one may guess how the ruling thoughts and inner life of this pairof friends unfitted them for carrying on the business of a printinghouse. So far from making fifteen to twenty thousand francs, likeCointet Brothers, printers and publishers to the diocese, andproprietors of the _Charente Chronicle_ (now the only newspaper in thedepartment)--Sechard & Son made a bare three hundred francs per month, out of which the foreman's salary must be paid, as well as Marion'swages and the rent and taxes; so that David himself was scarcelymaking twelve hundred francs per annum. Active and industrious men ofbusiness would have bought new type and new machinery, and made aneffort to secure orders for cheap printing from the Paris book trade;but master and foreman, deep in absorbing intellectual interests, werequite content with such orders as came to them from their remainingcustomers. 

In the long length the Cointets had come to understand David'scharacter and habits. They did not slander him now; on the contrary, wise policy required that they should allow the business to flickeron; it was to their interest indeed to maintain it in a small way, lest it should fall into the hands of some more formidablecompetitor; they made a practice of sending prospectuses and circulars--job-printing, as it is called--to the Sechard's establishment. So itcame about that, all unwittingly, David owed his existence, commercially speaking, to the cunning schemes of his competitors. TheCointets, well pleased with his "craze, " as they called it, behaved toall appearance both fairly and handsomely; but, as a matter of fact, they were adopting the tactics of the mail-coach owners who set up asham opposition coach to keep _bona fide_ rivals out of the field. 

Inside and outside, the condition of the Sechard printingestablishment bore testimony to the sordid avarice of the old "bear, "who never spent a penny on repairs. The old house had stood in sun andrain, and borne the brunt of the weather, till it looked like somevenerable tree trunk set down at the entrance of the alley, so rivenit was with seams and cracks of all sorts and sizes. The house front, built of brick and stone, with no pretensions to symmetry, seemed tobe bending beneath the weight of a worm-eaten roof covered with thecurved pantiles in common use in the South of France. The decrepitcasements were fitted with the heavy, unwieldy shutters necessary inthat climate, and held in place by massive iron cross bars. It wouldhave puzzled you to find a more dilapidated house in Angouleme;nothing but sheer tenacity of mortar kept it together. Try to picturethe workshop, lighted at either end, and dark in the middle; the wallscovered with handbills and begrimed by friction of all the workmen whohad rubbed past them for thirty years; the cobweb of cordage acrossthe ceiling, the stacks of paper, the old-fashioned presses, the pileof slabs for weighting the damp sheets, the rows of cases, and the twodens in the far corners where the master printer and foreman sat--andyou will have some idea of the life led by the two friends. 

One day early in May, 1821, David and Lucien were standing together bythe window that looked into the yard. It was nearly two o'clock, andthe four or five men were going out to dinner. David waited until theapprentice had shut the street door with the bell fastened to it; thenhe drew Lucien out into the yard as if the smell of paper, ink, andpresses and old woodwork had grown intolerable to him, and togetherthey sat down under the vines, keeping the office and the door inview. The sunbeams, playing among the trellised vine-shoots, hoveredover the two poets, making, as it were, an aureole about their heads, bringing the contrast between their faces and their characters into avigorous relief that would have tempted the brush of some greatpainter. 

David's physique was of the kind that Nature gives to the fighter, theman born to struggle in obscurity, or with the eyes of all men turnedupon him. The strong shoulders, rising above the broad chest, were inkeeping with the full development of his whole frame. With his thickcrop of black hair, his fleshy, high-colored, swarthy face, supportedby a thick neck, he looked at first sight like one of Boileau'scanons: but on a second glance there was that in the lines about thethick lips, in the dimple of the chin, in the turn of the squarenostrils, with the broad irregular line of central cleavage, and, above all, in the eyes, with the steady light of an all-absorbing lovethat burned in them, which revealed the real character of the man--thewisdom of the thinker, the strenuous melancholy of a spirit thatdiscerns the horizon on either side, and sees clearly to the end ofwinding ways, turning the clear light of analysis upon the joys offruition, known as yet in idea alone, and quick to turn from them indisgust. You might look for the flash of genius from such a face; youcould not miss the ashes of the volcano; hopes extinguished beneath aprofound sense of the social annihilation to which lowly birth andlack of fortune condemns so many a loftier mind. And by the side ofthe poor printer, who loathed a handicraft so closely allied tointellectual work, close to this Silenus, joyless, self-sustained, drinking deep draughts from the cup of knowledge and of poetry that hemight forget the cares of his narrow lot in the intoxication of souland brain, stood Lucien, graceful as some sculptured Indian Bacchus. 

For in Lucien's face there was the distinction of line which stampsthe beauty of the antique; the Greek profile, with the velvetwhiteness of women's faces, and eyes full of love, eyes so blue thatthey looked dark against a pearly setting, and dewy and fresh as thoseof a child. Those beautiful eyes looked out from under their longchestnut lashes, beneath eyebrows that might have been traced by aChinese pencil. The silken down on his cheeks, like his bright curlinghair, shone golden in the sunlight. A divine graciousness transfusedthe white temples that caught that golden gleam; a matchless noblenesshad set its seal in the short chin raised, but not abruptly. The smilethat hovered about the coral lips, yet redder as they seemed by forceof contrast with the even teeth, was the smile of some sorrowingangel. Lucien's hands denoted race; they were shapely hands; handsthat men obey at a sign, and women love to kiss. Lucien was slenderand of middle height. From a glance at his feet, he might have beentaken for a girl in disguise, and this so much the more easily fromthe feminine contour of the hips, a characteristic of keen-witted, notto say, astute, men. This is a trait which seldom misleads, and inLucien it was a true indication of character; for when he analyzed thesociety of to-day, his restless mind was apt to take its stand on thelower ground of those diplomatists who hold that success justifies theuse of any means however base. It is one of the misfortunes attendantupon great intellects that perforce they comprehend all things, bothgood and evil. 

The two young men judged society by the more lofty standard becausetheir social position was at the lowest end of the scale, forunrecognized power is apt to avenge itself for lowly station byviewing the world from a lofty standpoint. Yet it is, nevertheless, true that they grew but the more bitter and hopeless after these swiftsoaring flights to the upper regions of thought, their world by right. Lucien had read much and compared; David had thought much and deeply. In spite of the young printer's look of robust, country-bred health, his turn of mind was melancholy and somewhat morbid--he lackedconfidence in himself; but Lucien, on the other hand, with a boldnesslittle to be expected from his feminine, almost effeminate, figure, graceful though it was, Lucien possessed the Gascon temperament to thehighest degree--rash, brave, and adventurous, prone to make the mostof the bright side, and as little as possible of the dark; his was thenature that sticks at no crime if there is anything to be gained byit, and laughs at the vice which serves as a stepping-stone. Just nowthese tendencies of ambition were held in check, partly by the fairillusions of youth, partly by the enthusiasm which led him to preferthe nobler methods, which every man in love with glory tries first ofall. Lucien was struggling as yet with himself and his own desires, and not with the difficulties of life; at strife with his own power, and not with the baseness of other men, that fatal exemplar forimpressionable minds. The brilliancy of his intellect had a keenattraction for David. David admired his friend, while he kept him outof the scrapes into which he was led by the _furie francaise_. 

David, with his well-balanced mind and timid nature at variance with astrong constitution, was by no means wanting in the persistence of theNorthern temper; and if he saw all the difficulties before him, nonethe less he vowed to himself to conquer, never to give way. In him theunswerving virtue of an apostle was softened by pity that sprang frominexhaustible indulgence. In the friendship grown old already, one wasthe worshiper, and that one was David; Lucien ruled him like a womansure of love, and David loved to give way. He felt that his friend'sphysical beauty implied a real superiority, which he accepted, lookingupon himself as one made of coarser and commoner human clay. 

"The ox for patient labor in the fields, the free life for the bird, "he thought to himself. "I will be the ox, and Lucien shall be theeagle. "

So for three years these friends had mingled the destinies bright withsuch glorious promise. Together they read the great works thatappeared above the horizon of literature and science since the Peace--the poems of Schiller, Goethe, and Byron, the prose writings ofScott, Jean-Paul, Berzelius, Davy, Cuvier, Lamartine, and many more. They warmed themselves beside these great hearthfires; they triedtheir powers in abortive creations, in work laid aside and taken upagain with new glow of enthusiasm. Incessantly they worked with theunwearied vitality of youth; comrades in poverty, comrades in theconsuming love of art and science, till they forgot the hard life ofthe present, for their minds were wholly bent on laying thefoundations of future fame. 

"Lucien, " said David, "do you know what I have just received fromParis?" He drew a tiny volume from his pocket. "Listen!"

And David read, as a poet can read, first Andre de Chenier's Idyll_Neere_, then _Le Malade_, following on with the Elegy on a Suicide, another elegy in the classic taste, and the last two _Iambes_. 

"So that is Andre de Chenier!" Lucien exclaimed again and again. "Itfills one with despair!" he cried for the third time, when Davidsurrendered the book to him, unable to read further for emotion. --"Apoet rediscovered by a poet!" said Lucien, reading the signature ofthe preface. 

"After Chenier had written those poems, he thought that he had writtennothing worth publishing, " added David. 

Then Lucien in his turn read aloud the fragment of an epic called_L'Aveugle_ and two or three of the Elegies, till, when he came upon theline--

 If they know not bliss, is there happiness on earth?

He pressed the book to his lips, and tears came to the eyes of either, for the two friends were lovers and fellow-worshipers. 

The vine-stems were changing color with the spring; covering therifted, battered walls of the old house where squalid cracks werespreading in every direction, with fluted columns and knots andbas-reliefs and uncounted masterpieces of I know not what order ofarchitecture, erected by fairy hands. Fancy had scattered flowers andcrimson gems over the gloomy little yard, and Chenier's _Camille_ becamefor David the Eve whom he worshiped, for Lucien a great lady to whomhe paid his homage. Poetry had shaken out her starry robe above theworkshop where the "monkeys" and "bears" were grotesquely busy amongtypes and presses. Five o'clock struck, but the friends felt neitherhunger nor thirst; life had turned to a golden dream, and all thetreasures of the world lay at their feet. Far away on the horizon laythe blue streak to which Hope points a finger in storm and stress; anda siren voice sounded in their ears, calling, "Come, spread yourwings; through that streak of gold or silver or azure lies the sureway of escape from evil fortune!"

Just at that moment the low glass door of the workshop was opened, andout came Cerizet, an apprentice (David had brought the urchin fromParis). This youth introduced a stranger, who saluted the friendspolitely, and spoke to David. 

"This, sir, is a monograph which I am desirous of printing, " said he, drawing a huge package of manuscript from his pocket. "Will you obligeme with an estimate?"

"We do not undertake work on such a scale, sir, " David answered, without looking at the manuscript. "You had better see the MessieursCointet about it. "

"Still we have a very pretty type which might suit it, " put in Lucien, taking up the roll. "We must ask you to be kind enough, sir, to leaveyour commission with us and call again to-morrow, and we will give youan estimate. "

"Have I the pleasure of addressing M. Lucien Chardon?"

"Yes, sir, " said the foreman. 

"I am fortunate in this opportunity of meeting with a young poetdestined to such greatness, " returned the author. "Mme. De Bargetonsent me here. "

Lucien flushed red at the name, and stammered out something aboutgratitude for the interest which Mme. De Bargeton took in him. Davidnoticed his friend's embarrassed flush, and left him in conversationwith the country gentleman, the author of a monograph on silkworkcultivation, prompted by vanity to print the effort for the benefit offellow-members of the local agricultural society. 

When the author had gone, David spoke. 

"Lucien, are you in love with Mme. De Bargeton?"

"Passionately. "

"But social prejudices set you as far apart as if she were living atPekin and you in Greenland. "

"The will of two lovers can rise victorious over all things, " saidLucien, lowering his eyes. 

"You will forget us, " returned the alarmed lover, as Eve's fair facerose before his mind. 

"On the contrary, I have perhaps sacrificed my love to you, " criedLucien. 

"What do you mean?"

"In spite of my love, in spite of the different motives which bid meobtain a secure footing in her house, I have told her that I willnever go thither again unless another is made welcome too, a man whosegifts are greater than mine, a man destined for a brilliant future--David Sechard, my brother, my friend. I shall find an answer waitingwhen I go home. All the aristocrats may have been asked to hear meread my verses this evening, but I shall not go if the answer isnegative, and I will never set foot in Mme. De Bargeton's houseagain. "

David brushed the tears from his eyes, and wrung Lucien's hand. Theclock struck six. 

"Eve must be anxious; good-bye, " Lucien added abruptly. 

He hurried away. David stood overcome by the emotion that is only feltto the full at his age, and more especially in such a position as his--the friends were like two young swans with wings unclipped as yet bythe experiences of provincial life. 

"Heart of gold!" David exclaimed to himself, as his eyes followedLucien across the workshop. 

Lucien went down to L'Houmeau along the broad Promenade de Beaulieu, the Rue du Minage, and Saint-Peter's Gate. It was the longest wayround, so you may be sure that Mme. De Bargeton's house lay on theway. So delicious it was to pass under her windows, though she knewnothing of his presence, that for the past two months he had goneround daily by the Palet Gate into L'Houmeau. 

Under the trees of Beaulieu he saw how far the suburb lay from thecity. The custom of the country, moreover, had raised other barriersharder to surmount than the mere physical difficulty of the steepflights of steps which Lucien was descending. Youth and ambition hadthrown the flying-bridge of glory across the gulf between the city andthe suburb, yet Lucien was as uneasy in his mind over his lady'sanswer as any king's favorite who has tried to climb yet higher, andfears that being over-bold he is like to fall. This must seem a darksaying to those who have never studied the manners and customs ofcities divided into the upper and lower town; wherefore it isnecessary to enter here upon some topographical details, and this somuch the more if the reader is to comprehend the position of one ofthe principal characters in the story--Mme. De Bargeton. 

The old city of Angouleme is perched aloft on a crag like asugar-loaf, overlooking the plain where the Charente winds away throughthe meadows. The crag is an outlying spur on the Perigord side of along, low ridge of hill, which terminates abruptly just above the roadfrom Paris to Bordeaux, so that the Rock of Angouleme is a sort ofpromontory marking out the line of three picturesque valleys. Theramparts and great gateways and ruined fortress on the summit of thecrag still remain to bear witness to the importance of this strongholdduring the Religious Wars, when Angouleme was a military positioncoveted alike of Catholics and Calvinists, but its old-world strengthis a source of weakness in modern days; Angouleme could not spreaddown to the Charente, and shut in between its ramparts and the steepsides of the crag, the old town is condemned to stagnation of the mostfatal kind. 

The Government made an attempt about this very time to extend the towntowards Perigord, building a Prefecture, a Naval School, and barracksalong the hillside, and opening up roads. But private enterprise hadbeen beforehand elsewhere. For some time past the suburb of L'Houmeauhad sprung up, a mushroom growth at the foot of the crag and along theriver-side, where the direct road runs from Paris to Bordeaux. Everybody has heard of the great paper-mills of Angouleme, establishedperforce three hundred years ago on the Charente and its branchstreams, where there was a sufficient fall of water. The largest Statefactory of marine ordnance in France was established at Ruelle, somesix miles away. Carriers, wheelwrights, posthouses, and inns, everyagency for public conveyance, every industry that lives by road orriver, was crowded together in Lower Angouleme, to avoid thedifficulty of the ascent of the hill. Naturally, too, tanneries, laundries, and all such waterside trades stood within reach of theCharente; and along the banks of the river lay the stores of brandyand great warehouses full of the water-borne raw material; all thecarrying trade of the Charente, in short, had lined the quays withbuildings. 

So the Faubourg of L'Houmeau grew into a busy and prosperous city, asecond Angouleme rivaling the upper town, the residence of the powersthat be, the lords spiritual and temporal of Angouleme; thoughL'Houmeau, with all its business and increasing greatness, was still amere appendage of the city above. The _noblesse_ and officialdom dwelton the crag, trade and wealth remained below. No love was lost betweenthese two sections of the community all the world over, and inAngouleme it would have been hard to say which of the two campsdetested the other the more cordially. Under the Empire the machineryworked fairly smoothly, but the Restoration wrought both sides to thehighest pitch of exasperation. 

Nearly every house in the upper town of Angouleme is inhabited bynoble, or at any rate by old burgher, families, who live independentlyon their incomes--a sort of autochthonous nation who suffer no aliensto come among them. Possibly, after two hundred years of unbrokenresidence, and it may be an intermarriage or two with one of theprimordial houses, a family from some neighboring district may beadopted, but in the eyes of the aboriginal race they are stillnewcomers of yesterday. 

Prefects, receivers-general, and various administrations that havecome and gone during the last forty years, have tried to tame theancient families perched aloft like wary ravens on their crag; thesaid families were always willing to accept invitations to dinners anddances; but as to admitting the strangers to their own houses, theywere inexorable. Ready to scoff and disparage, jealous and niggardly, marrying only among themselves, the families formed a serried phalanxto keep out intruders. Of modern luxury they had no notion; and as forsending a boy to Paris, it was sending him, they thought to certainruin. Such sagacity will give a sufficient idea of the old-worldmanners and customs of this society, suffering from thick-headedRoyalism, infected with bigotry rather than zeal, all stagnatingtogether, motionless as their town founded upon a rock. Yet Angoulemeenjoyed a great reputation in the provinces round about for itseducational advantages, and neighboring towns sent their daughters toits boarding schools and convents. 

It is easy to imagine the influence of the class sentiment which heldAngouleme aloof from L'Houmeau. The merchant classes are rich, the_noblesse_ are usually poor. Each side takes its revenge in scorn of theother. The tradespeople in Angouleme espouse the quarrel. "He is a manof L'Houmeau!" a shopkeeper of the upper town will tell you, speakingof a merchant in the lower suburb, throwing an accent into the speechwhich no words can describe. When the Restoration defined the positionof the French _noblesse_, holding out hopes to them which could only berealized by a complete and general topsy-turvydom, the distancebetween Angouleme and L'Houmeau, already more strongly marked than thedistance between the hill and plain, was widened yet further. Thebetter families, all devoted as one man to the Government, grew moreexclusive here than in any other part of France. "The man ofL'Houmeau" became little better than a pariah. Hence the deep, smothered hatred which broke out everywhere with such ugly unanimityin the insurrection of 1830 and destroyed the elements of a durablesocial system in France. As the overweening haughtiness of the Courtnobles detached the provincial _noblesse_ from the throne, so did theselast alienate the _bourgeoisie_ from the royal cause by behavior thatgalled their vanity in every possible way. 

So "a man of L'Houmeau, " a druggist's son, in Mme. De Bargeton's housewas nothing less than a little revolution. Who was responsible for it?Lamartine and Victor Hugo, Casimir Delavigne and Canalis, Beranger andChateaubriand. Davrigny, Benjamin Constant and Lamennais, Cousin andMichaud, --all the old and young illustrious names in literature inshort, Liberals and Royalists, alike must divide the blame among them. Mme. De Bargeton loved art and letters, eccentric taste on her part, acraze deeply deplored in Angouleme. In justice to the lady, it isnecessary to give a sketch of the previous history of a woman born toshine, and left by unlucky circumstances in the shade, a woman whoseinfluence decided Lucien's career. 

M. De Bargeton was the great-grandson of an alderman of Bordeaux namedMirault, ennobled under Louis XIII. For long tenure of office. Hisson, bearing the name of Mirault de Bargeton, became an officer in thehousehold troops of Louis XIV. , and married so great a fortune that inthe reign of Louis XV. His son dropped the Mirault and was calledsimply M. De Bargeton. This M. De Bargeton, the alderman's grandson, lived up to his quality so strenuously that he ran through the familyproperty and checked the course of its fortunes. Two of his brothersindeed, great-uncles of the present Bargeton, went into businessagain, for which reason you will find the name of Mirault amongBordeaux merchants at this day. The lands of Bargeton, in Angoumois inthe barony of Rochefoucauld, being entailed, and the house inAngouleme, called the Hotel Bargeton, likewise, the grandson of M. DeBargeton the Waster came in for these hereditaments; though the year1789 deprived him of all seignorial rights save to the rents paid byhis tenants, which amounted to some ten thousand francs per annum. Ifhis grandsire had but walked in the ways of his illustriousprogenitors, Bargeton I. And Bargeton II. , Bargeton V. (who may bedubbed Bargeton the Mute by way of distinction) should by rights havebeen born to the title of Marquis of Bargeton; he would have beenconnected with some great family or other, and in due time he wouldhave been a duke and a peer of France, like many another; whereas, in1805, he thought himself uncommonly lucky when he married Mlle. Marie-Louise-Anais de Negrepelisse, the daughter of a noble longrelegated to the obscurity of his manor-house, scion though he was ofthe younger branch of one of the oldest families in the south ofFrance. There had been a Negrepelisse among the hostages of St. Louis. The head of the elder branch, however, had borne the illustrious nameof d'Espard since the reign of Henri Quatre, when the Negrepelisse ofthat day married an heiress of the d'Espard family. As for M. DeNegrepelisse, the younger son of a younger son, he lived upon hiswife's property, a small estate in the neighborhood of Barbezieux, farming the land to admiration, selling his corn in the markethimself, and distilling his own brandy, laughing at those whoridiculed him, so long as he could pile up silver crowns, and now andagain round out his estate with another bit of land. 

Circumstances unusual enough in out-of-the-way places in the countryhad inspired Mme. De Bargeton with a taste for music and reading. During the Revolution one Abbe Niollant, the Abbe Roze's best pupil, found a hiding-place in the old manor-house of Escarbas, and broughtwith him his baggage of musical compositions. The old countrygentleman's hospitality was handsomely repaid, for the Abbe undertookhis daughter's education. Anais, or Nais, as she was called mustotherwise have been left to herself, or, worse still, to somecoarse-minded servant-maid. The Abbe was not only a musician, he waswell and widely read, and knew both Italian and German; so Mlle. DeNegrepelise received instruction in those tongues, as well as incounterpoint. He explained the great masterpieces of the French, German, and Italian literatures, and deciphered with her the music ofthe great composers. Finally, as time hung heavy on his hands in theseclusion enforced by political storms, he taught his pupil Latin andGreek and some smatterings of natural science. A mother might havemodified the effects of a man's education upon a young girl, whoseindependent spirit had been fostered in the first place by a countrylife. The Abbe Niollant, an enthusiast and a poet, possessed theartistic temperament in a peculiarly high degree, a temperamentcompatible with many estimable qualities, but prone to raise itselfabove _bourgeois_ prejudices by the liberty of its judgments andbreadth of view. In society an intellect of this order wins pardon forits boldness by its depth and originality; but in private life itwould seem to do positive mischief, by suggesting wanderings from thebeaten track. The Abbe was by no means wanting in goodness of heart, and his ideas were therefore the more contagious for this high-spiritedgirl, in whom they were confirmed by a lonely life. The Abbe Niollant'spupil learned to be fearless in criticism and ready in judgement; itnever occurred to her tutor that qualities so necessary in a man aredisadvantages in a woman destined for the homely life of ahouse-mother. And though the Abbe constantly impressed it upon hispupil that it behoved her to be the more modest and gracious with theextent of her attainments, Mlle. De Negrepelisse conceived an excellentopinion of herself and a robust contempt for ordinary humanity. Allthose about her were her inferiors, or persons who hastened to do herbidding, till she grew to be as haughty as a great lady, with none ofthe charming blandness and urbanity of a great lady. The instincts ofvanity were flattered by the pride that the poor Abbe took in hispupil, the pride of an author who sees himself in his work, and forher misfortune she met no one with whom she could measure herself. Isolation is one of the greatest drawbacks of a country life. We losethe habit of putting ourselves to any inconvenience for the sake ofothers when there is no one for whom to make the trifling sacrificesof personal effort required by dress and manner. And everything in usshares in the change for the worse; the form and the spiritdeteriorate together. 

With no social intercourse to compel self-repression, Mlle. DeNegrepelisse's bold ideas passed into her manner and the expression ofher face. There was a cavalier air about her, a something that seemsat first original, but only suited to women of adventurous life. Sothis education, and the consequent asperities of character, whichwould have been softened down in a higher social sphere, could onlyserve to make her ridiculous at Angouleme so soon as her adorersshould cease to worship eccentricities that charm only in youth. 

As for M. De Negrepelisse, he would have given all his daughter'sbooks to save the life of a sick bullock; and so miserly was he, thathe would not have given her two farthings over and above the allowanceto which she had a right, even if it had been a question of someindispensable trifle for her education. 

In 1802 the Abbe died, before the marriage of his dear child, amarriage which he, doubtless, would never have advised. The old fatherfound his daughter a great care now that the Abbe was gone. Thehigh-spirited girl, with nothing else to do, was sure to break intorebellion against his niggardliness, and he felt quite unequal to thestruggle. Like all young women who leave the appointed track ofwoman's life, Nais had her own opinions about marriage, and had nogreat inclination thereto. She shrank from submitting herself, bodyand soul, to the feeble, undignified specimens of mankind whom she hadchanced to meet. She wished to rule, marriage meant obedience; andbetween obedience to coarse caprices and a mind without indulgence forher tastes, and flight with a lover who should please her, she wouldnot have hesitated for a moment. 

M. De Negrepelisse maintained sufficient of the tradition of birth todread a _mesalliance_. Like many another parent, he resolved to marryhis daughter, not so much on her account as for his own peace of mind. A noble or a country gentleman was the man for him, somebody not tooclever, incapable of haggling over the account of the trust; stupidenough and easy enough to allow Nais to have her own way, anddisinterested enough to take her without a dowry. But where to lookfor a son-in-law to suit father and daughter equally well, was theproblem. Such a man would be the phoenix of sons-in-law. 

To M. De Negrepelisse pondering over the eligible bachelors of theprovince with these double requirements in his mind. M. De Bargetonseemed to be the only one who answered to this description. M. DeBargeton, aged forty, considerably shattered by the amorousdissipations of his youth, was generally held to be a man ofremarkably feeble intellect; but he had just the exact amount ofcommonsense required for the management of his fortune, and breedingsufficient to enable him to avoid blunders or blatant follies insociety in Angouleme. In the bluntest manner M. De Negrepelissepointed out the negative virtues of the model husband designed for hisdaughter, and made her see the way to manage him so as to secure herown happiness. So Nais married the bearer of arms, two hundred yearsold already, for the Bargeton arms are blazoned thus: _the first or, three attires gules; the second, three ox's heads cabossed, two andone, sable; the third, barry of six, azure and argent, in the first, six shells or, three, two, and one_. Provided with a chaperon, Naiscould steer her fortunes as she chose under the style of the firm, andwith the help of such connections as her wit and beauty would obtainfor her in Paris. Nais was enchanted by the prospect of such liberty. M. De Bargeton was of the opinion that he was making a brilliantmarriage, for he expected that in no long while M. De Negrepelissewould leave him the estates which he was rounding out so lovingly; butto an unprejudiced spectator it certainly seemed as though the duty ofwriting the bridegroom's epitaph might devolve upon his father-in-law. 

By this time Mme. De Bargeton was thirty-six years old and her husbandfifty-eight. The disparity in age was the more startling since M. DeBargeton looked like a man of seventy, whereas his wife lookedscarcely half her age. She could still wear rose-color, and her hairhanging loose upon her shoulders. Although their income did not exceedtwelve thousand francs, they ranked among the half-dozen largestfortunes in the old city, merchants and officials excepted; for M. AndMme. De Bargeton were obliged to live in Angouleme until such time asMme. De Bargeton's inheritance should fall in and they could go toParis. Meanwhile they were bound to be attentive to old M. DeNegrepelisse (who kept them waiting so long that his son-in-law infact predeceased him), and Nais' brilliant intellectual gifts, and thewealth that lay like undiscovered ore in her nature, profited hernothing, underwent the transforming operation of Time and changed toabsurdities. For our absurdities spring, in fact, for the most part, from the good in us, from some faculty or quality abnormallydeveloped. Pride, untempered by intercourse with the great worldbecomes stiff and starched by contact with petty things; in a loftiermoral atmosphere it would have grown to noble magnanimity. Enthusiasm, that virtue within a virtue, forming the saint, inspiring the devotionhidden from all eyes and glowing out upon the world in verse, turns toexaggeration, with the trifles of a narrow existence for its object. Far away from the centres of light shed by great minds, where the airis quick with thought, knowledge stands still, taste is corrupted likestagnant water, and passion dwindles, frittered away upon theinfinitely small objects which it strives to exalt. Herein lies thesecret of the avarice and tittle-tattle that poison provincial life. The contagion of narrow-mindedness and meanness affects the noblestnatures; and in such ways as these, men born to be great, and womenwho would have been charming if they had fallen under the forminginfluence of greater minds, are balked of their lives. 

Here was Mme. De Bargeton, for instance, smiting the lyre for everytrifle, and publishing her emotions indiscriminately to her circle. Asa matter of fact, when sensations appeal to an audience of one, it isbetter to keep them to ourselves. A sunset certainly is a gloriouspoem; but if a woman describes it, in high-sounding words, for thebenefit of matter-of-fact people, is she not ridiculous? There arepleasures which can only be felt to the full when two souls meet, poetand poet, heart and heart. She had a trick of using high-soundingphrases, interlarded with exaggerated expressions, the kind of stuffingeniously nicknamed _tartines_ by the French journalist, who furnishesa daily supply of the commodity for a public that daily performs thedifficult feat of swallowing it. She squandered superlativesrecklessly in her talk, and the smallest things took giantproportions. It was at this period of her career that she began totype-ize, individualize, synthesize, dramatize, superiorize, analyze, poetize, angelize, neologize, tragedify, prosify, and colossify--youmust violate the laws of language to find words to express thenew-fangled whimsies in which even women here and there indulge. Theheat of her language communicated itself to the brain, and thedithyrambs on her lips were spoken out of the abundance of her heart. She palpitated, swooned, and went into ecstasies over anything andeverything, over the devotion of a sister of Charity, and theexecution of the brothers Fauchet, over M. D'Arlincourt's _Ipsiboe_, Lewis' _Anaconda_, or the escape of La Valette, or the presence of mindof a lady friend who put burglars to flight by imitating a man'svoice. Everything was heroic, extraordinary, strange, wonderful, anddivine. She would work herself into a state of excitement, indignation, or depression; she soared to heaven, and sank again, gazed at the sky, or looked to earth; her eyes were always filled withtears. She wore herself out with chronic admiration, and wasted herstrength on curious dislikes. Her mind ran on the Pasha of Janina; shewould have liked to try conclusions with him in his seraglio, and hada great notion of being sewn in a sack and thrown into the water. Sheenvied that blue-stocking of the desert, Lady Hester Stanhope; shelonged to be a sister of Saint Camilla and tend the sick and die ofyellow fever in a hospital at Barcelona; 'twas a high, a nobledestiny! In short, she thirsted for any draught but the clear springwater of her own life, flowing hidden among green pastures. She adoredByron and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, or anybody else with a picturesque ordramatic career. Her tears were ready to flow for every misfortune;she sang paeans for every victory. She sympathized with the fallenNapoleon, and with Mehemet Ali, massacring the foreign usurpers ofEgypt. In short, any kind of genius was accommodated with an aureole, and she was fully persuaded that gifted immortals lived on incense andlight. 

A good many people looked upon her as a harmless lunatic, but in theseextravagances of hers a keener observer surely would have seen thebroken fragments of a magnificent edifice that had crumbled into ruinbefore it was completed, the stones of a heavenly Jerusalem--love, inshort, without a lover. And this was indeed the fact. 

The story of the first eighteen years of Mme. De Bargeton's marriedlife can be summed up in a few words. For a long while she lived uponherself and distant hopes. Then, when she began to see that theirnarrow income put the longed-for life in Paris quite out of thequestion, she looked about her at the people with whom her life mustbe spent, and shuddered at her loneliness. There was not a single manwho could inspire the madness to which women are prone when theydespair of a life become stale and unprofitable in the present, andwith no outlook for the future. She had nothing to look for, nothingto expect from chance, for there are lives in which chance plays nopart. But when the Empire was in the full noonday of glory, andNapoleon was sending the flower of his troops to the Peninsula, herdisappointed hopes revived. Natural curiosity prompted her to make aneffort to see the heroes who were conquering Europe in obedience to aword from the Emperor in the order of the day; the heroes of a moderntime who outdid the mythical feats of paladins of old. The cities ofFrance, however avaricious or refractory, must perforce do honor tothe Imperial Guard, and mayors and prefects went out to meet them withset speeches as if the conquerors had been crowned kings. Mme. DeBargeton went to a _ridotto_ given to the town by a regiment, and fellin love with an officer of a good family, a sub-lieutenant, to whomthe crafty Napoleon had given a glimpse of the baton of a Marshal ofFrance. Love, restrained, greater and nobler than the ties that weremade and unmade so easily in those days, was consecrated coldly by thehands of death. On the battlefield of Wagram a shell shattered theonly record of Mme. De Bargeton's young beauty, a portrait worn on theheart of the Marquis of Cante-Croix. For long afterwards she wept forthe young soldier, the colonel in his second campaign, for the hearthot with love and glory that set a letter from Nais above Imperialfavor. The pain of those days cast a veil of sadness over her face, ashadow that only vanished at the terrible age when a woman firstdiscovers with dismay that the best years of her life are over, andshe has had no joy of them; when she sees her roses wither, and thelonging for love is revived again with the desire to linger yet for alittle on the last smiles of youth. Her nobler qualities dealt so manywounds to her soul at the moment when the cold of the provinces seizedupon her. She would have died of grief like the ermine if by chanceshe had been sullied by contact with those men whose thoughts are benton winning a few sous nightly at cards after a good dinner; pridesaved her from the shabby love intrigues of the provinces. A woman somuch above the level of those about her, forced to decide between theemptiness of the men whom she meets and the emptiness of her own life, can make but one choice; marriage and society became a cloister forAnais. She lived by poetry as the Carmelite lives by religion. All thefamous foreign books published in France for the first time between1815 and 1821, the great essayists, M. De Bonald and M. De Maistre(those two eagles of thought)--all the lighter French literature, inshort, that appeared during that sudden outburst of first vigorousgrowth might bring delight into her solitary life, but not flexibilityof mind or body. She stood strong and straight like some forest tree, lightning-blasted but still erect. Her dignity became a stiltedmanner, her social supremacy led her into affectation and sentimentalover-refinements; she queened it with her foibles, after the usualfashion of those who allow their courtiers to adore them. 

This was Mme. De Bargeton's past life, a dreary chronicle which mustbe given if Lucien's position with regard to the lady is to becomprehensible. Lucien's introduction came about oddly enough. In theprevious winter a newcomer had brought some interest into Mme. DeBargeton's monotonous life. The place of controller of excise fellvacant, and M. De Barante appointed a man whose adventurous life was asufficient passport to the house of the sovereign lady who had hershare of feminine curiosity. 

M. De Chatelet--he began life as plain Sixte Chatelet, but since 1806had the wit to adopt the particle--M. Du Chatelet was one of theagreeable young men who escaped conscription after conscription bykeeping very close to the Imperial sun. He had begun his career asprivate secretary to an Imperial Highness, a post for which hepossessed every qualification. Personable and of a good figure, aclever billiard-player, a passable amateur actor, he danced well, andexcelled in most physical exercises; he could, moreover, sing a balladand applaud a witticism. Supple, envious, never at a loss, there wasnothing that he did not know--nothing that he really knew. He knewnothing, for instance, of music, but he could sit down to the pianoand accompany, after a fashion, a woman who consented after muchpressing to sing a ballad learned by heart in a month of hardpractice. Incapable though he was of any feeling for poetry, he wouldboldly ask permission to retire for ten minutes to compose animpromptu, and return with a quatrain, flat as a pancake, whereinrhyme did duty for reason. M. Du Chatelet had besides a very prettytalent for filling in the ground of the Princess' worsted work afterthe flowers had been begun; he held her skeins of silk with infinitegrace, entertained her with dubious nothings more or lesstransparently veiled. He was ignorant of painting, but he could copy alandscape, sketch a head in profile, or design a costume and color it. He had, in short, all the little talents that a man could turn to suchuseful account in times when women exercised more influence in publiclife than most people imagine. Diplomacy he claimed to be his strongpoint; it usually is with those who have no knowledge, and areprofound by reason of their emptiness; and, indeed, this kind of skillpossesses one signal advantage, for it can only be displayed in theconduct of the affairs of the great, and when discretion is thequality required, a man who knows nothing can safely say nothing, andtake refuge in a mysterious shake of the head; in fact; the cleverestpractitioner is he who can swim with the current and keep his headwell above the stream of events which he appears to control, a man'sfitness for this business varying inversely as his specific gravity. But in this particular art or craft, as in all others, you shall finda thousand mediocrities for one man of genius; and in spite ofChatelet's services, ordinary and extraordinary, Her Imperial Highnesscould not procure a seat in the Privy Council for her privatesecretary; not that he would not have made a delightful Master ofRequests, like many another, but the Princess was of the opinion thather secretary was better placed with her than anywhere else in theworld. He was made a Baron, however, and went to Cassel asenvoy-extraordinary, no empty form of words, for he cut a veryextraordinary figure there--Napoleon used him as a diplomatic courierin the thick of a European crisis. Just as he had been promised thepost of minister to Jerome in Westphalia, the Empire fell to pieces;and balked of his _ambassade de famille_ as he called it, he went offin despair to Egypt with General de Montriveau. A strange chapter ofaccidents separated him from his traveling companion, and for two longyears Sixte du Chatelet led a wandering life among the Arab tribes ofthe desert, who sold and resold their captive--his talents being notof the slightest use to the nomad tribes. At length, about the timethat Montriveau reached Tangier, Chatelet found himself in theterritory of the Imam of Muscat, had the luck to find an Englishvessel just about to set sail, and so came back to Paris a year soonerthan his sometime companion. Once in Paris, his recent misfortunes, and certain connections of long standing, together with servicesrendered to great persons now in power, recommended him to thePresident of the Council, who put him in M. De Barante's departmentuntil such time as a controllership should fall vacant. So the partthat M. Du Chatelet once had played in the history of the ImperialPrincess, his reputation for success with women, the strange story ofhis travels and sufferings, all awakened the interest of the ladies ofAngouleme. 

M. Le Baron Sixte du Chatelet informed himself as to the manners andcustoms of the upper town, and took his cue accordingly. He appearedon the scene as a jaded man of the world, broken in health, and wearyin spirit. He would raise his hand to his forehead at all seasons, asif pain never gave him a moment's respite, a habit that recalled histravels and made him interesting. He was on visiting terms with theauthorities--the general in command, the prefect, thereceiver-general, and the bishop but in every house he was frigid, polite, and slightly supercilious, like a man out of his proper placeawaiting the favors of power. His social talents he left to conjecture, nor did they lose anything in reputation on that account; then whenpeople began to talk about him and wish to know him, and curiosity wasstill lively; when he had reconnoitred the men and found them nought, and studied the women with the eyes of experience in the cathedral forseveral Sundays, he saw that Mme. De. Bargeton was the person withwhom it would be best to be on intimate terms. Music, he thought, should open the doors of a house where strangers were never received. Surreptitiously he procured one of Miroir's Masses, learned it uponthe piano; and one fine Sunday when all Angouleme went to thecathedral, he played the organ, sent those who knew no better intoecstasies over the performance, and stimulated the interest felt inhim by allowing his name to slip out through the attendants. As hecame out after mass, Mme. De Bargeton complimented him, regrettingthat she had no opportunity of playing duets with such a musician; andnaturally, during an interview of her own seeking, he received thepassport, which he could not have obtained if he had asked for it. 

So the adroit Baron was admitted to the circle of the queen ofAngouleme, and paid her marked attention. The elderly beau--he wasforty-five years old--saw that all her youth lay dormant and ready torevive, saw treasures to be turned to account, and possibly a richwidow to wed, to say nothing of expectations; it would be a marriageinto the family of Negrepelisse, and for him this meant a familyconnection with the Marquise d'Espard, and a political career inParis. Here was a fair tree to cultivate in spite of the ill-omened, unsightly mistletoe that grew thick upon it; he would hang hisfortunes upon it, and prune it, and wait till he could gather itsgolden fruit. 

High-born Angouleme shrieked against the introduction of a Giaour intothe sanctuary, for Mme. De Bargeton's salon was a kind of holy ofholies in a society that kept itself unspotted from the world. Theonly outsider intimate there was the bishop; the prefect was admittedtwice or thrice in a year, the receiver-general was never received atall; Mme. De Bargeton would go to concerts and "at homes" at hishouse, but she never accepted invitations to dinner. And now, she whohad declined to open her doors to the receiver-general, welcomed amere controller of excise! Here was a novel order of precedence forsnubbed authority; such a thing it had never entered their minds toconceive. 

Those who by dint of mental effort can understand a kind of pettinesswhich, for that matter, can be found on any and every social level, will realize the awe with which the _bourgeoisie_ of Angouleme regardedthe Hotel de Bargeton. The inhabitant of L'Houmeau beheld the grandeurof that miniature Louvre, the glory of the Angoumoisin Hotel deRambouillet, shining at a solar distance; and yet, within it there wasgathered together all the direst intellectual poverty, all the decayedgentility from twenty leagues round about. 

Political opinion expanded itself in wordy commonplaces vociferatedwith emphasis; the _Quotidienne_ was comparatively Laodicean in itsloyalty, and Louis XVIII. A Jacobin. The women, for the most part, were awkward, silly, insipid, and ill dressed; there was alwayssomething amiss that spoiled the whole; nothing in them was complete, toilette or talk, flesh or spirit. But for his designs on Mme. DeBargeton, Chatelet could not have endured the society. And yet themanners and spirit of the noble in his ruined manor-house, theknowledge of the traditions of good breeding, --these things covered amultitude of deficiencies. Nobility of feeling was far more real herethan in the lofty world of Paris. You might compare these countryRoyalists, if the metaphor may be allowed, to old-fashioned silverplate, antiquated and tarnished, but weighty; their attachment to theHouse of Bourbon as the House of Bourbon did them honor. The veryfixity of their political opinions was a sort of faithfulness. Thedistance that they set between themselves and the _bourgeoisie_, theirvery exclusiveness, gave them a certain elevation, and enhanced theirvalue. Each noble represented a certain price for the townsmen, asBambara Negroes, we are told, attach a money value to cowrie shells. 

Some of the women, flattered by M. Du Chatelet, discerned in him thesuperior qualities lacking in the men of their own sect, and theinsurrection of self-love was pacified. These ladies all hoped tosucceed to the Imperial Highness. Purists were of the opinion that youmight see the intruder in Mme. De Bargeton's house, but not elsewhere. Du Chatelet was fain to put up with a good deal of insolence, but heheld his ground by cultivating the clergy. He encouraged the queen ofAngouleme in foibles bred of the soil; he brought her all the newestbooks; he read aloud the poetry that appeared. Together they went intoecstasies over these poets; she in all sincerity, he with suppressedyawns; but he bore with the Romantics with a patience hardly to beexpected of a man of the Imperial school, who scarcely could make outwhat the young writers meant. Not so Mme. De Bargeton; she waxedenthusiastic over the renaissance, due to the return of the BourbonLilies; she loved M. De Chateaubriand for calling Victor Hugo "asublime child. " It depressed her that she could only know genius fromafar, she sighed for Paris, where great men live. For these reasons M. Du Chatelet thought he had done a wonderfully clever thing when hetold the lady that at that moment in Angouleme there was "anothersublime child, " a young poet, a rising star whose glory surpassed thewhole Parisian galaxy, though he knew it not. A great man of thefuture had been born in L'Houmeau! The headmaster of the school hadshown the Baron some admirable verses. The poor and humble lad was asecond Chatterton, with none of the political baseness and ferocioushatred of the great ones of earth that led his English prototype toturn pamphleteer and revile his benefactors. Mme. De Bargeton in herlittle circle of five or six persons, who were supposed to share hertastes for art and letters, because this one scraped a fiddle, andthat splashed sheets of white paper, more or less, with sepia, and theother was president of a local agricultural society, or was giftedwith a bass voice that rendered _Se fiato in corpo_ like a war whoop--Mme. De Bargeton amid these grotesque figures was like a famishedactor set down to a stage dinner of pasteboard. No words, therefore, can describe her joy at these tidings. She must see this poet, thisangel! She raved about him, went into raptures, talked of him forwhole hours together. Before two days were out the sometime diplomaticcourier had negotiated (through the headmaster) for Lucien'sappearance in the Hotel de Bargeton. 

Poor helots of the provinces, for whom the distances between class andclass are so far greater than for the Parisian (for whom, indeed, these distances visibly lessen day by day); souls so grievouslyoppressed by the social barriers behind which all sorts and conditionsof men sit crying _Raca_! with mutual anathemas--you, and you alone, will fully comprehend the ferment in Lucien's heart and brain, whenhis awe-inspiring headmaster told him that the great gates of theHotel de Bargeton would shortly open and turn upon their hinges at hisfame! Lucien and David, walking together of an evening in thePromenade de Beaulieu, had looked up at the house with theold-fashioned gables, and wondered whether their names would ever somuch as reach ears inexorably deaf to knowledge that came from a lowlyorigin; and now he (Lucien) was to be made welcome there!

No one except his sister was in the secret. Eve, like the thriftyhousekeeper and divine magician that she was, conjured up a few louisd'or from her savings to buy thin shoes for Lucien of the bestshoemaker in Angouleme, and an entirely new suit of clothes from themost renowned tailor. She made a frill for his best shirt, and washedand pleated it with her own hands. And how pleased she was to see himso dressed! How proud she felt of her brother, and what quantities ofadvice she gave him! Her intuition foresaw countless foolish fears. Lucien had a habit of resting his elbows on the table when he was indeep thought; he would even go so far as to draw a table nearer tolean upon it; Eve told him that he must not forget himself in thosearistocratic precincts. 

She went with him as far as St. Peter's Gate, and when they werealmost opposite the cathedral she stopped, and watched him pass downthe Rue de Beaulieu to the Promenade, where M. Du Chatelet was waitingfor him. And after he was out of sight, she still stood there, poorgirl! in a great tremor of emotion, as though some great thing hadhappened to them. Lucien in Mme. De Bargeton's house!--for Eve itmeant the dawn of success. The innocent creature did not suspect thatwhere ambition begins, ingenuous feeling ends. 

Externals in the Rue du Minage gave Lucien no sense of surprise. Thispalace, that loomed so large in his imagination, was a house built ofthe soft stone of the country, mellowed by time. It looked dismalenough from the street, and inside it was extremely plain; there wasthe usual provincial courtyard--chilly, prim, and neat; and the houseitself was sober, almost convent-like, but in good repair. 

Lucien went up the old staircase with the balustrade of chestnut wood(the stone steps ceased after the second floor), crossed a shabbyantechamber, and came into the presence in a little wainscoteddrawing-room, beyond a dimly-lit salon. The carved woodwork, in thetaste of the eighteenth century, had been painted gray. There weremonochrome paintings on the frieze panels, and the walls were adornedwith crimson damask with a meagre border. The old-fashioned furnitureshrank piteously from sight under covers of a red-and-white checkpattern. On the sofa, covered with thin mattressed cushions, sat Mme. De Bargeton; the poet beheld her by the light of two wax candles on asconce with a screen fitted to it, that stood before her on a roundtable with a green cloth. 

The queen did not attempt to rise, but she twisted very gracefully onher seat, smiling on the poet, who was not a little fluttered by theserpentine quiverings; her manner was distinguished, he thought. ForMme. De Bargeton, she was impressed with Lucien's extreme beauty, withhis diffidence, with everything about him; for her the poet alreadywas poetry incarnate. Lucien scrutinized his hostess with discreetside glances; she disappointed none of his expectations of a greatlady. 

Mme. De Bargeton, following a new fashion, wore a coif of slashedblack velvet, a head-dress that recalls memories of mediaeval legendto a young imagination, to amplify, as it were, the dignity ofwomanhood. Her red-gold hair, escaping from under her cap, hung loose;bright golden color in the light, red in the rounded shadow of thecurls that only partially hid her neck. Beneath a massive white brow, clean cut and strongly outlined, shone a pair of bright gray eyesencircled by a margin of mother-of-pearl, two blue veins on each sideof the nose bringing out the whiteness of that delicate setting. TheBourbon curve of the nose added to the ardent expression of an ovalface; it was as if the royal temper of the House of Conde shoneconspicuous in this feature. The careless cross-folds of the bodiceleft a white throat bare, and half revealed the outlines of a stillyouthful figure and shapely, well placed contours beneath. 

With fingers tapering and well-kept, though somewhat too thin, Mme. DeBargeton amiably pointed to a seat by her side, M. Du Chateletensconced himself in an easy-chair, and Lucien then became aware thatthere was no one else in the room. 

Mme. De Bargeton's words intoxicated the young poet from L'Houmeau. For Lucien those three hours spent in her presence went by like adream that we would fain have last forever. She was not thin, hethought; she was slender; in love with love, and loverless; anddelicate in spite of her strength. Her foibles, exaggerated by hermanner, took his fancy; for youth sets out with a love of hyperbole, that infirmity of noble souls. He did not so much as see that hercheeks were faded, that the patches of color on the cheek-bone werefaded and hardened to a brick-red by listless days and a certainamount of ailing health. His imagination fastened at once on theglowing eyes, on the dainty curls rippling with light, on the dazzlingfairness of her skin, and hovered about those bright points as themoth hovers about the candle flame. For her spirit made such appeal tohis that he could no longer see the woman as she was. Her feminineexaltation had carried him away, the energy of her expressions, alittle staled in truth by pretty hard and constant wear, but new toLucien, fascinated him so much the more easily because he wasdetermined to be pleased. He had brought none of his own verses toread, but nothing was said of them; he had purposely left them behindbecause he meant to return; and Mme. De Bargeton did not ask for them, because she meant that he should come back some future day to readthem to her. Was not this a beginning of an understanding?

As for M. Sixte du Chatelet, he was not over well pleased with allthis. He perceived rather too late in the day that he had a rival inthis handsome young fellow. He went with him as far as the firstflight of steps below Beaulieu to try the effect of a littlediplomacy; and Lucien was not a little astonished when he heard thecontroller of excise pluming himself on having effected theintroduction, and proceeding in this character to give him (Lucien)the benefit of his advice. 

"Heaven send that Lucien might meet with better treatment than he haddone, " such was the matter of M. Du Chatelet's discourse. "The Courtwas less insolent that this pack of dolts in Angouleme. You wereexpected to endure deadly insults; the superciliousness you had to putup with was something abominable. If this kind of folk did not altertheir behavior, there would be another Revolution of '89. As forhimself, if he continued to go to the house, it was because he hadfound Mme. De Bargeton to his taste; she was the only woman worthtroubling about in Angouleme; he had been paying court to her for wantof anything better to do, and now he was desperately in love with her. She would be his before very long, she loved him, everything pointedthat way. The conquest of this haughty queen of the society would behis one revenge on the whole houseful of booby clodpates. "

Chatelet talked of his passion in the tone of a man who would have arival's life if he crossed his path. The elderly butterfly of theEmpire came down with his whole weight on the poor poet, and tried tofrighten and crush him by his self-importance. He grew taller as hegave an embellished account of his perilous wanderings; but while heimpressed the poet's imagination, the lover was by no means afraid ofhim. 

In spite of the elderly coxcomb, and regardless of his threats andairs of a _bourgeois_ bravo, Lucien went back again and again to thehouse--not too often at first, as became a man of L'Houmeau; butbefore very long he grew accustomed to the vast condescension, as ithad seemed to him at the outset, and came more and more frequently. The druggist's son was a completely insignificant being. If any of the_noblesse_, men or women, calling upon Nais, found Lucien in the room, they met him with the overwhelming graciousness that well-bred peopleuse towards their inferiors. Lucien thought them very kind for a time, and later found out the real reason for their specious amiability. Itwas not long before he detected a patronizing tone that stirred hisgall and confirmed him in his bitter Republicanism, a phase of opinionthrough which many a would-be patrician passes by way of prelude tohis introduction to polite society. 

But was there anything that he would not have endured for Nais?--forso he heard her named by the clan. Like Spanish grandees and the oldAustrian nobility at Vienna, these folk, men and women alike, calledeach other by their Christian names, a final shade of distinction inthe inmost ring of Angoumoisin aristocracy. 

Lucien loved Nais as a young man loves the first woman who flattershim, for Nais prophesied great things and boundless fame for Lucien. She used all her skill to secure her hold upon her poet; not merelydid she exalt him beyond measure, but she represented him to himselfas a child without fortune whom she meant to start in life; shetreated him like a child, to keep him near her; she made him herreader, her secretary, and cared more for him than she would havethought possible after the dreadful calamity that had befallen her. 

She was very cruel to herself in those days, telling herself that itwould be folly to love a young man of twenty, so far apart from hersocially in the first place; and her behavior to him was a bewilderingmixture of familiarity and capricious fits of pride arising from herfears and scruples. She was sometimes a lofty patroness, sometimes shewas tender and flattered him. At first, while he was overawed by herrank, Lucien experienced the extremes of dread, hope, and despair, thetorture of a first love, that is beaten deep into the heart with thehammer strokes of alternate bliss and anguish. For two months Mme. DeBargeton was for him a benefactress who would take a mother's interestin him; but confidences came next. Mme. De Bargeton began to addressher poet as "dear Lucien, " and then as "dear, " without more ado. Thepoet grew bolder, and addressed the great lady as Nais, and therefollowed a flash of anger that captivates a boy; she reproached himfor calling her by a name in everybody's mouth. The haughty andhigh-born Negrepelisse offered the fair angel youth that one of herappellations which was unsoiled by use; for him she would be "Louise. "Lucien was in the third heaven. 

One evening when Lucien came in, he found Mme. De Bargeton looking ata portrait, which she promptly put away. He wished to see it, and toquiet the despair of a first fit of jealousy Louise showed himCante-Croix's picture, and told with tears the piteous story of a loveso stainless, so cruelly cut short. Was she experimenting with herself?Was she trying a first unfaithfulness to the memory of the dead? Orhad she taken it into her head to raise up a rival to Lucien in theportrait? Lucien was too much of a boy to analyze his lady-love; hegave way to unfeigned despair when she opened the campaign byentrenching herself behind the more or less skilfully devised scrupleswhich women raise to have them battered down. When a woman begins totalk about her duty, regard for appearances or religion, theobjections she raises are so many redoubts which she loves to havecarried by storm. But on the guileless Lucien these coquetries werethrown away; he would have advanced of his own accord. 

"_I_ shall not die for you, I will live for you, " he cried audaciouslyone evening; he meant to have no more of M. De Cante-Croix, and gaveLouise a glance which told plainly that a crisis was at hand. 

Startled at the progress of this new love in herself and her poet, Louise demanded some verses promised for the first page of her album, looking for a pretext for a quarrel in his tardiness. But what becameof her when she read the following stanzas, which, naturally, sheconsidered finer than the finest work of Canalis, the poet of thearistocracy?--

 The magic brush, light flying flights of song-- To these, but not to these alone, belong My pages fair; Often to me, my mistress' pencil steals To tell the secret gladness that she feels, The hidden care. 

 And when her fingers, slowlier at the last, Of a rich Future, now become the Past, Seek count of me, Oh Love, when swift, thick-coming memories rise, I pray of Thee. May they bring visions fair as cloudless skies Of happy voyage o'er a summer sea!

"Was it really I who inspired those lines?" she asked. 

The doubt suggested by coquetry to a woman who amused herself byplaying with fire brought tears to Lucien's eyes; but her first kissupon his forehead calmed the storm. Decidedly Lucien was a great man, and she meant to form him; she thought of teaching him Italian andGerman and perfecting his manners. That would be pretext sufficientfor having him constantly with her under the very eyes of her tiresomecourtiers. What an interest in her life! She took up music again forher poet's sake, and revealed the world of sound to him, playing grandfragments of Beethoven till she sent him into ecstasy; and, happy inhis delight, turned to the half-swooning poet. 

"Is not such happiness as this enough?" she asked hypocritically; andpoor Lucien was stupid enough to answer, "Yes. "

In the previous week things had reached such a point, that Louise hadjudged it expedient to ask Lucien to dine with M. De Bargeton as athird. But in spite of this precaution, the whole town knew the stateof affairs; and so extraordinary did it appear, that no one wouldbelieve the truth. The outcry was terrific. Some were of the opinionthat society was on the eve of cataclysm. "See what comes of Liberaldoctrines!" cried others. 

Then it was that the jealous du Chatelet discovered that MadameCharlotte, the monthly nurse, was no other than Mme. Chardon, "themother of the Chateaubriand of L'Houmeau, " as he put it. The remarkpassed muster as a joke. Mme. De Chandour was the first to hurry toMme. De Bargeton. 

"Nais, dear, " she said, "do you know what everybody is talking aboutin Angouleme? This little rhymster's mother is the Madame Charlottewho nursed my sister-in-law through her confinement two months ago. "

"What is there extraordinary in that, my dear?" asked Mme. De Bargetonwith her most regal air. "She is a druggist's widow, is she not? Apoor fate for a Rubempre. Suppose that you and I had not a penny inthe world, what should either of us do for a living? How would yousupport your children?"

Mme. De Bargeton's presence of mind put an end to the jeremiads of the_noblesse_. Great natures are prone to make a virtue of misfortune; andthere is something irresistibly attractive about well-doing whenpersisted in through evil report; innocence has the piquancy of theforbidden. 

Mme. De Bargeton's rooms were crowded that evening with friends whocame to remonstrate with her. She brought her most caustic wit intoplay. She said that as noble families could not produce a Moliere, aRacine, a Rousseau, a Voltaire, a Massillon, a Beaumarchais, or aDiderot, people must make up their minds to it, and accept the factthat great men had upholsterers and clockmakers and cutlers for theirfathers. She said that genius was always noble. She railed at boorishsquires for understanding their real interests so imperfectly. Inshort, she talked a good deal of nonsense, which would have let thelight into heads less dense, but left her audience agape at hereccentricity. And in these ways she conjured away the storm with herheavy artillery. 

When Lucien, obedient to her request, appeared for the first time inthe faded great drawing-room, where the whist-tables were set out, shewelcomed him graciously, and brought him forward, like a queen whomeans to be obeyed. She addressed the controller of excise as "M. Chatelet, " and left that gentleman thunderstruck by the discovery thatshe knew about the illegal superfetation of the particle. Lucien wasforced upon her circle, and was received as a poisonous element, whichevery person in it vowed to expel with the antidote of insolence. 

Nais had won a victory, but she had lost her supremacy of empire. There was a rumor of insurrection. Amelie, otherwise Mme. De Chandour, harkening to "M. Chatelet's" counsels, determined to erect a rivalaltar by receiving on Wednesdays. Now Mme. De Bargeton's salon wasopen every evening; and those who frequented it were so wedded totheir ways, so accustomed to meet about the same tables, to play thefamiliar game of backgammon, to see the same faces and the same candlesconces night after night; and afterwards to cloak and shawl, and puton overshoes and hats in the old corridor, that they were quite asmuch attached to the steps of the staircase as to the mistress of thehouse. 

"All resigned themselves to endure the songster" (_chardonneret_) "ofthe sacred grove, " said Alexandre de Brebian, which was witticismnumber two. Finally, the president of the agricultural society put anend to the sedition by remarking judicially that "before theRevolution the greatest nobles admitted men like Dulcos and Grimm andCrebillon to their society--men who were nobodies, like this littlepoet of L'Houmeau; but one thing they never did, they never receivedtax-collectors, and, after all, Chatelet is only a tax-collector. "

Du Chatelet suffered for Chardon. Every one turned the cold shoulderupon him; and Chatelet was conscious that he was attacked. When Mme. De Bargeton called him "M. Chatelet, " he swore to himself that hewould possess her; and now he entered into the views of the mistressof the house, came to the support of the young poet, and declaredhimself Lucien's friend. The great diplomatist, overlooked by theshortsighted Emperor, made much of Lucien, and declared himself hisfriend! To launch the poet into society, he gave a dinner, and askedall the authorities to meet him--the prefect, the receiver-general, the colonel in command of the garrison, the head of the Naval School, the president of the Court, and so forth. The poet, poor fellow, wasfeted so magnificently, and so belauded, that anybody but a young manof two-and-twenty would have shrewdly suspected a hoax. After dinner, Chatelet drew his rival on to recite _The Dying Sardanapalus_, themasterpiece of the hour; and the headmaster of the school, a man of aphlegmatic temperament, applauded with both hands, and vowed thatJean-Baptiste Rousseau had done nothing finer. Sixte, Baron duChatelet, thought in his heart that this slip of a rhymster wouldwither incontinently in a hothouse of adulation; perhaps he hoped thatwhen the poet's head was turned with brilliant dreams, he wouldindulge in some impertinence that would promptly consign him to theobscurity from which he had emerged. Pending the decease of genius, Chatelet appeared to offer up his hopes as a sacrifice at Mme. DeBargeton's feet; but with the ingenuity of a rake, he kept his ownplan in abeyance, watching the lovers' movements with keenly criticaleyes, and waiting for the opportunity of ruining Lucien. 

From this time forward, vague rumors reported the existence of a greatman in Angoumois. Mme. De Bargeton was praised on all sides for theinterest which she took in this young eagle. No sooner was her conductapproved than she tried to win a general sanction. She announced asoiree, with ices, tea, and cakes, a great innovation in a city wheretea, as yet, was sold only by druggists as a remedy for indigestion. The flower of Angoumoisin aristocracy was summoned to hear Lucien readhis great work. Louise had hidden all the difficulties from herfriend, but she let fall a few words touching the social cabal formedagainst him; she would not have him ignorant of the perils besettinghis career as a man of genius, nor of the obstacles insurmountable toweaklings. She drew a lesson from the recent victory. Her white handspointed him to glory that lay beyond a prolonged martyrdom; she spokeof stakes and flaming pyres; she spread the adjectives thickly on herfinest _tartines_, and decorated them with a variety of her most pompousepithets. It was an infringement of the copyright of the passages ofdeclamation that disfigure _Corinne_; but Louise grew so much thegreater in her own eyes as she talked, that she loved the Benjamin whoinspired her eloquence the more for it. She counseled him to take abold step and renounce his patronymic for the noble name of Rubempre;he need not mind the little tittle-tattle over a change which theKing, for that matter, would authorize. Mme. De Bargeton undertook toprocure this favor; she was related to the Marquise d'Espard, who wasa Blamont-Chauvry before her marriage, and a _persona grata_ at Court. The words "King, " "Marquise d'Espard, " and "the Court" dazzled Lucienlike a blaze of fireworks, and the necessity of the baptism was plainto him. 

"Dear child, " said Louise, with tender mockery in her tones, "thesooner it is done, the sooner it will be sanctioned. "

She went through social strata and showed the poet that this stepwould raise him many rungs higher in the ladder. Seizing the moment, she persuaded Lucien to forswear the chimerical notions of '89 as toequality; she roused a thirst for social distinction allayed byDavid's cool commonsense; she pointed out fashionable society as thegoal and the only stage for such a talent as his. The rabid Liberalbecame a Monarchist _in petto_; Lucien set his teeth in the apple ofdesire of rank, luxury, and fame. He swore to win a crown to lay athis lady's feet, even if there should be blood-stains on the bays. Hewould conquer at any cost, _quibuscumque viis_. To prove his courage, hetold her of his present way of life; Louise had known nothing of itshardships, for there is an indefinable pudency inseparable from strongfeeling in youth, a delicacy which shrinks from a display of greatqualities; and a young man loves to have the real quality of hisnature discerned through the incognito. He described that life, theshackles of poverty borne with pride, his days of work for David, hisnights of study. His young ardor recalled memories of the colonel ofsix-and-twenty; Mme. De Bargeton's eyes grew soft; and Lucien, seeingthis weakness in his awe-inspiring mistress, seized a hand that shehad abandoned to him, and kissed it with the frenzy of a lover and apoet in his youth. Louise even allowed him to set his eager, quiveringlips upon her forehead. 

"Oh, child! child! if any one should see us, I should look veryridiculous, " she said, shaking off the ecstatic torpor. 

In the course of that evening, Mme. De Bargeton's wit made havoc ofLucien's prejudices, as she styled them. Men of genius, according toher doctrine, had neither brothers nor sisters nor father nor mother;the great tasks laid upon them required that they should sacrificeeverything that they might grow to their full stature. Perhaps theirfamilies might suffer at first from the all-absorbing exactions of agiant brain, but at a later day they were repaid a hundredfold forself-denial of every kind during the early struggles of the kinglyintellect with adverse fate; they shared the spoils of victory. Geniuswas answerable to no man. Genius alone could judge of the means usedto an end which no one else could know. It was the duty of a man ofgenius, therefore, to set himself above law; it was his mission toreconstruct law; the man who is master of his age may take all that heneeds, run any risks, for all is his. She quoted instances. BernardPalissy, Louis XI. , Fox, Napoleon, Christopher Columbus, and JuliusCaesar, --all these world-famous gamblers had begun life hampered withdebt, or as poor men; all of them had been misunderstood, taken formadmen, reviled for bad sons, bad brothers, bad fathers; and yet inafter life each one had come to be the pride of his family, of hiscountry, of the civilized world. 

Her arguments fell upon fertile soil in the worst of Lucien's nature, and spread corruption in his heart; for him, when his desires werehot, all means were admissible. But--failure is high treason againstsociety; and when the fallen conqueror has run amuck through _bourgeois_virtues, and pulled down the pillars of society, small wonder thatsociety, finding Marius seated among the ruins, should drive him forthin abhorrence. All unconsciously Lucien stood with the palm of geniuson the one hand and a shameful ending in the hulks upon the other;and, on high upon the Sinai of the prophets, beheld no Dead Seacovering the cities of the plain--the hideous winding-sheet ofGomorrah. 

So well did Louise loosen the swaddling-bands of provincial life thatconfined the heart and brain of her poet that the said poet determinedto try an experiment upon her. He wished to feel certain that thisproud conquest was his without laying himself open to themortification of a rebuff. The forthcoming soiree gave him hisopportunity. Ambition blended with his love. He loved, and he meant torise, a double desire not unnatural in young men with a heart tosatisfy and the battle of life to fight. Society, summoning all herchildren to one banquet, arouses ambition in the very morning of life. Youth is robbed of its charm, and generous thoughts are corrupted bymercenary scheming. The idealist would fain have it otherwise, butintrusive fact too often gives the lie to the fiction which we shouldlike to believe, making it impossible to paint the young man of thenineteenth century other than he is. Lucien imagined that his schemingwas entirely prompted by good feeling, and persuaded himself that itwas done solely for his friend David's sake. 

He wrote a long letter to his Louise; he felt bolder, pen in hand, than face to face. In a dozen sheets, copied out three several times, he told her of his father's genius and blighted hopes and of hisgrinding poverty. He described his beloved sister as an angel, andDavid as another Cuvier, a great man of the future, and a father, friend, and brother to him in the present. He should feel himselfunworthy of his Louise's love (his proudest distinction) if he did notask her to do for David all that she had done for him. He would giveup everything rather than desert David Sechard; David must witness hissuccess. It was one of those wild letters in which a young man pointsa pistol at a refusal, letters full of boyish casuistry and theincoherent reasoning of an idealist; a delicious tissue of wordsembroidered here and there by the naive utterances that women love sowell--unconscious revelations of the writer's heart. 

Lucien left the letter with the housemaid, went to the office, andspent the day in reading proofs, superintending the execution oforders, and looking after the affairs of the printing-house. He saidnot a word to David. While youth bears a child's heart, it is capableof sublime reticence. Perhaps, too, Lucien began to dread thePhocion's axe which David could wield when he chose, perhaps he wasafraid to meet those clear-sighted eyes that read the depths of hissoul. But when he read Chenier's poems with David, his secret rosefrom his heart to his lips at the sting of a reproach that he felt asthe patient feels the probing of a wound. 

And now try to understand the thoughts that troubled Lucien's mind ashe went down from Angouleme. Was the great lady angry with him? Wouldshe receive David? Had he, Lucien, in his ambition, flung himselfheadlong back into the depths of L'Houmeau? Before he set that kiss onLouise's forehead, he had had time to measure the distance between aqueen and her favorite, so far had he come in five months, and he didnot tell himself that David could cross over the same ground in amoment. Yet he did not know how completely the lower orders wereexcluded from this upper world; he did not so much as suspect that asecond experiment of this kind meant ruin for Mme. De Bargeton. Onceaccused and fairly convicted of a liking for _canaille_, Louise would bedriven from the place, her caste would shun her as men shunned a leperin the Middle Ages. Nais might have broken the moral law, and herwhole circle, the clergy and the flower of the aristocracy, would havedefended her against the world through thick and then; but a breach ofanother law, the offence of admitting all sorts of people to her house--this was sin without remission. The sins of those in power arealways overlooked--once let them abdicate, and they shall pay thepenalty. And what was it but abdication to receive David?

But if Lucien did not see these aspects of the question, hisaristocratic instinct discerned plenty of difficulties of anotherkind, and he took alarm. A fine manner is not the invariable outcomeof noble feeling; and while no man at court had a nobler air thanRacine, Corneille looked very much like a cattle-dealer, and Descartesmight have been taken for an honest Dutch merchant; and visitors to LaBrede, meeting Montesquieu in a cotton nightcap, carrying a rake overhis shoulder, mistook him for a gardener. A knowledge of the world, when it is not sucked in with mother's milk and part of theinheritance of descent, is only acquired by education, supplemented bycertain gifts of chance--a graceful figure, distinction of feature, acertain ring in the voice. All these, so important trifles, Davidlacked, while Nature had bestowed them upon his friend. Of gentleblood on the mother's side, Lucien was a Frank, even down to thehigh-arched instep. David had inherited the physique of his father thepressman and the flat foot of the Gael. Lucien could hear the showerof jokes at David's expense; he could see Mme. De Bargeton's repressedsmile; and at length, without being exactly ashamed of his brother, hemade up his mind to disregard his first impulse and to think twicebefore yielding to it in future. 

So, after the hour of poetry and self-sacrifice, after the reading ofverse that opened out before the friends the fields of literature inthe light of a newly-risen sun, the hour of worldly wisdom and ofscheming struck for Lucien. 

Down once more in L'Houmeau he wished that he had not written thatletter; he wished he could have it back again; for down the vista ofthe future he caught a glimpse of the inexorable laws of the world. Heguessed that nothing succeeds like success, and it cost him somethingto step down from the first rung of the scaling ladder by which hemeant to reach and storm the heights above. Pictures of his quiet andsimple life rose before him, pictures fair with the brightest colorsof blossoming love. There was David; what a genius David had--Davidwho had helped him so generously, and would die for him at need; hethought of his mother, of how great a lady she was in her lowly lot, and how she thought that he was as good as he was clever; then of hissister so gracious in submission to her fate, of his own innocentchildhood and conscience as yet unstained, of budding hopesundespoiled by rough winds, and at these thoughts the past broke intoflowers once more for his memory. 

Then he told himself that it was a far finer thing to hew his own waythrough serried hostile mobs of aristocrats or philistines by repeatedsuccessful strokes, than to reach the goal through a woman's favor. Sooner or later his genius should shine out; it had been so with theothers, his predecessors; they had tamed society. Women would love himwhen that day came! The example of Napoleon, which, unluckily for thisnineteenth century of ours, has filled a great many ordinary personswith aspirations after extraordinary destinies, --the example ofNapoleon occurred to Lucien's mind. He flung his schemes to the windsand blamed himself for thinking of them. For Lucien was so made thathe went from evil to good, or from good to evil, with the samefacility. 

Lucien had none of the scholar's love for his retreat; for the pastmonth indeed he had felt something like shame at the sight of the shopfront, where you could read--

 POSTEL (LATE CHARDON), PHARMACEUTICAL CHEMIST, in yellow letters on a green ground. It was an offence to him that hisfather's name should be thus posted up in a place where every carriagepassed. 

Every evening, when he closed the ugly iron gate and went up toBeaulieu to give his arm to Mme. De Bargeton among the dandies of theupper town, he chafed beyond all reason at the disparity between hislodging and his fortune. 

"I love Mme. De Bargeton; perhaps in a few days she will be mine, yethere I live in this rat-hole!" he said to himself this evening, as hewent down the narrow passage into the little yard behind the shop. This evening bundles of boiled herbs were spread out along the wall, the apprentice was scouring a caldron, and M. Postel himself, girdedabout with his laboratory apron, was standing with a retort in hishand, inspecting some chemical product while keeping an eye upon theshop door, or if the eye happened to be engaged, he had at any rate anear for the bell. 

A strong scent of camomile and peppermint pervaded the yard and thepoor little dwelling at the side, which you reached by a short ladder, with a rope on either side by way of hand-rail. Lucien's room was anattic just under the roof. 

"Good-day, sonny, " said M. Postel, that typical, provincial tradesman. "Are you pretty middling? I have just been experimenting on treacle, but it would take a man like your father to find what I am lookingfor. Ah! he was a famous chemist, he was! If I had only known his goutspecific, you and I should be rolling along in our carriage this day. "

The little druggist, whose head was as thick as his heart was kind, never let a week pass without some allusion to Chardon senior'sunlucky secretiveness as to that discovery, words that Lucien feltlike a stab. 

"It is a great pity, " Lucien answered curtly. He was beginning tothink his father's apprentice prodigiously vulgar, though he hadblessed the man for his kindness, for honest Postel had helped hismaster's widow and children more than once. 

"Why, what is the matter with you?" M. Postel inquired, putting downhis test tube on the laboratory table. 

"Is there a letter for me?"

"Yes, a letter that smells like balm! it is lying on the corner nearmy desk. "

Mme. De Bargeton's letter lying among the physic bottles in adruggist's shop! Lucien sprang in to rescue it. 

"Be quick, Lucien! your dinner has been waiting an hour for you, itwill be cold!" a sweet voice called gently through a half-openedwindow; but Lucien did not hear. 

"That brother of yours has gone crazy, mademoiselle, " said Postel, lifting his face. 

The old bachelor looked rather like a miniature brandy cask, embellished by a painter's fancy, with a fat, ruddy countenance muchpitted with the smallpox; at the sight of Eve his face took aceremonious and amiable expression, which said plainly that he hadthoughts of espousing the daughter of his predecessor, but could notput an end to the strife between love and interest in his heart. Heoften said to Lucien, with a smile, "Your sister is uncommonly pretty, and you are not so bad looking neither! Your father did everythingwell. "

Eve was tall, dark-haired, dark of complexion, and blue-eyed; butnotwithstanding these signs of virile character, she was gentle, tender-hearted, and devoted to those she loved. Her frank innocence, her simplicity, her quiet acceptance of a hard-working life, hercharacter--for her life was above reproach--could not fail to winDavid Sechard's heart. So, since the first time that these two hadmet, a repressed and single-hearted love had grown up between them inthe German fashion, quietly, with no fervid protestations. In theirsecret souls they thought of each other as if there were a bar betweenthat kept them apart; as if the thought were an offence against somejealous husband; and hid their feelings from Lucien as though theirlove in some way did him a wrong. David, moreover, had no confidencein himself, and could not believe that Eve could care for him; Eve wasa penniless girl, and therefore shy. A real work-girl would have beenbolder; but Eve, gently bred, and fallen into poverty, resignedherself to her dreary lot. Diffident as she seemed, she was in realityproud, and would not make a single advance towards the son of a fathersaid to be rich. People who knew the value of a growing property, saidthat the vineyard at Marsac was worth more than eighty thousandfrancs, to say nothing of the traditional bits of land which oldSechard used to buy as they came into the market, for old Sechard hadsavings--he was lucky with his vintages, and a clever salesman. Perhaps David was the only man in Angouleme who knew nothing of hisfather's wealth. In David's eyes Marsac was a hovel bought in 1810 forfifteen or sixteen thousand francs, a place that he saw once a year atvintage time when his father walked him up and down among the vinesand boasted of an output of wine which the young printer never saw, and he cared nothing about it. 

David was a student leading a solitary life; and the love that gainedeven greater force in solitude, as he dwelt upon the difficulties inthe way, was timid, and looked for encouragement; for David stood morein awe of Eve than a simple clerk of some high-born lady. He wasawkward and ill at ease in the presence of his idol, and as eager tohurry away as he had been to come. He repressed his passion, and wassilent. Often of an evening, on some pretext of consulting Lucien, hewould leave the Place du Murier and go down through the Palet Gate asfar as L'Houmeau, but at the sight of the green iron railings hisheart failed. Perhaps he had come too late, Eve might think him anuisance; she would be in bed by this time no doubt; and so he turnedback. But though his great love had only appeared in trifles, Eve readit clearly; she was proud, without a touch of vanity in her pride, ofthe deep reverence in David's looks and words and manner towards her, but it was the young printer's enthusiastic belief in Lucien that drewher to him most of all. He had divined the way to win Eve. The mutedelights of this love of theirs differed from the transports of stormypassion, as wildflowers in the fields from the brilliant flowers ingarden beds. Interchange of glances, delicate and sweet as bluewater-flowers on the surface of the stream; a look in either face, vanishing as swiftly as the scent of briar-rose; melancholy, tender asthe velvet of moss--these were the blossoms of two rare natures, springing up out of a rich and fruitful soil on foundations of rock. Many a time Eve had seen revelations of the strength that lay belowthe appearance of weakness, and made such full allowance for all thatDavid left undone, that the slightest word now might bring about acloser union of soul and soul. 

Eve opened the door, and Lucien sat down without a word at the littletable on an X-shaped trestle. There was no tablecloth; the poor littlehousehold boasted but three silver spoons and forks, and Eve had laidthem all for the dearly loved brother. 

"What have you there?" she asked, when she had set a dish on thetable, and put the extinguisher on the portable stove, where it hadbeen kept hot for him. 

Lucien did not answer. Eve took up a little plate, daintily garnishedwith vine-leaves, and set it on the table with a jug full of cream. 

"There, Lucien, I have had strawberries for you. "

But Lucien was so absorbed in his letter that he did not hear a word. Eve came to sit beside him without a murmur; for in a sister's lovefor a brother it is an element of great pleasure to be treated withoutceremony. 

"Oh! what is it?" she cried as she saw tears shining in her brother'seyes. 

"Nothing, nothing, Eve, " he said, and putting his arm about her waist, he drew her towards him and kissed her forehead, her hair, her throat, with warmth that surprised her. 

"You are keeping something from me. "

"Well, then--she loves me. "

"I knew very well that you kissed me for somebody else, " the poorsister pouted, flushing red. 

"We shall all be happy, " cried Lucien, swallowing great spoonfuls ofsoup. 

"_We_?" echoed Eve. The same presentiment that had crossed David's mindprompted her to add, "You will not care so much about us now. "

"How can you think that, if you know me?"

Eve put out her hand and grasped his tightly; then she carried off theempty plate and the brown earthen soup-tureen, and brought the dishthat she had made for him. But instead of eating his dinner, Lucienread his letter over again; and Eve, discreet maiden, did not askanother question, respecting her brother's silence. If he wished totell her about it, she could wait; if he did not, how could she askhim to tell her? She waited. Here is the letter:--

 "MY FRIEND, --Why should I refuse to your brother in science the help that I have lent you? All merits have equal rights in my eyes; but you do not know the prejudices of those among whom I live. We shall never make an aristocracy of ignorance understand that intellect ennobles. If I have not sufficient influence to compel them to accept M. David Sechard, I am quite willing to sacrifice the worthless creatures to you. It would be a perfect hecatomb in the antique manner. But, dear friend, you would not, of course, ask me to leave them all in exchange for the society of a person whose character and manner might not please me. I know from your flatteries how easily friendship can be blinded. Will you think the worse of me if I attach a condition to my consent? In the interests of your future I should like to see your friend, and know and decide for myself whether you are not mistaken. What is this but the mother's anxious care of my dear poet, which I am in duty bound to take?

 "LOUISE DE NEGREPELISSE. "

Lucien had no suspicion of the art with which polite society putsforward a "Yes" on the way to a "No, " and a "No" that leads to a"Yes. " He took this note for a victory. David should go to Mme. DeBargeton's house! David would shine there in all the majesty of hisgenius! He raised his head so proudly in the intoxication of a victorywhich increased his belief in himself and his ascendency over others, his face was so radiant with the brightness of many hopes, that hissister could not help telling him that he looked handsome. 

"If that woman has any sense, she must love you! And if so, to-nightshe will be vexed, for all the ladies will try all sorts of coquetrieson you. How handsome you will look when you read your _Saint John inPatmos_! If only I were a mouse, and could just slip in and see it!Come, I have put your clothes out in mother's room. "

The mother's room bore witness to self-respecting poverty. There werewhite curtains to the walnut wood bedstead, and a strip of cheap greencarpet at the foot. A chest of drawers with a wooden top, alooking-glass, and a few walnut wood chairs completed the furniture. The clock on the chimney-piece told of the old vanished days ofprosperity. White curtains hung in the windows, a gray flowered papercovered the walls, and the tiled floor, colored and waxed by Eveherself, shone with cleanliness. On the little round table in themiddle of the room stood a red tray with a pattern of gilt roses, andthree cups and a sugar-basin of Limoges porcelain. Eve slept in thelittle adjoining closet, where there was just room for a narrow bed, an old-fashioned low chair, and a work-table by the window; there wasabout as much space as there is in a ship's cabin, and the door alwaysstood open for the sake of air. But if all these things spoke of greatpoverty, the atmosphere was sedate and studious; and for those who knewthe mother and children, there was something touchingly appropriate intheir surroundings. 

Lucien was tying his cravat when David's step sounded outside in thelittle yard, and in another moment the young printer appeared. Fromhis manner and looks he seemed to have come down in a hurry. 

"Well, David!" cried the ambitious poet, "we have gained the day! Sheloves me! You shall come too. "

"No, " David said with some confusion, "I came down to thank you forthis proof of friendship, but I have been thinking things overseriously. My own life is cut out for me, Lucien. I am David Sechard, printer to His Majesty in Angouleme, with my name at the bottom of thebills posted on every wall. For people of that class, I am an artisan, or I am in business, if you like it better, but I am a craftsman wholives over a shop in the Rue de Beaulieu at the corner of the Place duMurier. I have not the wealth of a Keller just yet, nor the name of aDesplein, two sorts of power that the nobles still try to ignore, and--I am so far agreed with them--this power is nothing without aknowledge of the world and the manners of a gentleman. How am I toprove my claim to this sudden elevation? I should only make myself alaughing-stock for nobles and _bourgeoisie_ to boot. As for you, yourposition is different. A foreman is not committed to anything. You arebusy gaining knowledge that will be indispensable by and by; you canexplain your present work by your future. And, in any case, you canleave your place to-morrow and begin something else; you might studylaw or diplomacy, or go into civil service. Nobody had docketed andpigeon-holed _you_, in fact. Take advantage of your social maiden fameto walk alone and grasp honors. Enjoy all pleasures gladly, evenfrivolous pleasures. I wish you luck, Lucien; I shall enjoy yoursuccess; you will be like a second self for me. Yes, in my ownthoughts I shall live your life. You shall have the holiday life, inthe glare of the world and among the swift working springs ofintrigue. I will lead the work-a-day life, the tradesman's life ofsober toil, and the patient labor of scientific research. 

"You shall be our aristocracy, " he went on, looking at Eve as hespoke. "If you totter, you shall have my arm to steady you. If youhave reason to complain of the treachery of others, you will find arefuge in our hearts, the love there will never change. And influenceand favor and the goodwill of others might fail us if we were two; weshould stand in each other's way; go forward, you can tow me after youif it comes to that. So far from envying you, I will dedicate my lifeto yours. The thing that you have just done for me, when you riskedthe loss of your benefactress, your love it may be, rather thanforsake or disown me, that little thing, so great as it was--ah, well, Lucien, that in itself would bind me to you forever if we were notbrothers already. Have no remorse, no concern over seeming to take thelarger share. This one-sided bargain is exactly to my taste. And, after all, suppose that you should give me a pang now and again, whoknows that I shall not still be your debtor all my life long?"

He looked timidly towards Eve as he spoke; her eyes were full oftears, she saw all that lay below the surface. 

"In fact, " he went on, turning to Lucien, who stood amazed at this, "you are well made, you have a graceful figure, you wear your clotheswith an air, you look like a gentleman in that blue coat of yours withthe yellow buttons and the plain nankeen trousers; now I should looklike a workingman among those people, I should be awkward and out ofmy element, I should say foolish things, or say nothing at all; but asfor you, you can overcome any prejudice as to names by taking yourmother's; you can call yourself Lucien de Rubempre; I am and alwaysshall be David Sechard. In this society that you frequent, everythingtells for you, everything would tell against me. You were born toshine in it. Women will worship that angel face of yours; won't they, Eve?"

Lucien sprang up and flung his arms about David. David's humility hadmade short work of many doubts and plenty of difficulties. Was itpossible not to feel twice tenderly towards this friend, who by theway of friendship had come to think the very thoughts that he, Lucien, had reached through ambition? The aspirant for love and honors feltthat the way had been made smooth for him; the young man and thecomrade felt all his heart go out towards his friend. 

It was one of those moments that come very seldom in our lives, whenall the forces in us are sweetly strung, and every chord vibratinggives out full resonance. 

And yet, this goodness of a noble nature increased Lucien's humantendency to take himself as the centre of things. Do not all of us saymore or less, "_L'Etat, c'est moi!_" with Louis Quatorze? Lucien'smother and sister had concentrated all their tenderness on him, Davidwas his devoted friend; he was accustomed to see the three makingevery effort for him in secret, and consequently he had all the faultsof a spoiled eldest son. The noble is eaten up with the egoism whichtheir unselfishness was fostering in Lucien; and Mme. De Bargeton wasdoing her best to develop the same fault by inciting him to forget allthat he owed to his sister, and mother, and David. He was far fromdoing so as yet; but was there not ground for the fear that as hissphere of ambition widened, his whole thought perforce would be how hemight maintain himself in it?

When emotion had subsided, David had a suggestion to make. He thoughtthat Lucien's poem, _Saint John in Patmos_, was possibly too biblical tobe read before an audience but little familiar with apocalypticpoetry. Lucien, making his first appearance before the most exactingpublic in the Charente, seemed to be nervous. David advised him totake Andre de Chenier and substitute certain pleasure for a dubiousdelight. Lucien was a perfect reader, the listeners would enjoylistening to him, and his modesty would doubtless serve him well. Likemost young people, the pair were endowing the rest of the world withtheir own intelligence and virtues; for if youth that has not yet goneastray is pitiless for the sins of others, it is ready, on the otherhand, to put a magnificent faith in them. It is only, in fact, after agood deal of experience of life that we recognize the truth ofRaphael's great saying--"To comprehend is to equal. "

The power of appreciating poetry is rare, generally speaking, inFrance; _esprit_ soon dries up the source of the sacred tears ofecstasy; nobody cares to be at the trouble of deciphering the sublime, of plumbing the depths to discover the infinite. Lucien was about tohave his first experience of the ignorance and indifference ofworldlings. He went round by way of the printing office for David'svolume of poetry. 

The two lovers were left alone, and David had never felt moreembarrassed in his life. Countless terrors seized upon him; he halfwished, half feared that Eve would praise him; he longed to run away, for even modesty is not exempt from coquetry. David was afraid toutter a word that might seem to beg for thanks; everything that hecould think of put him in some false position, so he held his tongueand looked guilty. Eve, guessing the agony of modesty, was enjoyingthe pause; but when David twisted his hat as if he meant to go, shelooked at him and smiled. 

"Monsieur David, " she said, "if you are not going to pass the eveningat Mme. De Bargeton's, we can spend the time together. It is fine;shall we take a walk along the Charente? We will have a talk aboutLucien. "

David longed to fling himself at the feet of this delicious girl. Evehad rewarded him beyond his hopes by that tone in her voice; thekindness of her accent had solved the difficulties of the position, her suggestion was something better than praise; it was the firstgrace given by love. 

"But give me time to dress!" she said, as David made as if to go atonce. 

David went out; he who all his life long had not known one tune fromanother, was humming to himself; honest Postel hearing him withsurprise, conceived a vehement suspicion of Eve's feelings towards theprinter. 

The most trifling things that happened that evening made a greatimpression on Lucien, and his character was peculiarly susceptible tofirst impressions. Like all inexperienced lovers he arrived so earlythat Louise was not in the drawing-room; but M. De Bargeton was there, alone. Lucien had already begun to serve his apprenticeship in thepractice of the small deceits with which the lover of a married womanpays for his happiness--deceits through which, moreover, she learnsthe extent of her power; but so far Lucien had not met the lady'shusband face to face. 

M. De Bargeton's intellect was of the limited kind, exactly poised onthe border line between harmless vacancy, with some glimmerings ofsense, and the excessive stupidity that can neither take in nor giveout any idea. He was thoroughly impressed with the idea of doing hisduty in society; and, doing his utmost to be agreeable, had adoptedthe smile of an opera dancer as his sole method of expression. Satisfied, he smiled; dissatisfied, he smiled again. He smiled at goodnews and evil tidings; with slight modifications the smile did duty onall occasions. If he was positively obliged to express his personalapproval, a complacent laugh reinforced the smile; but he nevervouchsafed a word until driven to the last extremity. A _tete-a-tete_put him in the one embarrassment of his vegetative existence, for thenhe was obliged to look for something to say in the vast blank of hisvacant interior. He usually got out of the difficulty by a return tothe artless ways of childhood; he thought aloud, took you into hisconfidence concerning the smallest details of his existence, hisphysical wants, the small sensations which did duty for ideas withhim. He never talked about the weather, nor did he indulge in theordinary commonplaces of conversation--the way of escape provided forweak intellects; he plunged you into the most intimate and personaltopics. 

"I took veal this morning to please Mme. De Bargeton, who is very fondof veal, and my stomach has been very uneasy since, " he would tellyou. "I knew how it would be; it never suits me. How do you explainit?" Or, very likely--

"I am just about to ring for a glass of _eau sucree_; will you have someat the same time?"

Or, "I am going to take a ride to-morrow; I am going over to see myfather-in-law. "

These short observations did not permit of discussion; a "Yes" or"No, " extracted from his interlocutor, the conversation dropped dead. Then M. De Bargeton mutely implored his visitor to come to hisassistance. Turning westward his old asthmatic pug-dog countenance, hegazed at you with big, lustreless eyes, in a way that said, "You weresaying?"

The people whom he loved best were bores anxious to talk aboutthemselves; he listened to them with an unfeigned and delicateinterest which so endeared him to the species that all the twaddlersof Angouleme credited M. De Bargeton with more understanding than hechose to show, and were of the opinion that he was underrated. So ithappened that when these persons could find nobody else to listen tothem, they went off to give M. De Bargeton the benefit of the rest ofthe story, argument, or what not, sure beforehand of his eulogisticsmile. Madame de Bargeton's rooms were always crowded, and generallyher husband felt quite at ease. He interested himself in the smallestdetails; he watched those who came in and bowed and smiled, andbrought the new arrivals to his wife; he lay in wait for departingvisitors, and went with them to the door, taking leave of them withthat eternal smile. When conversation grew lively, and he saw thatevery one was interested in one thing or another, he stood, happy andmute, planted like a swan on both feet, listening, to all appearance, to a political discussion; or he looked over the card-players' handswithout a notion of what it was all about, for he could not play atany game; or he walked about and took snuff to promote digestion. Anais was the bright side of his life; she made it unspeakablypleasant for him. Stretched out at full length in his armchair, hewatched admiringly while she did her part as hostess, for she talkedfor him. It was a pleasure, too, to him to try to see the point in herremarks; and as it was often a good while before he succeeded, hissmiles appeared after a delay, like the explosion of a shell which hasentered the earth and worked up again. His respect for his wife, moreover, almost amounted to adoration. And so long as we can adore, is there not happiness enough in life? Anais' husband was as docile asa child who asks nothing better than to be told what to do; and, generous and clever woman as she was, she had taken no undue advantageof his weaknesses. She had taken care of him as you take care of acloak; she kept him brushed, neat, and tidy, looked closely after him, and humored him; and humored, looked after, brushed, kept tidy, andcared for, M. De Bargeton had come to feel an almost dog-likeaffection for his wife. It is so easy to give happiness that costsnothing! Mme. De Bargeton, knowing that her husband had no pleasurebut in good cheer, saw that he had good dinners; she had pity uponhim, she had never uttered a word of complaint; indeed, there werepeople who could not understand that a woman might keep silencethrough pride, and argued that M. De Bargeton must possess goodqualities hidden from public view. Mme. De Bargeton had drilled himinto military subordination; he yielded a passive obedience to hiswife. "Go and call on Monsieur So-and-So or Madame Such-an-One, " shewould say, and he went forthwith, like a soldier at the word ofcommand. He stood at attention in her presence, and waited motionlessfor his orders. 

There was some talk about this time of nominating the mute gentlemanfor a deputy. Lucien as yet had not lifted the veil which hid such anunimaginable character; indeed, he had scarcely frequented the houselong enough. M. De Bargeton, spread at full length in his great chair, appeared to see and understand all that was going on; his silenceadded to his dignity, and his figure inspired Lucien with a prodigiousawe. It is the wont of imaginative natures to magnify everything, orto find a soul to inhabit every shape; and Lucien took this gentleman, not for a granite guard-post, but for a formidable sphinx, and thoughtit necessary to conciliate him. 

"I am the first comer, " he said, bowing with more respect than peopleusually showed the worthy man. 

"That is natural enough, " said M. De Bargeton. 

Lucien took the remark for an epigram; the lady's husband was jealous, he thought; he reddened under it, looked in the glass and tried togive himself a countenance. 

"You live in L'Houmeau, " said M. De Bargeton, "and people who live along way off always come earlier than those who live near by. "

"What is the reason of that?" asked Lucien politely. 

"I don't know, " answered M. De Bargeton, relapsing into immobility. 

"You have not cared to find out, " Lucien began again; "any one whocould make an observation could discover the cause. "

"Ah!" said M. De Bargeton, "final causes! Eh! eh! . . . "

The conversation came to a dead stop; Lucien racked his brains toresuscitate it. 

"Mme. De Bargeton is dressing, no doubt, " he began, shuddering at thesilliness of the question. 

"Yes, she is dressing, " her husband naturally answered. 

Lucien looked up at the ceiling and vainly tried to think of somethingelse to say. As his eyes wandered over the gray painted joists and thespaces of plaster between, he saw, not without qualms, that the littlechandelier with the old-fashioned cut-glass pendants had been strippedof its gauze covering and filled with wax candles. All the covers hadbeen removed from the furniture, and the faded flowered silk damaskhad come to light. These preparations meant something extraordinary. The poet looked at his boots, and misgivings about his costume arosein his mind. Grown stupid with dismay, he turned and fixed his eyes ona Japanese jar standing on a begarlanded console table of the time ofLouis Quinze; then, recollecting that he must conciliate Mme. DeBargeton's husband, he tried to find out if the good gentleman had ahobby of any sort in which he might be humored. 

"You seldom leave the city, monsieur?" he began, returning to M. DeBargeton. 

"Very seldom. "

Silence again. M. De Bargeton watched Lucien's slightest movementslike a suspicious cat; the young man's presence disturbed him. Eachwas afraid of the other. 

"Can he feel suspicious of my attentions?" thought Lucien; "he seemsto be anything but friendly. "

Lucien was not a little embarrassed by the uneasy glances that theother gave him as he went to and fro, when luckily for him, the oldman-servant (who wore livery for the occasion) announced "M. DuChatelet. " The Baron came in, very much at ease, greeted his friendBargeton, and favored Lucien with the little nod then in vogue, whichthe poet in his mind called purse-proud impertinence. 

Sixte du Chatelet appeared in a pair of dazzling white trousers withinvisible straps that kept them in shape. He wore pumps and threadstockings; the black ribbon of his eyeglass meandered over a whitewaistcoat, and the fashion and elegance of Paris was strikinglyapparent in his black coat. He was indeed just the faded beau whomight be expected from his antecedents, though advancing years hadalready endowed him with a certain waist-girth which somewhat exceededthe limits of elegance. He had dyed the hair and whiskers grizzled byhis sufferings during his travels, and this gave a hard look to hisface. The skin which had once been so delicate had been tanned to thecopper-red color of Europeans from India; but in spite of his absurdpretensions to youth, you could still discern traces of the ImperialHighness' charming private secretary in du Chatelet's generalappearance. He put up his eyeglass and stared at his rival's nankeentrousers, at his boots, at his waistcoat, at the blue coat made by theAngouleme tailor, he looked him over from head to foot, in short, thenhe coolly returned his eyeglass to his waistcoat pocket with a gesturethat said, "I am satisfied. " And Lucien, eclipsed at this moment bythe elegance of the inland revenue department, thought that it wouldbe his turn by and by, when he should turn a face lighted up withpoetry upon the assembly; but this prospect did not prevent him fromfeeling the sharp pang that succeeded to the uncomfortable sense of M. De Bargeton's imagined hostility. The Baron seemed to bring all theweight of his fortune to bear upon him, the better to humiliate him inhis poverty. M. De Bargeton had counted on having no more to say, andhis soul was dismayed by the pause spent by the rivals in mutualsurvey; he had a question which he kept for desperate emergencies, laid up in his mind, as it were, against a rainy day. Now was theproper time to bring it out. 

"Well, monsieur, " he said, looking at Chatelet with an important air, "is there anything fresh? anything that people are talking about?"

"Why, the latest thing is M. Chardon, " Chatelet said maliciously. "Askhim. Have you brought some charming poet for us?" inquired thevivacious Baron, adjusting the side curl that had gone astray on histemple. 

"I should have asked you whether I had succeeded, " Lucien answered;"you have been before me in the field of verse. "

"Pshaw!" said the other, "a few vaudevilles, well enough in their way, written to oblige, a song now and again to suit some occasion, linesfor music, no good without the music, and my long Epistle to a Sisterof Bonaparte (ungrateful that he was), will not hand down my name toposterity. "

At this moment Mme. De Bargeton appeared in all the glory of anelaborate toilette. She wore a Jewess' turban, enriched with anEastern clasp. The cameos on her neck gleamed through the gauze scarfgracefully wound about her shoulders; the sleeves of her printedmuslin dress were short so as to display a series of bracelets on hershapely white arms. Lucien was charmed with this theatrical style ofdress. M. Du Chatelet gallantly plied the queen with fulsomecompliments, that made her smile with pleasure; she was so glad to bepraised in Lucien's hearing. But she scarcely gave her dear poet aglance, and met Chatelet with a mortifying civility that kept him at adistance. 

By this time the guests began to arrive. First and foremost appearedthe Bishop and his Vicar-General, dignified and reverend figures both, though no two men could well be more unlike, his lordship being talland attenuated, and his acolyte short and fat. Both churchmen's eyeswere bright; but while the Bishop was pallid, his Vicar-General'scountenance glowed with high health. Both were impassive, andgesticulated but little; both appeared to be prudent men, and theirsilence and reserve were supposed to hide great intellectual powers. 

Close upon the two ecclesiastics followed Mme. De Chandour and herhusband, a couple so extraordinary that those who are unfamiliar withprovincial life might be tempted to think that such persons are purelyimaginary. Amelie de Chandour posed as the rival queen of Angouleme;her husband, M. De Chandour, known in the circle as Stanislas, was a_ci-devant_ young man, slim still at five-and-forty, with a countenancelike a sieve. His cravat was always tied so as to present two menacingpoints--one spike reached the height of his right ear, the otherpointed downwards to the red ribbon of his cross. His coat-tails wereviolently at strife. A cut-away waistcoat displayed the ample, swelling curves of a stiffly-starched shirt fastened by massive goldstuds. His dress, in fact, was exaggerated, till he looked almost likea living caricature, which no one could behold for the first time withgravity. 

Stanislas looked himself over from top to toe with a kind ofsatisfaction; he verified the number of his waistcoat buttons, andfollowed the curving outlines of his tight-fitting trousers with fondglances that came to a standstill at last on the pointed tips of hisshoes. When he ceased to contemplate himself in this way, he lookedtowards the nearest mirror to see if his hair still kept in curl;then, sticking a finger in his waistcoat pocket, he looked about himat the women with happy eyes, flinging his head back in three-quartersprofile with all the airs of a king of the poultry-yard, airs whichwere prodigiously admired by the aristocratic circle of which he wasthe beau. There was a strain of eighteenth century grossness, as arule, in his talk; a detestable kind of conversation which procuredhim some success with women--he made them laugh. M. Du Chatelet wasbeginning to give this gentleman some uneasiness; and, as a matter offact, since Mme. De Bargeton had taken him up, the lively interesttaken by the women in the Byron of Angouleme was distinctly on theincrease. His coxcomb superciliousness tickled their curiosity; heposed as the man whom nothing can arouse from his apathy, and hisjaded Sultan airs were like a challenge. 

Amelie de Chandour, short, plump, fair-complexioned, and dark-haired, was a poor actress; her voice was loud, like everything else abouther; her head, with its load of feathers in winter and flowers insummer, was never still for a moment. She had a fine flow ofconversation, though she could never bring a sentence to an endwithout a wheezing accompaniment from an asthma, to which she wouldnot confess. 

M. De Saintot, otherwise Astolphe, President of the AgriculturalSociety, a tall, stout, high-colored personage, usually appeared inthe wake of his wife, Elisa, a lady with a countenance like a witheredfern, called Lili by her friends--a baby name singularly at variancewith its owner's character and demeanor. Mme. De Saintot was a solemnand extremely pious woman, and a very trying partner at a game ofcards. Astolphe was supposed to be a scientific man of the first rank. He was as ignorant as a carp, but he had compiled the articles onSugar and Brandy for a Dictionary of Agriculture by wholesale plunderof newspaper articles and pillage of previous writers. It was believedall over the department that M. Saintot was engaged upon a treatise onmodern husbandry; but though he locked himself into his study everymorning, he had not written a couple of pages in a dozen years. Ifanybody called to see him, he always contrived to be discoveredrummaging among his papers, hunting for a stray note or mending a pen;but he spent the whole time in his study on puerilities, reading thenewspaper through from end to end, cutting figures out of corks withhis penknife, and drawing patterns on his blotting-paper. He wouldturn over the leaves of his Cicero to see if anything applicable tothe events of the day might catch his eye, and drag his quotation bythe heels into the conversation that evening saying, "There is apassage in Cicero which might have been written to suit modern times, "and out came his phrase, to the astonishment of his audience. "Really, " they said among themselves, "Astolphe is a well oflearning. " The interesting fact circulated all over the town, andsustained the general belief in M. De Saintot's abilities. 

After this pair came M. De Bartas, known as Adrien among the circle. It was M. De Bartas who boomed out his song in a bass voice, and madeprodigious claims to musical knowledge. His self-conceit had taken astand upon solfeggi; he began by admiring his appearance while hesang, passed thence to talking about music, and finally to talking ofnothing else. His musical tastes had become a monomania; he grewanimated only on the one subject of music; he was miserable allevening until somebody begged him to sing. When he had bellowed one ofhis airs, he revived again; strutted about, raised himself on hisheels, and received compliments with a deprecating air; but modestydid not prevent him from going from group to group for his meed ofpraise; and when there was no more to be said about the singer, hereturned to the subject of the song, discussing its difficulties orextolling the composer. 

M. Alexandre de Brebian performed heroic exploits in sepia; hedisfigured the walls of his friends' rooms with a swarm of crudeproductions, and spoiled all the albums in the department. M. Alexandre de Brebian and M. De Bartas came together, each with hisfriend's wife on his arm, a cross-cornered arrangement which gossipdeclared to be carried out to the fullest extent. As for the twowomen, Mesdames Charlotte de Brebian and Josephine de Bartas, orLolotte and Fifine, as they were called, both took an equal interestin a scarf, or the trimming of a dress, or the reconciliation ofseveral irreconcilable colors; both were eaten up with a desire tolook like Parisiennes, and neglected their homes, where everythingwent wrong. But if they dressed like dolls in tightly-fitting gowns ofhome manufacture, and exhibited outrageous combinations of crudecolors upon their persons, their husbands availed themselves of theartist's privilege and dressed as they pleased, and curious it was tosee the provincial dowdiness of the pair. In their threadbare clothesthey looked like the supernumeraries that represent rank and fashionat stage weddings in third-rate theatres. 

One of the queerest figures in the rooms was M. Le Comte de Senonches, known by the aristocratic name of Jacques, a mighty hunter, lean andsunburned, a haughty gentleman, about as amiable as a wild boar, assuspicious as a Venetian, and jealous as a Moor, who lived on terms ofthe friendliest and most perfect intimacy with M. Du Hautoy, otherwiseFrancis, the friend of the house. 

Madame de Senonches (Zephirine) was a tall, fine-looking woman, thoughher complexion was spoiled already by pimples due to liver complaint, on which grounds she was said to be exacting. With a slender figureand delicate proportions, she could afford to indulge in languidmanners, savoring somewhat of affectation, but revealing passion andthe consciousness that every least caprice will be gratified by love. 

Francis, the house friend, was rather distinguished-looking. He hadgiven up his consulship in Valence, and sacrificed his diplomaticprospects to live near Zephirine (also known as Zizine) in Angouleme. He had taken the household in charge, he superintended the children'seducation, taught them foreign languages, and looked after thefortunes of M. And Mme. De Senonches with the most complete devotion. Noble Angouleme, administrative Angouleme, and _bourgeois_ Angoulemealike had looked askance for a long while at this phenomenon of theperfect union of three persons; but finally the mysterious conjugaltrinity appeared to them so rare and pleasing a spectacle, that if M. Du Hautoy had shown any intention of marrying, he would have beenthought monstrously immoral. Mme. De Senonches, however, had a ladycompanion, a goddaughter, and her excessive attachment to this Mlle. De la Haye was beginning to raise surmises of disquieting mysteries;it was thought, in spite of some impossible discrepancies in dates, that Francoise de la Haye bore a striking likeness to Francis duHautoy. 

When "Jacques" was shooting in the neighborhood, people used toinquire after Francis, and Jacques would discourse on his steward'slittle ailments, and talk of his wife in the second place. So curiousdid this blindness seem in a man of jealous temper, that his greatestfriends used to draw him out on the topic for the amusement of otherswho did not know of the mystery. M. Du Hautoy was a finical dandywhose minute care of himself had degenerated into mincing affectationand childishness. He took an interest in his cough, his appetite, hisdigestion, his night's rest. Zephirine had succeeded in making avaletudinarian of her factotum; she coddled him and doctored him; shecrammed him with delicate fare, as if he had been a fine lady'slap-dog; she embroidered waistcoats for him, and pocket-handkerchiefsand cravats until he became so used to wearing finery that shetransformed him into a kind of Japanese idol. Their understanding wasperfect. In season and out of season Zizine consulted Francis with alook, and Francis seemed to take his ideas from Zizine's eyes. Theyfrowned and smiled together, and seemingly took counsel of each otherbefore making the simplest commonplace remark. 

The largest landowner in the neighborhood, a man whom every oneenvied, was the Marquis de Pimentel; he and his wife, between them, had an income of forty thousand livres, and spent their winters inParis. This evening they had driven into Angouleme in their caleche, and had brought their neighbors, the Baron and Baroness de Rastignacand their party, the Baroness' aunt and daughters, two charming youngladies, penniless girls who had been carefully brought up, and weredressed in the simple way that sets off natural loveliness. 

These personages, beyond question the first in the company, met with areception of chilling silence; the respect paid to them was full ofjealousy, especially as everybody saw that Mme. De Bargeton paidmarked attention to the guests. The two families belonged to the verysmall minority who hold themselves aloof from provincial gossip, belong to no clique, live quietly in retirement, and maintain adignified reserve. M. De Pimentel and M. De Rastignac, for instance, were addressed by their names in full, and no length of acquaintancehad brought their wives and daughters into the select coterie ofAngouleme; both families were too nearly connected with the Court tocompromise themselves through provincial follies. 

The Prefect and the General in command of the garrison were the lastcomers, and with them came the country gentleman who had brought thetreatise on silkworms to David that very morning. Evidently he was themayor of some canton or other, and a fine estate was his sufficienttitle to gentility; but from his appearance, it was plain that he wasquite unused to polite society. He looked uneasy in his clothes, hewas at a loss to know what to do with his hands, he shifted about fromone foot to another as he spoke, and half rose and sat down again whenanybody spoke to him. He seemed ready to do some menial service; hewas obsequious, nervous, and grave by turns, laughing eagerly at everyjoke, listening with servility; and occasionally, imagining thatpeople were laughing at him, he assumed a knowing air. His treatiseweighed upon his mind; again and again he tried to talk aboutsilkworms; but the luckless wight happened first upon M. De Bartas, who talked music in reply, and next on M. De Saintot, who quotedCicero to him; and not until the evening was half over did the mayormeet with sympathetic listeners in Mme. And Mlle. Du Brossard, awidowed gentlewoman and her daughter. 

Mme. And Mlle. Du Brossard were not the least interesting persons inthe clique, but their story may be told in a single phrase--they wereas poor as they were noble. In their dress there was just that tingeof pretension which betrayed carefully hidden penury. The daughter, abig, heavy young woman of seven-and-twenty, was supposed to be a goodperformer on the piano, and her mother praised her in season and outof season in the clumsiest way. No eligible man had any taste whichCamille did not share on her mother's authoritative statement. Mme. DuBrossard, in her anxiety to establish her child, was capable of sayingthat her dear Camille liked nothing so much as a roving life from onegarrison to another; and before the evening was out, that she was sureher dear Camille liked a quiet country farmhouse existence of allthings. Mother and daughter had the pinched sub-acid dignitycharacteristic of those who have learned by experience the exact valueof expressions of sympathy; they belonged to a class which the worlddelights to pity; they had been the objects of the benevolent interestof egoism; they had sounded the empty void beneath the consolingformulas with which the world ministers to the necessities of theunfortunate. 

M. De Severac was fifty-nine years old, and a childless widower. Mother and daughter listened, therefore, with devout admiration to allthat he told them about his silkworm nurseries. 

"My daughter has always been fond of animals, " said the mother. "Andas women are especially interested in the silk which the littlecreatures produce, I shall ask permission to go over to Severac, sothat my Camille may see how the silk is spun. My Camille is sointelligent, she will grasp anything that you tell her in a moment. Did she not understand one day the inverse ratio of the squares ofdistances!"

This was the remark that brought the conversation between Mme. DuBrossard and M. De Severac to a glorious close after Lucien's readingthat night. 

A few habitues slipped in familiarly among the rest, so did one or twoeldest sons; shy, mute young men tricked out in gorgeous jewelry, andhighly honored by an invitation to this literary solemnity, theboldest men among them so far shook off the weight of awe as tochatter a good deal with Mlle. De la Haye. The women solemnly arrangedthemselves in a circle, and the men stood behind them. It was a quaintassemblage of wrinkled countenances and heterogeneous costumes, butnone the less it seemed very alarming to Lucien, and his heart beatfast when he felt that every one was looking at him. His assurancebore the ordeal with some difficulty in spite of the encouragingexample of Mme. De Bargeton, who welcomed the most illustriouspersonages of Angouleme with ostentatious courtesy and elaborategraciousness; and the uncomfortable feeling that oppressed him wasaggravated by a trifling matter which any one might have foreseen, though it was bound to come as an unpleasant shock to a young man withso little experience of the world. Lucien, all eyes and ears, noticedthat no one except Louise, M. De Bargeton, the Bishop, and some fewwho wished to please the mistress of the house, spoke of him as M. DeRubempre; for his formidable audience he was M. Chardon. Lucien'scourage sank under their inquisitive eyes. He could read his plebeianname in the mere movements of their lips, and hear the anticipatorycriticisms made in the blunt, provincial fashion that too oftenborders on rudeness. He had not expected this prolonged ordeal ofpin-pricks; it put him still more out of humor with himself. He grewimpatient to begin the reading, for then he could assume an attitudewhich should put an end to his mental torments; but Jacques was givingMme. De Pimentel the history of his last day's sport; Adrien washolding forth to Mlle. Laure de Rastignac on Rossini, the newly-risenmusic star, and Astolphe, who had got by heart a newspaper paragraphon a patent plow, was giving the Baron the benefit of the description. Lucien, luckless poet that he was, did not know that there was scarcea soul in the room besides Mme. De Bargeton who could understandpoetry. The whole matter-of-fact assembly was there by amisapprehension, nor did they, for the most part, know what they hadcome out for to see. There are some words that draw a public asunfailingly as the clash of cymbals, the trumpet, or the mountebank'sbig drum; "beauty, " "glory, " "poetry, " are words that bewitch thecoarsest intellect. 

When every one had arrived; when the buzz of talk ceased afterrepeated efforts on the part of M. De Bargeton, who, obedient to hiswife, went round the room much as the beadle makes the circle of thechurch, tapping the pavement with his wand; when silence, in fact, wasat last secured, Lucien went to the round table near Mme. De Bargeton. A fierce thrill of excitement ran through him as he did so. Heannounced in an uncertain voice that, to prevent disappointment, hewas about to read the masterpieces of a great poet, discovered onlyrecently (for although Andre de Chenier's poems appeared in 1819, noone in Angouleme had so much as heard of him). Everybody interpretedthis announcement in one way--it was a shift of Mme. De Bargeton's, meant to save the poet's self-love and to put the audience at ease. 

Lucien began with _Le Malade_, and the poem was received with a murmurof applause; but he followed it with _L'Aveugle_, which proved too greata strain upon the average intellect. None but artists or those endowedwith the artistic temperament can understand and sympathize with himin the diabolical torture of that reading. If poetry is to be renderedby the voice, and if the listener is to grasp all that it means, themost devout attention is essential; there should be an intimatealliance between the reader and his audience, or swift and subtlecommunication of the poet's thought and feeling becomes impossible. Here this close sympathy was lacking, and Lucien in consequence was inthe position of an angel who should endeavor to sing of heaven amidthe chucklings of hell. An intelligent man in the sphere moststimulating to his faculties can see in every direction, like a snail;he has the keen scent of a dog, the ears of a mole; he can hear, andfeel, and see all that is going on around him. A musician or a poetknows at once whether his audience is listening in admiration or failsto follow him, and feels it as the plant that revives or droops underfavorable or unfavorable conditions. The men who had come with theirwives had fallen to discussing their own affairs; by the acoustic lawbefore mentioned, every murmur rang in Lucien's ear; he saw all thegaps caused by the spasmodic workings of jaws sympatheticallyaffected, the teeth that seemed to grin defiance at him. 

When, like the dove in the deluge, he looked round for any spot onwhich his eyes might rest, he saw nothing but rows of impatient faces. Their owners clearly were waiting for him to make an end; they hadcome together to discuss questions of practical interest. With theexceptions of Laure de Rastignac, the Bishop, and two or three of theyoung men, they one and all looked bored. As a matter of fact, thosewho understand poetry strive to develop the germs of another poetry, quickened within them by the poet's poetry; but this glacial audience, so far from attaining to the spirit of the poet, did not even listento the letter. 

Lucien felt profoundly discouraged; he was damp with chillyperspiration; a glowing glance from Louise, to whom he turned, gavehim courage to persevere to the end, but this poet's heart wasbleeding from countless wounds. 

"Do you find this very amusing, Fifine?" inquired the wizened Lili, who perhaps had expected some kind of gymnastics. 

"Don't ask me what I think, dear; I cannot keep my eyes open when anyone begins to read aloud. "

"I hope that Nais will not give us poetry often in the evenings, " saidFrancis. "If I am obliged to attend while somebody reads aloud afterdinner, it upsets my digestion. "

"Poor dearie, " whispered Zephirine, "take a glass of eau _sucree_. "

"It was very well declaimed, " said Alexandre, "but I like whist bettermyself. "

After this dictum, which passed muster as a joke from the play on theword "whist, " several card-players were of the opinion that thereader's voice needed a rest, and on this pretext one or two couplesslipped away into the card-room. But Louise, and the Bishop, andpretty Laure de Rastignac besought Lucien to continue, and this timehe caught the attention of his audience with Chenier's spiritedreactionary _Iambes_. Several persons, carried away by his impassioneddelivery, applauded the reading without understanding the sense. People of this sort are impressed by vociferation, as a coarse palateis ticked by strong spirits. 

During the interval, as they partook of ices, Zephirine despatchedFrancis to examine the volume, and informed her neighbor Amelie thatthe poetry was in print. 

Amelie brightened visibly. 

"Why, that is easily explained, " said she. "M. De Rubempre works for aprinter. It is as if a pretty woman should make her own dresses, " sheadded, looking at Lolotte. 

"He printed his poetry himself!" said the women among themselves. 

"Then, why does he call himself M. De Rubempre?" inquired Jacques. "Ifa noble takes a handicraft, he ought to lay his name aside. "

"So he did as a matter of fact, " said Zizine, "but his name wasplebeian, and he took his mother's name, which is noble. "

"Well, if his verses are printed, we can read them for ourselves, "said Astolphe. 

This piece of stupidity complicated the question, until Sixte duChatelet condescended to inform these unlettered folk that theprefatory announcement was no oratorical flourish, but a statement offact, and added that the poems had been written by a Royalist brotherof Marie-Joseph Chenier, the Revolutionary leader. All Angouleme, except Mme. De Rastignac and her two daughters and the Bishop, who hadreally felt the grandeur of the poetry, were mystified, and tookoffence at the hoax. There was a smothered murmur, but Lucien did notheed it. The intoxication of the poetry was upon him; he was far awayfrom the hateful world, striving to render in speech the music thatfilled his soul, seeing the faces about him through a cloudy haze. Heread the sombre Elegy on the Suicide, lines in the taste of a by-goneday, pervaded by sublime melancholy; then he turned to the page wherethe line occurs, "Thy songs are sweet, I love to say them over, " andended with the delicate idyll _Neere_. 

Mme. De Bargeton sat with one hand buried in her curls, heedless ofthe havoc she wrought among them, gazing before her with unseeingeyes, alone in her drawing-room, lost in delicious dreaming; for thefirst time in her life she had been transported to the sphere whichwas hers by right of nature. Judge, therefore, how unpleasantly shewas disturbed by Amelie, who took it upon herself to express thegeneral wish. 

"Nais, " this voice broke in, "we came to hear M. Chardon's poetry, andyou are giving us poetry out of a book. The extracts are very nice, but the ladies feel a patriotic preference for the wine of thecountry; they would rather have it. "

"The French language does not lend itself very readily to poetry, doesit?" Astolphe remarked to Chatelet. "Cicero's prose is a thousandtimes more poetical to my way of thinking. "

"The true poetry of France is song, lyric verse, " Chatelet answered. 

"Which proves that our language is eminently adapted for music, " saidAdrien. 

"I should like very much to hear the poetry that has cost Nais herreputation, " said Zephirine; "but after receiving Amelie's request insuch a way, it is not very likely that she will give us a specimen. "

"She ought to have them recited in justice to herself, " said Francis. "The little fellow's genius is his sole justification. "

"You have been in the diplomatic service, " said Amelie to M. DuChatelet, "go and manage it somehow. "

"Nothing easier, " said the Baron. 

The Princess' private secretary, being accustomed to petty manoeuvresof this kind, went to the Bishop and contrived to bring him to thefore. At the Bishop's entreaty, Nais had no choice but to ask Luciento recite his own verses for them, and the Baron received alanguishing smile from Amelie as the reward of his prompt success. 

"Decidedly, the Baron is a very clever man, " she observed to Lolotte. 

But Amelie's previous acidulous remark about women who made their owndresses rankled in Lolotte's mind. 

"Since when have you begun to recognize the Emperor's barons?" sheasked, smiling. 

Lucien had essayed to deify his beloved in an ode, dedicated to herunder a title in favor with all lads who write verse after leavingschool. This ode, so fondly cherished, so beautiful--since it was theoutpouring of all the love in his heart, seemed to him to be the onepiece of his own work that could hold its own with Chenier's verse;and with a tolerably fatuous glance at Mme. De Bargeton, he announced"TO HER!" He struck an attitude proudly for the delivery of theambitious piece, for his author's self-love felt safe and at easebehind Mme. De Bargeton's petticoat. And at the selfsame moment Mme. De Bargeton betrayed her own secret to the women's curious eyes. Although she had always looked down upon this audience from her ownloftier intellectual heights, she could not help trembling for Lucien. Her face was troubled, there was a sort of mute appeal for indulgencein her glances, and while the verses were recited she was obliged tolower her eyes and dissemble her pleasure as stanza followed stanza. 

 TO HER. 

Out of the glowing heart of the torrent of glory and light, At the foot of Jehovah's throne where the angels stand afar, Each on a seistron of gold repeating the prayers of the night, Put up for each by his star. 

Out from the cherubim choir a bright-haired Angel springs, Veiling the glory of God that dwells on a dazzling brow, Leaving the courts of heaven to sink upon silver wings Down to our world below. 

God looked in pity on earth, and the Angel, reading His thought, Came down to lull the pain of the mighty spirit at strife, Reverent bent o'er the maid, and for age left desolate brought Flowers of the springtime of life. 

Bringing a dream of hope to solace the mother's fears, Hearkening unto the voice of the tardy repentant cry, Glad as angels are glad, to reckon Earth's pitying tears, Given with alms of a sigh. 

One there is, and but one, bright messenger sent from the skies Whom earth like a lover fain would hold from the hea'nward flight;But the angel, weeping, turns and gazes with sad, sweet eyes Up to the heaven of light. 

Not by the radiant eyes, not by the kindling glow Of virtue sent from God, did I know the secret sign, Nor read the token sent on a white and dazzling brow Of an origin divine. 

Nay, it was Love grown blind and dazed with excess of light, Striving and striving in vain to mingle Earth and Heaven, Helpless and powerless against the invincible armor bright By the dread archangel given. 

Ah! be wary, take heed, lest aught should be seen or heard Of the shining seraph band, as they take the heavenward way;Too soon the Angel on Earth will learn the magical word Sung at the close of the day. 

Then you shall see afar, rifting the darkness of night, A gleam as of dawn that spread across the starry floor, And the seaman that watch for a sign shall mark the track of their flight, A luminous pathway in Heaven and a beacon for evermore. 

"Do you read the riddle?" said Amelie, giving M. Du Chatelet acoquettish glance. 

"It is the sort of stuff that we all of us wrote more or less after weleft school, " said the Baron with a bored expression--he was actinghis part of arbiter of taste who has seen everything. "We used to dealin Ossianic mists, Malvinas and Fingals and cloudy shapes, andwarriors who got out of their tombs with stars above their heads. Nowadays this poetical frippery has been replaced by Jehovah, angels, seistrons, the plumes of seraphim, and all the paraphernalia ofparadise freshened up with a few new words such as 'immense, infinite, solitude, intelligence'; you have lakes, and the words of theAlmighty, a kind of Christianized Pantheism, enriched with the mostextraordinary and unheard-of rhymes. We are in quite another latitude, in fact; we have left the North for the East, but the darkness is justas thick as before. "

"If the ode is obscure, the declaration is very clear, it seems tome, " said Zephirine. 

"And the archangel's armor is a tolerably thin gauze robe, " saidFrancis. 

Politeness demanded that the audience should profess to be enchantedwith the poem; and the women, furious because they had no poets intheir train to extol them as angels, rose, looked bored by thereading, murmuring, "Very nice!" "Charming!" "Perfect!" with frigidcoldness. 

"If you love me, do not congratulate the poet or his angel, " Lolottelaid her commands on her dear Adrien in imperious tones, and Adrienwas fain to obey. 

"Empty words, after all, " Zephirine remarked to Francis, "and love isa poem that we live. "

"You have just expressed the very thing that I was thinking, Zizine, but I should not have put it so neatly, " said Stanislas, scanninghimself from top to toe with loving attention. 

"I would give, I don't know how much, to see Nais' pride brought downa bit, " said Amelie, addressing Chatelet. "Nais sets up to be anarchangel, as if she were better than the rest of us, and mixes us upwith low people; his father was an apothecary, and his mother is anurse; his sister works in a laundry, and he himself is a printer'sforeman. "

"If his father sold biscuits for worms" (_vers_), said Jacques, "heought to have made his son take them. "

"He is continuing in his father's line of business, for the stuff thathe has just been reading to us is a drug in the market, it seems, "said Stanislas, striking one of his most killing attitudes. "Drug fordrug, I would rather have something else. "

Every one apparently combined to humiliate Lucien by variousaristocrats' sarcasms. Lili the religious thought it a charitable deedto use any means of enlightening Nais, and Nais was on the brink of apiece of folly. Francis the diplomatist undertook the direction of thesilly conspiracy; every one was interested in the progress of thedrama; it would be something to talk about to-morrow. The ex-consul, being far from anxious to engage in a duel with a young poet who wouldfly into a rage at the first hint of insult under his lady's eyes, waswise enough to see that the only way of dealing Lucien his deathblowwas by the spiritual arm which was safe from vengeance. He thereforefollowed the example set by Chatelet the astute, and went to theBishop. Him he proceeded to mystify. 

He told the Bishop that Lucien's mother was a woman of uncommon powersand great modesty, and that it was she who found the subjects for herson's verses. Nothing pleased Lucien so much, according to theguileful Francis, as any recognition of her talents--he worshiped hismother. Then, having inculcated these notions, he left the rest totime. His lordship was sure to bring out the insulting allusion, forwhich he had been so carefully prepared, in the course ofconversation. 

When Francis and the Bishop joined the little group where Lucienstood, the circle who gave him the cup of hemlock to drain by littlesips watched him with redoubled interest. The poet, luckless youngman, being a total stranger, and unaware of the manners and customs ofthe house, could only look at Mme. De Bargeton and give embarrassedanswers to embarrassing questions. He knew neither the names norcondition of the people about him; the women's silly speeches made himblush for them, and he was at his wits' end for a reply. He felt, moreover, how very far removed he was from these divinities ofAngouleme when he heard himself addressed sometimes as M. Chardon, sometimes as M. De Rubempre, while they addressed each other asLolotte, Adrien, Astolphe, Lili and Fifine. His confusion rose to aheight when, taking Lili for a man's surname, he addressed the coarseM. De Senonches as M. Lili; that Nimrod broke in upon him with a"_MONSIEUR LULU?_" and Mme. De Bargeton flushed red to the eyes. 

"A woman must be blind indeed to bring this little fellow among us!"muttered Senonches. 

Zephirine turned to speak to the Marquise de Pimentel--"Do you not seea strong likeness between M. Chardon and M. De Cante-Croix, madame?"she asked in a low but quite audible voice. 

"The likeness is ideal, " smiled Mme. De Pimentel. 

"Glory has a power of attraction to which we can confess, " said Mme. De Bargeton, addressing the Marquise. "Some women are as muchattracted by greatness as others by littleness, " she added, looking atFrancis. 

The was beyond Zephirine's comprehension; she thought her consul avery great man; but the Marquise laughed, and her laughter ranged heron Nais' side. 

"You are very fortunate, monsieur, " said the Marquis de Pimentel, addressing Lucien for the purpose of calling him M. De Rubempre, andnot M. Chardon, as before; "you should never find time heavy on yourhands. "

"Do you work quickly?" asked Lolotte, much in the way that she wouldhave asked a joiner "if it took long to make a box. "

The bludgeon stroke stunned Lucien, but he raised his head at Mme. DeBargeton's reply--

"My dear, poetry does not grow in M. De Rubempre's head like grass inour courtyards. "

"Madame, we cannot feel too reverently towards the noble spirits inwhom God has set some ray of this light, " said the Bishop, addressingLolotte. "Yes, poetry is something holy. Poetry implies suffering. Howmany silent nights those verses that you admire have cost! We shouldbow in love and reverence before the poet; his life here is almostalways a life of sorrow; but God doubtless reserves a place in heavenfor him among His prophets. This young man is a poet, " he added layinga hand on Lucien's head; "do you not see the sign of Fate set on thathigh forehead of his?"

Glad to be so generously championed, Lucien made his acknowledgmentsin a grateful look, not knowing that the worthy prelate was to dealhis deathblow. 

Mme. De Bargeton's eyes traveled round the hostile circle. Her glanceswent like arrows to the depths of her rivals' hearts, and left themtwice as furious as before. 

"Ah, monseigneur, " cried Lucien, hoping to break thick heads with hisgolden sceptre, "but ordinary people have neither your intellect noryour charity. No one heeds our sorrows, our toil is unrecognized. Thegold-digger working in the mine does not labor as we to wrestmetaphors from the heart of the most ungrateful of all languages. Ifthis is poetry--to give ideas such definite and clear expressions thatall the world can see and understand--the poet must continually rangethrough the entire scale of human intellects, so that he can satisfythe demands of all; he must conceal hard thinking and emotion, twoantagonistic powers, beneath the most vivid color; he must know how tomake one word cover a whole world of thought; he must give the resultsof whole systems of philosophy in a few picturesque lines; indeed, hissongs are like seeds that must break into blossom in other heartswherever they find the soil prepared by personal experience. How canyou express unless you first have felt? And is not passion suffering. Poetry is only brought forth after painful wanderings in the vastregions of thought and life. There are men and women in books, whoseem more really alive to us than men and women who have lived anddied--Richardson's Clarissa, Chenier's Camille, the Delia of Tibullus, Ariosto's Angelica, Dante's Francesca, Moliere's Alceste, Beaumarchais' Figaro, Scott's Rebecca the Jewess, the Don Quixote ofCervantes, --do we not owe these deathless creations to immortalthroes?"

"And what are you going to create for us?" asked Chatelet. 

"If I were to announce such conceptions, I should give myself out fora man of genius, should I not?" answered Lucien. "And besides, suchsublime creations demand a long experience of the world and a study ofhuman passion and interests which I could not possibly have made; butI have made a beginning, " he added, with bitterness in his tone, as hetook a vengeful glance round the circle; "the time of gestation islong----"

"Then it will be a case of difficult labor, " interrupted M. Du Hautoy. 

"Your excellent mother might assist you, " suggested the Bishop. 

The epigram, innocently made by the good prelate, the long-looked-forrevenge, kindled a gleam of delight in all eyes. The smile ofsatisfied caste that traveled from mouth to mouth was aggravated by M. De Bargeton's imbecility; he burst into a laugh, as usual, somemoments later. 

"Monseigneur, you are talking a little above our heads; these ladiesdo not understand your meaning, " said Mme. De Bargeton, and the wordsparalyzed the laughter, and drew astonished eyes upon her. "A poet wholooks to the Bible for his inspiration has a mother indeed in theChurch. --M. De Rubempre, will you recite _Saint John in Patmos_ for us, or _Belshazzar's Feast_, so that his lordship may see that Rome is stillthe _Magna Parens_ of Virgil?"

The women exchanged smiles at the Latin words. 

The bravest and highest spirits know times of prostration at theoutset of life. Lucien had sunk to the depths at the blow, but hestruck the bottom with his feet, and rose to the surface again, vowingto subjugate this little world. He rose like a bull, stung to fury bya shower of darts, and prepared to obey Louise by declaiming _SaintJohn in Patmos_; but by this time the card-tables had claimed theircomplement of players, who returned to the accustomed groove to findamusement there which poetry had not afforded them. They felt besidesthat the revenge of so many outraged vanities would be incompleteunless it were followed up by contemptuous indifference; so theyshowed their tacit disdain for the native product by leaving Lucienand Mme. De Bargeton to themselves. Every one appeared to be absorbedin his own affairs; one chattered with the prefect about a newcrossroad, another proposed to vary the pleasures of the evening witha little music. The great world of Angouleme, feeling that it was nojudge of poetry, was very anxious, in the first place, to hear theverdict of the Pimentels and the Rastignacs, and formed a little groupabout them. The great influence wielded in the department by these twofamilies was always felt on every important occasion; every one wasjealous of them, every one paid court to them, foreseeing that theymight some day need that influence. 

"What do you think of our poet and his poetry?" Jacques asked of theMarquise. Jacques used to shoot over the lands belonging to thePimentel family. 

"Why, it is not bad for provincial poetry, " she said, smiling; "andbesides, such a beautiful poet cannot do anything amiss. "

Every one thought the decision admirable; it traveled from lip to lip, gaining malignance by the way. Then Chatelet was called upon toaccompany M. Du Bartas on the piano while he mangled the great solofrom _Figaro_; and the way being opened to music, the audience, as induty bound listened while Chatelet in turn sang one of Chateaubriand'sballads, a chivalrous ditty made in the time of the Empire. Duetsfollowed, of the kind usually left to boarding-school misses, andrescued from the schoolroom by Mme. Du Brossard, who meant to make abrilliant display of her dear Camille's talents for M. De Severac'sbenefit. 

Mme. Du Bargeton, hurt by the contempt which every one showed herpoet, paid back scorn for scorn by going to her boudoir during theseperformances. She was followed by the prelate. His Vicar-General hadjust been explaining the profound irony of the epigram into which hehad been entrapped, and the Bishop wished to make amends. Mlle. DeRastignac, fascinated by the poetry, also slipped into the boudoirwithout her mother's knowledge. 

Louise drew Lucien to her mattress-cushioned sofa; and with no one tosee or hear, she murmured in his ear, "Dear angel, they did notunderstand you; but, 'Thy songs are sweet, I love to say them over. '"

And Lucien took comfort from the pretty speech, and forgot his woesfor a little. 

"Glory is not to be had cheaply, " Mme. De Bargeton continued, takinghis hand and holding it tightly in her own. "Endure your woes, myfriend, you will be great one day; your pain is the price of yourimmortality. If only I had a hard struggle before me! God preserve youfrom the enervating life without battles, in which the eagle's wingshave no room to spread themselves. I envy you; for if you suffer, atleast you live. You will put out your strength, you will feel the hopeof victory; your strife will be glorious. And when you shall come toyour kingdom, and reach the imperial sphere where great minds areenthroned, then remember the poor creatures disinherited by fate, whose intellects pine in an oppressive moral atmosphere, who die andhave never lived, knowing all the while what life might be; think ofthe piercing eyes that have seen nothing, the delicate senses thathave only known the scent of poison flowers. Then tell in your song ofplants that wither in the depths of the forest, choked by twininggrowths and rank, greedy vegetation, plants that have never beenkissed by the sunlight, and die, never having put forth a blossom. Itwould be a terribly gloomy poem, would it not, a fanciful subject?What a sublime poem might be made of the story of some daughter of thedesert transported to some cold, western clime, calling for herbeloved sun, dying of a grief that none can understand, overcome withcold and longing. It would be an allegory; many lives are like that. "

"You would picture the spirit which remembers Heaven, " said theBishop; "some one surely must have written such a poem in the days ofold; I like to think that I see a fragment of it in the Song ofSongs. "

"Take that as your subject, " said Laure de Rastignac, expressing herartless belief in Lucien's powers. 

"The great sacred poem of France is still unwritten, " remarked theBishop. "Believe me, glory and success await the man of talent whoshall work for religion. "

"That task will be his, " said Mme. De Bargeton rhetorically. "Do younot see the first beginnings of the vision of the poem, like the flameof dawn, in his eyes?"

"Nais is treating us very badly, " said Fifine; "what can she bedoing?"

"Don't you hear?" said Stanislas. "She is flourishing away, using bigwords that you cannot make head or tail of. "

Amelie, Fifine, Adrien, and Francis appeared in the doorway with Mme. De Rastignac, who came to look for her daughter. 

"Nais, " cried the two ladies, both delighted to break in upon thequiet chat in the boudoir, "it would be very nice of you to come andplay something for us. "

"My dear child, M. De Rubempre is just about to recite his _Saint Johnin Patmos_, a magnificent biblical poem. "

"Biblical!" echoed Fifine in amazement. 

Amelie and Fifine went back to the drawing-room, taking the word backwith them as food for laughter. Lucien pleaded a defective memory andexcused himself. When he reappeared, nobody took the slightest noticeof him; every one was chatting or busy at the card-tables; the poet'saureole had been plucked away, the landowners had no use for him, themore pretentious sort looked upon him as an enemy to their ignorance, while the women were jealous of Mme. De Bargeton, the Beatrice of thismodern Dante, to use the Vicar-General's phrase, and looked at himwith cold, scornful eyes. 

"So this is society!" Lucien said to himself as he went down toL'Houmeau by the steps of Beaulieu; for there are times when we chooseto take the longest way, that the physical exercise of walking maypromote the flow of ideas. 

So far from being disheartened, the fury of repulsed ambition gaveLucien new strength. Like all those whose instincts bring them to ahigher social sphere which they reach before they can hold their ownin it, Lucien vowed to make any sacrifice to the end that he mightremain on that higher social level. One by one he drew out thepoisoned shafts on his way home, talking aloud to himself, scoffing atthe fools with whom he had to do, inventing neat answers to theiridiotic questions, desperately vexed that the witty responses occurredto him so late in the day. By the time that he reached the Bordeauxroad, between the river and the foot of the hill, he thought that hecould see Eve and David sitting on a baulk of timber by the river inthe moonlight, and went down the footpath towards them. 

While Lucien was hastening to the torture in Mme. De Bargeton's rooms, his sister had changed her dress for a gown of pink cambric coveredwith narrow stripes, a straw hat, and a little silk shawl. The simplecostume seemed like a rich toilette on Eve, for she was one of thosewomen whose great nature lends stateliness to the least personaldetail; and David felt prodigiously shy of her now that she hadchanged her working dress. He had made up his mind that he would speakof himself; but now as he gave his arm to this beautiful girl, andthey walked through L'Houmeau together, he could find nothing to sayto her. Love delights in such reverent awe as redeemed souls know onbeholding the glory of God. So, in silence, the two lovers went acrossthe Bridge of Saint Anne, and followed the left bank of the Charente. Eve felt embarrassed by the pause, and stopped to look along theriver; a joyous shaft of sunset had turned the water between thebridge and the new powder mills into a sheet of gold. 

"What a beautiful evening it is!" she said, for the sake of sayingsomething; "the air is warm and fresh, and full of the scent offlowers, and there is a wonderful sky. "

"Everything speaks to our heart, " said David, trying to proceed tolove by way of analogy. "Those who love find infinite delight indiscovering the poetry of their own inmost souls in every chanceeffect of the landscape, in the thin, clear air, in the scent of theearth. Nature speaks for them. "

"And loosens their tongues, too, " Eve said merrily. "You were verysilent as we came through L'Houmeau. Do you know, I felt quiteuncomfortable----"

"You looked so beautiful, that I could not say anything, " Davidanswered candidly. 

"Then, just now I am not so beautiful?" inquired she. 

"It is not that, " he said; "but I was so happy to have this walk alonewith you, that----" he stopped short in confusion, and looked at thehillside and the road to Saintes. 

"If the walk is any pleasure to you, I am delighted; for I owe you anevening, I think, when you have given up yours for me. When yourefused to go to Mme. De Bargeton's, you were quite as generous asLucien when he made the demand at the risk of vexing her. "

"No, not generous, only wise, " said David. "And now that we are quitealone under the sky, with no listeners except the bushes and the reedsby the edge of the Charente, let me tell you about my anxiety as toLucien's present step, dear Eve. After all that I have just said, Ihope that you will look on my fears as a refinement of friendship. Youand your mother have done all that you could to put him above hissocial position; but when you stimulated his ambition, did you notunthinkingly condemn him to a hard struggle? How can he maintainhimself in the society to which his tastes incline him? I know Lucien;he likes to reap, he does not like toil; it is his nature. Socialclaims will take up the whole of his time, and for a man who hasnothing but his brains, time is capital. He likes to shine; societywill stimulate his desires until no money will satisfy them; insteadof earning money, he will spend it. You have accustomed him to believein his great powers, in fact, but the world at large declines tobelieve in any man's superior intellect until he has achieved somesignal success. Now success in literature is only won in solitude andby dogged work. What will Mme. De Bargeton give your brother in returnfor so many days spent at her feet? Lucien has too much spirit toaccept help from her; and he cannot afford, as we know, to cultivateher society, twice ruinous as it is for him. Sooner or later thatwoman will throw over this dear brother of ours, but not before shehas spoiled him for hard work, and given him a taste for luxury and acontempt for our humdrum life. She will develop his love of enjoyment, his inclination for idleness, that debauches a poetic soul. Yes, itmakes me tremble to think that this great lady may make a plaything ofLucien. If she cares for him sincerely, he will forget everything elsefor her; or if she does not love him, she will make him unhappy, forhe is wild about her. "

"You have sent a chill of dread through my heart, " said Eve, stoppingas they reached the weir. "But so long as mother is strong enough forher tiring life, so long as I live, we shall earn enough, perhaps, between us to keep Lucien until success comes. My courage will neverfail, " said Eve, brightening. "There is no hardship in work when wework for one we love; it is not drudgery. It makes me happy to thinkthat I toil so much, if indeed it is toil, for him. Oh, do not be inthe least afraid, we will earn money enough to send Lucien into thegreat world. There lies his road to success. "

"And there lies his road to ruin, " returned David. "Dear Eve, listento me. A man needs an independent fortune, or the sublime cynicism ofpoverty, for the slow execution of great work. Believe me, Lucien'shorror of privation is so great, the savor of banquets, the incense ofsuccess is so sweet in his nostrils, his self-love has grown so muchin Mme. De Bargeton's boudoir, that he will do anything desperatesooner than fall back, and you will never earn enough for hisrequirements. 

"Then you are only a false friend to him!" Eve cried in despair, "oryou would not discourage us in this way. "

"Eve! Eve!" cried David, "if only I could be a brother to Lucien! Youalone can give me that title; he could accept anything from me then; Ishould claim the right of devoting my life to him with the love thathallows your self-sacrifice, but with some worldly wisdom too. Eve, mydarling, give Lucien a store from which he need not blush to draw! Hisbrother's purse will be like his own, will it not? If you only knewall my thoughts about Lucien's position! If he means to go to Mme. DeBargeton's, he must not be my foreman any longer, poor fellow! Heought not to live in L'Houmeau; you ought not to be a working girl;and your mother must give up her employment as well. If you wouldconsent to be my wife, the difficulties will all be smoothed away. Lucien might live on the second floor in the Place du Murier until Ican build rooms for him over the shed at the back of the yard (if myfather will allow it, that is. ). And in that way we would arrange afree and independent life for him. The wish to support Lucien willgive me a better will to work than I ever should have had for myselfalone; but it rests with you to give me the right to devote myself tohim. Some day, perhaps, he will go to Paris, the only place that canbring out all that is in him, and where his talents will beappreciated and rewarded. Living in Paris is expensive, and theearnings of all three of us will be needed for his support. Andbesides, will not you and your mother need some one to lean upon then?Dear Eve, marry me for love of Lucien; perhaps afterwards you willlove me when you see how I shall strive to help him and to make youhappy. We are, both of us, equally simple in our tastes; we have fewwants; Lucien's welfare shall be the great object of our lives. Hisheart shall be our treasure-house, we will lay up all our fortune, andthink and feel and hope in him. "

"Worldly considerations keep us apart, " said Eve, moved by this lovethat tried to explain away its greatness. "You are rich and I am poor. One must love indeed to overcome such a difficulty. "

"Then you do not care enough for me?" cried the stricken David. 

"But perhaps your father would object----"

"Never mind, " said David; "if asking my father is all that isnecessary, you will be my wife. Eve, my dear Eve, how you havelightened life for me in a moment; and my heart has been very heavywith thoughts that I could not utter, I did not know how to speak ofthem. Only tell me that you care for me a little, and I will takecourage to tell you the rest. "

"Indeed, " she said, "you make me quite ashamed; but confidence forconfidence, I will tell you this, that I have never thought of any onebut you in my life. I looked upon you as one of those men to whom awoman might be proud to belong, and I did not dare to hope so great athing for myself, a penniless working girl with no prospects. "

"That is enough, that is enough, " he answered, sitting down on the barby the weir, for they had gone to and fro like mad creatures over thesame length of pathway. 

"What is the matter?" she asked, her voice expressing for the firsttime a woman's sweet anxiety for one who belongs to her. 

"Nothing but good, " he answered. "It is the sight of a whole lifetimeof happiness that dazzles me, as it were; it is overwhelming. Why am Ihappier than you?" he asked, with a touch of sadness. "For I know thatI am happier. "

Eve looked at David with mischievous, doubtful eyes that asked anexplanation. 

"Dear Eve, I am taking more than I give. So I shall always love youmore than you love me, because I have more reason to love. You are anangel; I am a man. "

"I am not so learned, " Eve said, smiling. "I love you----"

"As much as you love Lucien?" he broke in. 

"Enough to be your wife, enough to devote myself to you, to try not toadd anything to your burdens, for we shall have some struggles; itwill not be quite easy at first. "

"Dear Eve, have you known that I loved you since the first day I sawyou?"

"Where is the woman who does not feel that she is loved?"

"Now let me get rid of your scruples as to my imaginary riches. I am apoor man, dear. Yes, it pleased my father to ruin me; he made aspeculation of me, as a good many so-called benefactors do. If I makea fortune, it will be entirely through you. That is not a lover'sspeech, but sober, serious earnest. I ought to tell you about myfaults, for they are exceedingly bad ones in a man who has his way tomake. My character and habits and favorite occupations all unfit mefor business and money-getting, and yet we can only make money by somekind of industry; if I have some faculty for the discovery ofgold-mines, I am singularly ill-adapted for getting the gold out ofthem. But you who, for your brother's sake, went into the smallestdetails, with a talent for thrift, and the patient watchfulness of theborn man of business, you will reap the harvest that I shall sow. Thepresent state of things, for I have been like one of the family for along time, weighs so heavily upon me, that I have spent days and nightsin search of some way of making a fortune. I know something of chemistry, and a knowledge of commercial requirements has put me on the scent ofa discovery that is likely to pay. I can say nothing as yet about it;there will be a long while to wait; perhaps for some years we may havea hard time of it; but I shall find out how to make a commercialarticle at last. Others are busy making the same researches, and if Iam first in the field, we shall have a large fortune. I have saidnothing to Lucien, his enthusiastic nature would spoil everything; hewould convert my hopes into realities, and begin to live like a lord, and perhaps get into debt. So keep my secret for me. Your sweet anddear companionship will be consolation in itself during the long timeof experiment, and the desire to gain wealth for you and Lucien willgive me persistence and tenacity----"

"I had guessed this too, " Eve said, interrupting him; "I knew that youwere one of those inventors, like my poor father, who must have awoman to take care of them. "

"Then you love me! Ah! say so without fear to me, who saw a symbol ofmy love for you in your name. Eve was the one woman in the world; ifit was true in the outward world for Adam, it is true again in theinner world of my heart for me. My God! do you love me?"

"Yes, " said she, lengthening out the word as if to make it cover theextent of feeling expressed by a single syllable. 

"Well, let us sit here, " he said, and taking Eve's hand, he went to agreat baulk of timber lying below the wheels of a paper-mill. "Let mebreathe the evening air, and hear the frogs croak, and watch themoonlight quivering upon the river; let me take all this world aboutus into my soul, for it seems to me that my happiness is written largeover it all; I am seeing it for the first time in all its splendor, lighted up by love, grown fair through you. Eve, dearest, this is thefirst moment of pure and unmixed joy that fate has given to me! I donot think that Lucien can be as happy as I am. "

David felt Eve's hand, damp and quivering in his own, and a tear fellupon it. 

"May I not know the secret?" she pleaded coaxingly. 

"You have a right to know it, for your father was interested in thematter, and to-day it is a pressing question, and for this reason. Since the downfall of the Empire, calico has come more and more intouse, because it is so much cheaper than linen. At the present moment, paper is made of a mixture of hemp and linen rags, but the rawmaterial is dear, and the expense naturally retards the great advancewhich the French press is bound to make. Now you cannot increase theoutput of linen rags, a given population gives a pretty constantresult, and it only increases with the birth-rate. To make anyperceptible difference in the population for this purpose, it wouldtake a quarter of a century and a great revolution in habits of life, trade, and agriculture. And if the supply of linen rags is not enoughto meet one-half nor one-third of the demand, some cheaper materialthan linen rags must be found for cheap paper. This deduction is basedon facts that came under my knowledge here. The Angoulemepaper-makers, the last to use pure linen rags, say that the proportionof cotton in the pulp has increased to a frightful extent of lateyears. "

In answer to a question from Eve, who did not know what "pulp" meant, David gave an account of paper-making, which will not be out of placein a volume which owes its existence in book form to the paperindustry no less than to the printing-press; but the long digression, doubtless, had best be condensed at first. 

Paper, an invention not less marvelous than the other dependentinvention of printing, was known in ancient times in China. Thence bythe unrecognized channels of commerce the art reached Asia Minor, where paper was made of cotton reduced to pulp and boiled. Parchmenthad become so extremely dear that a cheap substitute was discovered inan imitation of the cotton paper known in the East as _chartabombycina_. The imitation, made from rags, was first made at Basel, in1170, by a colony of Greek refugees, according to some authorities; orat Padua, in 1301, by an Italian named Pax, according to others. Inthese ways the manufacture of paper was perfected slowly and inobscurity; but this much is certain, that so early as the reign ofCharles VI. , paper pulp for playing-cards was made in Paris. 

When those immortals, Faust, Coster, and Gutenberg, invented the Book, craftsmen as obscure as many a great artist of those timesappropriated paper to the uses of typography. In the fifteenthcentury, that naive and vigorous age, names were given to the variousformats as well as to the different sizes of type, names that bear theimpress of the naivete of the times; and the various sheets came to beknown by the different watermarks on their centres; the grapes, thefigure of our Saviour, the crown, the shield, or the flower-pot, justas at a later day, the eagle of Napoleon's time gave the name to the"double-eagle" size. And in the same way the types were called Cicero, Saint-Augustine, and Canon type, because they were first used to printthe treatises of Cicero and theological and liturgical works. Italicsare so called because they were invented in Italy by Aldus of Venice. 

Before the invention of machine-made paper, which can be woven in anylength, the largest sized sheets were the _grand jesus_ and the doublecolumbier (this last being scarcely used now except for atlases orengravings), and the size of paper for printers' use was determined bythe dimensions of the impression-stone. When David explained thesethings to Eve, web-paper was almost undreamed of in France, although, about 1799, Denis Robert d'Essonne had invented a machine for turningout a ribbon of paper, and Didot-Saint-Leger had since tried toperfect it. The vellum paper invented by Ambroise Didot only datesback as far as 1780. 

This bird's eye view of the history of the invention showsincontestably that great industrial and intellectual advances are madeexceedingly slowly, and little by little, even as Nature herselfproceeds. Perhaps articulate speech and the art of writing weregradually developed in the same groping way as typography andpaper-making. 

"Rag-pickers collect all the rags and old linen of Europe, " theprinter concluded, "and buy any kind of tissue. The rags are sortedand warehoused by the wholesale rag merchants, who supply thepaper-mills. To give you some idea of the extent of the trade, youmust know, mademoiselle, that in 1814 Cardon the banker, owner of thepulping troughs of Bruges and Langlee (where Leorier de l'Isleendeavored in 1776 to solve the very problem that occupied yourfather), Cardon brought an action against one Proust for an error inweights of two millions in a total of ten million pounds' weight ofrags, worth about four million francs! The manufacturer washes therags and reduces them to a thin pulp, which is strained, exactly as acook strains sauce through a tamis, through an iron frame with a finewire bottom where the mark which give its name to the size of thepaper is woven. The size of this _mould_, as it is called, regulates thesize of the sheet. 

"When I was with the Messieurs Didot, " David continued, "they werevery much interested in this question, and they are still interested;for the improvement which your father endeavored to make is a greatcommercial requirement, and one of the crying needs of the time. Andfor this reason: although linen lasts so much longer than cotton, thatit is in reality cheaper in the end, the poor would rather make thesmaller outlay in the first instance, and, by virtue of the law of _Vaevictis!_ pay enormously more before they have done. The middle classesdo the same. So there is a scarcity of linen. In England, wherefour-fifths of the population use cotton to the exclusion of linen, they make nothing but cotton paper. The cotton paper is very soft andeasily creased to begin with, and it has a further defect: it is sosoluble that if you seep a book made of cotton paper in water forfifteen minutes, it turns to a pulp, while an old book left in waterfor a couple of hours is not spoilt. You could dry the old book, andthe pages, though yellow and faded, would still be legible, the workwould not be destroyed. 

"There is a time coming when legislation will equalize our fortunes, and we shall all be poor together; we shall want our linen and ourbooks to be cheap, just as people are beginning to prefer smallpictures because they have not wall space enough for large ones. Well, the shirts and the books will not last, that is all; it is the same onall sides, solidity is drying out. So this problem is one of the firstimportance for literature, science, and politics. 

"One day, in my office, there was a hot discussion going on about thematerial that the Chinese use for making paper. Their paper is farbetter than ours, because the raw material is better; and a good dealwas said about this thin, light Chinese paper, for if it is light andthin, the texture is close, there are no transparent spots in it. InParis there are learned men among the printers' readers; Fourier andPierre Leroux are Lachevardiere's readers at this moment; and theComte de Saint-Simon, who happened to be correcting proofs for us, came in in the middle of the discussion. He told us at once that, according to Kempfer and du Halde, the _Broussonetia_ furnishes thesubstance of the Chinese paper; it is a vegetable substance (likelinen or cotton for that matter). Another reader maintained thatChinese paper was principally made of an animal substance, to wit, thesilk that is abundant there. They made a bet about it in my presence. The Messieurs Didot are printers to the Institute, so naturally theyreferred the question to that learned body. M. Marcel, who used to besuperintendent of the Royal Printing Establishment, was umpire, and hesent the two readers to M. L'Abbe Grozier, Librarian at the Arsenal. By the Abbe's decision they both lost their wages. The paper was notmade of silk nor yet from the _Broussonetia_; the pulp proved to be thetriturated fibre of some kind of bamboo. The Abbe Grozier had aChinese book, an iconographical and technological work, with a greatmany pictures in it, illustrating all the different processes ofpaper-making, and he showed us a picture of the workshop with thebamboo stalks lying in a heap in the corner; it was extremely welldrawn. 

"Lucien told me that your father, with the intuition of a man oftalent, had a glimmering of a notion of some way of replacing linenrags with an exceedingly common vegetable product, not previouslymanufactured, but taken direct from the soil, as the Chinese usevegetable fibre at first hand. I have classified the guesses made bythose who came before me, and have begun to study the question. Thebamboo is a kind of reed; naturally I began to think of the reeds thatgrow here in France. 

"Labor is very cheap in China, where a workman earns three halfpence aday, and this cheapness of labor enables the Chinese to manipulateeach sheet of paper separately. They take it out of the mould, andpress it between heated tablets of white porcelain, that is the secretof the surface and consistence, the lightness and satin smoothness ofthe best paper in the world. Well, here in Europe the work must bedone by machinery; machinery must take the place of cheap Chineselabor. If we could but succeed in making a cheap paper of as good aquality, the weight and thickness of printed books would be reduced bymore than one-half. A set of Voltaire, printed on our woven paper andbound, weighs about two hundred and fifty pounds; it would only weighfifty if we used Chinese paper. That surely would be a triumph, forthe housing of many books has come to be a difficulty; everything hasgrown smaller of late; this is not an age of giants; men have shrunk, everything about them shrinks, and house-room into the bargain. Greatmansions and great suites of rooms will be abolished sooner or laterin Paris, for no one will afford to live in the great houses built byour forefathers. What a disgrace for our age if none of its booksshould last! Dutch paper--that is, paper made from flax--will be quiteunobtainable in ten years' time. Well, your brother told me of thisidea of your father's, this plan for using vegetable fibre inpaper-making, so you see that if I succeed, you have a right to----"

Lucien came up at that moment and interrupted David's generousassertion. 

"I do not know whether you have found the evening pleasant, " said he;"it has been a cruel time for me. "

"Poor Lucien! what can have happened?" cried Eve, as she saw herbrother's excited face. 

The poet told the history of his agony, pouring out a flood ofclamorous thoughts into those friendly hearts, Eve and David listeningin pained silence to a torrent of woes that exhibited such greatnessand such pettiness. 

"M. De Bargeton is an old dotard. The indigestion will carry him offbefore long, no doubt, " Lucien said, as he made an end, "and then Iwill look down on these proud people; I will marry Mme. De Bargeton. Iread to-night in her eyes a love as great as mine for her. Yes, shefelt all that I felt; she comforted me; she is as great and noble asshe is gracious and beautiful. She will never give me up. "

"It is time that life was made smooth for him, is it not?" murmuredDavid, and for answer Eve pressed his arm without speaking. Davidguessed her thoughts, and began at once to tell Lucien about his ownplans. 

If Lucien was full of his troubles, the lovers were quite as full ofthemselves. So absorbed were they, so eager that Lucien should approvetheir happiness, that neither Eve nor David so much as noticed hisstart of surprise at the news. Mme. De Bargeton's lover had beendreaming of a great match for his sister; he would reach a highposition first, and then secure himself by an alliance with somefamily of influence, and here was one more obstacle in his way tosuccess! His hopes were dashed to the ground. "If Mme. De Bargetonconsents to be Mme. De Rubempre, she would never care to have DavidSechard for a brother-in-law!"

This stated clearly and precisely was the thought that torturedLucien's inmost mind. "Louise is right!" he thought bitterly. "A manwith a career before him is never understood by his family. "

If the marriage had not been announced immediately after Lucien'sfancy had put M. De Bargeton to death, he would have been radiant withheartfelt delight at the news. If he had thought soberly over theprobable future of a beautiful and penniless girl like Eve Chardon, hewould have seen that this marriage was a piece of unhoped-for goodfortune. But he was living just now in a golden dream; he had soaredabove all barriers on the wings of an _if_; he had seen a vision ofhimself, rising above society; and it was painful to drop so suddenlydown to hard fact. 

Eve and David both thought that their brother was overcome with thesense of such generosity; to them, with their noble natures, thesilent consent was a sign of true friendship. David began to describewith kindly and cordial eloquence the happy fortunes in store for themall. Unchecked by protests put in by Eve, he furnished his first floorwith a lover's lavishness, built a second floor with boyish good faithfor Lucien, and rooms above the shed for Mme. Chardon--he meant to bea son to her. In short, he made the whole family so happy and hisbrother-in-law so independent, that Lucien fell under the spell ofDavid's voice and Eve's caresses; and as they went through the shadowsbeside the still Charente, a gleam in the warm, star-lit night, heforgot the sharp crown of thorns that had been pressed upon his head. "M. De Rubempre" discovered David's real nature, in fact. His facilecharacter returned almost at once to the innocent, hard-workingburgher life that he knew; he saw it transfigured and free from care. The buzz of the aristocratic world grew more and more remote; and whenat length they came upon the paved road of L'Houmeau, the ambitiouspoet grasped his brother's hand, and made a third in the joy of thehappy lovers. 

"If only your father makes no objection to the marriage, " he said. 

"You know how much he troubles himself about me; the old man lives forhimself, " said David. "But I will go over to Marsac to-morrow and seehim, if it is only to ask leave to build. "

David went back to the house with the brother and sister, and askedMme. Chardon's consent to his marriage with the eagerness of a man whowould fain have no delay. Eve's mother took her daughter's hand, andgladly laid it in David's; and the lover, grown bolder on this, kissedhis fair betrothed on the forehead, and she flushed red, and smiled athim. 

"The betrothal of the poor, " the mother said, raising her eyes as ifto pray for heaven's blessing upon them. --"You are brave, my boy, " sheadded, looking at David, "but we have fallen on evil fortune, and I amafraid lest our bad luck should be infectious. "

"We shall be rich and happy, " David said earnestly. "To begin with, you must not go out nursing any more, and you must come and live withyour daughter and Lucien in Angouleme. "

The three began at once to tell the astonished mother all theircharming plans, and the family party gave themselves up to thepleasure of chatting and weaving a romance, in which it is so pleasantto enjoy future happiness, and to store the unsown harvest. They hadto put David out at the door; he could have wished the evening to lastfor ever, and it was one o'clock in the morning when Lucien and hisfuture brother-in-law reached the Palet Gate. The unwonted movementmade honest Postel uneasy; he opened the window, and looking throughthe Venetian shutters, he saw a light in Eve's room. 

"What can be happening at the Chardons'?" thought he, and seeingLucien come in, he called out to him--

"What is the matter, sonny? Do you want me to do anything?"

"No, sir, " returned the poet; "but as you are our friend, I can tellyou about it; my mother has just given her consent to my sister'sengagement to David Sechard. "

For all answer, Postel shut the window with a bang, in despair that hehad not asked for Mlle. Chardon earlier. 

David, however, did not go back into Angouleme; he took the road toMarsac instead, and walked through the night the whole way to hisfather's house. He went along by the side of the croft just as the sunrose, and caught sight of the old "bear's" face under an almond-treethat grew out of the hedge. 

"Good day, father, " called David. 

"Why, is it you, my boy? How come you to be out on the road at thistime of day? There is your way in, " he added, pointing to a littlewicket gate. "My vines have flowered and not a shoot has been frosted. There will be twenty puncheons or more to the acre this year; but thenlook at all the dung that has been put on the land!"

"Father, I have come on important business. "

"Very well; how are your presses doing? You must be making heaps ofmoney as big as yourself. "

"I shall some day, father, but I am not very well off just now. "

"They all tell me that I ought not to put on so much manure, " repliedhis father. "The gentry, that is M. Le Marquis, M. Le Comte, andMonsieur What-do-you-call-'em, say that I am letting down the qualityof the wine. What is the good of book-learning except to muddle yourwits? Just you listen: these gentlemen get seven, or sometimes eightpuncheons of wine to the acre, and they sell them for sixty francsapiece, that means four hundred francs per acre at most in a goodyear. Now, I make twenty puncheons, and get thirty francs apiece forthem--that is six hundred francs! And where are they, the fools?Quality, quality, what is quality to me? They can keep their qualityfor themselves, these Lord Marquises. Quality means hard cash for me, that is what it means, You were saying?----"

"I am going to be married, father, and I have come to ask for----"

"Ask me for what? Nothing of the sort, my boy. Marry; I give you myconsent, but as for giving you anything else, I haven't a penny tobless myself with. Dressing the soil is the ruin of me. These twoyears I have been paying money out of pocket for top-dressing, andtaxes, and expenses of all kinds; Government eats up everything, nearly all the profit goes to the Government. The poor growers havemade nothing these last two seasons. This year things don't look sobad; and, of course, the beggarly puncheons have gone up to elevenfrancs already. We work to put money into the coopers' pockets. Why, are you going to marry before the vintage?----"

"I only came to ask for your consent, father. "

"Oh! that is another thing. And who is the victim, if one may ask?"

"I am going to marry Mlle. Eve Chardon. "

"Who may she be? What kind of victual does she eat?"

"She is the daughter of the late M. Chardon, the druggist inL'Houmeau. "

"You are going to marry a girl out of L'Houmeau! _you_! a burgess ofAngouleme, and printer to His Majesty! This is what comes ofbook-learning! Send a boy to school, forsooth! Oh! well, then she isvery rich, is she, my boy?" and the old vinegrower came up closer witha cajoling manner; "if you are marrying a girl out of L'Houmeau, itmust be because she has lots of cash, eh? Good! you will pay me my rentnow. There are two years and one-quarter owing, you know, my boy; thatis two thousand seven hundred francs altogether; the money will comejust in the nick of time to pay the cooper. If it was anybody else, Ishould have a right to ask for interest; for, after all, business isbusiness, but I will let you off the interest. Well, how much hasshe?"

"Just as much as my mother had. "

The old vinegrower very nearly said, "Then she has only ten thousandfrancs!" but he recollected just in time that he had declined to givean account of her fortune to her son, and exclaimed, "She hasnothing!"

"My mother's fortune was her beauty and intelligence, " said David. 

"You just go into the market and see what you can get for it! Bless mybuttons! what bad luck parents have with their children. David, when Imarried, I had a paper cap on my head for my whole fortune, and a pairof arms; I was a poor pressman; but with the fine printing-house thatI gave you, with your industry, and your education, you might marry aburgess' daughter, a woman with thirty or forty thousand francs. Giveup your fancy, and I will find you a wife myself. There is some oneabout three miles away, a miller's widow, thirty-two years old, with ahundred thousand francs in land. There is your chance! You can add herproperty to Marsac, for they touch. Ah! what a fine property we shouldhave, and how I would look after it! They say she is going to marryher foreman Courtois, but you are the better man of the two. I wouldlook after the mill, and she should live like a lady up in Angouleme. "

"I am engaged, father. "

"David, you know nothing of business; you will ruin yourself, I see. Yes, if you marry this girl out of L'Houmeau, I shall square accountsand summons you for the rent, for I see that no good will come ofthis. Oh! my presses, my poor presses! it took some money to greaseyou and keep you going. Nothing but a good year can comfort me afterthis. "

"It seems to me, father, that until now I have given you very littletrouble----"

"And paid mighty little rent, " put in his parent. 

"I came to ask you something else besides. Will you build a secondfloor to your house, and some rooms above the shed?"

"Deuce a bit of it; I have not the cash, and that you know right well. Besides, it would be money thrown clean away, for what would it bringin? Oh! you get up early of a morning to come and ask me to build youa place that would ruin a king, do you? Your name may be David, but Ihave not got Solomon's treasury. Why, you are mad! or they changed mychild at nurse. There is one for you that will have grapes on it, " hesaid, interrupting himself to point out a shoot. "Offspring of thissort don't disappoint their parents; you dung the vines, and theyrepay you for it. I sent you to school; I spent any amount of money tomake a scholar of you; I sent you to the Didots to learn yourbusiness; and all this fancy education ends in a daughter-in-law outof L'Houmeau without a penny to her name. If you had not studiedbooks, if I had kept you under my eye, you would have done as Ipleased, and you would be marrying a miller's widow this day with ahundred thousand francs in hand, to say nothing of the mill. Oh! yourcleverness leads you to imagine that I am going to reward this finesentiment by building palaces for you, does it? . . . Really, anybodymight think that the house that has been a house these two hundredyears was nothing but a pigsty, not fit for the girl out of L'Houmeauto sleep in! What next! She is the Queen of France, I suppose. "

"Very well, father, I will build the second floor myself; the son willimprove his father's property. It is not the usual way, but it happensso sometimes. "

"What, my lad! you can find money for building, can you, though youcan't find money to pay the rent, eh! You sly dog, to come round yourfather. "

The question thus raised was hard to lay, for the old man was only toodelighted to seize an opportunity of posing as a good father withoutdisbursing a penny; and all that David could obtain was his bareconsent to the marriage and free leave to do what he liked in thehouse--at his own expense; the old "bear, " that pattern of a thriftyparent, kindly consenting not to demand the rent and drain the savingsto which David imprudently owned. David went back again in lowspirits. He saw that he could not reckon on his father's help inmisfortune. 

In Angouleme that day people talked of nothing but the Bishop'sepigram and Mme. De Bargeton's reply. Every least thing that happenedthat evening was so much exaggerated and embellished and twisted outof all knowledge, that the poet became the hero of the hour. Whilethis storm in a teacup raged on high, a few drops fell among the_bourgeoisie_; young men looked enviously after Lucien as he passed onhis way through Beaulieu, and he overheard chance phrases that filledhim with conceit. 

"There is a lucky young fellow!" said an attorney's clerk, namedPetit-Claud, a plain-featured youth who had been at school withLucien, and treated him with small, patronizing airs. 

"Yes, he certainly is, " answered one of the young men who had beenpresent on the occasion of the reading; "he is a good-looking fellow, he has some brains, and Mme. De Bargeton is quite wild about him. "

Lucien had waited impatiently until he could be sure of finding Louisealone. He had to break the tidings of his sister's marriage to thearbitress of his destinies. Perhaps after yesterday's soiree, Louisewould be kinder than usual, and her kindness might lead to a moment ofhappiness. So he thought, and he was not mistaken; Mme. De Bargetonmet him with a vehemence of sentiment that seemed like a touchingprogress of passion to the novice in love. She abandoned her hands, her beautiful golden hair, to the burning kisses of the poet who hadpassed through such an ordeal. 

"If only you could have seen your face whilst you were reading, " criedLouise, using the familiar _tu_, the caress of speech, since yesterday, while her white hands wiped the pearls of sweat from the brows onwhich she set a poet's crown. "There were sparks of fire in thosebeautiful eyes! From your lips, as I watched them, there fell thegolden chains that suspend the hearts of men upon the poet's mouth. You shall read Chenier through to me from beginning to end; he is thelover's poet. You shall not be unhappy any longer; I will not have it. Yes, dear angel, I will make an oasis for you, there you shall liveyour poet's life, sometimes busy, sometimes languid; indolent, full ofwork, and musing by turns; but never forget that you owe your laurelsto me, let that thought be my noble guerdon for the sufferings which Imust endure. Poor love! the world will not spare me any more than ithas spared you; the world is avenged on all happiness in which it hasno share. Yes, I shall always be a mark for envy--did you not see thatlast night? The bloodthirsty insects are quick enough to drain everywound that they pierce. But I was happy; I lived. It is so long sinceall my heartstrings vibrated. "

The tears flowed fast, and for all answer Lucien took Louise's handand gave it a lingering kiss. Every one about him soothed and caressedthe poet's vanity; his mother and his sister and David and Louise nowdid the same. Every one helped to raise the imaginary pedestal onwhich he had set himself. His friends's kindness and the fury of hisenemies combined to establish him more firmly in an ureal world. Ayoung imagination readily falls in with the flattering estimates ofothers, a handsome young fellow so full of promise finds others eagerto help him on every side, and only after one or two sharp and bitterlessons does he begin to see himself as an ordinary mortal. 

"My beautiful Louise, do you mean in very truth to be my Beatrice, aBeatrice who condescends to be loved?"

Louise raised the fine eyes, hitherto down-dropped. 

"If you show yourself worthy--some day!" she said, with an angelicsmile which belied her words. "Are you not happy? To be the solepossessor of a heart, to speak freely at all times, with the certaintyof being understood, is not this happiness?"

"Yes, " he answered, with a lover's pout of vexation. 

"Child!" she exclaimed, laughing at him. "Come, you have something totell me, have you not? You came in absorbed in thought, my Lucien. "

Lucien, in fear and trembling, confided to his beloved that David wasin love with his sister Eve, and that his sister Eve was in love withDavid, and that the two were to be married shortly. 

"Poor Lucien!" said Louise, "he was afraid he should be beaten andscolded, as if it was he himself that was going to be married! Why, where is the harm?" she continued, her fingers toying with Lucien'shair. "What is your family to me when you are an exception? Supposethat my father were to marry his cook, would that trouble you much?Dear boy, lovers are for each other their whole family. Have I agreater interest than my Lucien in the world? Be great, find the wayto win fame, that is our affair!"

This selfish answer made Lucien the happiest of mortals. But in themiddle of the fantastic reasonings, with which Louise convinced himthat they two were alone in the world, in came M. De Bargeton. Lucienfrowned and seemed to be taken aback, but Louise made him a sign, andasked him to stay to dinner and to read Andre de Chenier aloud to themuntil people arrived for their evening game at cards. 

"You will give her pleasure, " said M. De Bargeton, "and me also. Nothing suits me better than listening to reading aloud after dinner. "

Cajoled by M. De Bargeton, cajoled by Louise, waited upon with therespect which servants show to a favored guest of the house, Lucienremained in the Hotel de Bargeton, and began to think of the luxurieswhich he enjoyed for the time being as the rightful accessories ofLucien de Rubempre. He felt his position so strong through Louise'slove and M. De Bargeton's weakness, that as the rooms filled, heassumed a lordly air, which that fair lady encouraged. He tasted thedelights of despotic sway which Nais had acquired by right ofconquest, and liked to share with him; and, in short, that evening hetried to act up to the part of the lion of the little town. A few ofthose who marked these airs drew their own conclusions from them, andthought that, according to the old expression, he had come to the lastterm with the lady. Amelie, who had come with M. Du Chatelet, was sureof the deplorable fact, in a corner of the drawing-room, where thejealous and envious gathered together. 

"Do not think of calling Nais to account for the vanity of ayoungster, who is as proud as he can be because he has got intosociety, where he never expected to set foot, " said Chatelet. "Don'tyou see that this Chardon takes the civility of a woman of the worldfor an advance? He does not know the difference between the silence ofreal passion and the patronizing graciousness due to his good looksand youth and talent. It would be too bad if women were blamed for allthe desires which they inspire. _He_ certainly is in love with her, butas for Nais----"

"Oh! Nais, " echoed the perfidious Amelie, "Nais is well enoughpleased. A young man's love has so many attractions--at her age. Awoman grows young again in his company; she is a girl, and acts agirl's hesitation and manners, and does not dream that she isridiculous. Just look! Think of a druggist's son giving himself aconqueror's airs with Mme. De Bargeton. "

"Love knows nought of high or low degree, " hummed Adrien. 

There was not a single house in Angouleme next day where the degree ofintimacy between M. Chardon (alias de Rubempre) and Mme. De Bargetonwas not discussed; and though the utmost extent of their guiltamounted to two or three kisses, the world already chose to believethe worst of both. Mme. De Bargeton paid the penalty of hersovereignty. Among the various eccentricities of society, have younever noticed its erratic judgments and the unaccountable differencesin the standard it requires of this or that man or woman? There aresome persons who may do anything; they may behave totallyirrationally, anything becomes them, and it is who shall be first tojustify their conduct; then, on the other hand, there are those onwhom the world is unaccountably severe, they must do everything well, they are not allowed to fail nor to make mistakes, at their peril theydo anything foolish; you might compare these last to the much-admiredstatues which must come down at once from their pedestal if the frostchips off a nose or a finger. They are not permitted to be human; theyare required to be for ever divine and for ever impeccable. So oneglance exchanged between Mme. De Bargeton and Lucien outweighed twelveyears of Zizine's connection with Francis in the social balance; and asqueeze of the hand drew down all the thunders of the Charente uponthe lovers. 

David had brought a little secret hoard back with him from Paris, andit was this sum that he set aside for the expenses of his marriage andfor the building of the second floor in his father's house. Hisfather's house it was; but, after all, was he not working for himself?It would all be his again some day, and his father was sixty-eightyears old. So David build a timbered second story for Lucien, so asnot to put too great a strain on the old rifted house-walls. He tookpleasure in making the rooms where the fair Eve was to spend her lifeas brave as might be. 

It was a time of blithe and unmixed happiness for the friends. Lucienwas tired of the shabbiness of provincial life, and weary of thesordid frugality that looked on a five-franc piece as a fortune, buthe bore the hardships and the pinching thrift without grumbling. Hismoody looks had been succeeded by an expression of radiant hope. Hesaw the star shining above his head, he had dreams of a great time tocome, and built the fabric of his good fortune on M. De Bargeton'stomb. M. De Bargeton, troubled with indigestion from time to time, cherished the happy delusion that indigestion after dinner was acomplaint to be cured by a hearty supper. 

By the beginning of September, Lucien had ceased to be a printer'sforeman; he was M. De Rubempre, housed sumptuously in comparison withhis late quarters in the tumbledown attic with the dormer-window, where "young Chardon" had lived in L'Houmeau; he was not even a "manof L'Houmeau"; he lived in the heights of Angouleme, and dined fourtimes a week with Mme. De Bargeton. A friendship had grown up betweenM. De Rubempre and the Bishop, and he went to the palace. Hisoccupations put him upon a level with the highest rank; his name wouldbe one day among the great names of France; and, in truth, as he wentto and fro in his apartments, the pretty sitting-room, the charmingbedroom, and the tastefully furnished study, he might console himselffor the thought that he drew thirty francs every month out of hismother's and sister's hard earnings; for he saw the day approachingwhen _An Archer of Charles IX. _, the historical romance on which he hadbeen at work for two years, and a volume of verse entitled_Marguerites_, should spread his fame through the world of literature, and bring in money enough to repay them all, his mother and sister andDavid. So, grown great in his own eyes, and giving ear to the echoesof his name in the future, he could accept present sacrifices withnoble assurance; he smiled at his poverty, he relished the sense ofthese last days of penury. 

Eve and David had set Lucien's happiness before their own. They hadput off their wedding, for it took some time to paper and paint theirrooms, and to buy the furniture, and Lucien's affairs had been settledfirst. No one who knew Lucien could wonder at their devotion. Lucienwas so engaging, he had such winning ways, his impatience and hisdesires were so graciously expressed, that his cause was always wonbefore he opened his mouth to speak. This unlucky gift of fortune, ifit is the salvation of some, is the ruin of many more. Lucien and hislike find a world predisposed in favor of youth and good looks, andready to protect those who give it pleasure with the selfishgood-nature that flings alms to a beggar, if he appeals to the feelingsand awakens emotion; and in this favor many a grown child is content tobask instead of putting it to a profitable use. With mistaken notionsas to the significance and the motive of social relations they imaginethat they shall always meet with deceptive smiles; and so at last themoment comes for them when the world leaves them bald, stripped bare, without fortune or worth, like an elderly coquette by the door of asalon, or a stray rag in the gutter. 

Eve herself had wished for the delay. She meant to establish thelittle household on the most economical footing, and to buy onlystrict necessaries; but what could two lovers refuse to a brother whowatched his sister at her work, and said in tones that came from theheart, "How I wish I could sew!" The sober, observant David had sharedin the devotion; and yet, since Lucien's triumph, David had watchedhim with misgivings; he was afraid that Lucien would change towardsthem, afraid that he would look down upon their homely ways. Once ortwice, to try his brother, David had made him choose between homepleasures and the great world, and saw that Lucien gave up thedelights of vanity for them, and exclaimed to himself, "They will notspoil him for us!" Now and again the three friends and Mme. Chardonarranged picnic parties in provincial fashion--a walk in the woodsalong the Charente, not far from Angouleme, and dinner out on thegrass, David's apprentice bringing the basket of provisions to someplace appointed before-hand; and at night they would come back, tiredsomewhat, but the whole excursion had not cost three francs. On greatoccasion, when they dined at a _restaurat_, as it is called, a sort of acountry inn, a compromise between a provincial wineshop and a Parisian_guinguette_, they would spend as much as five francs, divided betweenDavid and the Chardons. David gave his brother infinite credit forforsaking Mme. De Bargeton and grand dinners for these days in thecountry, and the whole party made much of the great man of Angouleme. 

Matters had gone so far, that the new home was very nearly ready, andDavid had gone over to Marsac to persuade his father to come to thewedding, not without a hope that the old man might relent at the sightof his daughter-in-law, and give something towards the heavy expensesof the alterations, when there befell one of those events whichentirely change the face of things in a small town. 

Lucien and Louise had a spy in Chatelet, a spy who watched, with thepersistence of a hate in which avarice and passion are blended, for anopportunity of making a scandal. Sixte meant that Mme. De Bargetonshould compromise herself with Lucien in such a way that she should be"lost, " as the saying goes; so he posed as Mme. De Bargeton's humbleconfidant, admired Lucien in the Rue du Minage, and pulled him topieces everywhere else. Nais had gradually given him _les petitesentrees_, in the language of the court, for the lady no longermistrusted her elderly admirer; but Chatelet had taken too much forgranted--love was still in the Platonic stage, to the great despair ofLouise and Lucien. 

There are, for that matter, love affairs which start with a good or abad beginning, as you prefer to take it. Two creatures launch into thetactics of sentiment; they talk when they should be acting, andskirmish in the open instead of settling down to a siege. And so theygrow tired of one another, expend their longings in empty space; and, having time for reflection, come to their own conclusions about eachother. Many a passion that has taken the field in gorgeous array, withcolors flying and an ardor fit to turn the world upside down, hasturned home again without a victory, inglorious and crestfallen, cutting but a foolish figure after these vain alarums and excursions. Such mishaps are sometimes due to the diffidence of youth, sometimesto the demurs of an inexperienced woman, for old players at this gameseldom end in a fiasco of this kind. 

Provincial life, moreover, is singularly well calculated to keepdesire unsatisfied and maintain a lover's arguments on theintellectual plane, while, at the same time, the very obstacles placedin the way of the sweet intercourse which binds lovers so closely eachto each, hurry ardent souls on towards extreme measures. A system ofespionage of the most minute and intricate kind underlies provinciallife; every house is transparent, the solace of close friendshipswhich break no moral law is scarcely allowed; and such outrageouslyscandalous constructions are put upon the most innocent humanintercourse, that many a woman's character is taken away withoutcause. One here and there, weighed down by her unmerited punishment, will regret that she has never known to the full the forbiddenfelicity for which she is suffering. The world, which blames andcriticises with a superficial knowledge of the patent facts in which along inward struggle ends, is in reality a prime agent in bringingsuch scandals about; and those whose voices are loudest incondemnation of the alleged misconduct of some slandered woman nevergive a thought to the immediate provocation of the overt step. Thatstep many a woman only takes after she has been unjustly accused andcondemned, and Mme. De Bargeton was now on the verge of this anomalousposition. 

The obstacles at the outset of a passion of this kind are alarming toinexperience, and those in the way of the two lovers were very likethe bonds by which the population of Lilliput throttled Gulliver, amultiplicity of nothings, which made all movement impossible, andbaffle the most vehement desires. Mme. De Bargeton, for instance, mustalways be visible. If she had denied herself to visitors when Lucienwas with her, it would have been all over with her; she might as wellhave run away with him at once. It is true that they sat in theboudoir, now grown so familiar to Lucien that he felt as if he had aright to be there; but the doors stood scrupulously open, andeverything was arranged with the utmost propriety. M. De Bargetonpervaded the house like a cockchafer; it never entered his head thathis wife could wish to be alone with Lucien. If he had been the onlyperson in the way, Nais could have got rid of him, sent him out of thehouse, or given him something to do; but he was not the only one;visitors flocked in upon her, and so much the more as curiosityincreased, for your provincial has a natural bent for teasing, anddelights to thwart a growing passion. The servants came and went aboutthe house promiscuously and without a summons; they had formed thehabits with a mistress who had nothing to conceal; any change now madein her household ways was tantamount to a confession, and Angoulemestill hung in doubt. 

Mme. De Bargeton could not set foot outside her house but the wholetown knew whither she was going. To take a walk alone with Lucien outof Angouleme would have been a decided measure, indeed; it would havebeen less dangerous to shut herself up with him in the house. Therewould have been comments the next day if Lucien had stayed on tillmidnight after the rooms were emptied. Within as without her house, Mme. De Bargeton lived in public. 

These details describe life in the provinces; an intrigue is eitheropenly avoided or impossible anywhere. 

Like all women carried away for the first time by passion, Louisediscovered the difficulties of her position one by one. Theyfrightened her, and her terror reacted upon the fond talk that fillsthe fairest hours which lovers spend alone together. Mme. De Bargetonhad no country house whither she could take her beloved poet, afterthe manner of some women who will forge ingenious pretexts for buryingthemselves in the wilderness; but, weary of living in public, andpushed to extremities by a tyranny which afforded no pleasures sweetenough to compensate for the heaviness of the yoke, she even thoughtof Escarbas, and of going to see her aged father--so much irritatedwas she by these paltry obstacles. 

Chatelet did not believe in such innocence. He lay in wait, andwatched Lucien into the house, and followed a few minutes later, always taking M. De Chandour, the most indiscreet person in theclique, along with him; and, putting that gentleman first, hoped tofind a surprise by such perseverance in pursuit of the chance. His ownpart was a very difficult one to play, and its success was the moredoubtful because he was bound to appear neutral if he was to promptthe other actors who were to play in his drama. So, to give himself acountenance, he had attached himself to the jealous Amelie, the betterto lull suspicion in Lucien and in Mme. De Bargeton, who was notwithout perspicacity. In order to spy upon the pair, he had contrivedof late to open up a stock controversy on the point with M. DeChandour. Chatelet said that Mme. De Bargeton was simply amusingherself with Lucien; she was too proud, too high-born, to stoop to theapothecary's son. The role of incredulity was in accordance with theplan which he had laid down, for he wished to appear as Mme. DeBargeton's champion. Stanislas de Chandour held that Mme. De Bargetonhad not been cruel to her lover, and Amelie goaded them to argument, for she longed to know the truth. Each stated his case, and (as notunfrequently happens in small country towns) some intimate friends ofthe house dropped in in the middle of the argument. Stanislas andChatelet vied with each other in backing up their opinions byobservations extremely pertinent. It was hardly to be expected thatthe champions should not seek to enlist partisans. "What do youyourself think?" they asked, each of his neighbor. These polemics keptMme. De Bargeton and Lucien well in sight. 

At length one day Chatelet called attention to the fact that wheneverhe went with M. De Chandour to Mme. De Bargeton's and found Lucienthere, there was not a sign nor a trace of anything suspicious; theboudoir door stood open, the servants came and went, there was nothingmysterious to betray the sweet crime of love, and so forth and soforth. Stanislas, who did not lack a certain spice of stupidity in hiscomposition, vowed that he would cross the room on tiptoe the nextday, and the perfidious Amelie held him to his bargain. 

For Lucien that morrow was the day on which a young man tugs out someof the hairs of his head, and inwardly vows that he will give up thefoolish business of sighing. He was accustomed to his situation. Thepoet, who had seated himself so bashfully in the boudoir-sanctuary ofthe queen of Angouleme, had been transformed into an urgent lover. Sixmonths had been enough to bring him on a level with Louise, and now hewould fain be her lord and master. He left home with a settleddetermination to be extravagant in his behavior; he would say that itwas a matter of life or death to him; he would bring all the resourcesof torrid eloquence into play; he would cry that he had lost his head, that he could not think, could not write a line. The horror that somewomen feel for premeditation does honor to their delicacy; they wouldrather surrender upon the impulse of passion, than in fulfilment of acontract. In general, prescribed happiness is not the kind that any ofus desire. 

Mme. De Bargeton read fixed purpose in Lucien's eyes and forehead, andin the agitation in his face and manner, and proposed to herself tobaffle him, urged thereto partly by a spirit of contradiction, partlyalso by an exalted conception of love. Being given to exaggeration, she set an exaggerated value upon her person. She looked upon herselfas a sovereign lady, a Beatrice, a Laura. She enthroned herself, likesome dame of the Middle Ages, upon a dais, looking down upon thetourney of literature, and meant that Lucien, as in duty bound, shouldwin her by his prowess in the field; he must eclipse "the sublimechild, " and Lamartine, and Sir Walter Scott, and Byron. The noblecreature regarded her love as a stimulating power; the desire whichshe had kindled in Lucien should give him the energy to win glory forhimself. This feminine Quixotry is a sentiment which hallows love andturns it to worthy uses; it exalts and reverences love. Mme. DeBargeton having made up her mind to play the part of Dulcinea inLucien's life for seven or eight years to come, desired, like manyother provincials, to give herself as the reward of prolonged service, a trial of constancy which should give her time to judge her lover. 

Lucien began the strife by a piece of vehement petulence, at which awoman laughs so long as she is heart-free, and saddens only when sheloves; whereupon Louise took a lofty tone, and began one of her longorations, interlarded with high-sounding words. 

"Was that your promise to me, Lucien?" she said, as she made an end. "Do not sow regrets in the present time, so sweet as it is, to poisonmy after life. Do not spoil the future, and, I say it with pride, donot spoil the present! Is not my whole heart yours? What more must youhave? Can it be that your love is influenced by the clamor of thesenses, when it is the noblest privilege of the beloved to silencethem? For whom do you take me? Am I not your Beatrice? If I am notsomething more than a woman for you, I am less than a woman. "

"That is just what you might say to a man if you cared nothing at allfor him, " cried Lucien, frantic with passion. 

"If you cannot feel all the sincere love underlying my ideas, you willnever be worthy of me. "

"You are throwing doubts on my love to dispense yourself fromresponding to it, " cried Lucien, and he flung himself weeping at herfeet. 

The poor boy cried in earnest at the prospect of remaining so long atthe gate of paradise. The tears of the poet, who feels that he ishumbled through his strength, were mingled with childish crying for aplaything. 

"You have never loved me!" he cried. 

"You do not believe what you say, " she answered, flattered by hisviolence. 

"Then give me proof that you are mine, " said the disheveled poet. 

Just at that moment Stanislas came up unheard by either of the pair. He beheld Lucien in tears, half reclining on the floor, with his headon Louise's knee. The attitude was suspicious enough to satisfyStanislas; he turned sharply round upon Chatelet, who stood at thedoor of the salon. Mme. De Bargeton sprang up in a moment, but thespies beat a precipate retreat like intruders, and she was not quickenough for them. 

"Who came just now?" she asked the servants. 

"M. De Chandour and M. Du Chatelet, " said Gentil, her old footman. 

Mme. De Bargeton went back, pale and trembling, to her boudoir. 

"If they saw you just now, I am lost, " she told Lucien. 

"So much the better!" exclaimed the poet, and she smiled to hear thecry, so full of selfish love. 

A story of this kind is aggravated in the provinces by the way inwhich it is told. Everybody knew in a moment that Lucien had beendetected at Nais feet. M. De Chandour, elated by the important part heplayed in the affair, went first to tell the great news at the club, and thence from house to house, Chatelet hastening to say that _he_ hadseen nothing; but by putting himself out of court, he egged Stanislason to talk, he drew him on to add fresh details; and Stanislas, thinking himself very witty, added a little to the tale every timethat he told it. Every one flocked to Amelie's house that evening, forby that time the most exaggerated versions of the story were incirculation among the Angouleme nobility, every narrator havingfollowed Stanislas' example. Women and men were alike impatient toknow the truth; and the women who put their hands before their facesand shrieked the loudest were none other than Mesdames Amelie, Zephirine, Fifine, and Lolotte, all with more or less heavyindictments of illicit love laid to their charge. There werevariations in every key upon the painful theme. 

"Well, well, " said one of the ladies, "poor Nais! have you heard aboutit? I do not believe it myself; she has a whole blameless recordbehind her; she is far too proud to be anything but a patroness to M. Chardon. Still, if it is true, I pity her with all my heart. "

"She is all the more to be pitied because she is making herselffrightfully ridiculous; she is old enough to be M. Lulu's mother, asJacques called him. The little poet it twenty-two at most; and Nais, between ourselves, is quite forty. "

"For my own part, " said M. Du Chatelet, "I think that M. De Rubempre'sposition in itself proves Nais' innocence. A man does not go down onhis knees to ask for what he has had already. "

"That is as may be!" said Francis, with levity that broughtZephirine's disapproving glance down on him. 

"Do just tell us how it really was, " they besought Stanislas, andformed a small, secret committee in a corner of the salon. 

Stanislas, in the long length, had put together a little story full offacetious suggestions, and accompanied it with pantomime, which madethe thing prodigiously worse. 

"It is incredible!"

"At midday?"

"Nais was the last person whom I should have suspected!"

"What will she do now?"

Then followed more comments, and suppositions without end. Chatelettook Mme. De Bargeton's part; but he defended her so ill, that hestirred the fire of gossip instead of putting it out. 

Lili, disconsolate over the fall of the fairest angel in theAngoumoisin hierarchy, went, dissolved in tears, to carry the news tothe palace. When the delighted Chatelet was convinced that the wholetown was agog, he went off to Mme. De Bargeton's, where, alas! therewas but one game of whist that night, and diplomatically asked Naisfor a little talk in the boudoir. They sat down on the sofa, andChatelet began in an undertone--

"You know what Angouleme is talking about, of course?"

"No. "

"Very well, I am too much your friend to leave you in ignorance. I ambound to put you in a position to silence slanders, invented, nodoubt, by Amelie, who has the overweening audacity to regard herselfas your rival. I came to call on you this morning with that monkey ofa Stanislas; he was a few paces ahead of me, and he came so far"(pointing to the door of the boudoir); "he says that he _saw_ you andM. De Rubempre in such a position that he could not enter; he turnedround upon me, quite bewildered as I was, and hurried me away before Ihad time to think; we were out in Beaulieu before he told me why hehad beaten a retreat. If I had known, I would not have stirred out ofthe house till I had cleared up the matter and exonerated you, but itwould have proved nothing to go back again then. 

"Now, whether Stanislas' eyes deceived him, or whether he is right, _hemust have made a mistake_. Dear Nais, do not let that dolt trifle withyour life, your honor, your future; stop his mouth at once. You knowmy position here. I have need of all these people, but still I amentirely yours. Dispose of a life that belongs to you. You haverejected my prayers, but my heart is always yours; I am ready to provemy love for you at any time and in any way. Yes, I will watch over youlike a faithful servant, for no reward, but simply for the sake of thepleasure that it is to me to do anything for you, even if you do notknow of it. This morning I have said everywhere that I was at the doorof the salon, and had seen nothing. If you are asked to give the nameof the person who told you about this gossip, pray make use of me. Ishould be very proud to be your acknowledged champion; but, betweenourselves, M. De Bargeton is the proper person to ask Stanislas for anexplanation. . . . Suppose that young Rubempre had behaved foolishly, a woman's character ought not to be at the mercy of the firsthare-brained boy who flings himself at her feet. That is what I havebeen saying. "

Nais bowed in acknowledgment, and looked thoughtful. She was weary todisgust of provincial life. Chatelet had scarcely begun before hermind turned to Paris. Meanwhile Mme. De Bargeton's adorer found thesilence somewhat awkward. 

"Dispose of me, I repeat, " he added. 

"Thank you, " answered the lady. 

"What do you think of doing?"

"I shall see. "

A prolonged pause. 

"Are you so fond of that young Rubempre?"

A proud smile stole over her lips, she folded her arms, and fixed hergaze on the curtains. Chatelet went out; he could not read that highheart. 

Later in the evening, when Lucien had taken his leave, and likewisethe four old gentlemen who came for their whist, without troublingthemselves about ill-founded tittle-tattle, M. De Bargeton waspreparing to go to bed, and had opened his mouth to bid his wifegood-night, when she stopped him. 

"Come here, dear, I have something to say to you, " she said, with acertain solemnity. 

M. De Bargeton followed her into the boudoir. 

"Perhaps I have done wrongly, " she said, "to show a warm interest inM. De Rubempre, which he, as well as the stupid people here in thetown, has misinterpreted. This morning Lucien threw himself here at myfeet with a declaration, and Stanislas happened to come in just as Itold the boy to get up again. A woman, under any circumstances, hasclaims which courtesy prescribes to a gentleman; but in contempt ofthese, Stanislas has been saying that he came unexpectedly and foundus in an equivocal position. I was treating the boy as he deserved. Ifthe young scatterbrain knew of the scandal caused by his folly, hewould go, I am convinced, to insult Stanislas, and compel him tofight. That would simply be a public proclamation of his love. I neednot tell you that your wife is pure; but if you think, you will seethat it is something dishonoring for both you and me if M. De Rubempredefends her. Go at once to Stanislas and ask him to give yousatisfaction for his insulting language; and mind, you must not acceptany explanation short of a full and public retraction in the presenceof witnesses of credit. In this way you will win back the respect ofall right-minded people; you will behave like a man of spirit and agentleman, and you will have a right to my esteem. I shall send Gentilon horseback to the Escarbas; my father must be your second; old as heis, I know that he is the man to trample this puppet under foot thathas smirched the reputation of a Negrepelisse. You have the choice ofweapons, choose pistols; you are an admirable shot. "

"I am going, " said M. De Bargeton, and he took his hat and his walkingcane. 

"Good, that is how I like a man to behave, dear; you are a gentleman, "said his wife. She felt touched by his conduct, and made the old manvery happy and proud by putting up her forehead for a kiss. She feltsomething like a maternal affection for the great child; and when thecarriage gateway had shut with a clang behind him, the tears came intoher eyes in spite of herself. 

"How he loves me!" she thought. "He clings to life, poor, dear man, and yet he would give his life for me. "

It did not trouble M. De Bargeton that he must stand up and face hisman on the morrow, and look coolly into the muzzle of a pistol pointedstraight at him; no, only one thing in the business made him feeluncomfortable, and on the way to M. De Chandour's house he quakedinwardly. 

"What shall I say?" he thought within himself; "Nais really ought tohave told me what to say, " and the good gentleman racked his brains tocompose a speech that should not be ridiculous. 

But people of M. De Bargeton's stamp, who live perforce in silencebecause their capacity is limited and their outlook circumscribed, often behave at great crises with a ready-made solemnity. If they saylittle, it naturally follows that they say little that is foolish;their extreme lack of confidence leads them to think a good deal overthe remarks that they are obliged to make; and, like Balaam's ass, they speak marvelously to the point if a miracle loosens theirtongues. So M. De Bargeton bore himself like a man of uncommon senseand spirit, and justified the opinion of those who held that he was aphilosopher of the school of Pythagoras. 

He reached Stanislas' house at nine o'clock, bowed silently to Ameliebefore a whole room full of people, and greeted others in turn withthat simple smile of his, which under the present circumstances seemedprofoundly ironical. There followed a great silence, like the pausebefore a storm. Chatelet had made his way back again, and now lookedin a very significant fashion from M. De Bargeton to Stanislas, whomthe injured gentleman accosted politely. 

Chatelet knew what a visit meant at this time of night, when old M. DeBargeton was invariably in his bed. It was evidently Nais who had setthe feeble arm in motion. Chatelet was on such a footing in that housethat he had some right to interfere in family concerns. He rose to hisfeet and took M. De Bargeton aside, saying, "Do you wish to speak toStanislas?"

"Yes, " said the old gentleman, well pleased to find a go-between whoperhaps might say his say for him. 

"Very well; go into Amelie's bedroom, " said the controller of excise, likewise well pleased at the prospect of a duel which possibly mightmake Mme. De Bargeton a widow, while it put a bar between her andLucien, the cause of the quarrel. Then Chatelet went to M. DeChandour. 

"Stanislas, " he said, "here comes Bargeton to call you to account, nodoubt, for the things you have been saying about Nais. Go into yourwife's room, and behave, both of you, like gentlemen. Keep the thingquiet, and make a great show of politeness, behave with phlegmaticBritish dignity, in short. "

In another minute Stanislas and Chatelet went to Bargeton. 

"Sir, " said the injured husband, "do you say that you discovered Mme. De Bargeton and M. De Rubempre in an equivocal position?"

"M. Chardon, " corrected Stanislas, with ironical stress; he did nottake Bargeton seriously. 

"So be it, " answered the other. "If you do not withdraw yourassertions at once before the company now in your house, I must askyou to look for a second. My father-in-law, M. De Negrepelisse, willwait upon you at four o'clock to-morrow morning. Both of us may aswell make our final arrangements, for the only way out of the affairis the one that I have indicated. I choose pistols, as the insultedparty. "

This was the speech that M. De Bargeton had ruminated on the way; itwas the longest that he had ever made in life. He brought it outwithout excitement or vehemence, in the simplest way in the world. Stanislas turned pale. "After all, what did I see?" said he tohimself. 

Put between the shame of eating his words before the whole town, andfear, that caught him by the throat with burning fingers; confrontedby this mute personage, who seemed in no humor to stand nonsense, Stanislas chose the more remote peril. 

"All right. To-morrow morning, " he said, thinking that the mattermight be arranged somehow or other. 

The three went back to the room. Everybody scanned their faces as theycame in; Chatelet was smiling, M. De Bargeton looked exactly as if hewere in his own house, but Stanislas looked ghastly pale. At the sightof his face, some of the women here and there guessed the nature ofthe conference, and the whisper, "They are going to fight!" circulatedfrom ear to ear. One-half of the room was of the opinion thatStanislas was in the wrong, his white face and his demeanor convictedhim of a lie; the other half admired M. De Bargeton's attitude. Chatelet was solemn and mysterious. M. De Bargeton stayed a fewminutes, scrutinized people's faces, and retired. 

"Have you pistols?" Chatelet asked in a whisper of Stanislas, whoshook from head to foot. 

Amelie knew what it all meant. She felt ill, and the women flockedabout her to take her into her bedroom. There was a terrificsensation; everybody talked at once. The men stopped in thedrawing-room, and declared, with one voice, that M. De Bargeton waswithin his right. 

"Would you have thought the old fogy capable of acting like this?"asked M. De Saintot. 

"But he was a crack shot when he was young, " said the pitilessJacques. "My father often used to tell me of Bargeton's exploits. "

"Pooh! Put them at twenty paces, and they will miss each other if yougive them cavalry pistols, " said Francis, addressing Chatelet. 

Chatelet stayed after the rest had gone to reassure Stanislas and hiswife, and to explain that all would go off well. In a duel between aman of sixty and a man of thirty-five, all the advantage lay with thelatter. 

Early next morning, as Lucien sat at breakfast with David, who hadcome back alone from Marsac, in came Mme. Chardon with a scared face. 

"Well, Lucien, " she said, "have you heard the news? Everyone istalking of it, even the people in the market. M. De Bargeton all butkilled M. De Chandour this morning in M. Tulloy's meadow; people aremaking puns on the name. (Tue Poie. ) It seems that M. De Chandour saidthat he found you with Mme. De Bargeton yesterday. "

"It is a lie! Mme. De Bargeton is innocent, " cried Lucien. 

"I heard about the duel from a countryman, who saw it all from hiscart. M. De Negrepelisse came over at three o'clock in the morning tobe M. De Bargeton's second; he told M. De Chandour that if anythinghappened to his son-in-law, he should avenge him. A cavalry officerlent the pistols. M. De Negrepelisse tried them over and over again. M. Du Chatelet tried to prevent them from practising with the pistols, but they referred the question to the officer; and he said that, unless they meant to behave like children, they ought to have pistolsin working order. The seconds put them at twenty-five paces. M. DeBargeton looked as if he had just come out for a walk. He was thefirst to fire; the ball lodged in M. De Chandour's neck, and hedropped before he could return the shot. The house-surgeon at thehospital has just said that M. De Chandour will have a wry neck forthe rest of his days. I came to tell you how it ended, lest you shouldgo to Mme. De Bargeton's or show yourself in Angouleme, for some of M. De Chandour's friends might call you out. "

As she spoke, the apprentice brought in Gentil, M. De Bargeton'sfootman. The man had come with a note for Lucien; it was from Louise. 

"You have doubtless heard the news, " she wrote, "of the duel betweenChandour and my husband. We shall not be at home to any one to-day. Becareful; do not show yourself. I ask this in the name of the affectionyou bear me. Do you not think that it would be best to spend thismelancholy day in listening to your Beatrice, whose whole life hasbeen changed by this event, who has a thousand things to say to you?"

"Luckily, my marriage is fixed for the day after to-morrow, " saidDavid, "and you will have an excuse for not going to see Mme. DeBargeton quite so often. "

"Dear David, " returned Lucien, "she asks me to go to her to-day; and Iought to do as she wishes, I think; she knows better than we do how Ishould act in the present state of things. "

"Then is everything ready here?" asked Mme. Chardon. 

"Come and see, " cried David, delighted to exhibit the transformationof the first floor. Everything there was new and fresh; everything waspervaded by the sweet influences of early married days, still crownedby the wreath of orange blossoms and the bridal veil; days when thespringtide of love finds its reflection in material things, andeverything is white and spotless and has not lost its bloom. 

"Eve's home will be fit for a princess, " said the mother, "but youhave spent too much, you have been reckless. "

David smiled by way of answer. But Mme. Chardon had touched the sorespot in a hidden wound which caused the poor lover cruel pangs. Thecost of carrying out his ideas had far exceeded his estimates; hecould not afford to build above the shed. His mother-in-law must waitawhile for the home he had meant to make for her. There is nothingmore keenly painful to a generous nature than a failure to keep suchpromises as these; it is like mortification to the little vanities ofaffection, as they may be styled. David sedulously hid hisembarrassment to spare Lucien; he was afraid that Lucien might beoverwhelmed by the sacrifices made for his sake. 

"Eve and her girl friends have been working very hard, too, " said Mme. Chardon. "The wedding clothes and the house linen are all ready. Thegirls are so fond of her, that, without letting her know about it, they have covered the mattresses with white twill and a rose-coloredpiping at the edges. So pretty! It makes one wish one were going to bemarried. "

Mother and daughter had spent all their little savings to furnishDavid's home with the things of which a young bachelor never thinks. They knew that he was furnishing with great splendor, for somethinghad been said about ordering a dinner-service from Limoges, and thetwo women had striven to make Eve's contributions to the housekeepingworthy of David's. This little emulation in love and generosity couldbut bring the husband and wife into difficulties at the very outset oftheir married life, with every sign of homely comfort about them, comfort that might be regarded as positive luxury in a place so behindthe times as the Angouleme of those days. 

As soon as Lucien saw his mother and David enter the bedroom with theblue-and-white draperies and neat furniture that he knew, he slippedaway to Mme. De Bargeton. He found Nais at table with her husband; M. De Bargeton's early morning walk had sharpened his appetite, and hewas breakfasting quite unconcernedly after all that had passed. Luciensaw the dignified face of M. De Negrepelisse, the old provincialnoble, a relic of the old French _noblesse_, sitting beside Nais. 

When Gentil announced M. De Rubempre, the white-headed old man gavehim a keen, curious glance; the father was anxious to form his ownopinions of this man whom his daughter had singled out for notice. Lucien's extreme beauty made such a vivid impression upon him, that hecould not repress an approving glance; but at the same time he seemedto regard the affair as a flirtation, a mere passing fancy on hisdaughter's part. Breakfast over, Louise could leave her father and M. De Bargeton together; she beckoned Lucien to follow her as shewithdrew. 

"Dear, " she said, and the tones of her voice were half glad, halfmelancholy, "I am going to Paris, and my father is taking Bargetonback with him to the Escarbas, where he will stay during my absence. Mme. D'Espard (she was a Blamont-Chauvry before her marriage) hasgreat influence herself, and influential relations. The d'Espards areconnections of ours; they are the older branch of the Negrepelisses;and if she vouchsafes to acknowledge the relationship, I intend tocultivate her a good deal; she may perhaps procure a place forBargeton. At my solicitation, it might be desired at Court that heshould represent the Charente, and that would be a step towards hiselection here. If he were a deputy, it would further other steps thatI wish to take in Paris. You, my darling, have brought about thischange in my life. After this morning's duel, I am obliged to shut upmy house for some time; for there will be people who will side withthe Chandours against us. In our position, and in a small town, absence is the only way of softening down bad feeling. But I shalleither succeed, and never see Angouleme again, or I shall not succeed, and then I mean to wait in Paris until the time comes when I can spendmy summers at the Escarbas and the winters in Paris. It is the onlylife for a woman of quality, and I have waited too long beforeentering upon it. The one day will be enough for our preparations;to-morrow night I shall set out, and you are coming with me, are younot? You shall start first. I will overtake you between Mansle andRuffec, and we shall soon be in Paris. There, beloved, is the life fora man who has anything in him. We are only at our ease among ourequals; we are uncomfortable in any other society. Paris, besides, isthe capital of the intellectual world, the stage on which you willsucceed; overleap the gulf that separates us quickly. You must notallow your ideas to grow rancid in the provinces; put yourself intocommunication at once with the great men who represent the nineteenthcentury. Try to stand well with the Court and with those in power. Nohonor, no distinction, comes to seek out the talent that perishes forlack of light in a little town; tell me, if you can, the name of anygreat work of art executed in the provinces! On the contrary, see howJean-Jacques, himself sublime in his poverty, felt the irresistibleattraction of that sun of the intellectual world, which producesever-new glories and stimulates the intellect--Paris, where men rubagainst one another. What is it but your duty to hasten to take yourplace in the succession of pleiades that rise from generation togeneration? You have no idea how it contributes to the success of aclever young man to be brought into a high light, socially speaking. I will introduce you to Mme. D'Espard; it is not easy to get into herset; but you meet all the greatest people at her house, Cabinetministers and ambassadors, and great orators from the Chamber ofDeputies, and peers and men of influence, and wealthy or famous people. A young man with good looks and more than sufficient genius could failto excite interest only by very bad management. 

"There is no pettiness about those who are truly great; they will lendyou their support; and when you yourself have a high position, yourwork will rise immensely in public opinion. The great problem for theartist is the problem of putting himself in evidence. In these waysthere will be hundreds of chances of making your way, of sinecures, ofa pension from the civil list. The Bourbons are so fond of encouragingletters and the arts, and you therefore must be a religious poet and aRoyalist poet at the same time. Not only is it the right course, butit is the way to get on in life. Do the Liberals and the Oppositiongive places and rewards, and make the fortunes of men of letters? Takethe right road and reach the goal of genius. You have my secret, donot breathe a syllable of it, and prepare to follow me. --Would yourather not go?" she added, surprised that her lover made no answer. 

To Lucien, listening to the alluring words, and bewildered by therapid bird's-eye view of Paris which they brought before him, itseemed as if hitherto he had been using only half his brain andsuddenly had found the other half, so swiftly his ideas widened. Hesaw himself stagnating in Angouleme like a frog under a stone in amarsh. Paris and her splendors rose before him; Paris, the Eldorado ofprovincial imaginings, with golden robes and the royal diadem abouther brows, and arms outstretched to talent of every kind. Great menwould greet him there as one of their order. Everything smiled upongenius. There, there were no jealous booby-squires to invent stinginggibes and humiliate a man of letters; there was no stupid indifferenceto poetry in Paris. Paris was the fountain-head of poetry; there thepoet was brought into the light and paid for his work. Publishersshould no sooner read the opening pages of _An Archer of Charles IX. _than they should open their cash-boxes with "How much do you want?"And besides all this, he understood that this journey with Mme. DeBargeton would virtually give her to him; that they should livetogether. 

So at the words, "Would you rather not go?" tears came into his eyes, he flung his arms about Louise, held her tightly to his heart, andmarbled her throat with impassioned kisses. Suddenly he checkedhimself, as if memory had dealt him a blow. 

"Great heavens!" he cried, "my sister is to be married on the dayafter to-morrow!"

That exclamation was the last expiring cry of noble and single-heartedboyhood. The so-powerful ties that bind young hearts to home, and afirst friendship, and all early affections, were to be severed at oneruthless blow. 

"Well, " cried the haughty Negrepelisse, "and what has your sister'smarriage to do with the progress of our love? Have you set your mindso much on being best man at a wedding party of tradespeople andworkingmen, that you cannot give up these exalted joys for my sake? Agreat sacrifice, indeed!" she went on, scornfully. "This morning Isent my husband out to fight in your quarrel. There, sir, go; I ammistaken in you. "

She sank fainting upon the sofa. Lucien went to her, entreating herpardon, calling execrations upon his family, his sister, and David. 

"I had such faith in you!" she said. "M. De Cante-Croix had an adoredmother; but to win a letter from me, and the words, 'I am satisfied, 'he fell in the thick of the fight. And now, when I ask you to take ajourney with me, you cannot think of giving up a wedding dinner for mysake. "

Lucien was ready to kill himself; his desperation was so unfeigned, that Louise forgave him, though at the same time she made him feelthat he must redeem his mistake. 

"Come, come, " she said, "be discreet, and to-morrow at midnight beupon the road, a hundred paces out of Mansle. "

Lucien felt the globe shrink under his feet; he went back to David'shouse, hopes pursuing him as the Furies followed Orestes, for he hadglimmerings of endless difficulties, all summed up in the appallingwords, "Where is the money to come from?"

He stood in such terror of David's perspicacity, that he lockedhimself into his pretty new study until he could recover himself, hishead was swimming in this new position. So he must leave the roomsjust furnished for him at such a cost, and all the sacrifices that hadbeen made for him had been made in vain. Then it occurred to Lucienthat his mother might take the rooms and save David the heavy expenseof building at the end of the yard, as he had meant to do; hisdeparture would be, in fact, a convenience to the family. Hediscovered any quantity of urgent reasons for his sudden flight; forthere is no such Jesuit as the desire of your heart. He hurried downat once to tell the news to his sister in L'Houmeau and to takecounsel with her. As he reached Postel's shop, he bethought himselfthat if all other means failed, he could borrow enough to live uponfor a year from his father's successor. 

"Three francs per day will be abundance for me if I live with Louise, "he thought; "it is only a thousand francs for a whole year. And in sixmonths' time I shall have plenty of money. "

Then, under seal and promise of secrecy, Eve and her mother heardLucien's confidences. Both the women began to cry as they heard of theambitious plans; and when he asked the reason of their trouble, theytold him that every penny they possessed had been spent ontable-linen, house-linen, Eve's wedding clothes, and on a host ofthings that David had overlooked. They had been so glad to do this, forDavid had made a marriage-settlement of ten thousand francs on Eve. Lucien then spoke of his idea of a loan, and Mme. Chardon undertook toask M. Postel to lend them a thousand francs for a twelve-month. 

"But, Lucien, " said Eve, as a thought clutched at her heart, "you willnot be here at my wedding! Oh! come back, I will put it off for a fewdays. Surely she will give you leave to come back in a fortnight, ifonly you go with her now? Surely, she would spare you to us for aweek, Lucien, when we brought you up for her? We shall have no luck ifyou are not at the wedding. . . . But will a thousand francs be enoughfor you?" she asked, suddenly interrupting herself. "Your coat suitsyou divinely, but you have only that one! You have only two fineshirts, the other six are coarse linen; and three of your white tiesare just common muslin, there are only two lawn cravats, and yourpocket-handkerchiefs are not good ones. Where will you find a sisterin Paris who will get up your linen in one day as you want it? Youwill want ever so much more. Then you have just the one pair of newnankeen trousers, last year's trousers are tight for you; you will beobliged to have clothes made in Paris, and Paris prices are not likeAngouleme prices. You have only two presentable white waistcoats; Ihave mended the others already. Come, I advise you to take twothousand francs. "

David came in as she spoke, and apparently heard the last two words, for he looked at the brother and sister and said nothing. 

"Do not keep anything from me, " he said at last. 

"Well, " exclaimed Eve, "he is going away with _her_. "

Mme. Chardon came in again, and, not seeing David, began at once:

"Postel is willing to lend you the thousand francs, Lucien, " she said, "but only for six months; and even then he wants you to let him have abill endorsed by your brother-in-law, for he says that you are givinghim no security. "

She turned and saw David, and there was a deep silence in the room. The Chardons thought how they had abused David's goodness, and feltashamed. Tears stood in the young printer's eyes. 

"Then you will not be here at our wedding, " he began. "You are notgoing to live with us! And here have I been squandering all that Ihad! Oh! Lucien, as I came along, bringing Eve her little bits ofwedding jewelry, I did not think that I should be sorry I spent themoney on them. " He brushed his hand over his eyes as he drew thelittle cases from his pocket. 

He set down the tiny morocco-covered boxes on the table in front ofhis mother-in-law. 

"Oh! why do you think so much for me?" protested Eve, giving him adivinely sweet smile that belied her words. 

"Mamma, dear, " said David, "just tell M. Postel that I will put myname to the bill, for I can tell from your face, Lucien, that you havequite made up your mind to go. "

Lucien's head sank dejectedly; there was a little pause, then he said, "Do not think hardly of me, my dear, good angels. "

He put his arms about Eve and David, and drew them close, and heldthem tightly to him as he added, "Wait and see what comes of it, andyou shall know how much I love you. What is the good of our highthinking, David, if it does not enable us to disregard the pettyceremonial in which the law entangles our affections? Shall I not bewith you in spirit, in spite of the distance between us? Shall we notbe united in thought? Have I not a destiny to fulfil? Will publisherscome here to seek my _Archer of Charles IX. _ and the _Marguerites_? Alittle sooner or a little later I shall be obliged in any case to doas I am doing to-day, should I not? And shall I ever find a betteropportunity than this? Does not my success entirely depend upon myentrance on life in Paris through the Marquise d'Espard's salon?"

"He is right, " said Eve; "you yourself were saying, were you not, thathe ought to go to Paris at once?"

David took Eve's hand in his, and drew her into the narrow little roomwhere she had slept for seven years. 

"Love, you were saying just now that he would want two thousandfrancs?" he said in her ear. "Postel is only lending one thousand. "

Eve gave her betrothed a look, and he read all her anguish in hereyes. 

"Listen, my adored Eve, we are making a bad start in life. Yes, myexpenses have taken all my capital; I have just two thousand francsleft, and half of it will be wanted to carry on the business. If wegive your brother the thousand francs, it will mean that we are givingaway our bread, that we shall live in anxiety. If I were alone, I knowwhat I should do; but we are two. Decide for us. "

Eve, distracted, sprang to her lover's arms, and kissed him tenderly, as she answered through her tears:

"Do as you would do if you were alone; I will work to earn the money. "

In spite of the most impassioned kiss ever given and taken bybetrothed lovers, David left Eve overcome with trouble, and went outto Lucien. 

"Do not worry yourself, " he said; "you shall have your two thousandfrancs. "

"Go in to see Postel, " said Mme. Chardon, "for you must both give yoursignatures to the bill. "

When Lucien and David came back again unexpectedly, they found Eve andher mother on their knees in prayer. The women felt sure that Lucien'sreturn would bring the realization of many hopes; but at the momentthey could only feel how much they were losing in the parting, and thehappiness to come seemed too dearly bought by an absence that broke uptheir life together, and would fill the coming days with innumerablefears for Lucien. 

"If you could ever forget this sight, " David said in Lucien's ear, "you would be the basest of men. "

David, no doubt, thought that these brave words were needed; Mme. DeBargeton's influence seemed to him less to be feared than his friend'sunlucky instability of character, Lucien was so easily led for good orevil. Eve soon packed Lucien's clothes; the Fernando Cortez ofliterature carried but little baggage. He was wearing his bestovercoat, his best waistcoat, and one of the two fine shirts. Thewhole of his linen, the celebrated coat, and his manuscript made up sosmall a package that to hide it from Mme. De Bargeton, David proposedto send it by coach to a paper merchant with whom he had dealings, andwrote and advised him to that effect, and asked him to keep the parceluntil Lucien sent for it. 

In spite of Mme. De Bargeton's precautions, Chatelet found out thatshe was leaving Angouleme; and with a view to discovering whether shewas traveling alone or with Lucien, he sent his man to Ruffec withinstructions to watch every carriage that changed horses at thatstage. 

"If she is taking her poet with her, " thought he, "I have her now. "

Lucien set out before daybreak the next morning. David went with him. David had hired a cabriolet, pretending that he was going to Marsac onbusiness, a little piece of deception which seemed probable under thecircumstances. The two friends went to Marsac, and spent part of theday with the old "bear. " As evening came on they set out again, and inthe beginning of the dawn they waited in the road, on the further sideof Mansle, for Mme. De Bargeton. When the seventy-year old travelingcarriage, which he had many a time seen in the coach-house, appearedin sight, Lucien felt more deeply moved than he had ever been in hislife before; he sprang into David's arms. 

"God grant that this may be for your good!" said David, and he climbedinto the shabby cabriolet and drove away with a feeling of dreadclutching at his heart; he had terrible presentiments of the fateawaiting Lucien in Paris. 

ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. 

Bargeton, Madame de (see Chatelet, Baronne du)

Cerizet Eve and David A Man of Business Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Middle Classes

Chardon, Madame (nee Rubempre) Eve and David Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Chatelet, Sixte, Baron du A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Thirteen

Chatelet, Marie-Louise-Anais de Negrepelisse, Baronne du A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Government Clerks

Cointet, Boniface Eve and David The Firm of Nucingen The Member for Arcis

Cointet, Jean Eve and David

Courtois Eve and David

Courtois, Madame Eve and David

Desplein The Atheist's Mass Cousin Pons The Thirteen The Government Clerks Pierrette A Bachelor's Establishment The Seamy Side of History Modeste Mignon Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine

Gentil A Distinguished Provincial at Paris

Grozier, Abbe The Commission in Lunacy

Hautoy, Francis du Eve and David

Maucombe, Comte de

 Letters of Two Brides

Montriveau, General Marquis Armand de The Thirteen Father Goriot A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Another Study of Woman Pierrette The Member for Arcis

Negrepelisse, De The Commission in Lunacy A Distinguished Provincial at Paris

Petit-Claud Eve and David

Pimentel, Marquis and Marquise de Eve and David

Postel Eve and David

Prieur, Madame Eve and David

Rastignac, Baron and Baronne de (Eugene's parents) Father Goriot

Rastignac, Laure-Rose and Agathe de Father Goriot The Member for Arcis

Rubempre, Lucien-Chardon de Eve and David A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Government Clerks Ursule Mirouet Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Sechard, Jerome-Nicolas Eve and David

Sechard, David Eve and David A Distinguished Provincial At Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Sechard, Madame David Eve and David A Distinguished Provincial At Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Senonches, Jacques de Eve and David

Senonches, Madame Jacques de Eve and David

Stanhope, Lady Esther The Lily of the Valley

 II

 A DISTINGUISHED PROVINCIAL AT PARIS (Lost Illusions Part II)

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated By Ellen Marriage

 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

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

 III

 EVE AND DAVID (Lost Illusions Part III)

 BY

 HONORE DE BALZAC

 Translated By Ellen Marriage

Lucien had gone to Paris; and David Sechard, with the courage andintelligence of the ox which painters give the Evangelist foraccompanying symbol, set himself to make the large fortune for whichhe had wished that evening down by the Charente, when he sat with Eveby the weir, and she gave him her hand and her heart. He wanted tomake the money quickly, and less for himself than for Eve's sake andLucien's. He would place his wife amid the elegant and comfortablesurroundings that were hers by right, and his strong arm shouldsustain her brother's ambitions--this was the programme that he sawbefore his eyes in letters of fire. 

Journalism and politics, the immense development of the book trade, ofliterature and of the sciences; the increase of public interest inmatters touching the various industries in the country; in fact, thewhole social tendency of the epoch following the establishment of theRestoration produced an enormous increase in the demand for paper. Thesupply required was almost ten times as large as the quantity in whichthe celebrated Ouvrard speculated at the outset of the Revolution. Then Ouvrard could buy up first the entire stock of paper and then themanufacturers; but in the year 1821 there were so many paper-mills inFrance, that no one could hope to repeat his success; and David hadneither audacity enough nor capital enough for such speculation. Machinery for producing paper in any length was just coming into usein England. It was one of the most urgent needs of the time, therefore, that the paper trade should keep pace with the requirementsof the French system of civil government, a system by which the rightof discussion was to be extended to every man, and the whole fabricbased upon continual expression of individual opinion; a gravemisfortune, for the nation that deliberates is but little wont to act. 

So, strange coincidence! while Lucien was drawn into the greatmachinery of journalism, where he was like to leave his honor and hisintelligence torn to shreds, David Sechard, at the back of hisprinting-house, foresaw all the practical consequences of theincreased activity of the periodical press. He saw the direction inwhich the spirit of the age was tending, and sought to find means tothe required end. He saw also that there was a fortune awaiting thediscoverer of cheap paper, and the event has justified hisclearsightedness. Within the last fifteen years, the Patent Office hasreceived more than a hundred applications from persons claiming tohave discovered cheap substances to be employed in the manufacture ofpaper. David felt more than ever convinced that this would be nobrilliant triumph, it is true, but a useful and immensely profitablediscovery; and after his brother-in-law went to Paris, he became moreand more absorbed in the problem which he had set himself to solve. 

The expenses of his marriage and of Lucien's journey to Paris hadexhausted all his resources; he confronted the extreme of poverty atthe very outset of married life. He had kept one thousand francs forthe working expenses of the business, and owed a like sum, for whichhe had given a bill to Postel the druggist. So here was a doubleproblem for this deep thinker; he must invent a method of making cheappaper, and that quickly; he must make the discovery, in fact, in orderto apply the proceeds to the needs of the household and of thebusiness. What words can describe the brain that can forget the cruelpreoccupations caused by hidden want, by the daily needs of a familyand the daily drudgery of a printer's business, which requires suchminute, painstaking care; and soar, with the enthusiasm andintoxication of the man of science, into the regions of the unknown inquest of a secret which daily eludes the most subtle experiment? Andthe inventor, alas! as will shortly be seen, has plenty of woes toendure, besides the ingratitude of the many; idle folk that can donothing themselves tell them, "Such a one is a born inventor; he couldnot do otherwise. He no more deserves credit for his invention than aprince for being born to rule! He is simply exercising his naturalfaculties, and his work is its own reward, " and the people believethem. 

Marriage brings profound mental and physical perturbations into agirl's life; and if she marries under the ordinary conditions of lowermiddle-class life, she must moreover begin to study totally newinterests and initiate herself in the intricacies of business. Withmarriage, therefore, she enters upon a phase of her existence when sheis necessarily on the watch before she can act. Unfortunately, David'slove for his wife retarded this training; he dared not tell her thereal state of affairs on the day after their wedding, nor for sometime afterwards. His father's avarice condemned him to the mostgrinding poverty, but he could not bring himself to spoil thehoneymoon by beginning his wife's commercial education and prosaicapprenticeship to his laborious craft. So it came to pass thathousekeeping, no less than working expenses, ate up the thousandfrancs, his whole fortune. For four months David gave no thought tothe future, and his wife remained in ignorance. The awakening wasterrible! Postel's bill fell due; there was no money to meet it, andEve knew enough of the debt and its cause to give up her bridaltrinkets and silver. 

That evening Eve tried to induce David to talk of their affairs, forshe had noticed that he was giving less attention to the business andmore to the problem of which he had once spoken to her. Since thefirst few weeks of married life, in fact, David spent most of his timein the shed in the backyard, in the little room where he was wont tomould his ink-rollers. Three months after his return to Angouleme, hehad replaced the old fashioned round ink-balls by rollers made ofstrong glue and treacle, and an ink-table, on which the ink was evenlydistributed, an improvement so obvious that Cointet Brothers no soonersaw it than they adopted the plan themselves. 

By the partition wall of this kitchen, as it were, David had set up alittle furnace with a copper pan, ostensibly to save the cost of fuelover the recasting of his rollers, though the moulds had not been usedtwice, and hung there rusting upon the wall. Nor was this all; a solidoak door had been put in by his orders, and the walls were lined withsheet-iron; he even replaced the dirty window sash by panes of ribbedglass, so that no one without could watch him at his work. 

When Eve began to speak about the future, he looked uneasily at her, and cut her short at the first word by saying, "I know all that youmust think, child, when you see that the workshop is left to itself, and that I am dead, as it were, to all business interests; but see, "he continued, bringing her to the window, and pointing to themysterious shed, "there lies our fortune. For some months yet we mustendure our lot, but let us bear it patiently; leave me to solve theproblem of which I told you, and all our troubles will be at an end. "

David was so good, his devotion was so thoroughly to be taken upon hisword, that the poor wife, with a wife's anxiety as to daily expenses, determined to spare her husband the household cares and to take theburden upon herself. So she came down from the pretty blue-and-whiteroom, where she sewed and talked contentedly with her mother, tookpossession of one of the two dens at the back of the printing-room, and set herself to learn the business routine of typography. Was itnot heroism in a wife who expected ere long to be a mother?

During the past few months David's workmen had left him one by one;there was not enough work for them to do. Cointet Brothers, on theother hand, were overwhelmed with orders; they were employing all theworkmen of the department; the alluring prospect of high wages evenbrought them a few from Bordeaux, more especially apprentices, whothought themselves sufficiently expert to cancel their articles and goelsewhere. When Eve came to look into the affairs of Sechard'sprinting works, she discovered that he employed three persons in all. 

First in order stood Cerizet, an apprentice of Didot's, whom David hadchosen to train. Most foremen have some one favorite among the greatnumbers of workers under them, and David had brought Cerizet toAngouleme, where he had been learning more of the business. Marion, asmuch attached to the house as a watch-dog, was the second; and thethird was Kolb, an Alsacien, at one time a porter in the employ of theMessrs. Didot. Kolb had been drawn for military service, chancebrought him to Angouleme, and David recognized the man's face at areview just as his time was about to expire. Kolb came to see David, and was smitten forthwith by the charms of the portly Marion; shepossessed all the qualities which a man of his class looks for in awife--the robust health that bronzes the cheeks, the strength of a man(Marion could lift a form of type with ease), the scrupulous honestyon which an Alsacien sets such store, the faithful service whichbespeaks a sterling character, and finally, the thrift which had saveda little sum of a thousand francs, besides a stock of clothing andlinen, neat and clean, as country linen can be. Marion herself, a big, stout woman of thirty-six, felt sufficiently flattered by theadmiration of a cuirassier, who stood five feet seven in hisstockings, a well-built warrior, strong as a bastion, and notunnaturally suggested that he should become a printer. So, by the timeKolb received his full discharge, Marion and David between them hadtransformed him into a tolerably creditable "bear, " though their pupilcould neither read nor write. 

Job printing, as it is called, was not so abundant at this season butthat Cerizet could manage it without help. Cerizet, compositor, clicker, and foreman, realized in his person the "phenomenaltriplicity" of Kant; he set up type, read proof, took orders, and madeout invoices; but the most part of the time he had nothing to do, andused to read novels in his den at the back of the workshop while hewaited for an order for a bill-head or a trade circular. Marion, trained by old Sechard, prepared and wetted down the paper, helpedKolb with the printing, hung the sheets to dry, and cut them to size;yet cooked the dinner, none the less, and did her marketing very earlyof a morning. 

Eve told Cerizet to draw out a balance-sheet for the last six months, and found that the gross receipts amounted to eight hundred francs. Onthe other hand, wages at the rate of three francs per day--two francsto Cerizet, and one to Kolb--reached a total of six hundred francs;and as the goods supplied for the work printed and delivered amountedto some hundred odd francs, it was clear to Eve that David had beencarrying on business at a loss during the first half-year of theirmarried life. There was nothing to show for rent, nothing for Marion'swages, nor for the interest on capital represented by the plant, thelicense, and the ink; nothing, finally, by way of allowance for thehost of things included in the technical expression "wear and tear, " aword which owes its origin to the cloths and silks which are used tomoderate the force of the impression, and to save wear to the type; asquare of stuff (the _blanket_) being placed between the platen and thesheet of paper in the press. 

Eve made a rough calculation of the resources of the printing officeand of the output, and saw how little hope there was for a businessdrained dry by the all-devouring activity of the brothers Cointet; forby this time the Cointets were not only contract printers to the townand the prefecture, and printers to the Diocese by special appointment--they were paper-makers and proprietors of a newspaper to boot. Thatnewspaper, sold two years ago by the Sechards, father and son, fortwenty-two thousand francs, was now bringing in eighteen thousandfrancs per annum. Eve began to understand the motives lurking beneaththe apparent generosity of the brothers Cointet; they were leaving theSechard establishment just sufficient work to gain a pittance, but notenough to establish a rival house. 

When Eve took the management of the business, she began by takingstock. She set Kolb and Marion and Cerizet to work, and the workshopwas put to rights, cleaned out, and set in order. Then one eveningwhen David came in from a country excursion, followed by an old womanwith a huge bundle tied up in a cloth, Eve asked counsel of him as tothe best way of turning to profit the odds and ends left them by oldSechard, promising that she herself would look after the business. Acting upon her husband's advice, Mme. Sechard sorted all the remnantsof paper which she found, and printed old popular legends in doublecolumns upon a single sheet, such as peasants paste on their walls, the histories of _The Wandering Jew_, _Robert the Devil_, _La BelleMaguelonne_ and sundry miracles. Eve sent Kolb out as a hawker. 

Cerizet had not a moment to spare now; he was composing the naivepages, with the rough cuts that adorned them, from morning to night;Marion was able to manage the taking off; and all domestic cares fellto Mme. Chardon, for Eve was busy coloring the prints. Thanks toKolb's activity and honesty, Eve sold three thousand broad sheets at apenny apiece, and made three hundred francs in all at a cost of thirtyfrancs. 

But when every peasant's hut and every little wine-shop for twentyleagues round was papered with these legends, a fresh speculation mustbe discovered; the Alsacien could not go beyond the limits of thedepartment. Eve, turning over everything in the whole printing house, had found a collection of figures for printing a "Shepherd'sCalendar, " a kind of almanac meant for those who cannot read, letterpress being replaced by symbols, signs, and pictures in coloredinks, red, black and blue. Old Sechard, who could neither read norwrite himself, had made a good deal of money at one time by bringingout an almanac in hieroglyph. It was in book form, a single sheetfolded to make one hundred and twenty-eight pages. 

Thoroughly satisfied with the success of the broad sheets, a piece ofbusiness only undertaken by country printing offices, Mme. Sechardinvested all the proceeds in the _Shepherd's Calendar_, and began itupon a large scale. Millions of copies of this work are sold annuallyin France. It is printed upon even coarser paper than the _Almanac ofLiege_, a ream (five hundred sheets) costing in the first instanceabout four francs; while the printed sheets sell at the rate of ahalfpenny apiece--twenty-five francs per ream. 

Mme. Sechard determined to use one hundred reams for the firstimpression; fifty thousand copies would bring in two thousand francs. A man so deeply absorbed in his work as David in his researches isseldom observant; yet David, taking a look round his workshop, wasastonished to hear the groaning of a press and to see Cerizet alwayson his feet, setting up type under Mme. Sechard's direction. There wasa pretty triumph for Eve on the day when David came in to see what shewas doing, and praised the idea, and thought the calendar an excellentstroke of business. Furthermore, David promised to give advice in thematter of colored inks, for an almanac meant to appeal to the eye; andfinally, he resolved to recast the ink-rollers himself in hismysterious workshop, so as to help his wife as far as he could in herimportant little enterprise. 

But just as the work began with strenuous industry, there came lettersfrom Lucien in Paris, heart-sinking letters that told his mother andsister and brother-in-law of his failure and distress; and when Eve, Mme. Chardon, and David each secretly sent money to their poet, itmust be plain to the reader that the three hundred francs they sentwere like their very blood. The overwhelming news, the dishearteningsense that work as bravely as she might, she made so little, left Evelooking forward with a certain dread to an event which fills the cupof happiness to the full. The time was coming very near now, and toherself she said, "If my dear David has not reached the end of hisresearches before my confinement, what will become of us? And who willlook after our poor printing office and the business that is growingup?"

The _Shepherd's Calendar_ ought by rights to have been ready before the1st of January, but Cerizet was working unaccountably slowly; all thework of composing fell to him; and Mme. Sechard, knowing so little, could not find fault, and was fain to content herself with watchingthe young Parisian. 

Cerizet came from the great Foundling Hospital in Paris. He had beenapprenticed to the MM. Didot, and between the ages of fourteen andseventeen he was David Sechard's fanatical worshiper. David put himunder one of the cleverest workmen, and took him for his copy-holder, his page. Cerizet's intelligence naturally interested David; he wonthe lad's affection by procuring amusements now and again for him, andcomforts from which he was cut off by poverty. Nature had endowedCerizet with an insignificant, rather pretty little countenance, redhair, and a pair of dull blue eyes; he had come to Angouleme andbrought the manners of the Parisian street-boy with him. He wasformidable by reason of a quick, sarcastic turn and a spitefuldisposition. Perhaps David looked less strictly after him inAngouleme; or, perhaps, as the lad grew older, his mentor put moretrust in him, or in the sobering influences of a country town; but bethat as it may, Cerizet (all unknown to his sponsor) was goingcompletely to the bad, and the printer's apprentice was acting thepart of a Don Juan among little work girls. His morality, learned inParis drinking-saloons, laid down the law of self-interest as the solerule of guidance; he knew, moreover, that next year he would be "drawnfor a soldier, " to use the popular expression, saw that he had noprospects, and ran into debt, thinking that soon he should be in thearmy, and none of his creditors would run after him. David stillpossessed some ascendency over the young fellow, due not to hisposition as master, nor yet to the interest that he had taken in hispupil, but to the great intellectual power which the sometimestreet-boy fully recognized. 

Before long Cerizet began to fraternize with the Cointets' workpeople, drawn to them by the mutual attraction of blouse and jacket, and theclass feeling, which is, perhaps, strongest of all in the lowest ranksof society. In their company Cerizet forgot the little good doctrinewhich David had managed to instil into him; but, nevertheless, whenthe others joked the boy about the presses in his workshop ("oldsabots, " as the "bears" contemptuously called them), and showed himthe magnificent machines, twelve in number, now at work in theCointets' great printing office, where the single wooden press wasonly used for experiments, Cerizet would stand up for David and flingout at the braggarts. 

"My gaffer will go farther with his 'sabots' than yours with theircast-iron contrivances that turn out mass books all day long, " hewould boast. "He is trying to find out a secret that will lick all theprinting offices in France and Navarre. "

"And meantime you take your orders from a washer-woman, you snip of aforeman, on two francs a day. "

"She is pretty though, " retorted Cerizet; "it is better to have her tolook at than the phizes of your gaffers. "

"And do you live by looking at his wife?"

From the region of the wineshop, or from the door of the printingoffice, where these bickerings took place, a dim light began to breakin upon the brothers Cointet as to the real state of things in theSechard establishment. They came to hear of Eve's experiment, and heldit expedient to stop these flights at once, lest the business shouldbegin to prosper under the poor young wife's management. 

"Let us give her a rap over the knuckles, and disgust her with thebusiness, " said the brothers Cointet. 

One of the pair, the practical printer, spoke to Cerizet, and askedhim to do the proof-reading for them by piecework, to relieve theirreader, who had more than he could manage. So it came to pass thatCerizet earned more by a few hours' work of an evening for thebrothers Cointet than by a whole day's work for David Sechard. Othertransactions followed; the Cointets seeing no small aptitude inCerizet, he was told that it was a pity that he should be in aposition so little favorable to his interests. 

"You might be foreman some day in a big printing office, making sixfrancs a day, " said one of the Cointets one day, "and with yourintelligence you might come to have a share in the business. "

"Where is the use of my being a good foreman?" returned Cerizet. "I aman orphan, I shall be drawn for the army next year, and if I get a badnumber who is there to pay some one else to take my place?"

"If you make yourself useful, " said the well-to-do printer, "whyshould not somebody advance the money?"

"It won't be my gaffer in any case!" said Cerizet. 

"Pooh! Perhaps by that time he will have found out the secret. "

The words were spoken in a way that could not but rouse the worstthoughts in the listener; and Cerizet gave the papermaker and printera very searching look. 

"I do not know what he is busy about, " he began prudently, as themaster said nothing, "but he is not the kind of man to look forcapitals in the lower case!"

"Look here, my friend, " said the printer, taking up half-a-dozensheets of the diocesan prayer-book and holding them out to Cerizet, "if you can correct these for us by to-morrow, you shall have eighteenfrancs to-morrow for them. We are not shabby here; we put ourcompetitor's foreman in the way of making money. As a matter of fact, we might let Mme. Sechard go too far to draw back with her _Shepherd'sCalendar_, and ruin her; very well, we give you permission to tell herthat we are bringing out a _Shepherd's Calendar_ of our own, and to callher attention too to the fact that she will not be the first in thefield. "

Cerizet's motive for working so slowly on the composition of thealmanac should be clear enough by this time. 

When Eve heard that the Cointets meant to spoil her poor littlespeculation, dread seized upon her; at first she tried to see a proofof attachment in Cerizet's hypocritical warning of competition; butbefore long she saw signs of an over-keen curiosity in her solecompositor--the curiosity of youth, she tried to think. 

"Cerizet, " she said one morning, "you stand about on the threshold, and wait for M. Sechard in the passage, to pry into his privateaffairs; when he comes out into the yard to melt down the rollers, youare there looking at him, instead of getting on with the almanac. These things are not right, especially when you see that I, his wife, respect his secrets, and take so much trouble on myself to leave himfree to give himself up to his work. If you had not wasted time, thealmanac would be finished by now, and Kolb would be selling it, andthe Cointets could have done us no harm. "

"Eh! madame, " answered Cerizet. "Here am I doing five francs' worth ofcomposing for two francs a day, and don't you think that that isenough? Why, if I did not read proofs of an evening for the Cointets, I might feed myself on husks. "

"You are turning ungrateful early, " said Eve, deeply hurt, not so muchby Cerizet's grumbling as by his coarse tone, threatening attitude, and aggressive stare; "you will get on in life. "

"Not with a woman to order me about though, for it is not often thatthe month has thirty days in it then. "

Feeling wounded in her womanly dignity, Eve gave Cerizet a witheringlook and went upstairs again. At dinner-time she spoke to David. 

"Are you sure, dear, of that little rogue Cerizet?"

"Cerizet!" said David. "Why, he was my youngster; I trained him, Itook him on as my copy-holder. I put him to composing; anything thathe is he owes to me, in fact! You might as well ask a father if he issure of his child. "

Upon this, Eve told her husband that Cerizet was reading proofs forthe Cointets. 

"Poor fellow! he must live, " said David, humbled by the consciousnessthat he had not done his duty as a master. 

"Yes, but there is a difference, dear, between Kolb and Cerizet--Kolbtramps about twenty leagues every day, spends fifteen or twenty sous, and brings us back seven and eight and sometimes nine francs of sales;and when his expenses are paid, he never asks for more than his wages. Kolb would sooner cut off his hand than work a lever for the Cointets;Kolb would not peer among the things that you throw out into the yardif people offered him a thousand crowns to do it; but Cerizet picksthem up and looks at them. "

It is hard for noble natures to think evil, to believe in ingratitude;only through rough experience do they learn the extent of humancorruption; and even when there is nothing left them to learn in thiskind, they rise to an indulgence which is the last degree of contempt. 

"Pooh! pure Paris street-boy's curiosity, " cried David. 

"Very well, dear, do me the pleasure to step downstairs and look atthe work done by this boy of yours, and tell me then whether he oughtnot to have finished our almanac this month. "

David went into the workshop after dinner, and saw that the calendarshould have been set up in a week. Then, when he heard that theCointets were bringing out a similar almanac, he came to the rescue. He took command of the printing office, Kolb helped at home instead ofselling broadsheets. Kolb and Marion pulled off the impressions fromone form while David worked another press with Cerizet, andsuperintended the printing in various inks. Every sheet must beprinted four separate times, for which reason none but small houseswill attempt to produce a _Shepherd's Calendar_, and that only in thecountry where labor is cheap, and the amount of capital employed inthe business is so small that the interest amounts to little. Wherefore, a press which turns out beautiful work cannot compete inthe printing of such sheets, coarse though they may be. 

So, for the first time since old Sechard retired, two presses were atwork in the old house. The calendar was, in its way, a masterpiece;but Eve was obliged to sell it for less than a halfpenny, for theCointets were supplying hawkers at the rate of three centimes percopy. Eve made no loss on the copies sold to hawkers; on Kolb's sales, made directly, she gained; but her little speculation was spoiled. Cerizet saw that his fair employer distrusted him; in his ownconscience he posed as the accuser, and said to himself, "You suspectme, do you? I will have my revenge, " for the Paris street-boy is madeon this wise. Cerizet accordingly took pay out of all proportion tothe work of proof-reading done for the Cointets, going to their officeevery evening for the sheets, and returning them in the morning. Hecame to be on familiar terms with them through the daily chat, and atlength saw a chance of escaping the military service, a bait held outto him by the brothers. So far from requiring prompting from theCointets, he was the first to propose the espionage and exploitationof David's researches. 

Eve saw how little she could depend upon Cerizet, and to find anotherKolb was simply impossible; she made up her mind to dismiss her onecompositor, for the insight of a woman who loves told her that Cerizetwas a traitor; but as this meant a deathblow to the business, she tooka man's resolution. She wrote to M. Metivier, with whom David and theCointets and almost every papermaker in the department had businessrelations, and asked him to put the following advertisement into atrade paper:

"FOR SALE, as a going concern, a Printing Office, with License andPlant; situated at Angouleme. Apply for particulars to M. Metivier, Rue Serpente. "

The Cointets saw the advertisement. "That little woman has a head onher shoulders, " they said. "It is time that we took her business underour own control, by giving her enough work to live upon; we might finda real competitor in David's successor; it is in our interest to keepan eye upon that workshop. "

The Cointets went to speak to David Sechard, moved thereto by thisthought. Eve saw them, knew that her stratagem had succeeded at once, and felt a thrill of the keenest joy. They stated their proposal. Theyhad more work than they could undertake, their presses could not keeppace with the work, would M. Sechard print for them? They had sent toBordeaux for workmen, and could find enough to give full employment toDavid's three presses. 

"Gentlemen, " said Eve, while Cerizet went across to David's workshopto announce the two printers, "while my husband was with the MM. Didothe came to know of excellent workers, honest and industrious men; hewill choose his successor, no doubt, from among the best of them. Ifhe sold his business outright for some twenty thousand francs, itmight bring us in a thousand francs per annum; that would be betterthan losing a thousand yearly over such trade as you leave us. Why didyou envy us the poor little almanac speculation, especially as we havealways brought it out?"

"Oh, why did you not give us notice, madame? We would not haveinterfered with you, " one of the brothers answered blandly (he wasknown as the "tall Cointet"). 

"Oh, come gentlemen! you only began your almanac after Cerizet toldyou that I was bringing out mine. "

She spoke briskly, looking full at "the tall Cointet" as she spoke. Helowered his eyes; Cerizet's treachery was proven to her. 

This brother managed the business and the paper-mill; he was by farthe cleverer man of business of the two. Jean showed no small abilityin the conduct of the printing establishment, but in intellectualcapacity he might be said to take colonel's rank, while Boniface was ageneral. Jean left the command to Boniface. This latter was thin andspare in person; his face, sallow as an altar candle, was mottled withreddish patches; his lips were pinched; there was something in hiseyes that reminded you of a cat's eyes. Boniface Cointet never excitedhimself; he would listen to the grossest insults with the serenity ofa bigot, and reply in a smooth voice. He went to mass, he went toconfession, he took the sacrament. Beneath his caressing manners, beneath an almost spiritless look, lurked the tenacity and ambition ofthe priest, and the greed of the man of business consumed with athirst for riches and honors. In the year 1820 "tall Cointet" wantedall that the _bourgeoisie_ finally obtained by the Revolution of 1830. In his heart he hated the aristocrats, and in religion he wasindifferent; he was as much or as little of a bigot as Bonaparte was amember of the Mountain; yet his vertebral column bent with aflexibility wonderful to behold before the noblesse and the officialhierarchy; for the powers that be, he humbled himself, he was meek andobsequious. One final characteristic will describe him for those whoare accustomed to dealings with all kinds of men, and can appreciateits value--Cointet concealed the expression of his eyes by wearingcolored glasses, ostensibly to preserve his sight from the reflectionof the sunlight on the white buildings in the streets; for Angouleme, being set upon a hill, is exposed to the full glare of the sun. TallCointet was really scarcely above middle height; he looked much tallerthan he actually was by reason of the thinness, which told of overworkand a brain in continual ferment. His lank, sleek gray hair, cut insomewhat ecclesiastical fashion; the black trousers, black stockings, black waistcoat, and long puce-colored greatcoat (styled a _levite_ inthe south), all completed his resemblance to a Jesuit. 

Boniface was called "tall Cointet" to distinguish him from hisbrother, "fat Cointet, " and the nicknames expressed a difference incharacter as well as a physical difference between a pair of equallyredoubtable personages. As for Jean Cointet, a jolly, stout fellow, with a face from a Flemish interior, colored by the southern sun ofAngouleme, thick-set, short and paunchy as Sancho Panza; with a smileon his lips and a pair of sturdy shoulders, he was a striking contrastto his older brother. Nor was the difference only physical andintellectual. Jean might almost be called Liberal in politics; hebelonged to the Left Centre, only went to mass on Sundays, and livedon a remarkably good understanding with the Liberal men of business. There were those in L'Houmeau who said that this divergence betweenthe brothers was more apparent than real. Tall Cointet turned hisbrother's seeming good nature to advantage very skilfully. Jean washis bludgeon. It was Jean who gave all the hard words; it was Jean whoconducted the executions which little beseemed the elder brother'sbenevolence. Jean took the storms department; he would fly into arage, and propose terms that nobody would think of accepting, to pavethe way for his brother's less unreasonable propositions. And by suchpolicy the pair attained their ends, sooner or later. 

Eve, with a woman's tact, had soon divined the characters of the twobrothers; she was on her guard with foes so formidable. David, informed beforehand of everything by his wife, lent a profoundlyinattentive mind to his enemies' proposals. 

"Come to an understanding with my wife, " he said, as he left theCointets in the office and went back to his laboratory. "Mme. Sechardknows more about the business than I do myself. I am interested insomething that will pay better than this poor place; I hope to find away to retrieve the losses that I have made through you----"

"And how?" asked the fat Cointet, chuckling. 

Eve gave her husband a look that meant, "Be careful!"

"You will be my tributaries, " said David, "and all other consumers ofpapers besides. "

"Then what are you investigating?" asked the hypocritical BonifaceCointet. 

Boniface's question slipped out smoothly and insinuatingly, and againEve's eyes implored her husband to give an answer that was no answer, or to say nothing at all. 

"I am trying to produce paper at fifty per cent less than the presentcost price, " and he went. He did not see the glances exchanged betweenthe brothers. "That is an inventor, a man of his build cannot sit withhis hands before him. --Let us exploit him, " said Boniface's eyes. "Howcan we do it?" said Jean's. 

Mme. Sechard spoke. "David treats me just in the same way, " she said. "If I show any curiosity, he feels suspicious of my name, no doubt, and out comes that remark of his; it is only a formula, after all. "

"If your husband can work out the formula, he will certainly make afortune more quickly than by printing; I am not surprised that heleaves the business to itself, " said Boniface, looking across theempty workshop, where Kolb, seated upon a wetting-board, was rubbinghis bread with a clove of garlic; "but it would not suit our views tosee this place in the hands of an energetic, pushing, ambitiouscompetitor, " he continued, "and perhaps it might be possible to arriveat an understanding. Suppose, for instance, that you consented for aconsideration to allow us to put in one of our own men to work yourpresses for our benefit, but nominally for you; the thing is sometimesdone in Paris. We would find the fellow work enough to enable him torent your place and pay you well, and yet make a profit for himself. "

"It depends on the amount, " said Eve Sechard. "What is your offer?"she added, looking at Boniface to let him see that she understood hisscheme perfectly well. 

"What is your own idea?" Jean Cointet put in briskly. 

"Three thousand francs for six months, " said she. 

"Why, my dear young lady, you were proposing to sell the placeoutright for twenty thousand francs, " said Boniface with much suavity. "The interest on twenty thousand francs is only twelve hundred francsper annum at six per cent. "

For a moment Eve was thrown into confusion; she saw the need fordiscretion in matters of business. 

"You wish to use our presses and our name as well, " she said; "and, asI have already shown you, I can still do a little business. And thenwe pay rent to M. Sechard senior, who does not load us with presents. "

After two hours of debate, Eve obtained two thousand francs for sixmonths, one thousand to be paid in advance. When everything wasconcluded, the brothers informed her that they meant to put in Cerizetas lessee of the premises. In spite of herself, Eve started withsurprise. 

"Isn't it better to have somebody who knows the workshop?" asked thefat Cointet. 

Eve made no reply; she took leave of the brothers, vowing inwardly tolook after Cerizet. 

"Well, here are our enemies in the place!" laughed David, when Evebrought out the papers for his signature at dinner-time. 

"Pshaw!" said she, "I will answer for Kolb and Marion; they alonewould look after things. Besides, we shall be making an income of fourthousand francs from the workshop, which only costs us money as it is;and looking forward, I see a year in which you may realize yourhopes. "

"You were born to be the wife of a scientific worker, as you said bythe weir, " said David, grasping her hand tenderly. 

But though the Sechard household had money sufficient that winter, they were none the less subjected to Cerizet's espionage, and allunconsciously became dependent upon Boniface Cointet. 

"We have them now!" the manager of the paper-mill had exclaimed as heleft the house with his brother the printer. "They will begin toregard the rent as regular income; they will count upon it and runthemselves into debt. In six months' time we will decline to renew theagreement, and then we shall see what this man of genius has at thebottom of his mind; we will offer to help him out of his difficulty bytaking him into partnership and exploiting his discovery. "

Any shrewd man of business who should have seen tall Cointet's face ashe uttered those words, "taking him into partnership, " would haveknown that it behooves a man to be even more careful in the selectionof the partner whom he takes before the Tribunal of Commerce than inthe choice of the wife whom he weds at the Mayor's office. Was it notenough already, and more than enough, that the ruthless hunters wereon the track of the quarry? How should David and his wife, with Kolband Marion to help them, escape the toils of a Boniface Cointet?

A draft for five hundred francs came from Lucien, and this, withCerizet's second payment, enabled them to meet all the expenses ofMme. Sechard's confinement. Eve and the mother and David had thoughtthat Lucien had forgotten them, and rejoiced over this token ofremembrance as they rejoiced over his success, for his first exploitsin journalism made even more noise in Angouleme than in Paris. 

But David, thus lulled into a false security, was to receive astaggering blow, a cruel letter from Lucien:--

 _Lucien to David. _

 "MY DEAR DAVID, --I have drawn three bills on you, and negotiated them with Metivier; they fall due in one, two, and three months' time. I took this hateful course, which I know will burden you heavily, because the one alternative was suicide. I will explain my necessity some time, and I will try besides to send the amounts as the bills fall due. 

 "Burn this letter; say nothing to my mother and sister; for, I confess it, I have counted upon you, upon the heroism known so well to your despairing brother, "LUCIEN DE RUBEMPRE. "

By this time Eve had recovered from her confinement. 

"Your brother, poor fellow, is in desperate straits, " David told her. "I have sent him three bills for a thousand francs at one, two, andthree months; just make a note of them, " and he went out into thefields to escape his wife's questionings. 

But Eve had felt very uneasy already. It was six months since Lucienhad written to them. She talked over the news with her mother till herforebodings grew so dark that she made up her mind to dissipate them. She would take a bold step in her despair. 

Young M. De Rastignac had come to spend a few days with his family. Hehad spoken of Lucien in terms that set Paris gossip circulating inAngouleme, till at last it reached the journalist's mother and sister. Eve went to Mme. De Rastignac, asked the favor of an interview withher son, spoke of all her fears, and asked him for the truth. In amoment Eve heard of her brother's connection with the actress Coralie, of his duel with Michel Chrestien, arising out of his own treacherousbehavior to Daniel d'Arthez; she received, in short, a version ofLucien's history, colored by the personal feeling of a clever andenvious dandy. Rastignac expressed sincere admiration for theabilities so terribly compromised, and a patriotic fear for the futureof a native genius; spite and jealousy masqueraded as pity andfriendliness. He spoke of Lucien's blunders. It seemed that Lucien hadforfeited the favor of a very great person, and that a patentconferring the right to bear the name and arms of Rubempre hadactually been made out and subsequently torn up. 

"If your brother, madame, had been well advised, he would have been onthe way to honors, and Mme. De Bargeton's husband by this time; butwhat can you expect? He deserted her and insulted her. She is now Mme. La Comtesse Sixte du Chatelet, to her own great regret, for she lovedLucien. "

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Mme. Sechard. 

"Your brother is like a young eagle, blinded by the first rays ofglory and luxury. When an eagle falls, who can tell how far he maysink before he drops to the bottom of some precipice? The fall of agreat man is always proportionately great. "

Eve came away with a great dread in her heart; those last wordspierced her like an arrow. She had been wounded to the quick. She saidnot a word to anybody, but again and again a tear rolled down hercheeks, and fell upon the child at her breast. So hard is it to giveup illusions sanctioned by family feeling, illusions that have grownwith our growth, that Eve had doubted Eugene de Rastignac. She wouldrather hear a true friend's account of her brother. Lucien had giventhem d'Arthez's address in the days when he was full of enthusiasm forthe brotherhood; she wrote a pathetic letter to d'Arthez, and receivedthe following reply:--

 _D'Arthez to Mme. Sechard. _

 "MADAME, --You ask me to tell you the truth about the life that your brother is leading in Paris; you are anxious for enlightenment as to his prospects; and to encourage a frank answer on my part, you repeat certain things that M. De Rastignac has told you, asking me if they are true. With regard to the purely personal matter, madame, M. De Rastignac's confidences must be corrected in Lucien's favor. Your brother wrote a criticism of my book, and brought it to me in remorse, telling me that he could not bring himself to publish it, although obedience to the orders of his party might endanger one who was very dear to him. Alas! madame, a man of letters must needs comprehend all passions, since it is his pride to express them; I understood that where a mistress and a friend are involved, the friend is inevitably sacrificed. I smoothed your brother's way; I corrected his murderous article myself, and gave it my full approval. 

 "You ask whether Lucien has kept my friendship and esteem; to this it is difficult to make an answer. Your brother is on a road that leads him to ruin. At this moment I still feel sorry for him; before long I shall have forgotten him, of set purpose, not so much on account of what he has done already as for that which he inevitably will do. Your Lucien is not a poet, he has the poetic temper; he dreams, he does not think; he spends himself in emotion, he does not create. He is, in fact--permit me to say it --a womanish creature that loves to shine, the Frenchman's great failing. Lucien will always sacrifice his best friend for the pleasure of displaying his own wit. He would not hesitate to sign a pact with the Devil to-morrow if so he might secure a few years of luxurious and glorious life. Nay, has he not done worse already? He has bartered his future for the short-lived delights of living openly with an actress. So far, he has not seen the dangers of his position; the girl's youth and beauty and devotion (for she worships him) have closed his eyes to the truth; he cannot see that no glory or success or fortune can induce the world to accept the position. Very well, as it is now, so it will be with each new temptation--your brother will not look beyond the enjoyment of the moment. Do not be alarmed: Lucien will never go so far as a crime, he has not the strength of character; but he would take the fruits of a crime, he would share the benefit but not the risk--a thing that seems abhorrent to the whole world, even to scoundrels. Oh, he would despise himself, he would repent; but bring him once more to the test, and he would fail again; for he is weak of will, he cannot resist the allurements of pleasure, nor forego the least of his ambitions. He is indolent, like all who would fain be poets; he thinks it clever to juggle with the difficulties of life instead of facing and overcoming them. He will be brave at one time, cowardly at another, and deserves neither credit for his courage, nor blame for his cowardice. Lucien is like a harp with strings that are slackened or tightened by the atmosphere. He might write a great book in a glad or angry mood, and care nothing for the success that he had desired for so long. 

 "When he first came to Paris he fell under the influence of an unprincipled young fellow, and was dazzled by his companion's adroitness and experience in the difficulties of a literary life. This juggler completely bewitched Lucien; he dragged him into a life which a man cannot lead and respect himself, and, unluckily for Lucien, love shed its magic over the path. The admiration that is given too readily is a sign of want of judgment; a poet ought not to be paid in the same coin as a dancer on the tight-rope. We all felt hurt when intrigue and literary rascality were preferred to the courage and honor of those who counseled Lucien rather to face the battle than to filch success, to spring down into the arena rather than become a trumpet in the orchestra. 

 "Society, madame, oddly enough, shows plentiful indulgence to young men of Lucien's stamp; they are popular, the world is fascinated by their external gifts and good looks. Nothing is asked of them, all their sins are forgiven; they are treated like perfect natures, others are blind to their defects, they are the world's spoiled children. And, on the other hand, the world is stern beyond measure to strong and complete natures. Perhaps in this apparently flagrant injustice society acts sublimely, taking a harlequin at his just worth, asking nothing of him but amusement, promptly forgetting him; and asking divine great deeds of those before whom she bends the knee. Everything is judged by laws of its being; the diamond must be flawless; the ephemeral creation of fashion may be flimsy, bizarre, inconsequent. So Lucien may perhaps succeed to admiration in spite of his mistakes; he has only to profit by some happy vein or to be among good companions; but if an evil angel crosses his path, he will go to the very depths of hell. 'Tis a brilliant assemblage of good qualities embroidered upon too slight a tissue; time wears the flowers away till nothing but the web is left; and if that is poor stuff, you behold a rag at the last. So long as Lucien is young, people will like him; but where will he be as a man of thirty? That is the question which those who love him sincerely are bound to ask themselves. If I alone had come to think in this way of Lucien, I might perhaps have spared you the pain which my plain speaking will give you; but to evade the questions put by your anxiety, and to answer a cry of anguish like your letter with commonplaces, seemed to me alike unworthy of you and of me, whom you esteem too highly; and besides, those of my friends who knew Lucien are unanimous in their judgment. So it appeared to me to be a duty to put the truth before you, terrible though it may be. Anything may be expected of Lucien, anything good or evil. That is our opinion, and this letter is summed up in that sentence. If the vicissitudes of his present way of life (a very wretched and slippery one) should bring the poet back to you, use all your influence to keep him among you; for until his character has acquired stability, Paris will not be safe for him. He used to speak of you, you and your husband, as his guardian angels; he has forgotten you, no doubt; but he will remember you again when tossed by tempest, with no refuge left to him but his home. Keep your heart for him, madame; he will need it. 

 "Permit me, madame, to convey to you the expression of the sincere respect of a man to whom your rare qualities are known, a man who honors your mother's fears so much, that he desires to style himself your devoted servant, "D'ARTHEZ. "

Two days after the letter came, Eve was obliged to find a wet-nurse;her milk had dried up. She had made a god of her brother; now, in hereyes, he was depraved through the exercise of his noblest faculties;he was wallowing in the mire. She, noble creature that she was, wasincapable of swerving from honesty and scrupulous delicacy, from allthe pious traditions of the hearth, which still burns so clearly andsheds its light abroad in quiet country homes. Then David had beenright in his forecasts! The leaden hues of grief overspread Eve'swhite brow. She told her husband her secret in one of the pellucidtalks in which married lovers tell everything to each other. The tonesof David's voice brought comfort. Though the tears stood in his eyeswhen he knew that grief had dried his wife's fair breast, and knewEve's despair that she could not fulfil a mother's duties, he held outreassuring hopes. 

"Your brother's imagination has let him astray, you see, child. It isso natural that a poet should wish for blue and purple robes, andhurry as eagerly after festivals as he does. It is a bird that lovesglitter and luxury with such simple sincerity, that God forgives himif man condemns him for it. "

"But he is draining our lives!" exclaimed poor Eve. 

"He is draining our lives just now, but only a few months ago he savedus by sending us the first fruits of his earnings, " said the goodDavid. He had the sense to see that his wife was in despair, was goingbeyond the limit, and that love for Lucien would very soon come back. "Fifty years ago, or thereabouts, Mercier said in his _Tableau de Paris_that a man cannot live by literature, poetry, letters, or science, bythe creatures of his brain, in short; and Lucien, poet that he is, would not believe the experience of five centuries. The harvests thatare watered with ink are only reaped ten or twelve years after thesowing, if indeed there is any harvest after all. Lucien has taken thegreen wheat for the sheaves. He will have learned something of life, at any rate. He was the dupe of a woman at the outset; he was sure tobe duped afterwards by the world and false friends. He has bought hisexperience dear, that is all. Our ancestors used to say, 'If the sonof the house brings back his two ears and his honor safe, all iswell----'"

"Honor!" poor Eve broke in. "Oh, but Lucien has fallen in so manyways! Writing against his conscience! Attacking his best friend!Living upon an actress! Showing himself in public with her. Bringingus to lie on straw----"

"Oh, that is nothing----!" cried David, and suddenly stopped short. The secret of Lucien's forgery had nearly escaped him, and, unluckily, his start left a vague, uneasy impression on Eve. 

"What do you mean by nothing?" she answered. "And where shall we findthe money to meet bills for three thousand francs?"

"We shall be obliged to renew the lease with Cerizet, to begin with, "said David. "The Cointets have been allowing him fifteen per cent onthe work done for them, and in that way alone he has made six hundredfrancs, besides contriving to make five hundred francs by jobprinting. "

"If the Cointets know that, perhaps they will not renew the lease. They will be afraid of him, for Cerizet is a dangerous man. "

"Eh! what is that to me!" cried David, "we shall be rich in a verylittle while. When Lucien is rich, dear angel, he will have nothingbut good qualities. "

"Oh! David, my dear, my dear; what is this that you have saidunthinkingly? Then Lucien fallen into the clutches of poverty wouldnot have the force of character to resist evil? And you think just asM. D'Arthez thinks! No one is great unless he has strength ofcharacter, and Lucien is weak. An angel must not be tempted--what isthat?"

"What but a nature that is noble only in its own region, its ownsphere, its heaven? I will spare him the struggle; Lucien is not meantfor it. Look here! I am so near the end now that I can talk to youabout the means. "

He drew several sheets of white paper from his pocket, brandished themin triumph, and laid them on his wife's lap. 

"A ream of this paper, royal size, would cost five francs at themost, " he added, while Eve handled the specimens with almost childishsurprise. 

"Why, how did you make these sample bits?" she asked. 

"With an old kitchen sieve of Marion's. "

"And are you not satisfied yet?" asked Eve. 

"The problem does not lie in the manufacturing process; it is aquestion of the first cost of the pulp. Alas, child, I am only a latecomer in a difficult path. As long ago as 1794, Mme. Masson tried touse printed paper a second time; she succeeded, but what a price itcost! The Marquis of Salisbury tried to use straw as a material in1800, and the same idea occurred to Seguin in France in 1801. Thosesheets in your hand are made from the common rush, the _arundophragmites_, but I shall try nettles and thistles; for if the materialis to continue to be cheap, one must look for something that will growin marshes and waste lands where nothing else can be grown. The wholesecret lies in the preparation of the stems. At present my method isnot quite simple enough. Still, in spite of this difficulty, I feelsure that I can give the French paper trade the privilege of ourliterature; papermaking will be for France what coal and iron andcoarse potter's clay are for England--a monopoly. I mean to be theJacquart of the trade. "

Eve rose to her feet. David's simple-mindedness had roused her toenthusiasm, to admiration; she held out her arms to him and held himtightly to her, while she laid her head upon his shoulder. 

"You give me my reward as if I had succeeded already, " he said. 

For all answer, Eve held up her sweet face, wet with tears, to his, and for a moment she could not speak. 

"The kiss was not for the man of genius, " she said, "but for mycomforter. Here is a rising glory for the glory that has set; and, inthe midst of my grief for the brother that has fallen so low, myhusband's greatness is revealed to me. --Yes, you will be great, greatlike the Graindorges, the Rouvets, and Van Robais, and the Persian whodiscovered madder, like all the men you have told me about; great menwhom nobody remembers, because their good deeds were obscureindustrial triumphs. "

"What are they doing just now?"

It was Boniface Cointet who spoke. He was walking up and down outsidein the Place du Murier with Cerizet watching the silhouettes of thehusband and wife on the blinds. He always came at midnight for a chatwith Cerizet, for the latter played the spy upon his former master'severy movement. 

"He is showing her the paper he made this morning, no doubt, " saidCerizet. 

"What is it made of?" asked the paper manufacturer. 

"Impossible to guess, " answered Cerizet; "I made a hole in the roofand scrambled up and watched the gaffer; he was boiling pulp in acopper pan all last night. There was a heap of stuff in a corner, butI could make nothing of it; it looked like a heap of tow, as near as Icould make out. "

"Go no farther, " said Boniface Cointet in unctuous tones; "it wouldnot be right. Mme. Sechard will offer to renew your lease; tell herthat you are thinking of setting up for yourself. Offer her half thevalue of the plant and license, and, if she takes the bid, come to me. In any case, spin the matter out. . . . Have they no money?"

"Not a sou, " said Cerizet. 

"Not a sou, " repeated tall Cointet. --"I have them now, " said he tohimself. 

Metivier, paper manufacturers' wholesale agent, and Cointet Brothers, printers and paper manufacturers, were also bankers in all but name. This surreptitious banking system defies all the ingenuity of theInland Revenue Department. Every banker is required to take out alicense which, in Paris, costs five hundred francs; but no hithertodevised method of controlling commerce can detect the delinquents, orcompel them to pay their due to the Government. And though Metivierand the Cointets were "outside brokers, " in the language of the StockExchange, none the less among them they could set some hundreds ofthousands of francs moving every three months in the markets of Paris, Bordeaux, and Angouleme. Now it so fell out that that very eveningCointet Brothers had received Lucien's forged bills in the course ofbusiness. Upon this debt, tall Cointet forthwith erected a formidableengine, pointed, as will presently be seen, against the poor, patientinventor. 

By seven o'clock next morning, Boniface Cointet was taking a walk bythe mill stream that turned the wheels in his big factory; the soundof the water covered his talk, for he was talking with a companion, ayoung man of nine-and-twenty, who had been appointed attorney to theCourt of First Instance in Angouleme some six weeks ago. The youngman's name was Pierre Petit-Claud. 

"You are a schoolfellow of David Sechard's, are you not?" asked tallCointet by way of greeting to the young attorney. Petit-Claud had lostno time in answering the wealthy manufacturer's summons. 

"Yes, sir, " said Petit-Claud, keeping step with tall Cointet. 

"Have you renewed the acquaintance?"

"We have met once or twice at most since he came back. It could hardlyhave been otherwise. In Paris I was buried away in the office or atthe courts on week-days, and on Sundays and holidays I was hard atwork studying, for I had only myself to look to. " (Tall Cointet noddedapprovingly. ) "When we met again, David and I, he asked me what I haddone with myself. I told him that after I had finished my time atPoitiers, I had risen to be Maitre Olivet's head-clerk, and that sometime or other I hoped to make a bid for his berth. I know a good dealmore of Lucien Chardon (de Rubempre he calls himself now), he was Mme. De Bargeton's lover, our great poet, David Sechard's brother-in-law, in fact. "

"Then you can go and tell David of your appointment, and offer himyour services, " said tall Cointet. 

"One can't do that, " said the young attorney. 

"He has never had a lawsuit, and he has no attorney, so one can dothat, " said Cointet, scanning the other narrowly from behind hiscolored spectacles. 

A certain quantity of gall mingled with the blood in PierrePetit-Claud's veins; his father was a tailor in L'Houmeau, and hisschoolfellows had looked down upon him. His complexion was of themuddy and unwholesome kind which tells a tale of bad health, latehours and penury, and almost always of a bad disposition. The bestdescription of him may be given in two familiar expressions--he wassharp and snappish. His cracked voice suited his sour face, meagrelook, and magpie eyes of no particular color. A magpie eye, accordingto Napoleon, is a sure sign of dishonesty. "Look at So-and-so, " hesaid to Las Cases at Saint Helena, alluding to a confidential servantwhom he had been obliged to dismiss for malversation. "I do not knowhow I could have been deceived in him for so long; he has a magpieeye. " Tall Cointet, surveying the weedy little lawyer, noted his facepitted with smallpox, the thin hair, and the forehead, bald already, receding towards a bald cranium; saw, too, the confession of weaknessin his attitude with the hand on the hip. "Here is my man, " said he tohimself. 

As a matter of fact, this Petit-Claud, who had drunk scorn like water, was eaten up with a strong desire to succeed in life; he had no money, but nevertheless he had the audacity to buy his employer's connectionfor thirty thousand francs, reckoning upon a rich marriage to clearoff the debt, and looking to his employer, after the usual custom, tofind him a wife, for an attorney always has an interest in marryinghis successor, because he is the sooner paid off. But if Petit-Claudcounted upon his employer, he counted yet more upon himself. He hadmore than average ability, and that of a kind not often found in theprovinces, and rancor was the mainspring of his power. A mighty hatredmakes a mighty effort. 

There is a great difference between a country attorney and an attorneyin Paris; tall Cointet was too clever not to know this, and to turnthe meaner passions that move a pettifogging lawyer to good account. An eminent attorney in Paris, and there are many who may be soqualified, is bound to possess to some extent the diplomate'squalities; he had so much business to transact, business in whichlarge interests are involved; questions of such wide interest aresubmitted to him that he does not look upon procedure as machinery forbringing money into his pocket, but as a weapon of attack and defence. A country attorney, on the other hand, cultivates the science ofcosts, _broutille_, as it is called in Paris, a host of small items thatswell lawyers' bills and require stamped paper. These weighty mattersof the law completely fill the country attorney's mind; he has a billof costs always before his eyes, whereas his brother of Paris thinksof nothing but his fees. The fee is a honorarium paid by a client overand above the bill of costs, for the more or less skilful conduct ofhis case. One-half of the bill of costs goes to the Treasury, whereasthe entire fee belongs to the attorney. Let us admit frankly that thefees received are seldom as large as the fees demanded and deserved bya clever lawyer. Wherefore, in Paris, attorneys, doctors, andbarristers, like courtesans with a chance-come lover, take veryconsiderable precautions against the gratitude of clients. The clientbefore and after the lawsuit would furnish a subject worthy ofMeissonier; there would be brisk bidding among attorneys for thepossession of two such admirable bits of genre. 

There is yet another difference between the Parisian and the countryattorney. An attorney in Paris very seldom appears in court, though heis sometimes called upon to act as arbitrator (_refere_). Barristers, at the present day, swarm in the provinces; but in 1822 the countryattorney very often united the functions of solicitor and counsel. Asa result of this double life, the attorney acquired the peculiarintellectual defects of the barrister, and retained the heavyresponsibilities of the attorney. He grew talkative and fluent, andlost his lucidity of judgment, the first necessity for the conduct ofaffairs. If a man of more than ordinary ability tries to do the workof two men, he is apt to find that the two men are mediocrities. TheParis attorney never spends himself in forensic eloquence; and as heseldom attempts to argue for and against, he has some hope ofpreserving his mental rectitude. It is true that he brings the balistaof the law to work, and looks for the weapons in the armory ofjudicial contradictions, but he keeps his own convictions as to thecase, while he does his best to gain the day. In a word, a man loseshis head not so much by thinking as by uttering thoughts. The spokenword convinces the utterer; but a man can act against his own badjudgment without warping it, and contrive to win in a bad causewithout maintaining that it is a good one, like the barrister. Perhapsfor this very reason an old attorney is the more likely of the two tomake a good judge. 

A country attorney, as we have seen, has plenty of excuses for hismediocrity; he takes up the cause of petty passions, he undertakespettifogging business, he lives by charging expenses, he strains theCode of procedure and pleads in court. In a word, his weak points arelegion; and if by chance you come across a remarkable man practisingas a country attorney, he is indeed above the average level. 

"I thought, sir, that you sent for me on your own affairs, " saidPetit-Claud, and a glance that put an edge on his words fell upon tallCointet's impenetrable blue spectacles. 

"Let us have no beating about the bush, " returned Boniface Cointet. "Listen to me. "

After that beginning, big with mysterious import, Cointet set himselfdown upon a bench, and beckoned Petit-Claud to do likewise. 

"When M. Du Hautoy came to Angouleme in 1804, on his way to hisconsulship at Valence, he made the acquaintance of Mme. De Senonches, then Mlle. Zephirine, and had a daughter by her, " added Cointet forthe attorney's ear----"Yes, " he continued, as Petit-Claud gave astart; "yes, and Mlle. Zephirine's marriage with M. De Senoches soonfollowed the birth of the child. The girl was brought up in mymother's house; she is the Mlle. Francoise de la Haye in whom Mme. DeSenoches takes an interest; she is her godmother in the usual style. Now, my mother farmed land belonging to old Mme. De Cardanet, Mlle. Zephirine's grandmother; and as she knew the secret of the soleheiress of the Cardanets and the Senonches of the older branch, theymade me trustee for the little sum which M. Francois du Hautoy meantfor the girl's fortune. I made my own fortune with those ten thousandfrancs, which amount to thirty thousand at the present day. Mme. DeSenonches is sure to give the wedding clothes, and some plate andfurniture to her goddaughter. Now, I can put you in the way ofmarrying the girl, my lad, " said Cointet, slapping Petit-Claud on theknee; "and when you marry Francoise de la Haye, you will have a largenumber of the aristocracy of Angouleme as your clients. Thisunderstanding between us (under the rose) will open up magnificentprospects for you. Your position will be as much as any one couldwant; in fact, they don't ask better, I know. "

"What is to be done?" Petit-Claud asked eagerly. "You have anattorney, Maitre Cachan----"

"And, moreover, I shall not leave Cachan at once for you; I shall onlybe your client later on, " said Cointet significantly. "What is to bedone, do you ask, my friend? Eh! why, David Sechard's business. Thepoor devil has three thousand francs' worth of bills to meet; he willnot meet them; you will stave off legal proceedings in such a way asto increase the expenses enormously. Don't trouble yourself; go on, pile on items. Doublon, my process-server, will act under Cachan'sdirections, and he will lay on like a blacksmith. A word to the wiseis sufficient. Now, young man?----"

An eloquent pause followed, and the two men looked at each other. 

"We have never seen each other, " Cointet resumed; "I have not said asyllable to you; you know nothing about M. Du Hautoy, nor Mme. DeSenonches, nor Mlle. De la Haye; only, when the time comes, two monthshence, you will propose for the young lady. If we should want to seeeach other, you will come here after dark. Let us have nothing inwriting. "

"Then you mean to ruin Sechard?" asked Petit-Claud. 

"Not exactly; but he must be in jail for some time----"

"And what is the object?"

"Do you think that I am noodle enough to tell you that? If you havewit enough to find out, you will have sense enough to hold yourtongue. "

"Old Sechard has plenty of money, " said Petit-Claud. He was beginningalready to enter into Boniface Cointet's notions, and foresaw apossible cause of failure. 

"So long as the father lives, he will not give his son a farthing; andthe old printer has no mind as yet to send in an order for his funeralcards. "

"Agreed!" said Petit-Claud, promptly making up his mind. "I don't askyou for guarantees; I am an attorney. If any one plays me a trick, there will be an account to settle between us. "

"The rogue will go far, " thought Cointet; he bade Petit-Claudgood-morning. 

The day after this conference was the 30th of April, and the Cointetspresented the first of the three bills forged by Lucien. Unluckily, the bill was brought to poor Mme. Sechard; and she, seeing at oncethat the signature was not in her husband's handwriting, sent forDavid and asked him point-blank:

"You did not put your name to that bill, did you?"

"No, " said he; "your brother was so pressed for time that he signedfor me. "

Eve returned the bill to the bank messenger sent by the Cointets. 

"We cannot meet it, " she said; then, feeling that her strength wasfailing, she went up to her room. David followed her. 

"Go quickly to the Cointets, dear, " Eve said faintly; "they will havesome consideration for you; beg them to wait; and call their attentionbesides to the fact that when Cerizet's lease is renewed, they willowe you a thousand francs. "

David went forthwith to his enemies. Now, any foreman may become amaster printer, but there are not always the makings of a good man ofbusiness in a skilled typographer; David knew very little of business;when, therefore, with a heavily-beating heart and a sensation ofthrottling, David had put his excuses badly enough and formulated hisrequest, the answer--"This is nothing to do with us; the bill has beenpassed on to us by Metivier; Metivier will pay us. Apply to M. Metivier"--cut him short at once. 

"Oh!" cried Eve when she heard the result, "as soon as the bill isreturned to M. Metivier, we may be easy. "

At two o'clock the next day, Victor-Ange-Hermenegilde Doublon, bailiff, made protest for non-payment at two o'clock, a time when thePlace du Murier is full of people; so that though Doublon was carefulto stand and chat at the back door with Marion and Kolb, the news ofthe protest was known all over the business world of Angouleme thatevening. Tall Cointet had enjoined it upon Master Doublon to show theSechards the greatest consideration; but when all was said and done, could the bailiff's hypocritical regard for appearances save Eve andDavid from the disgrace of a suspension of payment? Let each judge forhimself. A tolerably long digression of this kind will seem all tooshort; and ninety out of every hundred readers shall seize withavidity upon details that possess all the piquancy of novelty, thusestablishing yet once again the trust of the well-known axiom, thatthere is nothing so little known as that which everybody is supposedto know--the Law of the Land, to wit. 

And of a truth, for the immense majority of Frenchmen, a minutedescription of some part of the machinery of banking will be asinteresting as any chapter of foreign travel. When a tradesman livingin one town gives a bill to another tradesman elsewhere (as David wassupposed to have done for Lucien's benefit), the transaction ceases tobe a simple promissory note, given in the way of business by onetradesman to another in the same place, and becomes in some sort aletter of exchange. When, therefore, Metivier accepted Lucien's threebills, he was obliged to send them for collection to hiscorrespondents in Angouleme--to Cointet Brothers, that is to say. Hence, likewise, a certain initial loss for Lucien in exchange onAngouleme, taking the practical shape of an abatement of so much percent over and above the discount. In this way Sechard's bills hadpassed into circulation in the bank. You would not believe how greatlythe quality of banker, united with the august title of creditor, changes the debtor's position. For instance, when a bill has beenpassed through the bank (please note that expression), and transferredfrom the money market in Paris to the financial world of Angouleme, ifthat bill is protested, then the bankers in Angouleme must draw up adetailed account of the expenses of protest and return; 'tis a dutywhich they owe to themselves. Joking apart, no account of the mostromantic adventure could be more mildly improbable than this of thejourney made by a bill. Behold a certain article in the Code ofcommerce authorizing the most ingenious pleasantries afterMascarille's manner, and the interpretation thereof shall makeapparent manifold atrocities lurking beneath the formidable word"legal. "

Master Doublon registered the protest and went himself with it to MM. Cointet Brothers. The firm had a standing account with their bailiff;he gave them six months' credit; and the lynxes of Angoulemepractically took a twelvemonth, though tall Cointet would say month bymonth to the lynxes' jackal, "Do you want any money, Doublon?" Nor wasthis all. Doublon gave the influential house a rebate upon everytransaction; it was the merest trifle, one franc fifty centimes on aprotest, for instance. 

Tall Cointet quietly sat himself down at his desk and took out a smallsheet of paper with a thirty-five centime stamp upon it, chatting ashe did so with Doublon as to the standing of some of the localtradesmen. 

"Well, are you satisfied with young Gannerac?"

"He is not doing badly. Lord, a carrier drives a trade----"

"Drives a trade, yes; but, as a matter of fact, his expenses are aheavy pull on him; his wife spends a good deal, so they tell me----"

"Of _his_ money?" asked Doublon, with a knowing look. 

The lynx meanwhile had finished ruling his sheet of paper, and nowproceeded to trace the ominous words at the head of the followingaccount in bold characters:--

 ACCOUNT OF EXPENSES OF PROTEST AND RETURN. 

 _To one bill for_ one thousand francs, _bearing date of February the tenth, eighteen hundred and twenty-two, drawn by_ Sechard junior _of Angouleme, to order of_ Lucien Chardon, _otherwise_ de Rubempre, _endorsed to order of_ Metivier, _and finally to our order, matured the thirtieth of April last, protested by_ Doublon, _process-server, on the first of May, eighteen hundred and twenty-two. _ fr. C. Principal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1000 -- Expenses of Protest. . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 35 Bank charges, one-half per cent. . . . . . . 5 -- Brokerage, one-quarter per cent. . . . . . . 2 50 Stamp on re-draft and present account. . . . 1 35 Interest and postage . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 -- ____ ____ 1024 20 Exchange at the rate of one and a quarter per cent on 1024 fr. 20 c. . . . . . . . . 13 25 ____ ____ Total. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1037 45

 _One thousand and thirty-seven francs forty-five centimes, for which we repay ourselves by our draft at sight upon M. Metivier, Rue Serpente, Paris, payable to order of M. Gannerac of L'Houmeau. _

 ANGOULEME, May 2, 1822 COINTET BROTHERS. 

At the foot of this little memorandum, drafted with the ease thatcomes of long practice (for the writer chatted with Doublon as hewrote), there appeared the subjoined form of declaration:--

 "We, the undersigned, Postel of L'Houmeau, pharmaceutical chemist, and Gannerac, forwarding agent, merchant of this town, hereby certify that the present rate of exchange on Paris is one and a quarter per cent. 

 "ANGOULEME, May 2, 1822. "

"Here, Doublon, be so good as to step round and ask Postel andGannerac to put their names to this declaration, and bring it backwith you to-morrow morning. "

And Doublon, quite accustomed as he was to these instruments oftorture, forthwith went, as if it were the simplest thing in theworld. Evidently the protest might have been sent in an envelope, asin Paris, and even so all Angouleme was sure to hear of the poorSechards' unlucky predicament. How they all blamed his want ofbusiness energy! His excessive fondness for his wife had been the ruinof him, according to some; others maintained that it was his affectionfor his brother-in-law; and what shocking conclusions did they notdraw from these premises! A man ought never to embrace the interestsof his kith and kin. Old Sechard's hard-hearted conduct met withapproval, and people admired him for his treatment of his son!

And now, all you who for any reason whatsoever should forget to "honoryour engagements, " look well into the methods of the banking business, by which one thousand francs may be made to pay interest at the rateof twenty-eight francs in ten minutes, without breaking the law of theland. 

The thousand francs, the one incontestable item in the account, comesfirst. 

The second item is shared between the bailiff and the Inland RevenueDepartment. The six francs due to the State for providing a piece ofstamped paper, and putting the debtor's mortification on record, willprobably ensure a long life to this abuse; and as you already know, one franc fifty centimes from this item found its way into thebanker's pockets in the shape of Doublon's rebate. 

"Bank charges one-half per cent, " runs the third item, which appearsupon the ingenious plea that if a banker has not received payment, hehas for all practical purposes discounted a bill. And although thecontrary may be the case, if you fail to receive a thousand francs, itseems to be very much the same thing as if you had paid them away. Everybody who has discounted a bill knows that he has to pay more thanthe six per cent fixed by law; for a small percentage appears underthe humble title of "charges, " representing a premium on the financialgenius and skill with which the capitalist puts his money out tointerest. The more money he makes out of you, the more he asks. Wherefore it would be undoubtedly cheaper to discount a bill with afool, if fools there be in the profession of bill-discounting. 

The law requires the banker to obtain a stock-broker's certificate forthe rate of exchange. When a place is so unlucky as to boast no stockexchange, two merchants act instead. This is the significance of theitem "brokerage"; it is a fixed charge of a quarter per cent on theamount of the protested bill. The custom is to consider the amount aspaid to the merchants who act for the stock-broker, and the bankerquietly puts the money into his cash-box. So much for the third itemin this delightful account. 

The fourth includes the cost of the piece of stamped paper on whichthe account itself appears, as well as the cost of the stamp forre-draft, as it is ingeniously named, viz. , the banker's draft uponhis colleague in Paris. 

The fifth is a charge for postage and the legal interest due upon theamount for the time that it may happen to be absent from the banker'sstrong box. 

The final item, the exchange, is the object for which the bank exists, which is to say, for the transmission of sums of money from one placeto another. 

Now, sift this account thoroughly, and what do you find? The method ofcalculation closely resembles Polichinelle's arithmetic in Lablache'sNeapolitan song, "fifteen and five make twenty-two. " The signatures ofMessieurs Postel and Gannerac were obviously given to oblige in theway of business; the Cointets would act at need for Gannerac asGannerac acted for the Cointets. It was a practical application of thewell-known proverb, "Reach me the rhubarb and I will pass you thesenna. " Cointet Brothers, moreover, kept a standing account withMetivier; there was no need of a re-draft, and no re-draft was made. Areturned bill between the two firms simply meant a debit or creditentry and another line in a ledger. 

This highly-colored account, therefore, is reduced to the one thousandfrancs, with an additional thirteen francs for expenses of protest, and half per cent for a month's delay, one thousand and eighteenfrancs it may be in all. 

Suppose that in a large banking-house a bill for a thousand francs isdaily protested on an average, then the banker receives twenty-eightfrancs a day by the grace of God and the constitution of the bankingsystem, that all powerful invention due to the Jewish intellect of theMiddle Ages, which after six centuries still controls monarchs andpeoples. In other words, a thousand francs would bring such a housetwenty-eight francs per day, or ten thousand two hundred and twentyfrancs per annum. Triple the average of protests, and consequently ofexpenses, and you shall derive an income of thirty thousand francs perannum, interest upon purely fictitious capital. For which reason, nothing is more lovingly cultivated than these little "accounts ofexpenses. "

If David Sechard had come to pay his bill on the 3rd of May, that is, the day after it was protested, MM. Cointet Brothers would have methim at once with, "We have returned your bill to M. Metivier, "although, as a matter of fact, the document would have been lying uponthe desk. A banker has a right to make out the account of expenses onthe evening of the day when the bill is protested, and he uses theright to "sweat the silver crowns, " in the country banker's phrase. 

The Kellers, with correspondents all over the world, make twentythousand francs per annum by charges for postage alone; accounts ofexpenses of protest pay for Mme. La Baronne de Nucingen's dresses, opera box, and carriage. The charge for postage is a more shockingswindle, because a house will settle ten matters of business in asmany lines of a single letter. And of the tithe wrung from misfortune, the Government, strange to say! takes its share, and the nationalrevenue is swelled by a tax on commercial failure. And the Bank? fromthe august height of a counting-house she flings an observation, fullof commonsense, at the debtor, "How is it?" asks she, "that you cannotmeet your bill?" and, unluckily, there is no reply to the question. Wherefore, the "account of expenses" is an account bristling withdreadful fictions, fit to cause any debtor, who henceforth shallreflect upon this instructive page, a salutary shudder. 

On the 4th of May, Metivier received the account from CointetBrothers, with instructions to proceed against M. Lucien Chardon, otherwise de Rubempre, with the utmost rigor of the law. 

Eve also wrote to M. Metivier, and a few days later received an answerwhich reassured her completely:--

 _To M. Sechard, Junior, Printer, Angouleme. _

 "I have duly received your esteemed favor of the 5th instant. From your explanation of the bill due on April 30th, I understand that you have obliged your brother-in-law, M. De Rubempre, who is spending so much that it will be doing you a service to summons him. His present position is such that he is likely to delay payment for long. If your brother-in-law should refuse payment, I shall rely upon the credit of your old-established house. --I sign myself now, as ever, your obedient servant, "Metivier. "

"Well, " said Eve, commenting upon the letter to David, "Lucien willknow when they summons him that we could not pay. "

What a change wrought in Eve those few words meant! The love that grewdeeper as she came to know her husband's character better and better, was taking the place of love for her brother in her heart. But to howmany illusions had she not bade farewell?

And now let us trace out the whole history of the bill and the accountof expenses in the business world of Paris. The law enacts that thethird holder, the technical expression for the third party into whosehands the bill passes, is at liberty to proceed for the whole amountagainst any one of the various endorsers who appears to him to be mostlikely to make prompt payment. M. Metivier, using this discretion, served a summons upon Lucien. Behold the successive stages of theproceedings, all of them perfectly futile. Metivier, with the Cointetsbehind him, knew that Lucien was not in a position to pay, butinsolvency in fact is not insolvency in law until it has been formallyproved. 

Formal proof of Lucien's inability to pay was obtained in thefollowing manner:

On the 5th of May, Metivier's process-server gave Lucien notice of theprotest and an account of the expense thereof, and summoned him toappear before the Tribunal of Commerce, or County Court, of Paris, tohear a vast number of things: this, among others, that he was liableto imprisonment as a merchant. By the time that Lucien, hard pressedand hunted down on all sides, read this jargon, he received notice ofjudgment against him by default. Coralie, his mistress, ignorant ofthe whole matter, imagined that Lucien had obliged his brother-in-law, and handed him all the documents together--too late. An actress seesso much of bailiffs, duns, and writs, upon the stage, that she lookson all stamped paper as a farce. 

Tears filled Lucien's eyes; he was unhappy on Sechard's account, hewas ashamed of the forgery, he wished to pay, he desired to gain time. Naturally he took counsel of his friends. But by the time Lousteau, Blondet, Bixiou, and Nathan had told the poet to snap his fingers at acourt only established for tradesmen, Lucien was already in theclutches of the law. He beheld upon his door the little yellow placardwhich leaves its reflection on the porter's countenance, and exercisesa most astringent influence upon credit; striking terror into theheart of the smallest tradesman, and freezing the blood in the veinsof a poet susceptible enough to care about the bits of wood, silkenrags, dyed woolen stuffs, and multifarious gimcracks entitledfurniture. 

When the broker's men came for Coralie's furniture, the author of the_Marguerites_ fled to a friend of Bixiou's, one Desroches, a barrister, who burst out laughing at the sight of Lucien in such a state aboutnothing at all. 

"That is nothing, my dear fellow. Do you want to gain time?"

"Yes, as much possible. "

"Very well, apply for stay of execution. Go and look up Masson, he isa solicitor in the Commercial Court, and a friend of mine. Take yourdocuments to him. He will make a second application for you, and givenotice of objection to the jurisdiction of the court. There is not theleast difficulty; you are a journalist, your name is well knownenough. If they summons you before a civil court, come to me about it, that will be my affair; I engage to send anybody who offers to annoythe fair Coralie about his business. "

On the 28th of May, Lucien's case came on in the civil court, andjudgment was given before Desroches expected it. Lucien's creditor waspushing on the proceedings against him. A second execution was put in, and again Coralie's pilasters were gilded with placards. Desrochesfelt rather foolish; a colleague had "caught him napping, " to use hisown expression. He demurred, not without reason, that the furniturebelonged to Mlle. Coralie, with whom Lucien was living, and demandedan order for inquiry. Thereupon the judge referred the matter to theregistrar for inquiry, the furniture was proved to belong to theactress, and judgment was entered accordingly. Metivier appealed, andjudgment was confirmed on appeal on the 30th of June. 

On the 7th of August, Maitre Cachan received by the coach a bulkypackage endorsed, "Metivier _versus_ Sechard and Lucien Chardon. "

The first document was a neat little bill, of which a copy (accuracyguaranteed) is here given for the reader's benefit:--

 _To Bill due the last day of April, drawn by_ Sechard, junior, _to order of_ Lucien de Rubempre, _together with expenses of fr. C. Protest and return_ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1037 45 May 5th--Serving notice of protest and summons to appear before the Tribunal of Commerce in Paris, May 7th . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 75 " 7th--Judgment by default and warrant of arrest. . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 -- " 10th--Notification of judgment . . . . . . . . . 8 50 " 12th--Warrant of execution . . . . . . . . . . . 5 50 " 14th--Inventory and appraisement previous to execution. . . . . . . . . . . 16 -- " 18th--Expenses of affixing placards. . . . . . . 15 25 " 19th--Registration . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 -- " 24th--Verification of inventory, and application for stay of execution on the part of the said Lucien de Rubempre, objecting to the jurisdiction of the Court. . . . . . 12 -- " 27th--Order of the Court upon application duly repeated, and transfer of of case to the Civil Court. . . . . . . . . 35 -- ____ ____ Carried forward. . . . . . . . . . . . 1177 45

 fr. C. Brought forward 1177 45 May 28th--Notice of summary proceedings in the Civil Court at the instance of Metivier, represented by counsel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 50 June 2nd--Judgment, after hearing both parties, condemning Lucien for expenses of protest and return; the plaintiff to bear costs of proceedings in the Commercial Court. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 -- " 6th--Notification of judgment. . . . . . . . . . 10 --

 " 15th--Warrant of execution. . . . . . . . . . . . 5 50 " 19th--Inventory and appraisement preparatory to execution; interpleader summons by the Demoiselle Coralie, claiming goods and chattels taken in execution; demand for immediate special inquiry before further proceedings be taken . . . . . . . 20 -- " " --Judge's order referring matter to registrar for immediate special inquiry. . 40 -- " " --Judgment in favor of the said Mademoiselle Coralie . . . . . . . . . . . 250 -- " 20th--Appeal by Metivier . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 -- " 30th--Confirmation of judgment . . . . . . . . . 250 -- ____ ____ Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1926 45 __________

 Bill matured May 31st, with expenses of fr. C. Protest and return. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1037 45 Serving notice of protest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 75 ____ ____ Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1046 20

 Bill matured June 30th, with expenses of protest and return. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1037 45 Serving notice of protest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 75 ____ ____ Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1046 20 __________

This document was accompanied by a letter from Metivier, instructingMaitre Cachan, notary of Angouleme, to prosecute David Sechard withthe utmost rigor of the law. Wherefore Maitre Victor-Ange-HermenegildeDoublon summoned David Sechard before the Tribunal of Commerce inAngouleme for the sum-total of four thousand and eighteen francseighty-five centimes, the amount of the three bills and expensesalready incurred. On the morning of the very day when Doublon servedthe writ upon Eve, requiring her to pay a sum so enormous in her eyes, there came a letter like a thunderbolt from Metivier:--

 _To Monsieur Sechard, Junior, Printer, Angouleme. _

 "SIR, --Your brother-in-law, M. Chardon, is so shamelessly dishonest, that he declares his furniture to be the property of an actress with whom he is living. You ought to have informed me candidly of these circumstances, and not have allowed me to go to useless expense over law proceedings. I have received no answer to my letter of the 10th of May last. You must not, therefore, take it amiss if I ask for immediate repayment of the three bills and the expenses to which I have been put. --Yours, etc. , "METIVIER. "

Eve had heard nothing during these months, and supposed, in herignorance of commercial law, that her brother had made reparation forhis sins by meeting the forged bills. 

"Be quick, and go at once to Petit-Claud, dear, " she said; "tell himabout it, and ask his advice. "

David hurried to his schoolfellow's office. 

"When you came to tell me of your appointment and offered me yourservices, I did not think that I should need them so soon, " he said. 

Petit-Claud studied the fine face of this man who sat opposite him inthe office chair, and scarcely listened to the details of the case, for he knew more of them already than the speaker. As soon as he sawSechard's anxiety, he said to himself, "The trick has succeeded. "

This kind of comedy is often played in an attorney's office. "Why arethe Cointets persecuting him?" Petit-Claud wondered within himself, for the attorney can use his wit to read his clients' thoughts asclearly as the ideas of their opponents, and it is his business to seeboth sides of the judicial web. 

"You want to gain time, " he said at last, when Sechard had come to anend. "How long do you want? Something like three or four months?"

"Oh! four months! that would be my salvation, " exclaimed David. Petit-Claud appeared to him as an angel. 

"Very well. No one shall lay hands on any of your furniture, and noone shall arrest you for four months----But it will cost you a greatdeal, " said Petit-Claud. 

"Eh! what does that matter to me?" cried Sechard. 

"You are expecting some money to come in; but are you sure of it?"asked Petit-Claud, astonished at the way in which his client walkedinto the toils. 

"In three months' time I shall have plenty of money, " said theinventor, with an inventor's hopeful confidence. 

"Your father is still above ground, " suggested Petit-Claud; "he is inno hurry to leave his vines. "

"Do you think that I am counting on my father's death?" returnedDavid. "I am on the track of a trade secret, the secret of making asheet of paper as strong as Dutch paper, without a thread of cotton init, and at a cost of fifty per cent less than cotton pulp. "

"There is a fortune in that!" exclaimed Petit-Claud. He knew now whatthe tall Cointet meant. 

"A large fortune, my friend, for in ten years' time the demand forpaper will be ten times larger than it is to-day. Journalism will bethe craze of our day. "

"Nobody knows your secret?"

"Nobody except my wife. "

"You have not told any one what you mean to do--the Cointets, forexample?"

"I did say something about it, but in general terms, I think. "

A sudden spark of generosity flashed through Petit-Claud's rancoroussoul; he tried to reconcile Sechard's interests with the Cointet'sprojects and his own. 

"Listen, David, we are old schoolfellows, you and I; I will fight yourcase; but understand this clearly--the defence, in the teeth of thelaw, will cost you five or six thousand francs! Do not compromise yourprospects. I think you will be compelled to share the profits of yourinvention with some one of our paper manufacturers. Let us see now. You will think twice before you buy or build a paper mill; and thereis the cost of the patent besides. All this means time, and money too. The servers of writs will be down upon you too soon, perhaps, althoughwe are going to give them the slip----"

"I have my secret, " said David, with the simplicity of the man ofbooks. 

"Well and good, your secret will be your plank of safety, " saidPetit-Claud; his first loyal intention of avoiding a lawsuit by acompromise was frustrated. "I do not wish to know it; but mind thisthat I tell you. Work in the bowels of the earth if you can, so thatno one may watch you and gain a hint from your ways of working, oryour plank will be stolen from under your feet. An inventor and asimpleton often live in the same skin. Your mind runs so much on yoursecrets that you cannot think of everything. People will begin to havetheir suspicions at last, and the place is full of paper manufacturers. So many manufacturers, so many enemies for you! You are like a beaverwith the hunters about you; do not give them your skin----"

"Thank you, dear fellow, I have told myself all this, " exclaimedSechard, "but I am obliged to you for showing so much concern for meand for your forethought. It does not really matter to me myself. Anincome of twelve hundred francs would be enough for me, and my fatherought by rights to leave me three times as much some day. Love andthought make up my life--a divine life. I am working for Lucien's sakeand for my wife's. "

"Come, give me this power of attorney, and think of nothing but yourdiscovery. If there should be any danger of arrest, I will let youknow in time, for we must think of all possibilities. And let me tellyou again to allow no one of whom you are not so sure as you are ofyourself to come into your place. "

"Cerizet did not care to continue the lease of the plant and premises, hence our little money difficulties. We have no one at home now butMarion and Kolb, an Alsacien as trusty as a dog, and my wife and hermother----"

"One word, " said Petit-Claud, "don't trust that dog----"

"You do not know him, " exclaimed David; "he is like a second self. "

"May I try him?"

"Yes, " said Sechard. 

"There, good-bye, but send Mme. Sechard to me; I must have a power ofattorney from your wife. And bear in mind, my friend, that there is afire burning in your affairs, " said Petit-Claud, by way of warning ofall the troubles gathering in the law courts to burst upon David'shead. 

"Here am I with one foot in Burgundy and the other in Champagne, " headded to himself as he closed the office door on David. 

Harassed by money difficulties, beset with fears for his wife'shealth, stung to the quick by Lucien's disgrace, David had worked onat his problem. He had been trying to find a single process to replacethe various operations of pounding and maceration to which all flax orcotton or rags, any vegetable fibre, in fact, must be subjected; andas he went to Petit-Claud's office, he abstractedly chewed a bit ofnettle stalk that had been steeping in water. On his way home, tolerably satisfied with his interview, he felt a little pelletsticking between his teeth. He laid it on his hand, flattened it out, and saw that the pulp was far superior to any previous result. Thewant of cohesion is the great drawback of all vegetable fibre; straw, for instance, yields a very brittle paper, which may almost be calledmetallic and resonant. These chances only befall bold inquirers intoNature's methods!

"Now, " said he to himself, "I must contrive to do by machinery andsome chemical agency the thing that I myself have done unconsciously. "

When his wife saw him, his face was radiant with belief in victory. There were traces of tears in Eve's face. 

"Oh! my darling, do not trouble yourself; Petit-Claud will guaranteethat we shall not be molested for several months to come. There willbe a good deal of expense over it; but, as Petit-Claud said when hecame to the door with me, 'A Frenchman has a right to keep hiscreditors waiting, provided he repays them capital, interest, andcosts. '--Very well, then, we shall do that----"

"And live meanwhile?" asked poor Eve, who thought of everything. 

"Ah! that is true, " said David, carrying his hand to his ear after theunaccountable fashion of most perplexed mortals. 

"Mother will look after little Lucien, and I can go back to workagain, " said she. 

"Eve! oh, my Eve!" cried David, holding his wife closely to him. --"AtSaintes, not very far from here, in the sixteenth century, there livedone of the very greatest of Frenchmen, for he was not merely theinventor of glaze, he was the glorious precursor of Buffon and Cuvierbesides; he was the first geologist, good, simple soul that he was. Bernard Palissy endured the martyrdom appointed for all seekers intosecrets but his wife and children and all his neighbors were againsthim. His wife used to sell his tools; nobody understood him, hewandered about the countryside, he was hunted down, they jeered athim. But I--am loved----"

"Dearly loved!" said Eve, with the quiet serenity of the love that issure of itself. 

"And so may well endure all that poor Bernard Palissy suffered--Bernard Palissy, the discoverer of Ecouen ware, the Huguenotexcepted by Charles IX. On the day of Saint-Bartholomew. He lived tobe rich and honored in his old age, and lectured on the 'Science ofEarths, ' as he called it, in the face of Europe. "

"So long as my fingers can hold an iron, you shall want for nothing, "cried the poor wife, in tones that told of the deepest devotion. "WhenI was Mme. Prieur's forewoman I had a friend among the girls, BasineClerget, a cousin of Postel's, a very good child; well, Basine told methe other day when she brought back the linen, that she was takingMme. Prieur's business; I will work for her. "

"Ah! you shall not work there for long, " said David; "I have foundout----"

Eve, watching his face, saw the sublime belief in success whichsustains the inventor, the belief that gives him courage to go forthinto the virgin forests of the country of Discovery; and, for thefirst time in her life, she answered that confident look with ahalf-sad smile. David bent his head mournfully. 

"Oh! my dear! I am not laughing! I did not doubt! It was not a sneer!"cried Eve, on her knees before her husband. "But I see plainly nowthat you were right to tell me nothing about your experiments and yourhopes. Ah! yes, dear, an inventor should endure the long painfultravail of a great idea alone, he should not utter a word of it evento his wife. . . . A woman is a woman still. This Eve of yours couldnot help smiling when she heard you say, 'I have found out, ' for theseventeenth time this month. "

David burst out laughing so heartily at his own expense that Evecaught his hand in hers and kissed it reverently. It was a deliciousmoment for them both, one of those roses of love and tenderness thatgrow beside the desert paths of the bitterest poverty, nay, at timesin yet darker depths. 

As the storm of misfortune grew, Eve's courage redoubled; thegreatness of her husband's nature, his inventor's simplicity, thetears that now and again she saw in the eyes of this dreamer of dreamswith the tender heart, --all these things aroused in her an unsuspectedenergy of resistance. Once again she tried the plan that had succeededso well already. She wrote to M. Metivier, reminding him that theprinting office was for sale, offered to pay him out of the proceeds, and begged him not to ruin David with needless costs. Metivierreceived the heroic letter, and shammed dead. His head-clerk repliedthat in the absence of M. Metivier he could not take it upon himselfto stay proceedings, for his employer had made it a rule to let thelaw take its course. Eve wrote again, offering this time to renew thebills and pay all the costs hitherto incurred. To this the clerkconsented, provided that Sechard senior guaranteed payment. So Evewalked over to Marsac, taking Kolb and her mother with her. She bravedthe old vinedresser, and so charming was she, that the old man's facerelaxed, and the puckers smoothed out at the sight of her; but when, with inward quakings, she came to speak of a guarantee, she beheld asudden and complete change of the tippleographic countenance. 

"If I allowed my son to put his hand to the lips of my cash boxwhenever he had a mind, he would plunge it deep into the vitals, hewould take all I have!" cried old Sechard. "That is the way withchildren; they eat up their parents' purse. What did I do myself, eh?_I_ never cost my parents a farthing. Your printing office is standingidle. The rats and the mice do all the printing that is done init. . . . You have a pretty face; I am very fond of you; you are acareful, hard-working woman; but that son of mine!--Do you know whatDavid is? I'll tell you--he is a scholar that will never do a strokeof work! If I had reared him, as I was reared myself, without knowinghis letters, and if I had made a 'bear' of him, like his father beforehim, he would have money saved and put out to interest by now. . . . Oh! he is my cross, that fellow is, look you! And, unluckily, he isall the family I have, for there is never like to be a later edition. And when he makes you unhappy----"

Eve protested with a vehement gesture of denial. 

"Yes, he does, " affirmed old Sechard; "you had to find a wet-nurse forthe child. Come, come, I know all about it, you are in the countycourt, and the whole town is talking about you. I was only a 'bear, '_I_ have no book learning, _I_ was not foreman at the Didots', thefirst printers in the world; but yet I never set eyes on a bit ofstamped paper. Do you know what I say to myself as I go to and froamong my vines, looking after them and getting in my vintage, anddoing my bits of business?--I say to myself, 'You are taking a lot oftrouble, poor old chap; working to pile one silver crown on another, you will leave a fine property behind you, and the bailiffs and thelawyers will get it all; . . . Or else it will go in nonsensicalnotions and crotchets. '--Look you here, child; you are the mother ofyonder little lad; it seemed to me as I held him at the font with Mme. Chardon that I could see his old grandfather's copper nose on hisface; very well, think less of Sechard and more of that little rascal. I can trust no one but you; you will prevent him from squandering myproperty--my poor property. "

"But, dear papa Sechard, your son will be a credit to you, you willsee; he will make money and be a rich man one of these days, and wearthe Cross of the Legion of Honor at his buttonhole. "

"What is he going to do to get it?"

"You will see. But, meanwhile, would a thousand crowns ruin you? Athousand crowns would put an end to the proceedings. Well, if youcannot trust him, lend the money to me; I will pay it back; you couldmake it a charge on my portion, on my earnings----"

"Then has some one brought David into a court of law?" cried thevinedresser, amazed to find that the gossip was really true. "See whatcomes of knowing how to write your name! And how about my rent! Oh!little girl, I must go to Angouleme at once and ask Cachan's advice, and see that I am straight. You did right well to come over. Forewarned is forearmed. "

After two hours of argument Eve was fain to go, defeated by theunanswerable _dictum_, "Women never understand business. " She had comewith a faint hope, she went back again almost heartbroken, and reachedhome just in time to receive notice of judgment; Sechard must payMetivier in full. The appearance of a bailiff at a house door is anevent in a country town, and Doublon had come far too often of late. The whole neighborhood was talking about the Sechards. Eve dared notleave her house; she dreaded to hear the whispers as she passed. 

"Oh! my brother, my brother!" cried poor Eve, as she hurried into thepassage and up the stairs, "I can never forgive you, unless itwas----"

"Alas! it was that, or suicide, " said David, who had followed her. 

"Let us say no more about it, " she said quietly. "The woman whodragged him down into the depths of Paris has much to answer for; andyour father, my David, is quite inexorable! Let us bear it insilence. "

A discreet rapping at the door cut short some word of love on David'slips. Marion appeared, towing the big, burly Kolb after her across theouter room. 

"Madame, " said Marion, "we have known, Kolb and I, that you and themaster were very much put about; and as we have eleven hundred francsof savings between us, we thought we could not do better than put themin the mistress' hands----"

"Die misdress, " echoed Kolb fervently. 

"Kolb, " cried David, "you and I will never part. Pay a thousand francson account to Maitre Cachan, and take a receipt for it; we will keepthe rest. And, Kolb, no power on earth must extract a word from you asto my work, or my absences from home, or the things you may see mebring back; and if I send you to look for plants for me, you know, nohuman being must set eyes on you. They will try to corrupt you, mygood Kolb; they will offer you thousands, perhaps tens of thousands offrancs, to tell----"

"Dey may offer me millions, " cried Kolb, "but not ein vort from meshall dey traw. Haf I not peen in der army, and know my orders?"

"Well, you are warned. March, and ask M. Petit-Claud to go with you aswitness. "

"Yes, " said the Alsacien. "Some tay I hope to be rich enough to dustder chacket of dat man of law. I don't like his gountenance. "

"Kolb is a good man, madame, " said Big Marion; "he is as strong as aTurk, and as meek as a lamb. Just the one that would make a womanhappy. It was his notion, too, to invest our savings this way--'safings, ' as he calls them. Poor man, if he doesn't speak right, hethinks right, and I understand him all the same. He has a notion ofworking for somebody else, so as to save us his keep----"

"Surely we shall be rich, if it is only to repay these good folk, "said David, looking at his wife. 

Eve thought it quite simple; it was no surprise to her to find othernatures on a level with her own. The dullest--nay, the mostindifferent--observer could have seen all the beauty of her nature inher way of receiving this service. 

"You will be rich some day, dear master, " said Marion; "your bread isready baked. Your father has just bought another farm, he is puttingby money for you; that he is. "

And under the circumstances, did not Marion show an exquisite delicacyof feeling by belittling, as it were, her kindness in this way?

French procedure, like all things human, has its defects;nevertheless, the sword of justice, being a two-edged weapon, isexcellently adapted alike for attack or defence. Procedure, moreover, has its amusing side; for when opposed, lawyers arrive at anunderstanding, as they well may do, without exchanging a word; throughtheir manner of conducting their case, a suit becomes a kind of warwaged on the lines laid down by the first Marshal Biron, who, at thesiege of Rouen, it may be remembered, received his son's project fortaking the city in two days with the remark, "You must be in a greathurry to go and plant cabbages!" Let two commanders-in-chief sparetheir troops as much as possible, let them imitate the Austriangenerals who give the men time to eat their soup though they fail toeffect a juncture, and escape reprimand from the Aulic Council; letthem avoid all decisive measures, and they shall carry on a war forever. Maitre Cachan, Petit-Claud, and Doublon, did better than theAustrian generals; they took for their example Quintus FabiusCunctator--the Austrian of antiquity. 

Petit-Claud, malignant as a mule, was not long in finding out all theadvantages of his position. No sooner had Boniface Cointet guaranteedhis costs than he vowed to lead Cachan a dance, and to dazzle thepaper manufacturer with a brilliant display of genius in the creationof items to be charged to Metivier. Unluckily for the fame of theyoung forensic Figaro, the writer of this history is obliged to passover the scene of his exploits in as great a hurry as if he trod onburning coals; but a single bill of costs, in the shape of thespecimen sent from Paris, will no doubt suffice for the student ofcontemporary manners. Let us follow the example set us by theBulletins of the Grande Armee, and give a summary of Petit-Claud'svaliant feats and exploits in the province of pure law; they will bethe better appreciated for concise treatment. 

David Sechard was summoned before the Tribunal of Commerce atAngouleme for the 3rd of July, made default, and notice of judgmentwas served on the 8th. On the 10th, Doublon obtained an executionwarrant, and attempted to put in an execution on the 12th. On thisPetit-Claud applied for an interpleader summons, and served notice onMetivier for that day fortnight. Metivier made application for ahearing without delay, and on the 19th, Sechard's application wasdismissed. Hard upon this followed notice of judgment, authorizing theissue of an execution warrant on the 22nd, a warrant of arrest on the23rd, and bailiff's inventory previous to the execution on the 24th. Metivier, Doublon, Cachan & Company were proceeding at this furiouspace, when Petit-Claud suddenly pulled them up, and stayed executionby lodging notice of appeal on the Court-Royal. Notice of appeal, dulyreiterated on the 25th of July, drew Metivier off to Poitiers. 

"Come!" said Petit-Claud to himself, "there we are likely to stop forsome time to come. "

No sooner was the storm passed over to Poitiers, and an attorneypractising in the Court-Royal instructed to defend the case, thanPetit-Claud, a champion facing both ways, made application in Mme. Sechard's name for the immediate separation of her estate from herhusband's; using "all diligence" (in legal language) to such purpose, that he obtained an order from the court on the 28th, and insertednotice at once in the _Charente Courier_. Now David the lover hadsettled ten thousand francs upon his wife in the marriage contract, making over to her as security the fixtures of the printing office andthe household furniture; and Petit-Claud therefore constituted Mme. Sechard her husband's creditor for that small amount, drawing up astatement of her claims on the estate in the presence of a notary onthe 1st of August. 

While Petit-Claud was busy securing the household property of hisclients, he gained the day at Poitiers on the point of law on whichthe demurrer and appeals were based. He held that, as the court of theSeine had ordered the plaintiff to pay costs of proceedings in theParis commercial court, David was so much the less liable for expensesof litigation incurred upon Lucien's account. The Court-Royal tookthis view of the case, and judgment was entered accordingly. DavidSechard was ordered to pay the amount in dispute in the AngoulemeCourt, less the law expenses incurred in Paris; these Metivier mustpay, and each side must bear its own costs in the appeal to theCourt-Royal. 

David Sechard was duly notified of the result on the 17th of August. On the 18th the judgment took the practical shape of an order to paycapital, interest, and costs, followed up by notice of an executionfor the morrow. Upon this Petit-Claud intervened and put in a claimfor the furniture as the wife's property duly separated from herhusband's; and what was more, Petit-Claud produced Sechard senior uponthe scene of action. The old vinegrower had become his client on thiswise. He came to Angouleme on the day after Eve's visit, and went toMaitre Cachan for advice. His son owed him arrears of rent; how couldhe come by this rent in the scrimmage in which his son was engaged?

"I am engaged by the other side, " pronounced Cachan, "and I cannotappear for the father when I am suing the son; but go to Petit-Claud, he is very clever, he may perhaps do even better for you than I shoulddo. "

Cachan and Petit-Claud met at the Court. 

"I have sent you Sechard senior, " said Cachan; "take the case for mein exchange. " Lawyers do each other services of this kind in countrytowns as well as in Paris. 

The day after Sechard senior gave Petit-Claud his confidence, the tallCointet paid a visit to his confederate. 

"Try to give old Sechard a lesson, " he said. "He is the kind of manthat will never forgive his son for costing him a thousand francs orso; the outlay will dry up any generous thoughts in his mind, if heever has any. "

"Go back to your vines, " said Petit-Claud to his new client. "Your sonis not very well off; do not eat him out of house and home. I willsend for you when the time comes. "

On behalf of Sechard senior, therefore, Petit-Claud claimed that thepresses, being fixtures, were so much the more to be regarded as toolsand implements of trade, and the less liable to seizure, in that thehouse had been a printing office since the reign of Louis XIV. Cachan, on Metivier's account, waxed indignant at this. In Paris Lucien'sfurniture had belonged to Coralie, and here again in Angouleme David'sgoods and chattels all belonged to his wife or his father; prettythings were said in court. Father and son were summoned; such claimscould not be allowed to stand. 

"We mean to unmask the frauds intrenched behind bad faith of the mostformidable kind; here is the defence of dishonesty bristling with theplainest and most innocent articles of the Code, and why?--to avoidrepayment of three thousand francs; obtained how?--from poorMetivier's cash box! And yet there are those who dare to say a wordagainst bill-discounters! What times we live in! . . . Now, I put itto you--what is this but taking your neighbor's money? . . . You willsurely not sanction a claim which would bring immorality to the verycore of justice!"

Cachan's eloquence produced an effect on the court. A divided judgmentwas given in favor of Mme. Sechard, the house furniture being held tobe her property; and against Sechard senior, who was ordered to paycosts--four hundred and thirty-four francs, sixty-five centimes. 

"It is kind of old Sechard, " laughed the lawyers; "he would have afinger in the pie, so let him pay!"

Notice of judgment was given on the 26th of August; the presses andplant could be seized on the 28th. Placards were posted. Applicationwas made for an order empowering them to sell on the spot. Announcements of the sale appeared in the papers, and Doublonflattered himself that the inventory should be verified and theauction take place on the 2nd of September. 

By this time David Sechard owed Metivier five thousand two hundred andseventy-five francs, twenty-five centimes (to say nothing ofinterest), by formal judgment confirmed by appeal, the bill of costshaving been duly taxed. Likewise to Petit-Claud he owed twelve hundredfrancs, exclusive of the fees, which were left to David's generositywith the generous confidence displayed by the hackney coachman who hasdriven you so quickly over the road on which you desire to go. 

Mme. Sechard owed Petit-Claud something like three hundred and fiftyfrancs and fees besides; and of old Sechard, besides four hundred andthirty-four francs, sixty-five centimes, the little attorney demandeda hundred crowns by way of fee. Altogether, the Sechard family owedabout ten thousand francs. This is what is called "putting fire intothe bed straw. "

Apart from the utility of these documents to other nations who thusmay behold the battery of French law in action, the French legislatorought to know the lengths to which the abuse of procedure may becarried, always supposing that the said legislator can find time forreading. Surely some sort of regulation might be devised, some way offorbidding lawyers to carry on a case until the sum in dispute is morethan eaten up in costs? Is there not something ludicrous in the ideaof submitting a square yard of soil and an estate of thousands ofacres to the same legal formalities? These bare outlines of thehistory of the various stages of procedure should open the eyes ofFrenchmen to the meaning of the words "legal formalities, justice, andcosts, " little as the immense majority of the nations know about them. 

Five thousand pounds' weight of type in the printing office were worthtwo thousand francs as old metal; the three presses were valued at sixhundred francs; the rest of the plant would fetch the price of oldiron and firewood. The household furniture would have brought in athousand francs at most. The whole personal property of Sechard juniortherefore represented the sum of four thousand francs; and Cachan andPetit-Claud made claims for seven thousand francs in costs alreadyincurred, to say nothing of expenses to come, for the blossom gavepromise of fine fruits enough, as the reader will shortly see. Surelythe lawyers of France and Navarre, nay, even of Normandy herself, willnot refuse Petit-Claud his meed of admiration and respect? Surely, too, kind hearts will give Marion and Kolb a tear of sympathy?

All through the war Kolb sat on a chair in the doorway, acting aswatch-dog, when David had nothing else for him to do. It was Kolb whoreceived all the notifications, and a clerk of Petit-Claud's keptwatch over Kolb. No sooner were the placards announcing the auctionput up on the premises than Kolb tore them down; he hurried round thetown after the bill-poster, tearing the placards from the walls. 

"Ah, scountrels!" he cried, "to dorment so goot a man; and they callsit chustice!"

Marion made half a franc a day by working half time in a paper mill asa machine tender, and her wages contributed to the support of thehousehold. Mme. Chardon went back uncomplainingly to her oldoccupation, sitting up night after night, and bringing home her wagesat the end of the week. Poor Mme. Chardon! Twice already she had madea nine days' prayer for those she loved, wondering that God should bedeaf to her petitions, and blind to the light of the candles on Hisaltar. 

On the 2nd of September, a letter came from Lucien, the first sincethe letter of the winter, which David had kept from his wife'sknowledge--the announcement of the three bills which bore David'ssignature. This time Lucien wrote to Eve. 

"The third since he left us!" she said. Poor sister, she was afraid toopen the envelope that covered the fatal sheet. 

She was feeding the little one when the post came in; they could notafford a wet-nurse now, and the child was being brought up by hand. Her state of mind may be imagined, and David's also, when he had beenroused to read the letter, for David had been at work all night, andonly lay down at daybreak. 

 _Lucien to Eve. _

 "PARIS, August 29th. 

 "MY DEAR SISTER, --Two days ago, at five o'clock in the morning, one of God's noblest creatures breathed her last in my arms; she was the one woman on earth capable of loving me as you and mother and David love me, giving me besides that unselfish affection, something that neither mother nor sister can give--the utmost bliss of love. Poor Coralie, after giving up everything for my sake, may perhaps have died for me--for me, who at this moment have not the wherewithal to bury her. She could have solaced my life; you, and you alone, my dear good angels, can console me for her death. God has forgiven her, I think, the innocent girl, for she died like a Christian. Oh, this Paris! Eve, Paris is the glory and the shame of France. Many illusions I have lost here already, and I have others yet to lose, when I begin to beg for the little money needed before I can lay the body of my angel in consecrated earth. "Your unhappy brother, "Lucien. "

 "P. S. I must have given you much trouble by my heedlessness; some day you will know all, and you will forgive me. You must be quite easy now; a worthy merchant, a M. Camusot, to whom I once caused cruel pangs, promised to arrange everything, seeing that Coralie and I were so much distressed. "

"The sheet is still moist with his tears, " said Eve, looking at theletter with a heart so full of sympathy that something of the old lovefor Lucien shone in her eyes. 

"Poor fellow, he must have suffered cruelly if he has been loved as hesays!" exclaimed Eve's husband, happy in his love; and these twoforgot all their own troubles at this cry of a supreme sorrow. Just atthat moment Marion rushed in. 

"Madame, " she panted, "here they are! Here they are!"

"Who is here?"

"Doublon and his men, bad luck to them! Kolb will not let them comein; they have come to sell us up. "

"No, no, they are not going to sell you up, never fear, " cried a voicein the next room, and Petit-Claud appeared upon the scene. "I havejust lodged notice of appeal. We ought not to sit down under ajudgment that attaches a stigma of bad faith to us. I did not think itworth while to fight the case here. I let Cachan talk to gain time foryou; I am sure of gaining the day at Poitiers----"

"But how much will it cost to win the day?" asked Mme. Sechard. 

"Fees if you win, one thousand francs if we lose our case. "

"Oh, dear!" cried poor Eve; "why, the remedy is worse than thedisease!"

Petit-Claud was not a little confused at this cry of innocenceenlightened by the progress of the flames of litigation. It struck himtoo that Eve was a very beautiful woman. In the middle of thediscussion old Sechard arrived, summoned by Petit-Claud. The old man'spresence in the chamber where his little grandson in the cradle laysmiling at misfortune completed the scene. The young attorney at onceaddressed the newcomer with:

"You owe me seven hundred francs for the interpleader, Papa Sechard;but you can charge the amount to your son in addition to the arrearsof rent. "

The vinedresser felt the sting of the sarcasm conveyed byPetit-Claud's tone and manner. 

"It would have cost you less to give security for the debt at first, "said Eve, leaving the cradle to greet her father-in-law with a kiss. 

David, quite overcome by the sight of the crowd outside the house (forKolb's resistance to Doublon's men had collected a knot of people), could only hold out a hand to his father; he did not say a word. 

"And how, pray, do I come to owe you seven hundred francs?" the oldman asked, looking at Petit-Claud. 

"Why, in the first place, I am engaged by you. Your rent is inquestion; so, as far as I am concerned, you and our debtor are one andthe same person. If your son does not pay my costs in the case, youmust pay them yourself. --But this is nothing. In a few hours Davidwill be put in prison; will you allow him to go?"

"What does he owe?"

"Something like five or six thousand francs, besides the amounts owingto you and to his wife. "

The speech roused all the old man's suspicions at once. He lookedround the little blue-and-white bedroom at the touching scene beforehis eyes--at a beautiful woman weeping over a cradle, at David boweddown by anxieties, and then again at the lawyer. This was a trap setfor him by that lawyer; perhaps they wanted to work upon his paternalfeelings, to get money out of him? That was what it all meant. He tookalarm. He went over to the cradle and fondled the child, who held outboth little arms to him. No heir to an English peerage could be moretenderly cared for than this little one in that house of trouble; hislittle embroidered cap was lined with pale pink. 

"Eh! let David get out of it as best he may. I am thinking of thischild here, " cried the old grandfather, "and the child's mother willapprove of that. David that knows so much must know how to pay hisdebts. "

"Now I will just put your meaning into plain language, " saidPetit-Claud ironically. "Look here, Papa Sechard, you are jealous ofyour son. Hear the truth! you put David into his present position byselling the business to him for three times its value. You ruined himto make an extortionate bargain! Yes, don't you shake your head; yousold the newspaper to the Cointets and pocketed all the proceeds, andthat was as much as the whole business was worth. You bear David agrudge, not merely because you have plundered him, but because, also, your own son is a man far above yourself. You profess to beprodigiously fond of your grandson, to cloak your want of feeling foryour son and his wife, because you ought to pay down money _hic et nunc_for them, while you need only show a posthumous affection for yourgrandson. You pretend to be fond of the little fellow, lest you shouldbe taxed with want of feeling for your own flesh and blood. That isthe bottom of it, Papa Sechard. "

"Did you fetch me over to hear this?" asked the old man, glowering athis lawyer, his daughter-in-law, and his son in turn. 

"Monsieur!" protested poor Eve, turning to Petit-Claud, "have youvowed to ruin us? My husband had never uttered a word against hisfather. " (Here the old man looked cunningly at her. ) "David has toldme scores of times that you loved him in your way, " she added, lookingat her father-in-law, and understanding his suspicions. 

Petit-Claud was only following out the tall Cointet's instructions. Hewas widening the breach between the father and son, lest Sechardsenior should extricate David from his intolerable position. "The daythat David Sechard goes to prison shall be the day of yourintroduction to Mme. De Senonches, " the "tall Cointet" had said nolonger ago than yesterday. 

Mme. Sechard, with the quick insight of love, had divinedPetit-Claud's mercenary hostility, even as she had once before feltinstinctively that Cerizet was a traitor. As for David, hisastonishment may be imagined; he could not understand how Petit-Claudcame to know so much of his father's nature and his own history. Upright and honorable as he was, he did not dream of the relationsbetween his lawyer and the Cointets; nor, for that matter, did he knowthat the Cointets were at work behind Metivier. Meanwhile old Sechardtook his son's silence as an insult, and Petit-Claud, taking advantageof his client's bewilderment, beat a retreat. 

"Good-bye, my dear David; you have had warning, notice of appealdoesn't invalidate the warrant for arrest. It is the only course leftopen to your creditors, and it will not be long before they take it. So, go away at once----Or, rather, if you will take my advice, go tothe Cointets and see them about it. They have capital. If yourinvention is perfected and answers the purpose, go into partnershipwith them. After all, they are very good fellows----"

"Your invention?" broke in old Sechard. 

"Why, do you suppose that your son is fool enough to let his businessslip away from him without thinking of something else?" exclaimed theattorney. "He is on the brink of the discovery of a way of makingpaper at a cost of three francs per ream, instead of ten, he tellsme. "

"One more dodge for taking me in! You are all as thick as thieves in afair. If David has found out such a plan, he has no need of me--he isa millionaire! Good-bye, my dears, and a good-day to you all, " and theold man disappeared down the staircase. 

"Find some way of hiding yourself, " was Petit-Claud's parting word toDavid, and with that he hurried out to exasperate old Sechard stillfurther. He found the vinegrower growling to himself outside in thePlace du Murier, went with him as far as L'Houmeau, and there left himwith a threat of putting in an execution for the costs due to himunless they were paid before the week was out. 

"I will pay you if you will show me how to disinherit my son withoutinjuring my daughter-in-law or the boy, " said old Sechard, and theyparted forthwith. 

"How well the 'tall Cointet' knows the folk he is dealing with! It isjust as he said; those seven hundred francs will prevent the fatherfrom paying seven thousand, " the little lawyer thought within himselfas he climbed the path to Angouleme. "Still, that old slyboots of apaper-maker must not overreach us; it is time to ask him for somethingbesides promises. "

"Well, David dear, what do you mean to do?" asked Eve, when the lawyerhad followed her father-in-law. 

"Marion, put your biggest pot on the fire!" called David; "I have mysecret fast. "

At this Eve put on her bonnet and shawl and walking shoes withfeverish haste. 

"Kolb, my friend, get ready to go out, " she said, "and come with me;if there is any way out of this hell, I must find it. "

When Eve had gone out, Marion spoke to David. "Do be sensible, sir, "she said, "or the mistress will fret herself to death. Make some moneyto pay off your debts, and then you can try to find treasure at yourease----"

"Don't talk, Marion, " said David; "I am going to overcome my lastdifficulty, and then I can apply for the patent and the improvement onthe patent at the same time. "

This "improvement on the patent" is the curse of the French patentee. A man may spend ten years of his life in working out some obscureindustrial problem; and when he has invented some piece of machinery, or made a discovery of some kind, he takes out a patent and imaginesthat he has a right to his own invention; then there comes acompetitor; and unless the first inventor has foreseen all possiblecontingencies, the second comer makes an "improvement on the patent"with a screw or a nut, and takes the whole thing out of his hands. Thediscovery of a cheap material for paper pulp, therefore, is by nomeans the conclusion of the whole matter. David Sechard was anxiouslylooking ahead on all sides lest the fortune sought in the teeth ofsuch difficulties should be snatched out of his hands at the last. Dutch paper as flax paper is still called, though it is no longer madein Holland, is slightly sized; but every sheet is sized separately byhand, and this increases the cost of production. If it were possibleto discover some way of sizing the paper in the pulping-trough, withsome inexpensive glue, like that in use to-day (though even now it isnot quite perfect), there would be no "improvement on the patent" tofear. For the past month, accordingly, David had been makingexperiments in sizing pulp. He had two discoveries before him. 

Eve went to see her mother. Fortunately, it so happened that Mme. Chardon was nursing the deputy-magistrate's wife, who had just giventhe Milauds of Nevers an heir presumptive; and Eve, in her distrust ofall attorneys and notaries, took into her head to apply for advice tothe legal guardian of widows and orphans. She wanted to know if shecould relieve David from his embarrassments by taking them uponherself and selling her claims upon the estate, and besides, she hadsome hope of discovering the truth as to Petit-Claud's unaccountableconduct. The official, struck with Mme. Sechard's beauty, received hernot only with the respect due to a woman but with a sort of courtesyto which Eve was not accustomed. She saw in the magistrate's face anexpression which, since her marriage, she had seen in no eyes butKolb's; and for a beautiful woman like Eve, this expression is thecriterion by which men are judged. When passion, or self-interest, orage dims that spark of unquestioning fealty that gleams in a youngman's eyes, a woman feels a certain mistrust of him, and begins toobserve him critically. The Cointets, Cerizet, and Petit-Claud--allthe men whom Eve felt instinctively to be her enemies--had turnedhard, indifferent eyes on her; with the deputy-magistrate, therefore, she felt at ease, although, in spite of his kindly courtesy, he sweptall her hopes away by his first words. 

"It is not certain, madame, that the Court-Royal will reverse thejudgment of the court restricting your lien on your husband'sproperty, for payment of moneys due to you by the terms of yourmarriage-contract, to household goods and chattels. Your privilegeought not to be used to defraud the other creditors. But in any case, you will be allowed to take your share of the proceeds with the othercreditors, and your father-in-law likewise, as a privileged creditor, for arrears of rent. When the court has given the order, other pointsmay be raised as to the 'contribution, ' as we call it, when a scheduleof the debts is drawn up, and the creditors are paid a dividend inproportion to their claims. 

"Then M. Petit-Claud is bringing us to bankruptcy, " she cried. 

"Petit-Claud is carrying out your husband's instructions, " said themagistrate; "he is anxious to gain time, so his attorney says. In myopinion, you would perhaps do better to waive the appeal and buy in atthe sale the indispensable implements for carrying on the business;you and your father-in-law together might do this, you to the extentof your claim through your marriage contract, and he for his arrearsof rent. But that would be bringing the matter to an end too soonperhaps. The lawyers are making a good thing out of your case. "

"But then I should be entirely in M. Sechard's father's hands. Ishould owe him the hire of the machinery as well as the house-rent;and my husband would still be open to further proceedings from M. Metivier, for M. Metivier would have had almost nothing. "

"That is true, madame. "

"Very well, then we should be even worse off than we are. "

"The arm of the law, madame, is at the creditor's disposal. You havereceived three thousand francs, and you must of necessity repay themoney. "

"Oh, sir, can you think that we are capable----" Eve suddenly came toa stop. She saw that her justification might injure her brother. 

"Oh! I know quite well that it is an obscure affair, that the debtorson the one side are honest, scrupulous, and even behaving handsomely;and the creditor, on the other, is only a cat's-paw----"

Eve, aghast, looked at him with bewildered eyes. 

"You can understand, " he continued, with a look full of homelyshrewdness, "that we on the bench have plenty of time to think overall that goes on under our eyes, while the gentlemen in court arearguing with each other. "

Eve went home in despair over her useless effort. That evening atseven o'clock, Doublon came with the notification of imprisonment fordebt. The proceedings had reached the acute stage. 

"After this, I can only go out after nightfall, " said David. 

Eve and Mme. Chardon burst into tears. To be in hiding was for them ashameful thing. As for Kolb and Marion, they were more alarmed forDavid because they had long since made up their minds that there wasno guile in their master's nature; so frightened were they on hisaccount, that they came upstairs under pretence of asking whether theycould do anything, and found Eve and Mme. Chardon in tears; the threewhose life had been so straightforward hitherto were overcome by thethought that David must go into hiding. And how, moreover, could theyhope to escape the invisible spies who henceforth would dog everyleast movement of a man, unluckily so absent-minded?

"Gif montame vill vait ein liddle kvarter hour, she can regonnoitreder enemy's camp, " put in Kolb. "You shall see dot I oonderstand meinpizness; for gif I look like ein German, I am ein drue Vrenchman, andvat is more, I am ver' conning. "

"Oh! madame, do let him go, " begged Marion. "He is only thinking ofsaving his master; he hasn't another thought in his head. Kolb is notan Alsacien, he is--eh! well--a regular Newfoundland dog for rescuingfolk. "

"Go, my good Kolb, " said David; "we have still time to do something. "

Kolb hurried off to pay a visit to the bailiff; and it so fell outthat David's enemies were in Doublon's office, holding a council as tothe best way of securing him. 

The arrest of a debtor is an unheard-of thing in the country, anabnormal proceeding if ever there was one. Everybody, in the firstplace, knows everybody else, and creditor and debtor being bound tomeet each other daily all their lives long, nobody likes to take thisodious course. When a defaulter--to use the provincial term for adebtor, for they do not mince their words in the provinces whenspeaking of this legalized method of helping yourself to another man'sgoods--when a defaulter plans a failure on a large scale, he takessanctuary in Paris. Paris is a kind of City of Refuge for provincialbankrupts, an almost impenetrable retreat; the writ of the pursuingbailiff has no force beyond the limits of his jurisdiction, and thereare other obstacles rendering it almost invalid. Wherefore the Parisbailiff is empowered to enter the house of a third party to seize theperson of the debtor, while for the bailiff of the provinces thedomicile is absolutely inviolable. The law probably makes thisexception as to Paris, because there it is the rule for two or morefamilies to live under the same roof; but in the provinces the bailiffwho wishes to make forcible entry must have an order from the Justiceof the Peace; and so wide a discretion is allowed the Justice of thePeace, that he is practically able to give or withhold assistance tothe bailiffs. To the honor of the Justices, it should be said, thatthey dislike the office, and are by no means anxious to assist blindpassions or revenge. 

There are, besides, other and no less serious difficulties in the wayof arrest for debt--difficulties which tend to temper the severity oflegislation, and public opinion not infrequently makes a dead letterof the law. In great cities there are poor or degraded wretchesenough; poverty and vice know no scruples, and consent to play thespy, but in a little country town, people know each other too well toearn wages of the bailiff; the meanest creature who should lendhimself to dirty work of this kind would be forced to leave the place. In the absence of recognized machinery, therefore, the arrest of adebtor is a problem presenting no small difficulty; it becomes a kindof strife of ingenuity between the bailiff and the debtor, and matterfor many pleasant stories in the newspapers. 

Cointet the elder did not choose to appear in the affair; but the fatCointet openly said that he was acting for Metivier, and went toDoublon, taking Cerizet with him. Cerizet was his foreman now, and hadpromised his co-operation in return for a thousand-franc note. Doubloncould reckon upon two of his understrappers, and thus the Cointets hadfour bloodhounds already on the victim's track. At the actual time ofarrest, Doublon could furthermore count upon the police force, who arebound, if required, to assist a bailiff in the performance of hisduty. The two men, Doublon himself, and the visitors were all closetedtogether in the private office, beyond the public office, on theground floor. 

A tolerably wide-paved lobby, a kind of passage-way, led to the publicoffice. The gilded scutcheons of the court, with the word "Bailiff"printed thereon in large black letters, hung outside on the house wallon either side the door. Both office windows gave upon the street, andwere protected by heavy iron bars; but the private office looked intothe garden at the back, wherein Doublon, an adorer of Pomona, grewespaliers with marked success. Opposite the office door you beheld thedoor of the kitchen, and, beyond the kitchen, the staircase thatascended to the first story. The house was situated in a narrow streetat the back of the new Law Courts, then in process of construction, and only finished after 1830. --These details are necessary if Kolb'sadventures are to be intelligible to the reader. 

It was Kolb's idea to go to the bailiff, to pretend to be willing tobetray his master, and in this way to discover the traps which wouldbe laid for David. Kolb told the servant who opened the door that hewanted to speak to M. Doublon on business. The servant was busywashing up her plates and dishes, and not very well pleased at Kolb'sinterruption; she pushed open the door of the outer office, and badehim wait there till her master was at liberty; then, as he was astranger to her, she told the master in the private office that "aman" wanted to speak to him. Now, "a man" so invariably means "apeasant, " that Doublon said, "Tell him to wait, " and Kolb took a seatclose to the door of the private office. There were voices talkingwithin. 

"Ah, by the by, how do you mean to set about it? For, if we can catchhim to-morrow, it will be so much time saved. " It was the fat Cointetwho spoke. 

"Nothing easier; the gaffer has come fairly by his nickname, " saidCerizet. 

At the sound of the fat Cointet's voice, Kolb guessed at once thatthey were talking about his master, especially as the sense of thewords began to dawn upon him; but, when he recognized Cerizet's tones, his astonishment grew more and more. 

"Und dat fellow haf eaten his pread!" he thought, horror-stricken. 

"We must do it in this way, boys, " said Doublon. "We will post ourmen, at good long intervals, about the Rue de Beaulieu and the Placedu Murier in every direction, so that we can follow the gaffer (I likethat word) without his knowledge. We will not lose sight of him untilhe is safe inside the house where he means to lie in hiding (as hethinks); there we will leave him in peace for awhile; then some fineday we will come across him before sunrise or sunset. "

"But what is he doing now, at this moment? He may be slipping throughour fingers, " said the fat Cointet. 

"He is in his house, " answered Doublon; "if he left it, I should know. I have one witness posted in the Place du Murier, another at thecorner of the Law Courts, and another thirty paces from the house. Ifour man came out, they would whistle; he could not make three pacesfrom his door but I should know of it at once from the signal. "

(Bailiffs speak of their understrappers by the polite title of"witnesses. ")

Here was better hap than Kolb had expected! He went noiselessly out ofthe office, and spoke to the maid in the kitchen. 

"Meestair Touplon ees encaged for som time to kom, " he said; "I villkom back early to-morrow morning. "

A sudden idea had struck the Alsacien, and he proceeded to put it intoexecution. Kolb had served in a cavalry regiment; he hurried off tosee a livery stable-keeper, an acquaintance of his, picked out ahorse, had it saddled, and rushed back to the Place du Murier. Hefound Madame Eve in the lowest depths of despondency. 

"What is it, Kolb?" asked David, when the Alsacien's face looked inupon them, scared but radiant. 

"You have scountrels all arount you. De safest way ees to hide demaster. Haf montame thought of hiding the master anywheres?"

When Kolb, honest fellow, had explained the whole history of Cerizet'streachery, of the circle traced about the house, and of the fatCointet's interest in the affair, and given the family some inkling ofthe schemes set on foot by the Cointets against the master, --thenDavid's real position gradually became fatally clear. 

"It is the Cointet's doing!" cried poor Eve, aghast at the news;"_they_ are proceeding against you! that accounts for Metivier'shardness. . . . They are paper-makers--David! they want your secret!"

"But what can we do to escape them?" exclaimed Mme. Chardon. 

"If de misdress had some liddle blace vere the master could pehidden, " said Kolb; "I bromise to take him dere so dot nopody shallknow. "

"Wait till nightfall, and go to Basine Clerget, " said Eve. "I will gonow and arrange it all with her. In this case, Basine will be likeanother self to me. "

"Spies will follow you, " David said at last, recovering some presenceof mind. "How can we find a way of communicating with Basine if noneof us can go to her?"

"Montame kan go, " said Kolb. "Here ees my scheme--I go out mit dermaster, ve draws der vischtlers on our drack. Montame kan go toMontemoiselle Clerchet; nopody vill vollow her. I haf a horse; I takede master oop behint; und der teufel is in it if they katches us. "

"Very well; good-bye, dear, " said poor Eve, springing to her husband'sarms; "none of us can go to see you, the risk is too great. We mustsay good-bye for the whole time that your imprisonment lasts. We willwrite to each other; Basine will post your letters, and I will writeunder cover to her. "

No sooner did David and Kolb come out of the house than they heard asharp whistle, and were followed to the livery stable. Once there, Kolb took his master up behind him, with a caution to keep tight hold. 

"Veestle avay, mind goot vriends! I care not von rap, " cried Kolb. "You vill not datch an old trooper, " and the old cavalry man clappedboth spurs to his horse, and was out into the country and the darknessnot merely before the spies could follow, but before they had time todiscover the direction that he took. 

Eve meanwhile went out on the tolerably ingenious pretext of askingadvise of Postel, sat awhile enduring the insulting pity that spendsitself in words, left the Postel family, and stole away unseen toBasine Clerget, told her troubles, and asked for help and shelter. Basine, for greater safety, had brought Eve into her bedroom, and nowshe opened the door of a little closet, lighted only by a skylight insuch a way that prying eyes could not see into it. The two friendsunstopped the flue which opened into the chimney of the stove in theworkroom, where the girls heated their irons. Eve and Basine spreadragged coverlets over the brick floor to deaden any sound that Davidmight make, put in a truckle bed, a stove for his experiments, and atable and a chair. Basine promised to bring food in the night; and asno one had occasion to enter her room, David might defy his enemiesone and all, or even detectives. 

"At last!" Eve said, with her arms about her friend, "at last he is insafety. "

Eve went back to Postel to submit a fresh doubt that had occurred toher, she said. She would like the opinion of such an experiencedmember of the Chamber of Commerce; she so managed that he escorted herhome, and listened patiently to his commiseration. 

"Would this have happened if you had married me?"--all the littledruggist's remarks were pitched in this key. 

Then he went home again to find Mme. Postel jealous of Mme. Sechard, and furious with her spouse for his polite attention to that beautifulwoman. The apothecary advanced the opinion that little red-hairedwomen were preferable to tall, dark women, who, like fine horses, werealways in the stable, he said. He gave proofs of his sincerity, nodoubt, for Mme. Postel was very sweet to him next day. 

"We may be easy, " Eve said to her mother and Marion, whom she foundstill "in a taking, " in the latter's phrase. 

"Oh! they are gone, " said Marion, when Eve looked unthinkingly roundthe room. 

One league out of Angouleme on the main road to Paris, Kolb stopped. 

"Vere shall we go?"

"To Marsac, " said David; "since we are on the way already, I will tryonce more to soften my father's heart. "

"I would rader mount to der assault of a pattery, " said Kolb, "yourresbected fader haf no heart whatefer. "

The ex-pressman had no belief in his son; he judged him from theoutside point of view, and waited for results. He had no idea, tobegin with, that he had plundered David, nor did he make allowance forthe very different circumstances under which they had begun life; hesaid to himself, "I set him up with a printing-house, just as I foundit myself; and he, knowing a thousand times more than I did, cannotkeep it going. " He was mentally incapable of understanding his son; helaid the blame of failure upon him, and even prided himself, as itwere on his superiority to a far greater intellect than his own, withthe thought, "I am securing his bread for him. "

Moralists will never succeed in making us comprehend the full extentof the influence of sentiment upon self-interest, an influence everywhit as strong as the action of interest upon our sentiments; forevery law of our nature works in two ways, and acts and reacts uponus. 

David, on his side, understood his father, and in his sublime charityforgave him. Kolb and David reached Marsac at eight o'clock, andsuddenly came in upon the old man as he was finishing his dinner, which, by force of circumstances, came very near bedtime. 

"I see you because there is no help for it, " said old Sechard with asour smile. 

"Und how should you and mein master meet? He soars in der shkies, andyou are always mit your vines! You bay for him, that's vot you are afader for----"

"Come, Kolb, off with you. Put up the horse at Mme. Courtois' so as tosave inconvenience here; fathers are always in the right, rememberthat. "

Kolb went off, growling like a chidden dog, obedient but protesting;and David proposed to give his father indisputable proof of hisdiscovery, while reserving his secret. He offered to give him aninterest in the affair in return for money paid down; a sufficient sumto release him from his present difficulties, with or without afurther amount of capital to be employed in developing the invention. 

"And how are you going to prove to me that you can make good paperthat costs nothing out of nothing, eh?" asked the ex-printer, givinghis son a glance, vinous, it may be, but keen, inquisitive, andcovetous; a look like a flash of lightning from a sodden cloud; forthe old "bear, " faithful to his traditions, never went to bed withouta nightcap, consisting of a couple of bottles of excellent old wine, which he "tippled down" of an evening, to use his own expression. 

"Nothing simpler, " said David; "I have none of the paper about me, forI came here to be out of Doublon's way; and having come so far, Ithought I might as well come to you at Marsac as borrow of amoney-lender. I have nothing on me but my clothes. Shut me up somewhereon the premises, so that nobody can come in and see me at work, and----"

"What? you will not let me see you at your work then?" asked the oldman, with an ugly look at his son. 

"You have given me to understand plainly, father, that in matters ofbusiness there is no question of father and son----"

"Ah! you distrust the father that gave you life!"

"No; the other father who took away the means of earning alivelihood. "

"Each for himself, you are right!" said the old man. "Very good, Iwill put you in the cellar. "

"I will go down there with Kolb. You must let me have a large pot formy pulp, " said David; then he continued, without noticing the quicklook his father gave him, --"and you must find artichoke and asparagusstalks for me, and nettles, and the reeds that you cut by the streamside, and to-morrow morning I will come out of your cellar with somesplendid paper. "

"If you can do that, " hiccoughed the "bear, " "I will let you have, perhaps--I will see, that is, if I can let you have--pshaw!twenty-five thousand francs. On condition, mind, that you make asmuch for me every year. "

"Put me to the proof, I am quite willing, " cried David. "Kolb! takethe horse and go to Mansle, quick, buy a large hair sieve for me of acooper, and some glue of the grocer, and come back again as soon asyou can. "

"There! drink, " said old Sechard, putting down a bottle of wine, aloaf, and the cold remains of the dinner. "You will need yourstrength. I will go and look for your bits of green stuff; green ragsyou use for your pulp, and a trifle too green, I am afraid. "

Two hours later, towards eleven o'clock that night, David and Kolbtook up their quarters in a little out-house against the cellar wall;they found the floor paved with runnel tiles, and all the apparatusused in Angoumois for the manufacture of Cognac brandy. 

"Pans and firewood! Why, it is as good as a factory made on purpose!"cried David. 

"Very well, good-night, " said old Sechard; "I shall lock you in, andlet both the dogs loose; nobody will bring you any paper, I am sure. You show me those sheets to-morrow, and I give you my word I will beyour partner and the business will be straightforward and properlymanaged. "

David and Kolb, locked into the distillery, spent nearly two hours inmacerating the stems, using a couple of logs for mallets. The fireblazed up, the water boiled. About two o'clock in the morning, Kolbheard a sound which David was too busy to notice, a kind of deepbreath like a suppressed hiccough. Snatching up one of the two lighteddips, he looked round the walls, and beheld old Sechard's empurpledcountenance filling up a square opening above a door hitherto hiddenby a pile of empty casks in the cellar itself. The cunning old man hadbrought David and Kolb into his underground distillery by the outerdoor, through which the casks were rolled when full. The inner doorhad been made so that he could roll his puncheons straight from thecellar into the distillery, instead of taking them round through theyard. 

"Aha! thees eies not fair blay, you vant to shvindle your son!" criedthe Alsacien. "Do you kow vot you do ven you trink ein pottle of vine?You gif goot trink to ein bad scountrel. "

"Oh, father!" cried David. 

"I came to see if you wanted anything, " said old Sechard, half soberedby this time. 

"Und it was for de inderest vot you take in us dot you brought derliddle ladder!" commented Kolb, as he pushed the casks aside and flungopen the door; and there, in fact, on a short step-ladder, the old manstood in his shirt. 

"Risking your health!" said David. 

"I think I must be walking in my sleep, " said old Sechard, coming downin confusion. "Your want of confidence in your father set me dreaming;I dreamed you were making a pact with the Devil to do impossiblethings. "

"Der teufel, " said Kolb; "dot is your own bassion for de liddlegoldfinches. "

"Go back to bed again, father, " said David; "lock us in if you will, but you may save yourself the trouble of coming down again. Kolb willmount guard. "

At four o'clock in the morning David came out of the distillery; hehad been careful to leave no sign of his occupation behind him; but hebrought out some thirty sheets of paper that left nothing to bedesired in fineness, whiteness, toughness, and strength, all of thembearing by way of water-mark the impress of the uneven hairs of thesieve. The old man took up the samples and put his tongue to them, thelifelong habit of the pressman, who tests papers in this way. He feltit between his thumb and finger, crumpled and creased it, put itthrough all the trials by which a printer assays the quality of asample submitted to him, and when it was found wanting in no respect, he still would not allow that he was beaten. 

"We have yet to know how it takes an impression, " he said, to avoidpraising his son. 

"Funny man!" exclaimed Kolb. 

The old man was cool enough now. He cloaked his feigned hesitationwith paternal dignity. 

"I wish to tell you in fairness, father, that even now it seems to methat paper costs more than it ought to do; I want to solve the problemof sizing it in the pulping-trough. I have just that one improvementto make. "

"Oho! so you are trying to trick me!"

"Well, shall I tell you? I can size the pulp as it is, but so far Icannot do it evenly, and the surface is as rough as a burr!"

"Very good, size your pulp in the trough, and you shall have mymoney. "

"Mein master will nefer see de golor of your money, " declared Kolb. 

"Father, " he began, "I have never borne you any grudge for making overthe business to me at such an exorbitant valuation; I have seen thefather through it all. I have said to myself--'The old man has workedvery hard, and he certainly gave me a better bringing up than I had aright to expect; let him enjoy the fruits of his toil in peace, and inhis own way. --I even gave up my mother's money to you. I beganencumbered with debt, and bore all the burdens that you put upon mewithout a murmur. Well, harassed for debts that were not of my making, with no bread in the house, and my feet held to the flames, I havefound out the secret. I have struggled on patiently till my strengthis exhausted. It is perhaps your duty to help me, but do not give _me_a thought; think of a woman and a little one" (David could not keepback the tears at this); "think of them, and give them help andprotection. --Kolb and Marion have given me their savings; will you doless?" he cried at last, seeing that his father was as cold as theimpression-stone. 

"And that was not enough for you, " said the old man, without theslightest sense of shame; "why, you would waste the wealth of theIndies! Good-night! I am too ignorant to lend a hand in schemes got upon purpose to exploit me. A monkey will never gobble down a bear"(alluding to the workshop nicknames); "I am a vinegrower, I am not abanker. And what is more, look you, business between father and sonnever turns out well. Stay and eat your dinner here; you shan't saythat you came for nothing. "

There are some deep-hearted natures that can force their own pain downinto inner depths unsuspected by those dearest to them; and with them, when anguish forces its way to the surface and is visible, it is onlyafter a mighty upheaval. David's nature was one of these. Eve hadthoroughly understood the noble character of the man. But now that thedepths had been stirred, David's father took the wave of anguish thatpassed over his son's features for a child's trick, an attempt to "getround" his father, and his bitter grief for mortification over thefailure of the attempt. Father and son parted in anger. 

David and Kolb reached Angouleme on the stroke of midnight. They cameback on foot, and steathily, like burglars. Before one o'clock in themorning David was installed in the impenetrable hiding-place preparedby his wife in Basine Clerget's house. No one saw him enter it, andthe pity that henceforth should shelter David was the most resourcefulpity of all--the pity of a work-girl. 

Kolb bragged that day that he had saved his master on horseback, andonly left him in a carrier's van well on the way to Limoges. Asufficient provision of raw material had been laid up in Basine'scellar, and Kolb, Marion, Mme. Sechard, and her mother had nocommunication with the house. 

Two days after the scene at Marsac, old Sechard came hurrying toAngouleme and his daughter-in-law. Covetousness had brought him. Therewere three clear weeks ahead before the vintage began, and he thoughthe would be on the look-out for squalls, to use his own expression. Tothis end he took up his quarters in one of the attics which he hadreserved by the terms of the lease, wilfully shutting his eyes to thebareness and want that made his son's home desolate. If they owed himrent, they could well afford to keep him. He ate his food from atinned iron plate, and made no marvel at it. "I began in the sameway, " he told his daughter-in-law, when she apologized for the absenceof silver spoons. 

Marion was obliged to run into debt for necessaries for them all. Kolbwas earning a franc for daily wage as a brick-layer's laborer; and atlast poor Eve, who, for the sake of her husband and child, hadsacrificed her last resources to entertain David's father, saw thatshe had only ten francs left. She had hoped to the last to soften theold miser's heart by her affectionate respect, and patience, andpretty attentions; but old Sechard was obdurate as ever. When she sawhim turn the same cold eyes on her, the same look that the Cointetshad given her, and Petit-Claud and Cerizet, she tried to watch andguess old Sechard's intentions. Trouble thrown away! Old Sechard, never sober, never drunk, was inscrutable; intoxication is a doubleveil. If the old man's tipsiness was sometimes real, it was quiteoften feigned for the purpose of extracting David's secret from hiswife. Sometimes he coaxed, sometimes he frightened hisdaughter-in-law. 

"I will drink up my property; _I will buy an annuity_, " he wouldthreaten when Eve told him that she knew nothing. 

The humiliating struggle was wearing her out; she kept silence atlast, lest she should show disrespect to her husband's father. 

"But, father, " she said one day when driven to extremity, "there is avery simple way of finding out everything. Pay David's debts; he willcome home, and you can settle it between you. "

"Ha! that is what you want to get out of me, is it?" he cried. "It isas well to know!"

But if Sechard had no belief in his son, he had plenty of faith in theCointets. He went to consult them, and the Cointets dazzled him of setpurpose, telling him that his son's experiments might mean millions offrancs. 

"If David can prove that he has succeeded, I shall not hesitate to gointo partnership with him, and reckon his discovery as half thecapital, " the tall Cointet told him. 

The suspicious old man learned a good deal over nips of brandy withthe work-people, and something more by questioning Petit-Claud andfeigning stupidity; and at length he felt convinced that the Cointetswere the real movers behind Metivier; they were plotting to ruinSechard's printing establishment, and to lure him (Sechard) on to payhis son's debts by holding out the discovery as a bait. The old man ofthe people did not suspect that Petit-Claud was in the plot, nor hadhe any idea of the toils woven to ensnare the great secret. A day cameat last when he grew angry and out of patience with thedaughter-in-law who would not so much as tell him where David washiding; he determined to force the laboratory door, for he haddiscovered that David was wont to make his experiments in the workshopwhere the rollers were melted down. 

He came downstairs very early one morning and set to work upon thelock. 

"Hey! Papa Sechard, what are you doing there?" Marion called out. (Shehad risen at daybreak to go to her papermill, and now she sprangacross to the workshop. )

"I am in my own house, am I not?" said the old man, in some confusion. 

"Oh, indeed, are you turning thief in your old age? You are not drunkthis time either----I shall go straight to the mistress and tell her. "

"Hold your tongue, Marion, " said Sechard, drawing two crowns of sixfrancs each from his pocket. "There----"

"I will hold my tongue, but don't you do it again, " said Marion, shaking her finger at him, "or all Angouleme shall hear of it. "

The old man had scarcely gone out, however, when Marion went up to hermistress. 

"Look, madame, " she said, "I have had twelve francs out of yourfather-in-law, and here they are----"

"How did you do it?"

"What was he wanting to do but to take a look at the master's pots andpans and stuff, to find out the secret, forsooth. I knew quite wellthat there was nothing in the little place, but I frightened him andtalked as if he were setting about robbing his son, and he gave metwelve francs to say nothing about it. "

Just at that moment Basine came in radiant, and with a letter for herfriend, a letter from David written on magnificent paper, which shehanded over when they were alone. 

 "MY ADORED EVE, --I am writing to you the first letter on my first sheet of paper made by the new process. I have solved the problem of sizing the pulp in the trough at last. A pound of pulp costs five sous, even supposing that the raw material is grown on good soil with special culture; three francs' worth of sized pulp will make a ream of paper, at twelve pounds to the ream. I am quite sure that I can lessen the weight of books by one-half. The envelope, the letter, and samples enclosed are all manufactured in different ways. I kiss you; you shall have wealth now to add to our happiness, everything else we had before. "

"There!" said Eve, handing the samples to her father-in-law, "when thevintage is over let your son have the money, give him a chance to makehis fortune, and you shall be repaid ten times over; he has succeededat last!"

Old Sechard hurried at once to the Cointets. Every sample was testedand minutely examined; the prices, from three to ten francs per ream, were noted on each separate slip; some were sized, others unsized;some were of almost metallic purity, others soft as Japanese paper; incolor there was every possible shade of white. If old Sechard and thetwo Cointets had been Jews examining diamonds, their eyes could nothave glistened more eagerly. 

"Your son is on the right track, " the fat Cointet said at length. 

"Very well, pay his debts, " returned old Sechard. 

"By all means, if he will take us into partnership, " said the tallCointet. 

"You are extortioners!" cried old Sechard. "You have been suing himunder Metivier's name, and you mean me to buy you off; that is thelong and the short of it. Not such a fool, gentlemen----"

The brothers looked at one another, but they contrived to hide theirsurprise at the old miser's shrewdness. 

"We are not millionaires, " said fat Cointet; "we do not discount billsfor amusement. We should think ourselves well off if we could payready money for our bits of accounts for rags, and we still give billsto our dealer. "

"The experiment ought to be tried first on a much larger scale, " thetall Cointet said coldly; "sometimes you try a thing with a saucepanand succeed, and fail utterly when you experiment with bulk. Youshould help your son out of difficulties. "

"Yes; but when my son is at liberty, would he take me as his partner?"

"That is no business of ours, " said the fat Cointet. "My good man, doyou suppose that when you have paid some ten thousand francs for yourson, that there is an end of it? It will cost two thousand francs totake out a patent; there will be journeys to Paris; and before goingto any expense, it would be prudent to do as my brother suggests, andmake a thousand reams or so; to try several whole batches to makesure. You see, there is nothing you must be so much on your guardagainst as an inventor. "

"I have a liking for bread ready buttered myself, " added the tallCointet. 

All through that night the old man ruminated over this dilemma--"If Ipay David's debts, he will be set at liberty, and once set at liberty, he need not share his fortune with me unless he chooses. He knows verywell that I cheated him over the first partnership, and he will notcare to try a second; so it is to my interest to keep him shut up, thewretched boy. "

The Cointets knew enough of Sechard senior to see that they shouldhunt in couples. All three said to themselves--"Experiments must betried before the discovery can take any practical shape. David Sechardmust be set at liberty before those experiments can be made; and DavidSechard, set at liberty, will slip through our fingers. "

Everybody involved, moreover, had his own little afterthought. 

Petit-Claud, for instance, said, "As soon as I am married, I will slipmy neck out of the Cointets' yoke; but till then I shall hold on. "

The tall Cointet thought, "I would rather have David under lock andkey, and then I should be master of the situation. "

Old Sechard, too, thought, "If I pay my son's debts, he will repay mewith a 'Thank you!'"

Eve, hard pressed (for the old man threatened now to turn her out ofthe house), would neither reveal her husband's hiding-place, nor evensend proposals of a safe-conduct. She could not feel sure of findingso safe a refuge a second time. 

"Set your son at liberty, " she told her father-in-law, "and then youshall know everything. "

The four interested persons sat, as it were, with a banquet spreadbefore them, none of them daring to begin, each one suspicious andwatchful of his neighbor. A few days after David went into hiding, Petit-Claud went to the mill to see the tall Cointet. 

"I have done my best, " he said; "David has gone into prison of his ownaccord somewhere or other; he is working out some improvement there inpeace. It is no fault of mine if you have not gained your end; are yougoing to keep your promise?"

"Yes, if we succeed, " said the tall Cointet. "Old Sechard was hereonly a day or two ago; he came to ask us some questions as topaper-making. The old miser has got wind of his son's invention; hewants to turn it to his own account, so there is some hope of apartnership. You are with the father and the son----"

"Be the third person in the trinity and give them up, " smiledPetit-Claud. 

"Yes, " said Cointet. "When you have David in prison, or bound to us bya deed of partnership, you shall marry Mlle. De la Haye. "

"Is that your _ultimatum_?"

"My _sine qua non_, " said Cointet, "since we are speaking in foreignlanguages. "

"Then here is mine in plain language, " Petit-Claud said drily. 

"Ah! let us have it, " answered Cointet, with some curiosity. 

"You will present me to-morrow to Mme. De Sononches, and do somethingdefinite for me; you will keep your word, in short; or I will clearoff Sechard's debts myself, sell my practice, and go into partnershipwith him. I will not be duped. You have spoken out, and I am doing thesame. I have given proof, give me proof of your sincerity. You haveall, and I have nothing. If you won't do fairly by me, I know yourcards, and I shall play for my own hand. "

The tall Cointet took his hat and umbrella, his face at the same timetaking its Jesuitical expression, and out he went, bidding Petit-Claudcome with him. 

"You shall see, my friend, whether I have prepared your way for you, "said he. 

The shrewd paper-manufacturer saw his danger at a glance; and saw, too, that with a man like Petit-Claud it was better to play aboveboard. Partly to be prepared for contingencies, partly to satisfy hisconscience, he had dropped a word or two to the point in the ear ofthe ex-consul-general, under the pretext of putting Mlle. De la Haye'sfinancial position before that gentleman. 

"I have the man for Francoise, " he had said; "for with thirty thousandfrancs of _dot_, a girl must not expect too much nowadays. "

"We will talk it over later on, " answered Francis du Hautoy, ex-consul-general. "Mme. De Senonches' positon has altered very muchsince Mme. De Bargeton went away; we very likely might marry Francoiseto some elderly country gentleman. "

"She would disgrace herself if you did, " Cointet returned in his dryway. "Better marry her to some capable, ambitious young man; you couldhelp him with your influence, and he would make a good position forhis wife. "

"We shall see, " said Francis du Hautoy; "her godmother ought to beconsulted first, in any case. "

When M. De Bargeton died, his wife sold the great house in the Rue duMinage. Mme. De Senonches, finding her own house scarcely largeenough, persuaded M. De Senonches to buy the Hotel de Bargeton, thecradle of Lucien Chardon's ambitions, the scene of the earliest eventsin his career. Zephirine de Senonches had it in mind to succeed toMme. De Bargeton; she, too, would be a kind of queen in Angouleme; shewould have "a salon, " and be a great lady, in short. There was aschism in Angouleme, a strife dating from the late M. De Bargeton'sduel with M. De Chandour. Some maintained that Louise de Negrepelissewas blameless, others believed in Stanislas de Chandour's scandals. Mme. De Senonches declared for the Bargetons, and began by winningover that faction. Many frequenters of the Hotel de Bargeton had beenso accustomed for years to their nightly game of cards in the housethat they could not leave it, and Mme. De Senonches turned this factto account. She received every evening, and certainly gained all theground lost by Amelie de Chandour, who set up for a rival. 

Francis du Hautoy, living in the inmost circle of nobility inAngouleme, went so far as to think of marrying Francoise to old M. DeSeverac, Mme. Du Brossard having totally failed to capture thatgentleman for her daughter; and when Mme. De Bargeton reappeared asthe prefect's wife, Zephirine's hopes for her dear goddaughter waxedhigh, indeed. The Comtesse du Chatelet, so she argued, would be sureto use her influence for her champion. 

Boniface Cointet had Angouleme at his fingers' ends; he saw all thedifficulties at a glance, and resolved to sweep them out of the way bya bold stroke that only a Tartuffe's brain could invent. The punylawyer was not a little amused to find his fellow-conspirator keepinghis word with him; not a word did Petit-Claud utter; he respected themusings of his companion, and they walked the whole way from thepaper-mill to the Rue du Minage in silence. 

"Monsieur and madame are at breakfast"--this announcement met theill-timed visitors on the steps. 

"Take in our names, all the same, " said the tall Cointet; and feelingsure of his position, he followed immediately behind the servant andintroduced his companion to the elaborately-affected Zephirine, whowas breakfasting in company with M. Francis du Hautoy and Mlle. De laHaye. M. De Senonches had gone, as usual, for a day's shooting over M. De Pimentel's land. 

"M. Petit-Claud is the young lawyer of whom I spoke to you, madame; hewill go through the trust accounts when your fair ward comes of age. "

The ex-diplomatist made a quick scrutiny of Petit-Claud, who, for hispart, was looking furtively at the "fair ward. " As for Zephirine, whoheard of the matter for the first time, her surprise was so great thatshe dropped her fork. 

Mlle. De la Haye, a shrewish young woman with an ill-tempered face, awaist that could scarcely be called slender, a thin figure, andcolorless, fair hair, in spite of a certain little air that she had, was by no means easy to marry. The "parentage unknown" on her birthcertificate was the real bar to her entrance into the sphere where hergodmother's affection stove to establish her. Mlle. De la Haye, ignorant of her real position, was very hard to please; the richestmerchant in L'Houmeau had found no favor in her sight. Cointet saw thesufficiently significant expression of the young lady's face at thesight of the little lawyer, and turning, beheld a precisely similargrimace on Petit-Claud's countenance. Mme. De Senonches and Francislooked at each other, as if in search of an excuse for getting rid ofthe visitors. All this Cointet saw. He asked M. Du Hautoy for thefavor of a few minutes' speech with him, and the pair went togetherinto the drawing-room. 

"Fatherly affection is blinding you, sir, " he said bluntly. "You willnot find it an easy thing to marry your daughter; and, acting in yourinterest throughout, I have put you in a position from which youcannot draw back; for I am fond of Francoise, she is my ward. Now--Petit-Claud knows _everything_! His overweening ambition is aguarantee for our dear child's happiness; for, in the first place, Francoise will do as she likes with her husband; and, in the second, he wants your influence. You can ask the new prefect for the post ofcrown attorney for him in the court here. M. Milaud is definitelyappointed to Nevers, Petit-Claud will sell his practice, you will haveno difficulty in obtaining a deputy public prosecutor's place for him;and it will not be long before he becomes attorney for the crown, president of the court, deputy, what you will. "

Francis went back to the dining-room and behaved charmingly to hisdaughter's suitor. He gave Mme. De Senonches a look, and brought thescene to a close with an invitation to dine with them on the morrow;Petit-Claud must come and discuss the business in hand. He even wentdownstairs and as far as the corner with the visitors, tellingPetit-Claud that after Cointet's recommendation, both he and Mme. DeSenonches were disposed to approve all that Mlle. De la Haye's trusteehad arranged for the welfare of that little angel. 

"Oh!" cried Petit-Claud, as they came away, "what a plain girl! I havebeen taken in----"

"She looks a lady-like girl, " returned Cointet, "and besides, if shewere a beauty, would they give her to you? Eh! my dear fellow, thirtythousand francs and the influence of Mme. De Senonches and theComtesse du Chatelet! Many a small landowner would be wonderfully gladof the chance, and all the more so since M. Francis du Hautoy is neverlikely to marry, and all that he has will go to the girl. Yourmarriage is as good as settled. "

"How?"

"That is what I am just going to tell you, " returned Cointet, and hegave his companion an account of his recent bold stroke. "M. Milaud isjust about to be appointed attorney for the crown at Nevers, my dearfellow, " he continued; "sell your practice, and in ten years' time youwill be Keeper of the Seals. You are not the kind of a man to drawback from any service required of you by the Court. "

"Very well, " said Petit-Claud, his zeal stirred by the prospect ofsuch a career, "very well, be in the Place du Murier to-morrow athalf-past four; I will see old Sechard in the meantime; we will have adeed of partnership drawn up, and the father and the son shall bebound thereby, and delivered to the third person of the trinity--Cointet, to wit. "

To return to Lucien in Paris. On the morrow of the loss announced inhis letter, he obtained a _visa_ for his passport, bought a stout hollystick, and went to the Rue d'Enfer to take a place in the littlemarket van, which took him as far as Longjumeau for half a franc. Hewas going home to Angouleme. At the end of the first day's tramp heslept in a cowshed, two leagues from Arpajon. He had come no fartherthan Orleans before he was very weary, and almost ready to break down, but there he found a boatman willing to bring him as far as Tours forthree francs, and food during the journey cost him but forty sous. Five days of walking brought him from Tours to Poitiers, and left himwith but five francs in his pockets, but he summoned up all hisremaining strength for the journey before him. 

He was overtaken by night in the open country, and had made up hismind to sleep out of doors, when a traveling carriage passed by, slowly climbing the hillside, and, all unknown to the postilion, theoccupants, and the servant, he managed to slip in among the luggage, crouching in between two trunks lest he should be shaken off by thejolting of the carriage--and so he slept. 

He awoke with the sun shining into his eyes, and the sound of voicesin his ears. The carriage had come to a standstill. Looking about him, he knew that he was at Mansle, the little town where he had waited forMme. De Bargeton eighteen months before, when his heart was full ofhope and love and joy. A group of post-boys eyed him curiously andsuspiciously, covered with dust as he was, wedged in among theluggage. Lucien jumped down, but before he could speak two travelersstepped out of the caleche, and the words died away on his lips; forthere stood the new Prefect of the Charente, Sixte du Chatelet, andhis wife, Louise de Negrepelisse. 

"Chance gave us a traveling-companion, if we had but known!" said theCountess. "Come in with us, monsieur. "

Lucien gave the couple a distant bow and a half-humbled half-defiantglance; then he turned away into a cross-country road in search ofsome farmhouse, where he might make a breakfast on milk and bread, andrest awhile, and think quietly over the future. He still had threefrancs left. On and on he walked with the hurrying pace of fever, noticing as he went, down by the riverside, that the country grew moreand more picturesque. It was near mid-day when he came upon a sheet ofwater with willows growing about the margin, and stopped for awhile torest his eyes on the cool, thick-growing leaves; and something of thegrace of the fields entered into his soul. 

In among the crests of the willows, he caught a glimpse of a millnear-by on a branch stream, and of the thatched roof of the mill-housewhere the house-leeks were growing. For all ornament, the quaintcottage was covered with jessamine and honeysuckle and climbing hops, and the garden about it was gay with phloxes and tall, juicy-leavedplants. Nets lay drying in the sun along a paved causeway raised abovethe highest flood level, and secured by massive piles. Ducks wereswimming in the clear mill-pond below the currents of water roaringover the wheel. As the poet came nearer he heard the clack of themill, and saw the good-natured, homely woman of the house knitting ona garden bench, and keeping an eye upon a little one who was chasingthe hens about. 

Lucien came forward. "My good woman, " he said, "I am tired out; I havea fever on me, and I have only three francs; will you undertake togive me brown bread and milk, and let me sleep in the barn for a week?I shall have time to write to my people, and they will either come tofetch me or send me money. "

"I am quite willing, always supposing that my husband has noobjection. --Hey! little man!"

The miller came up, gave Lucien a look over, and took his pipe out ofhis mouth to remark, "Three francs for a weeks board? You might aswell pay nothing at all. "

"Perhaps I shall end as a miller's man, " thought the poet, as his eyeswandered over the lovely country. Then the miller's wife made a bedready for him, and Lucien lay down and slept so long that his hostesswas frightened. 

"Courtois, " she said, next day at noon, "just go in and see whetherthat young man is dead or alive; he has been lying there thesefourteen hours. "

The miller was busy spreading out his fishing-nets and lines. "It ismy belief, " he said, "that the pretty fellow yonder is some starvelingplay-actor without a brass farthing to bless himself with. "

"What makes you think that, little man?" asked the mistress of themill. 

"Lord, he is not a prince, nor a lord, nor a member of parliament, nora bishop; why are his hands as white as if he did nothing?"

"Then it is very strange that he does not feel hungry and wake up, "retorted the miller's wife; she had just prepared breakfast foryesterday's chance guest. "A play-actor, is he?" she continued. "Wherewill he be going? It is too early yet for the fair at Angouleme. "

But neither the miller nor his wife suspected that (actors, princes, and bishops apart) there is a kind of being who is both prince andactor, and invested besides with a magnificent order of priesthood--that the Poet seems to do nothing, yet reigns over all humanity whenhe can paint humanity. 

"What can he be?" Courtois asked of his wife. 

"Suppose it should be dangerous to take him in?" queried she. 

"Pooh! thieves look more alive than that; we should have been robbedby this time, " returned her spouse. 

"I am neither a prince nor a thief, nor a bishop nor an actor, " Luciensaid wearily; he must have overheard the colloquy through the window, and now he suddenly appeared. "I am poor, I am tired out, I have comeon foot from Paris. My name is Lucien de Rubempre, and my father wasM. Chardon, who used to have Postel's business in L'Houmeau. My sistermarried David Sechard, the printer in the Place du Murier atAngouleme. "

"Stop a bit, " said the miller, "that printer is the son of the oldskinflint who farms his own land at Marsac, isn't he?"

"The very same, " said Lucien. 

"He is a queer kind of father, he is!" Courtois continued. "He isworth two hundred thousand francs and more, without counting hismoney-box, and he has sold his son up, they say. "

When body and soul have been broken by a prolonged painful struggle, there comes a crisis when a strong nature braces itself for greatereffort; but those who give way under the strain either die or sinkinto unconsciousness like death. That hour of crisis had struck forLucien; at the vague rumor of the catastrophe that had befallen Davidhe seemed almost ready to succumb. "Oh! my sister!" he cried. "Oh, God! what have I done? Base wretch that I am!"

He dropped down on the wooden bench, looking white and powerless as adying man; the miller's wife brought out a bowl of milk and made himdrink, but he begged the miller to help him back to his bed, and askedto be forgiven for bringing a dying man into their house. He thoughthis last hour had come. With the shadow of death, thoughts of religioncrossed a brain so quick to conceive picturesque fancies; he would seethe cure, he would confess and receive the last sacraments. The moan, uttered in the faint voice by a young man with such a comely face andfigure, went to Mme. Courtois' heart. 

"I say, little man, just take the horse and go to Marsac and ask Dr. Marron to come and see this young man; he is in a very bad way, itseems to me, and you might bring the cure as well. Perhaps they mayknow more about that printer in the Place du Murier than you do, forPostel married M. Marron's daughter. "

Courtois departed. The miller's wife tried to make Lucien take food;like all country-bred folk, she was full of the idea that sick folkmust be made to eat. He took no notice of her, but gave way to aviolent storm of remorseful grief, a kind of mental process ofcounter-irritation, which relieved him. 

The Courtois' mill lies a league away from Marsac, the town of thedistrict, and the half-way between Mansle and Angouleme; so it was notlong before the good miller came back with the doctor and the cure. Both functionaries had heard rumors coupling Lucien's name with thename of Mme. De Bargeton; and now when the whole department wastalking of the lady's marriage to the new Prefect and her return toAngouleme as the Comtesse du Chatelet, both cure and doctor wereconsumed with a violent curiosity to know why M. De Bargeton's widowhad not married the young poet with whom she had left Angouleme. Andwhen they heard, furthermore, that Lucien was at the mill, they wereeager to know whether the poet had come to the rescue of hisbrother-in-law. Curiosity and humanity alike prompted them to go atonce to the dying man. Two hours after Courtois set out, Lucien heardthe rattle of old iron over the stony causeway, the country doctor'sramshackle chaise came up to the door, and out stepped MM. Marron, forthe cure was the doctor's uncle. Lucien's bedside visitors were asintimate with David's father as country neighbors usually are in asmall vine-growing township. The doctor looked at the dying man, felthis pulse, and examined his tongue; then he looked at the miller'swife, and smiled reassuringly. 

"Mme. Courtois, " said he, "if, as I do not doubt, you have a bottle ofgood wine somewhere in the cellar, and a fat eel in your fish-pond, put them before your patient, it is only exhaustion; there is nothingthe matter with him. Our great man will be on his feet againdirectly. "

"Ah! monsieur, " said Lucien, "it is not the body, it is the mind thatails. These good people have told me tidings that nearly killed me; Ihave just heard the bad news of my sister, Mme. Sechard. Mme. Courtoissays that your daughter is married to Postel, monsieur, so you mustknow something of David Sechard's affairs; oh, for heaven's sake, monsieur, tell me what you know!"

"Why, he must be in prison, " began the doctor; "his father would nothelp him----"

"_In prison_!" repeated Lucien, "and why?"

"Because some bills came from Paris; he had overlooked them, no doubt, for he does not pay much attention to his business, they say, " saidDr. Marron. 

"Pray leave me with M. Le Cure, " said the poet, with a visible changeof countenance. The doctor and the miller and his wife went out of theroom, and Lucien was left alone with the old priest. 

"Sir, " he said, "I feel that death is near, and I deserve to die. I ama very miserable wretch; I can only cast myself into the arms ofreligion. I, sir, _I_ have brought all these troubles on my sister andbrother, for David Sechard has been a brother to me. I drew thosebills that David could not meet! . . . I have ruined him. In myterrible misery, I forgot the crime. A millionaire put an end to theproceedings, and I quite believed that he had met the bills; butnothing of the kind has been done, it seems. " And Lucien told the taleof his sorrows. The story, as he told it in his feverish excitement, was worthy of the poet. He besought the cure to go to Angouleme and toask for news of Eve and his mother, Mme. Chardon, and to let him knowthe truth, and whether it was still possible to repair the evil. 

"I shall live till you come back, sir, " he added, as the hot tearsfell. "If my mother, and sister, and David do not cast me off, I shallnot die. "

Lucien's remorse was terrible to see, the tears, the eloquence, theyoung white face with the heartbroken, despairing look, the tales ofsorrow upon sorrow till human strength could no more endure, all thesethings aroused the cure's pity and interest. 

"In the provinces, as in Paris, " he said, "you must believe only halfof all that you hear. Do not alarm yourself; a piece of hearsay, threeleagues away from Angouleme, is sure to be far from the truth. OldSechard, our neighbor, left Marsac some days ago; very likely he isbusy settling his son's difficulties. I am going to Angouleme; I willcome back and tell you whether you can return home; your confessionsand repentance will help to plead your cause. "

The cure did not know that Lucien had repented so many times duringthe last eighteen months, that penitence, however impassioned, hadcome to be a kind of drama with him, played to perfection, played sofar in all good faith, but none the less a drama. To the curesucceeded the doctor. He saw that the patient was passing through anervous crisis, and the danger was beginning to subside. Thedoctor-nephew spoke as comfortably as the cure-uncle, and at lengththe patient was persuaded to take nourishment. 

Meanwhile the cure, knowing the manners and customs of thecountryside, had gone to Mansle; the coach from Ruffec to Angoulemewas due to pass about that time, and he found a vacant place in it. Hewould go to his grand-nephew Postel in L'Houmeau (David's formerrival) and make inquiries of him. From the assiduity with which thelittle druggist assisted his venerable relative to alight from theabominable cage which did duty as a coach between Ruffec andAngouleme, it was apparent to the meanest understanding that M. AndMme. Postel founded their hopes of future ease upon the old cure'swill. 

"Have you breakfasted? Will you take something? We did not in theleast expect you! This is a pleasant surprise!" Out came questionsinnumerable in a breath. 

Mme. Postel might have been born to be the wife of an apothecary inL'Houmeau. She was a common-looking woman, about the same height aslittle Postel himself, such good looks as she possessed being entirelydue to youth and health. Her florid auburn hair grew very low upon herforehead. Her demeanor and language were in keeping with homelyfeatures, a round countenance, the red cheeks of a country damsel, andeyes that might almost be described as yellow. Everything about hersaid plainly enough that she had been married for expectations ofmoney. After a year of married life, therefore, she ruled the house;and Postel, only too happy to have discovered the heiress, meeklysubmitted to his wife. Mme. Leonie Postel, _nee_ Marron, was nursing herfirst child, the darling of the old cure, the doctor, and Postel, arepulsive infant, with a strong likeness to both parents. 

"Well, uncle, " said Leonie, "what has brought you to Angouleme, sinceyou will not take anything, and no sooner come in than you talk ofgoing?"

But when the venerable ecclesiastic brought out the names of DavidSechard and Eve, little Postel grew very red, and Leonie, his wife, felt it incumbent upon her to give him a jealous glance--the glancethat a wife never fails to give when she is perfectly sure of herhusband, and gives a look into the past by way of a caution for thefuture. 

"What have yonder folk done to you, uncle, that you should mixyourself up in their affairs?" inquired Leonie, with very perceptibletartness. 

"They are in trouble, my girl, " said the cure, and he told the Postelsabout Lucien at the Courtois' mill. 

"Oh! so that is the way he came back from Paris, is it?" exclaimedPostel. "Yet he had some brains, poor fellow, and he was ambitious, too. He went out to look for wool, and comes home shorn. But what doeshe want here? His sister is frightfully poor; for all these geniuses, David and Lucien alike, know very little about business. There wassome talk of him at the Tribunal, and, as judge, I was obliged to signthe warrant of execution. It was a painful duty. I do not know whetherthe sister's circumstances are such that Lucien can go to her; but inany case the little room that he used to occupy here is at liberty, and I shall be pleased to offer it to him. "

"That is right, Postel, " said the priest; he bestowed a kiss on theinfant slumbering in Leonie's arms, and, adjusting his cocked hat, prepared to walk out of the shop. 

"You will dine with us, uncle, of course, " said Mme. Postel; "if onceyou meddle in these people's affairs, it will be some time before youhave done. My husband will drive you back again in his littlepony-cart. "

Husband and wife stood watching their valued, aged relative on his wayinto Angouleme. "He carries himself well for his age, all the same, "remarked the druggist. 

By this time David had been in hiding for eleven days in a house onlytwo doors away from the druggist's shop, which the worthy ecclesiastichad just quitted to climb the steep path into Angouleme with the newsof Lucien's present condition. 

When the Abbe Marron debouched upon the Place du Murier he found threemen, each one remarkable in his own way, and all of them bearing withtheir whole weight upon the present and future of the haplessvoluntary prisoner. There stood old Sechard, the tall Cointet, and hisconfederate, the puny limb of the law, three men representing threephases of greed as widely different as the outward forms of thespeakers. The first had it in his mind to sell his own son; thesecond, to betray his client; and the third, while bargaining for bothiniquities, was inwardly resolved to pay for neither. It was nearlyfive o'clock. Passers-by on their way home to dinner stopped a momentto look at the group. 

"What the devil can old Sechard and the tall Cointet have to say toeach other?" asked the more curious. 

"There was something on foot concerning that miserable wretch thatleaves his wife and child and mother-in-law to starve, " suggestedsome. 

"Talk of sending a boy to Paris to learn his trade!" said a provincialoracle. 

"M. Le Cure, what brings you here, eh?" exclaimed old Sechard, catching sight of the Abbe as soon as he appeared. 

"I have come on account of your family, " answered the old man. 

"Here is another of my son's notions!" exclaimed old Sechard. 

"It would not cost you much to make everybody happy all round, " saidthe priest, looking at the windows of the printing-house. Mme. Sechard's beautiful face appeared at that moment between the curtains;she was hushing her child's cries by tossing him in her arms andsinging to him. 

"Are you bringing news of my son?" asked old Sechard, "or what is moreto the purpose--money?"

"No, " answered M. Marron, "I am bringing the sister news of herbrother. "

"Of Lucien?" cried Petit-Claud. 

"Yes. He walked all the way from Paris, poor young man. I found him atthe Courtois' house; he was worn out with misery and fatigue. Oh! heis very much to be pitied. "

Petit-Claud took the tall Cointet by the arm, saying aloud, "If we aregoing to dine with Mme. De Senonches, it is time to dress. " When theyhad come away a few paces, he added, for his companion's benefit, "Catch the cub, and you will soon have the dam; we have David now----"

"I have found you a wife, find me a partner, " said the tall Cointetwith a treacherous smile. 

"Lucien is an old school-fellow of mine; we used to be chums. I shallbe sure to hear something from him in a week's time. Have the bannsput up, and I will engage to put David in prison. When he is on thejailer's register I shall have done my part. "

"Ah!" exclaimed the tall Cointet under his breath, "we might have thepatent taken out in our name; that would be the thing!"

A shiver ran through the meagre little attorney when he heard thosewords. 

Meanwhile Eve beheld her father-in-law enter with the Abbe Marron, whohad let fall a word which unfolded the whole tragedy. 

"Here is our cure, Mme. Sechard, " the old man said, addressing hisdaughter-in-law, "and pretty tales about your brother he has to tellus, no doubt!"

"Oh!" cried poor Eve, cut to the heart; "what can have happened now?"

The cry told so unmistakably of many sorrows, of great dread on somany grounds, that the Abbe Marron made haste to say, "Reassureyourself, madame; he is living. "

Eve turned to the vinegrower. 

"Father, " she said, "perhaps you will be good enough to go to mymother; she must hear all that this gentleman has to tell us ofLucien. "

The old man went in search of Mme. Chardon, and addressed her in thiswise:

"Go and have it out with the Abbe Marron; he is a good sort, priestthough he is. Dinner will be late, no doubt. I shall come back againin an hour, " and the old man went out. Insensible as he was toeverything but the clink of money and the glitter of gold, he leftMme. Chardon without caring to notice the effect of the shock that hehad given her. 

Mme. Chardon had changed so greatly during the last eighteen months, that in that short time she no longer looked like the same woman. Thetroubles hanging over both of her children, her abortive hopes forLucien, the unexpected deterioration in one in whose powers andhonesty she had for so long believed, --all these things had toldheavily upon her. Mme. Chardon was not only noble by birth, she wasnoble by nature; she idolized her children; consequently, during thelast six months she had suffered as never before since her widowhood. Lucien might have borne the name of Lucien de Rubempre by royalletters patent; he might have founded the family anew, revived thetitle, and borne the arms; he might have made a great name--he hadthrown the chance away; nay, he had fallen into the mire!

For Mme. Chardon the mother was a harder judge than Eve the sister. When she heard of the bills, she looked upon Lucien as lost. A motheris often fain to shut her eyes, but she always knows the child thatshe held at her breast, the child that has been always with her in thehouse; and so when Eve and David discussed Lucien's chances of successin Paris, and Lucien's mother to all appearance shared Eve'sillusions, in her inmost heart there was a tremor of fear lest Davidshould be right, for a mother's consciousness bore a witness to thetruth of his words. So well did she know Eve's sensitive nature, thatshe could not bring herself to speak of her fears; she was obliged tochoke them down and keep such silence as mothers alone can keep whenthey know how to love their children. 

And Eve, on her side, had watched her mother, and saw the ravages ofhidden grief with a feeling of dread; her mother was not growing old, she was failing from day to day. Mother and daughter lived a live ofgenerous deception, and neither was deceived. The brutal oldvinegrower's speech was the last drop that filled the cup ofaffliction to overflowing. The words struck a chill to Mme. Chardon'sheart. 

"Here is my mother, monsieur, " said Eve, and the Abbe, looking up, sawa white-haired woman with a face as thin and worn as the features ofsome aged nun, and yet grown beautiful with the calm and sweetexpression that devout submission gives to the faces of women who walkby the will of God, as the saying is. Then the Abbe understood thelives of the mother and daughter, and had no more sympathy left forLucien; he shuddered to think of all that the victims had endured. 

"Mother, " said Eve, drying her eyes as she spoke, "poor Lucien is notvery far away, he is at Marsac. "

"And why is he not here?" asked Mme. Chardon. 

Then the Abbe told the whole story as Lucien had told it to him--themisery of the journey, the troubles of the last days in Paris. Hedescribed the poet's agony of mind when he heard of the havoc wroughtat home by his imprudence, and his apprehension as to the receptionawaiting him at Angouleme. 

"He has doubts of us; has it come to this?" said Mme. Chardon. 

"The unhappy young man has come back to you on foot, enduring the mostterrible hardships by the way; he is prepared to enter the humblestwalks in life--if so he may make reparation. "

"Monsieur, " Lucien's sister said, "in spite of the wrong he has doneus, I love my brother still, as we love the dead body when the soulhas left it; and even so, I love him more than many sisters love theirbrothers. He has made us poor indeed; but let him come to us, he shallshare the last crust of bread, anything indeed that he has left us. Oh, if he had never left us, monsieur, we should not have lost ourheart's treasure. "

"And the woman who took him from us brought him back on her carriage!"exclaimed Mme. Chardon. "He went away sitting by Mme. De Bargeton'sside in her caleche, and he came back behind it. "

"Can I do anything for you?" asked the good cure, seeking anopportunity to take leave. 

"A wound in the purse is not fatal, they say, monsieur, " said Mme. Chardon, "but the patient must be his own doctor. "

"If you have sufficient influence with my father-in-law to induce himto help his son, you would save a whole family, " said Eve. 

"He has no belief in you, and he seemed to me to be very muchexasperated against your husband, " answered the old cure. He retainedan impression, from the ex-pressman's rambling talk, that theSechards' affairs were a kind of wasps' nest with which it wasimprudent to meddle, and his mission being fulfilled, he went to dinewith his nephew Postel. That worthy, like the rest of Angouleme, maintained that the father was in the right, and soon dissipated anylittle benevolence that the old gentleman was disposed to feel towardsthe son and his family. 

"With those that squander money something may be done, " concludedlittle Postel, "but those that make experiments are the ruin of you. "

The cure went home; his curiosity was thoroughly satisfied, and thisis the end and object of the exceeding interest taken in otherpeople's business in the provinces. In the course of the evening thepoet was duly informed of all that had passed in the Sechard family, and the journey was represented as a pilgrimage undertaken frommotives of the purest charity. 

"You have run your brother-in-law and sister into debt to the amountof ten or twelve thousand francs, " said the Abbe as he drew to an end, "and nobody hereabouts has that trifling amount to lend a neighbor, mydear sir. We are not rich in Angoumois. When you spoke to me of yourbills, I thought that a much smaller amount was involved. "

Lucien thanked the old man for his good offices. "The promise offorgiveness which you have brought is for me a priceless gift. "

Very early the next morning Lucien set out from Marsac, and reachedAngouleme towards nine o'clock. He carried nothing but hiswalking-stick; the short jacket that he wore was considerably the worstfor his journey, his black trousers were whitened with dust, and a pairof worn boots told sufficiently plainly that their owner belonged to thehapless tribe of tramps. He knew well enough that the contrast betweenhis departure and return was bound to strike his fellow-townsmen; hedid not try to hide the fact from himself. But just then, with hisheart swelling beneath the oppression of remorse awakened in him bythe old cure's story, he accepted his punishment for the moment, andmade up his mind to brave the eyes of his acquaintances. Withinhimself he said, "I am behaving heroically. "

Poetic temperaments of this stamp begin as their own dupes. He walkedup through L'Houmeau, shame at the manner of his return strugglingwith the charm of old associations as he went. His heart beat quicklyas he passed Postel's shop; but, very luckily for him, the onlypersons inside it were Leonie and her child. And yet, vanity was stillso strong in him, that he could feel glad that his father's name hadbeen painted out on the shop-front; for Postel, since his marriage, had redecorated his abode, and the word "Pharmacy" now alone appearedthere, in the Paris fashion, in big letters. 

When Lucien reached the steps by the Palet Gate, he felt the influenceof his native air, his misfortunes no longer weighed upon him. "Ishall see them again!" he said to himself, with a thrill of delight. 

He reached the Place du Murier, and had not met a soul, a piece ofluck that he scarcely hoped for, he who once had gone about his nativeplace with a conqueror's air. Marion and Kolb, on guard at the door, flew out upon the steps, crying out, "Here he is!"

Lucien saw the familiar workshop and courtyard, and on the staircasemet his mother and sister, and for a moment, while their arms wereabout him, all three almost forgot their troubles. In family life wealmost always compound with our misfortunes; we make a sort of bed torest upon; and, if it is hard, hope to make it tolerable. If Lucienlooked the picture of despair, poetic charm was not wanting to thepicture. His face had been tanned by the sunlight of the open road, and the deep sadness visible in his features overshadowed his poet'sbrow. The change in him told so plainly of sufferings endured, hisface was so worn by sharp misery, that no one could help pitying him. Imagination had fared forth into the world and found sad reality atthe home-coming. Eve was smiling in the midst of her joy, as thesaints smile upon martyrdom. The face of a young and very fair womangrows sublimely beautiful at the touch of grief; Lucien remembered theinnocent girlish face that he saw last before he went to Paris, andthe look of gravity that had come over it spoke so eloquently that hecould not but feel a painful impression. The first quick, naturaloutpouring of affection was followed at once by a reaction on eitherside; they were afraid to speak; and when Lucien almost involuntarilylooked round for another who should have been there, Eve burst intotears, and Lucien did the same, but Mme. Chardon's haggard face showedno sign of emotion. Eve rose to her feet and went downstairs, partlyto spare her brother a word of reproach, partly to speak to Marion. 

"Lucien is so fond of strawberries, child, we must find somestrawberries for him. "

"Oh, I was sure that you would want to welcome M. Lucien; you shallhave a nice little breakfast and a good dinner, too. "

"Lucien, " said Mme. Chardon when the mother and son were left alone, "you have a great deal to repair here. You went away that we all mightbe proud of you; you have plunged us into want. You have all butdestroyed your brother's opportunity of making a fortune that he onlycared to win for the sake of his new family. Nor is this all that youhave destroyed----" said the mother. 

There was a dreadful pause; Lucien took his mother's reproaches insilence. 

"Now begin to work, " Mme. Chardon went on more gently. "You tried torevive the noble family of whom I come; I do not blame you for it. Butthe man who undertakes such a task needs money above all things, andmust bear a high heart in him; both were wanting in your case. Webelieved in you once, our belief has been shaken. This was ahard-working, contented household, making its way with difficulty; youhave troubled their peace. The first offence may be forgiven, but itmust be the last. We are in a very difficult position here; you must becareful, and take your sister's advice, Lucien. The school of troubleis a very hard one, but Eve has learned much by her lessons; she hasgrown grave and thoughtful, she is a mother. In her devotion to ourdear David she has taken all the family burdens upon herself; indeed, through your wrongdoing she has come to be my only comfort. "

"You might be still more severe, my mother, " Lucien said, as he kissedher. "I accept your forgiveness, for I will not need it a secondtime. "

Eve came into the room, saw her brother's humble attitude, and knewthat he had been forgiven. Her kindness brought a smile for him to herlips, and Lucien answered with tear-filled eyes. A living presenceacts like a charm, changing the most hostile positions of lovers or offamilies, no matter how just the resentment. Is it that affectionfinds out the ways of the heart, and we love to fall into them again?Does the phenomenon come within the province of the science ofmagnetism? Or is it reason that tells us that we must either forgiveor never see each other again? Whether the cause be referred tomental, physical, or spiritual conditions, everyone knows the effect;every one has felt that the looks, the actions or gestures of thebeloved awaken some vestige of tenderness in those most deeply sinnedagainst and grievously wronged. Though it is hard for the mind toforget, though we still smart under the injury, the heart returns toits allegiance in spite of all. Poor Eve listened to her brother'sconfidences until breakfast-time; and whenever she looked at him shewas no longer mistress of her eyes; in that intimate talk she couldnot control her voice. And with the comprehension of the conditions ofliterary life in Paris, she understood that the struggle had been toomuch for Lucien's strength. The poet's delight as he caressed hissister's child, his deep grief over David's absence, mingled with joyat seeing his country and his own folk again, the melancholy wordsthat he let fall, --all these things combined to make that day afestival. When Marion brought in the strawberries, he was touched tosee that Eve had remembered his taste in spite of her distress, andshe, his sister, must make ready a room for the prodigal brother andbusy herself for Lucien. It was a truce, as it were, to misery. OldSechard himself assisted to bring about this revulsion of feeling inthe two women--"You are making as much of him as if he were bringingyou any amount of money!"

"And what has my brother done that we should not make much of him?"cried Eve, jealously screening Lucien. 

Nevertheless, when the first expansion was over, shades of truth cameout. It was not long before Lucien felt the difference between the oldaffection and the new. Eve respected David from the depths of herheart; Lucien was beloved for his own sake, as we love a mistressstill in spite of the disasters she causes. Esteem, the veryfoundation on which affection is based, is the solid stuff to whichaffection owes I know not what of certainty and security by which welive; and this was lacking between Mme. Chardon and her son, betweenthe sister and the brother. Mother and daughter did not put entireconfidence in him, as they would have done if he had not lost hishonor; and he felt this. The opinion expressed in d'Arthez's letterwas Eve's own estimate of her brother; unconsciously she revealed itby her manner, tones, and gestures. Oh! Lucien was pitied, that wastrue; but as for all that he had been, the pride of the household, thegreat man of the family, the hero of the fireside, --all this, liketheir fair hopes of him, was gone, never to return. They were soafraid of his heedlessness that he was not told where David washidden. Lucien wanted to see his brother; but this Eve, insensible tothe caresses which accompanied his curious questionings, was not theEve of L'Houmeau, for whom a glance from him had been an order thatmust be obeyed. When Lucien spoke of making reparation, and talked asthough he could rescue David, Eve only answered:

"Do not interfere; we have enemies of the most treacherous anddangerous kind. "

Lucien tossed his head, as one who should say, "I have measured myselfagainst Parisians, " and the look in his sister's eyes saidunmistakably, "Yes, but you were defeated. "

"Nobody cares for me now, " Lucien thought. "In the home circle, as inthe world without, success is a necessity. "

The poet tried to explain their lack of confidence in him; he had notbeen at home two days before a feeling of vexation rather than ofangry bitterness gained hold on him. He applied Parisian standards tothe quiet, temperate existence of the provinces, quite forgetting thatthe narrow, patient life of the household was the result of his ownmisdoings. 

"They are _bourgeoises_, they cannot understand me, " he said, settinghimself apart from his sister and mother and David, now that theycould no longer be deceived as to his real character and his future. 

Many troubles and shocks of fortune had quickened the intuitive sensein both the women. Eve and Mme. Chardon guessed the thoughts inLucien's inmost soul; they felt that he misjudged them; they saw himmentally isolating himself. 

"Paris has changed him very much, " they said between themselves. Theywere indeed reaping the harvest of egoism which they themselves hadfostered. 

It was inevitable but that the leaven should work in all three; andthis most of all in Lucien, because he felt that he was so heavily toblame. As for Eve, she was just the kind of sister to beg an erringbrother to "Forgive me for your trespasses;" but when the union of twosouls had been as perfect since life's very beginnings, as it had beenwith Eve and Lucien, any blow dealt to that fair ideal is fatal. Scoundrels can draw knives on each other and make it up againafterwards, while a look or a word is enough to sunder two lovers forever. In the recollection of an almost perfect life of heart and heartlies the secret of many an estrangement that none can explain. Two maylive together without full trust in their hearts if only their pastholds no memories of complete and unclouded love; but for those whoonce have known that intimate life, it becomes intolerable to keepperpetual watch over looks and words. Great poets know this; Paul andVirginie die before youth is over; can we think of Paul and Virginieestranged? Let us know that, to the honor of Lucien and Eve, the graveinjury done was not the source of the pain; it was entirely a matterof feeling upon either side, for the poet in fault, as for the sisterwho was in no way to blame. Things had reached the point when theslightest misunderstanding, or little quarrel, or a freshdisappointment in Lucien would end in final estrangement. Moneydifficulties may be arranged, but feelings are inexorable. 

Next day Lucien received a copy of the local paper. He turned palewith pleasure when he saw his name at the head of one of the first"leaders" in that highly respectable sheet, which like the provincialacademies that Voltaire compared to a well-bred miss, was never talkedabout. 

 "Let Franche-Comte boast of giving the light to Victor Hugo, to Charles Nodier, and Cuvier, " ran the article, "Brittany of producing a Chateaubriand and a Lammenais, Normandy of Casimir Delavigne, and Touraine of the author of _Eloa_; Angoumois that gave birth, in the days of Louis XIII. , to our illustrious fellow-countryman Guez, better known under the name of Balzac, our Angoumois need no longer envy Limousin her Dupuytren, nor Auvergne, the country of Montlosier, nor Bordeaux, birthplace of so many great men; for we too have our poet!--The writer of the beautiful sonnets entitled the _Marguerites_ unites his poet's fame to the distinction of a prose writer, for to him we also owe the magnificent romance of _The Archer of Charles IX. _ Some day our nephews will be proud to be the fellow-townsmen of Lucien Chardon, a rival of Petrarch!!!"

(The country newspapers of those days were sown with notes ofadmiration, as reports of English election speeches are studded with"cheers" in brackets. )

 "In spite of his brilliant success in Paris, our young poet has not forgotten the Hotel de Bargeton, the cradle of his triumphs; nor the fact that the wife of M. Le Comte du Chatelet, our Prefect, encouraged his early footsteps in the pathway of the Muses. He has come back among us once more! All L'Houmeau was thrown into excitement yesterday by the appearance of our Lucien de Rubempre. The news of his return produced a profound sensation throughout the town. Angouleme certainly will not allow L'Houmeau to be beforehand in doing honor to the poet who in journalism and literature has so gloriously represented our town in Paris. Lucien de Rubempre, a religious and Royalist poet, has braved the fury of parties; he has come home, it is said, for repose after the fatigue of a struggle which would try the strength of an even greater intellectual athlete than a poet and a dreamer. 

 "There is some talk of restoring our great poet to the title of the illustrious house of de Rubempre, of which his mother, Madame Chardon, is the last survivor, and it is added that Mme. La Comtesse du Chatelet was the first to think of this eminently politic idea. The revival of an ancient and almost extinct family by young talent and newly won fame is another proof that the immortal author of the Charter still cherishes the desire expressed by the words 'Union and oblivion. '

 "Our poet is staying with his sister, Mme. Sechard. "

Under the heading "Angouleme" followed some items of news:--

 "Our Prefect, M. Le Comte du Chatelet, Gentleman in Ordinary to His Majesty, has just been appointed Extraordinary Councillor of State. 

 "All the authorities called yesterday on M. Le Prefet. 

 "Mme. La Comtesse du Chatelet will receive on Thursdays. 

 "The Mayor of Escarbas, M. De Negrepelisse, the representative of the younger branch of the d'Espard family, and father of Mme. Du Chatelet, recently raised to the rank of a Count and Peer of France and a Commander of the Royal Order of St. Louis, has been nominated for the presidency of the electoral college of Angouleme at the forthcoming elections. "

"There!" said Lucien, taking the paper to his sister. Eve read thearticle with attention, and returned with the sheet with a thoughtfulair. 

"What do you say to that?" asked he, surprised at a reserve thatseemed so like indifference. 

"The Cointets are proprietors of that paper, dear, " she said; "theyput in exactly what they please, and it is not at all likely that theprefecture or the palace have forced their hands. Can you imagine thatyour old rival the prefect would be generous enough to sing yourpraises? Have you forgotten that the Cointets are suing us underMetivier's name? and that they are trying to turn David's discovery totheir own advantage? I do not know the source of this paragraph, butit makes me uneasy. You used to rouse nothing but envious feeling andhatred here; a prophet has no honor in his own country, and theyslandered you, and now in a moment it is all changed----"

"You do not know the vanity of country towns, " said Lucien. "A wholelittle town in the south turned out not so long ago to welcome a youngman that had won the first prize in some competition; they looked onhim as a budding great man. "

"Listen, dear Lucien; I do not want to preach to you, I will sayeverything in a very few words--you must suspect every little thinghere. "

"You are right, " said Lucien, but he was surprised at his sister'slack of enthusiasm. He himself was full of delight to find hishumiliating and shame-stricken return to Angouleme changed into atriumph in this way. 

"You have no belief in the little fame that has cost so dear!" he saidagain after a long silence. Something like a storm had been gatheringin his heart during the past hour. For all answer Eve gave him a look, and Lucien felt ashamed of his accusation. 

Dinner was scarcely over when a messenger came from the prefecturewith a note addressed to M. Chardon. That note appeared to decide theday for the poet's vanity; the world contending against the family forhim had won. 

"M. Le Comte Sixte du Chatelet and Mme. La Comtesse du Chateletrequest the honor of M. Lucien Chardon's company at dinner on thefifteenth of September. R. S. V. P. "

Enclosed with the invitation there was a card--

 LE COMTE SIXTE DU CHATELET, Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Prefect of the Charente, Councillor of State. 

"You are in favor, " said old Sechard; "they are talking about you inthe town as if you were somebody! Angouleme and L'Houmeau aredisputing as to which shall twist wreaths for you. "

"Eve, dear, " Lucien whispered to his sister, "I am exactly in the samecondition as I was before in L'Houmeau when Mme. De Bargeton sent methe first invitation--I have not a dress suit for the prefect'sdinner-party. "

"Do you really mean to accept the invitation?" Eve asked in alarm, anda dispute sprang up between the brother and sister. Eve's provincialgood sense told her that if you appear in society, it must be with asmiling face and faultless costume. "What will come of the prefect'sdinner?" she wondered. "What has Lucien to do with the great people ofAngouleme? Are they plotting something against him?" but she keptthese thoughts to herself. 

Lucien spoke the last word at bedtime: "You do not know my influence. The prefect's wife stands in fear of a journalist; and besides, Louisede Negrepelisse lives on in the Comtesse du Chatelet, and a woman withher influence can rescue David. I am going to tell her about mybrother's invention, and it would be a mere nothing to her to obtain asubsidy of ten thousand francs from the Government for him. "

At eleven o'clock that night the whole household was awakened by thetown band, reinforced by the military band from the barracks. ThePlace du Murier was full of people. The young men of Angouleme weregiving Lucien Chardon de Rubempre a serenade. Lucien went to hissister's window and made a speech after the last performance. 

"I thank my fellow-townsmen for the honor that they do me, " he said inthe midst of a great silence; "I will strive to be worthy of it; theywill pardon me if I say no more; I am so much moved by this incidentthat I cannot speak. "

"Hurrah for the writer of _The Archer of Charles IX. _! . . . Hurrah forthe poet of the _Marguerites_! . . . Long live Lucien de Rubempre!"

After these three salvos, taken up by some few voices, three crownsand a quantity of bouquets were adroitly flung into the room throughthe open window. Ten minutes later the Place du Murier was empty, andsilence prevailed in the streets. 

"I would rather have ten thousand francs, " said old Sechard, fingeringthe bouquets and garlands with a satirical expression. "You gave themdaisies, and they give you posies in return; you deal in flowers. "

"So that is your opinion of the honors shown me by my fellow-townsmen, is it?" asked Lucien. All his melancholy had left him, his face wasradiant with good humor. "If you knew mankind, Papa Sechard, you wouldsee that no moment in one's life comes twice. Such a triumph as thiscan only be due to genuine enthusiasm! . . . My dear mother, my goodsister, this wipes out many mortifications. "

Lucien kissed them; for when joy overflows like a torrent flood, weare fain to pour it out into a friend's heart. "When an author isintoxicated with success, he will hug his porter if there is nobodyelse on hand, " according to Bixiou. 

"Why, darling, why are you crying?" he said, looking into Eve's face. "Ah! I know, you are crying for joy!"

"Oh me!" said her mother, shaking her head as she spoke. "Lucien hasforgotten everything already; not merely his own troubles, but ours aswell. "

Mother and daughter separated, and neither dared to utter all herthoughts. 

In a country eaten up with the kind of social insubordinationdisguised by the word Equality, a triumph of any kind whatsoever is asort of miracle which requires, like some other miracles for thatmatter, the co-operation of skilled labor. Out of ten ovations offeredto ten living men, selected for this distinction by a gratefulcountry, you may be quite sure that nine are given from considerationsconnected as remotely as possible with the conspicuous merits of therenowned recipient. What was Voltaire's apotheosis at theTheatre-Francais but the triumph of eighteenth century philosophy? Atriumph in France means that everybody else feels that he is adorninghis own temples with the crown that he sets on the idol's head. 

The women's presentiments proved correct. The distinguishedprovincial's reception was antipathetic to Angoumoisin immobility; itwas too evidently got up by some interested persons or by enthusiasticstage mechanics, a suspicious combination. Eve, moreover, like most ofher sex, was distrustful by instinct, even when reason failed tojustify her suspicions to herself. "Who can be so fond of Lucien thathe could rouse the town for him?" she wondered as she fell asleep. "The _Marguerites_ are not published yet; how can they compliment him ona future success?"

The ovation was, in fact, the work of Petit-Claud. 

Petit-Claud had dined with Mme. De Senonches, for the first time, onthe evening of the day that brought the cure of Marsac to Angoulemewith the news of Lucien's return. That same evening he made formalapplication for the hand of Mlle. De la Haye. It was a family dinner, one of the solemn occasions marked not so much by the number of theguests as by the splendor of their toilettes. Consciousness of theperformance weighs upon the family party, and every countenance lookssignificant. Francoise was on exhibition. Mme. De Senonches hadsported her most elaborate costume for the occasion; M. Du Hautoy worea black coat; M. De Senonches had returned from his visit to thePimentels on the receipt of a note from his wife, informing him thatMme. Du Chatelet was to appear at their house for the first time sinceher arrival, and that a suitor in form for Francoise would appear onthe scenes. Boniface Cointet also was there, in his best maroon coatof clerical cut, with a diamond pin worth six thousand francsdisplayed in his shirt frill--the revenge of the rich merchant upon apoverty-stricken aristocracy. 

Petit-Claud himself, scoured and combed, had carefully removed hisgray hairs, but he could not rid himself of his wizened air. The punylittle man of law, tightly buttoned into his clothes, reminded you ofa torpid viper; for if hope had brought a spark of life into hismagpie eyes, his face was icily rigid, and so well did he assume anair of gravity, that an ambitious public prosecutor could not havebeen more dignified. 

Mme. De Senonches had told her intimate friends that her ward wouldmeet her betrothed that evening, and that Mme. Du Chatelet wouldappear at the Hotel de Senonches for the first time; and havingparticularly requested them to keep these matters secret, she expectedto find her rooms crowded. The Comte and Comtesse du Chatelet had leftcards everywhere officially, but they meant the honor of a personalvisit to play a part in their policy. So aristocratic Angouleme was insuch a prodigious ferment of curiosity, that certain of the Chandourcamp proposed to go to the Hotel de Bargeton that evening. (Theypersistently declined to call the house by its new name. )

Proofs of the Countess' influence had stirred up ambition in manyquarters; and not only so, it was said that the lady had changed somuch for the better that everybody wished to see and judge forhimself. Petit-Claud learned great news on the way to the house;Cointet told him that Zephirine had asked leave to present her dearFrancoise's betrothed to the Countess, and that the Countess hadgranted the favor. Petit-Claud had seen at once that Lucien's returnput Louise de Negrepelisse in a false position; and now, in a moment, he flattered himself that he saw a way to take advantage of it. 

M. And Mme. De Senonches had undertaken such heavy engagements whenthey bought the house, that, in provincial fashion, they thought itimprudent to make any changes in it. So when Madame du Chatelet wasannounced, Zephirine went up to her with--"Look, dear Louise, you arestill in your old home!" indicating, as she spoke, the littlechandelier, the paneled wainscot, and the furniture, which once haddazzled Lucien. 

"I wish least of all to remember it, dear, " Madame la Prefete answeredgraciously, looking round on the assemblage. 

Every one admitted that Louise de Negrepelisse was not like the samewoman. If the provincial had undergone a change, the woman herself hadbeen transformed by those eighteen months in Paris, by the firsthappiness of a still recent second marriage, and the kind of dignitythat power confers. The Comtesse du Chatelet bore the same resemblanceto Mme. De Bargeton that a girl of twenty bears to her mother. 

She wore a charming cap of lace and flowers, fastened by adiamond-headed pin; the ringlets that half hid the contours of her faceadded to her look of youth, and suited her style of beauty. Her foulardgown, designed by the celebrated Victorine, with a pointed bodice, exquisitely fringed, set off her figure to advantage; and a silkenlace scarf, adroitly thrown about a too long neck, partly concealedher shoulders. She played with the dainty scent-bottle, hung by achain from her bracelet; she carried her fan and her handkerchief withease--pretty trifles, as dangerous as a sunken reef for the provincialdame. The refined taste shown in the least details, the carriage andmanner modeled upon Mme. D'Espard, revealed a profound study of theFaubourg Saint-Germain. 

As for the elderly beau of the Empire, he seemed since his marriage tohave followed the example of the species of melon that turns fromgreen to yellow in a night. All the youth that Sixte had lost seemedto appear in his wife's radiant countenance; provincial pleasantriespassed from ear to ear, circulating the more readily because the womenwere furious at the new superiority of the sometime queen ofAngouleme; and the persistent intruder paid the penalty of his wife'soffence. 

The rooms were almost as full as on that memorable evening of Lucien'sreadings from Chenier. Some faces were missing: M. De Chandour andAmelie, M. De Pimental and the Rastignacs--and M. De Bargeton was nolonger there; but the Bishop came, as before, with his vicars-generalin his train. Petit-Claud was much impressed by the sight of the greatworld of Angouleme. Four months ago he had no hope of entering thecircle, to-day he felt his detestation of "the classes" sensiblydiminished. He thought the Comtesse du Chatelet a most fascinatingwoman. "It is she who can procure me the appointment of deputy publicprosecutor, " he said to himself. 

Louise chatted for an equal length of time with each of the women; hertone varied with the importance of the person addressed and theposition taken up by the latter with regard to her journey to Pariswith Lucien. The evening was half over when she withdrew to theboudoir with the Bishop. Zephirine came over to Petit-Claud, and laidher hand on his arm. His heart beat fast as his hostess brought him tothe room where Lucien's troubles first began, and were now about tocome to a crisis. 

"This is M. Petit-Claud, dear; I recommend him to you the more warmlybecause anything that you may do for him will doubtless benefit myward. "

"You are an attorney, are you not, monsieur?" said the augustNegrepelisse, scanning Petit-Claud. 

"Alas! yes, _Madame la Comtesse_. " (The son of the tailor in L'Houmeauhad never once had occasion to use those three words in his lifebefore, and his mouth was full of them. ) "But it rests with you, Madame la Comtesse, whether or no I shall act for the Crown. M. Milaudis going to Nevers, it is said----"

"But a man is usually second deputy and then first deputy, is he not?"broke in the Countess. "I should like to see you in the first deputy'splace at once. But I should like first to have some assurance of yourdevotion to the cause of our legitimate sovereigns, to religion, andmore especially to M. De Villele, if I am to interest myself on yourbehalf to obtain the favor. "

Petit-Claud came nearer. "Madame, " he said in her ear, "I am the manto yield the King absolute obedience. "

"That is just what _we_ want to-day, " said the Countess, drawing back alittle to make him understand that she had no wish for promises givenunder his breath. "So long as you satisfy Mme. De Senonches, you cancount upon me, " she added, with a royal movement of her fan. 

Petit-Claud looked toward the door of the boudoir, and saw Cointetstanding there. "Madame, " he said, "Lucien is here, in Angouleme. "

"Well, sir?" asked the Countess, in tones that would have put an endto all power of speech in an ordinary man. 

"Mme. La Comtesse does not understand, " returned Petit-Claud, bringingout that most respectful formula again. "How does Mme. La Comtessewish that the great man of her making should be received in Angouleme?There is no middle course; he must be received or despised here. "

This was a dilemma to which Louise de Negrepelisse had never given athought; it touched her closely, yet rather for the sake of the pastthan of the future. And as for Petit-Claud, his plan for arrestingDavid Sechard depended upon the lady's actual feelings towards Lucien. He waited. 

"M. Petit-Claud, " said the Countess, with haughty dignity, "you meanto be on the side of the Government. Learn that the first principle ofgovernment is this--never to have been in the wrong, and that theinstinct of power and the sense of dignity is even stronger in womenthan in governments. "

"That is just what I thought, madame, " he answered quickly, observingthe Countess meanwhile with attention the more profound because it wasscarcely visible. "Lucien came here in the depths of misery. But if hemust receive an ovation, I can compel him to leave Angouleme by themeans of the ovation itself. His sister and brother-in-law, DavidSechard, are hard pressed for debts. "

In the Countess' haughty face there was a swift, barely perceptiblechange; it was not satisfaction, but the repression of satisfaction. Surprised that Petit-Claud should have guessed her wishes, she gavehim a glance as she opened her fan, and Francoise de la Haye'sentrance at that moment gave her time to find an answer. 

"It will not be long before you are public prosecutor, monsieur, " shesaid, with a significant smile. That speech did not commit her in anyway, but it was explicit enough. Francoise had come in to thank theCountess. 

"Oh! madame, then I shall owe the happiness of my life to you, " sheexclaimed, bending girlishly to add in the Countess' ear, "To marry apetty provincial attorney would be like being burned by slow fires. "

It was Francis, with his knowledge of officialdom, who had promptedZephirine to make this set upon Louise. 

"In the very earliest days after promotion, " so the ex-consul-generaltold his fair friend, "everybody, prefect, or monarch, or man ofbusiness, is burning to exert his influence for his friends; but apatron soon finds out the inconveniences of patronage, and then turnsfrom fire to ice. Louise will do more now for Petit-Claud than shewould do for her husband in three months' time. "

"Madame la Comtesse is thinking of all that our poet's triumphentails?" continued Petit-Claud. "She should receive Lucien beforethere is an end of the nine-days' wonder. "

The Countess terminated the audience with a bow, and rose to speakwith Mme. De Pimentel, who came to the boudoir. The news of oldNegrepelisse's elevation to a marquisate had greatly impressed theMarquise; she judged it expedient to be amiable to a woman so cleveras to rise the higher for an apparent fall. 

"Do tell me, dear, why you took the trouble to put your father in theHouse of Peers?" said the Marquise, in the course of a littleconfidential conversation, in which she bent the knee before thesuperiority of "her dear Louise. "

"They were all the more ready to grant the favor because my father hasno son to succeed him, dear, and his vote will always be at thedisposal of the Crown; but if we should have sons, I quite expect thatmy oldest will succeed to his grandfather's name, title, and peerage. "

Mme. De Pimentel saw, to her annoyance, that it was idle to expect amother ambitious for children not yet in existence to further her ownprivate designs of raising M. De Pimentel to a peerage. 

"I have the Countess, " Petit-Claud told Cointet when they came away. "I can promise you your partnership. I shall be deputy prosecutorbefore the month is out, and Sechard will be in your power. Try tofind a buyer for my connection; it has come to be the first inAngouleme in my hands during the last five months----"

"Once put _you_ on the horse, and there is no need to do more, " saidCointet, half jealous of his own work. 

The causes of Lucien's triumphant reception in his native town mustnow be plain to everybody. Louise du Chatelet followed the example ofthat King of France who left the Duke of Orleans unavenged; she choseto forget the insults received in Paris by Mme. De Bargeton. She wouldpatronize Lucien, and overwhelming him with her patronage, wouldcompletely crush him and get rid of him by fair means. Petit-Claudknew the whole tale of the cabals in Paris through town gossip, andshrewdly guessed how a woman must hate the man who would not love whenshe was fain of his love. 

The ovation justified the past of Louise de Negrepelisse. The next dayPetit-Claud appeared at Mme. Sechard's house, heading a deputation ofsix young men of the town, all of them Lucien's schoolfellows. Hemeant to finish his work, to intoxicate Lucien completely, and to havehim in his power. Lucien's old schoolfellows at the Angoulemegrammar-school wished to invite the author of the _Marguerites_ and_The Archer of Charles IX. _ to a banquet given in honor of the greatman arisen from their ranks. 

"Come, this is your doing, Petit-Claud!" exclaimed Lucien. 

"Your return has stirred our conceit, " said Petit-Claud; "we made it apoint of honor to get up a subscription, and we will have a tremendousaffair for you. The masters and the headmaster will be there, and, atthe present rate, we shall, no doubt, have the authorities too. "

"For what day?" asked Lucien. 

"Sunday next. "

"That is quite out of the question, " said Lucien. "I cannot accept aninvitation for the next ten days, but then I will gladly----"

"Very well, " said Petit-Claud, "so be it then, in ten days' time. "

Lucien behaved charmingly to his old schoolfellows, and they regardedhim with almost respectful admiration. He talked away very wittily forhalf an hour; he had been set upon a pedestal, and wished to justifythe opinion of his fellow-townsmen; so he stood with his hands thrustinto his pockets, and held forth from the height to which he had beenraised. He was modest and good-natured, as befitted genius indressing-gown and slippers; he was the athlete, wearied by a wrestlingbout with Paris, and disenchanted above all things; he congratulatedthe comrades who had never left the dear old province, and so forth, and so forth. They were delighted with him. He took Petit-Claud aside, and asked him for the real truth about David's affairs, reproachinghim for allowing his brother-in-law to go into hiding, and tried tomatch his wits against the little lawyer. Petit-Claud made an effortover himself, and gave his acquaintance to understand that he(Petit-Claud) was only an insignificant little country attorney, withno sort of craft nor subtlety. 

The whole machinery of modern society is so infinitely more complexthan in ancient times, that the subdivision of human faculty is theresult. The great men of the days of old were perforce universalgeniuses, appearing at rare intervals like lighted torches in anantique world. In the course of ages the intellect began to work onspecial lines, but the great man still could "take all knowledge forhis province. " A man "full cautelous, " as was said of Louis XI. , forinstance, could apply that special faculty in every direction, butto-day the single quality is subdivided, and every profession has itsspecial craft. A peasant or a pettifogging solicitor might very easilyoverreach an astute diplomate over a bargain in some remote countryvillage; and the wiliest journalist may prove the veriest simpleton ina piece of business. Lucien could but be a puppet in the hands ofPetit-Claud. 

That guileful practitioner, as might have been expected, had writtenthe article himself; Angouleme and L'Houmeau, thus put on theirmettle, thought it incumbent upon them to pay honor to Lucien. Hisfellow-citizens, assembled in the Place du Murier, were Cointets'workpeople from the papermills and printing-house, with a sprinklingof Lucien's old schoolfellows and the clerks in the employ ofMessieurs Petit-Claud and Cachan. As for the attorney himself, he wasonce more Lucien's chum of old days; and he thought, not withoutreason, that before very long he should learn David's whereabouts insome unguarded moment. And if David came to grief through Lucien'sfault, the poet would find Angouleme too hot to hold him. Petit-Claudmeant to secure his hold; he posed, therefore, as Lucien's inferior. 

"What better could I have done?" he said accordingly. "My old chum'ssister was involved, it is true, but there are some positions thatsimply cannot be maintained in a court of law. David asked me on thefirst of June to ensure him a quiet life for three months; he had aquiet life until September, and even so I have kept his property outof his creditors' power, for I shall gain my case in the Court-Royal;I contend that the wife is a privileged creditor, and her claim isabsolute, unless there is evidence of intent to defraud. As for you, you have come back in misfortune, but you are a genius. "--(Lucienturned about as if the incense were burned too close to his face. )--"Yes, my dear fellow, a _genius_. I have read your _Archer ofCharles IX. _; it is more than a romance, it is literature. Only twoliving men could have written the preface--Chateaubriand and Lucien. "

Lucien accepted that d'Arthez had written the preface. Ninety-ninewriters out of a hundred would have done the same. 

"Well, nobody here seemed to have heard of you!" Petit-Claudcontinued, with apparent indignation. "When I saw the generalindifference, I made up my mind to change all that. I wrote thatarticle in the paper----"

"What? did you write it?" exclaimed Lucien. 

"I myself. Angouleme and L'Houmeau were stirred to rivalry; I arrangedfor a meeting of your old schoolfellows, and got up yesterday'sserenade; and when once the enthusiasm began to grow, we started acommittee for the dinner. 'If David is in hiding, ' said I to myself, 'Lucien shall be crowned at any rate. ' And I have done even betterthan that, " continued Petit-Claud; "I have seen the Comtesse duChatelet and made her understand that she owes it to herself toextricate David from his position; she can do it, and she ought to doit. If David had really discovered the secret of which he spoke to me, the Government ought to lend him a hand, it would not ruin theGovernment; and think what a fine thing for a prefect to have half thecredit of the great invention for the well-timed help. It would setpeople talking about him as an enlightened administrator. --Your sisterhas taken fright at our musketry practice; she was scared of thesmoke. A battle in the law-courts costs quite as much as a battle onthe field; but David has held his ground, he has his secret. Theycannot stop him, and they will not pull him up now. "

"Thanks, my dear fellow; I see that I can take you into my confidence;you shall help me to carry out my plan. "

Petit-Claud looked at Lucien, and his gimlet face was a point ofinterrogation. 

"I intend to rescue Sechard, " Lucien said, with a certain importance. "I brought his misfortunes upon him; I mean to make fullreparation. . . . I have more influence over Louise----"

"Who is Louise?"

"The Comtesse du Chatelet!"

Petit-Claud started. 

"I have more influence over her than she herself suspects, " saidLucien; "only, my dear fellow, if I can do something with yourauthorities here, I have no decent clothes. "--Petit-Claud made asthough he would offer his purse. 

"Thank you, " said Lucien, grasping Petit-Claud's hand. "In ten days'time I will pay a visit to the Countess and return your call. "

The shook hands like old comrades, and separated. 

"He ought to be a poet" said Petit-Claud to himself; "he is quitemad. "

"There are no friends like one's school friends; it is a true saying, "Lucien thought at he went to find his sister. 

"What can Petit-Claud have promised to do that you should be sofriendly with him, my Lucien?" asked Eve. "Be on your guard with him. "

"With _him_?" cried Lucien. "Listen, Eve, " he continued, seeming tobethink himself; "you have no faith in me now; you do not trust me, soit is not likely you will trust Petit-Claud; but in ten or twelve daysyou will change your mind, " he added, with a touch of fatuity. And hewent to his room, and indited the following epistle to Lousteau:--

 _Lucien to Lousteau. _

 "MY FRIEND, --Of the pair of us, I alone can remember that bill for a thousand francs that I once lent you; and I know how things will be with you when you open this letter too well, alas! not to add immediately that I do not expect to be repaid in current coin of the realm; no, I will take it in credit from you, just as one would ask Florine for pleasure. We have the same tailor; therefore, you can order a complete outfit for me on the shortest possible notice. I am not precisely wearing Adam's costume, but I cannot show myself here. To my astonishment, the honors paid by the departments to a Parisian celebrity awaited me. I am the hero of a banquet, for all the world as if I were a Deputy of the Left. Now, after that, do you understand that I must have a black coat? Promise to pay; have it put down to your account, try the advertisement dodge, rehearse an unpublished scene between Don Juan and M. Dimanche, for I must have a gala suit at all costs. I have nothing, nothing but rags: start with that; it is August, the weather is magnificent, ergo see that I receive by the end of the week a charming morning suit, dark bronze-green jacket, and three waistcoats, one a brimstone yellow, one a plaid, and the third must be white; furthermore, let there be three pairs of trousers of the most fetching kind--one pair of white English stuff, one pair of nankeen, and a third of thin black kerseymere; lastly, send a black dress-coat and a black satin waistcoat. If you have picked up another Florine somewhere, I beg her good offices for two cravats. So far this is nothing; I count upon you and your skill in these matters; I am not much afraid of the tailor. But the ingenuity of poverty, assuredly the most active of all poisons at work in the system of man (_id est_ the Parisian), an ingenuity that would catch Satan himself napping, has failed so far to discover a way to obtain a hat on credit!--How many a time, my dear friend, have we deplored this! When one of us shall bring a hat that costs one thousand francs into fashion, then, and not till then, can we afford to wear them; until that day comes we are bound to have cash enough in our pockets to pay for a hat. Ah! what an ill turn the Comedie-Francaise did us with, 'Lafleur, you will put gold in my pockets!'

 "I write with a profound sense of all the difficulties involved by the demand. Enclose with the above a pair of boots, a pair of pumps, a hat, half a dozen pairs of gloves. 'Tis asking the impossible; I know it. But what is a literary life but a periodical recurrence of the impossible? Work the miracle, write a long article, or play some small scurvy trick, and I will hold your debt as fully discharged--this is all I say to you. It is a debt of honor after all, my dear fellow, and due these twelve months; you ought to blush for yourself if you have any blushes left. 

 "Joking apart, my dear Lousteau, I am in serious difficulties, as you may judge for yourself when I tell you that Mme. De Bargeton has married Chatelet, and Chatelet is prefect of Angouleme. The precious pair can do a good deal for my brother-in-law; he is in hiding at this moment on account of that letter of exchange, and the horrid business is all my doing. So it is a question of appearing before Mme. La Prefete and regaining my influence at all costs. It is shocking, is it not, that David Sechard's fate should hang upon a neat pair of shoes, a pair of open-worked gray silk stockings (mind you, remember them), and a new hat? I shall give out that I am sick and ill, and take to my bed, like Duvicquet, to save the trouble of replying to the pressing invitations of my fellow-townsmen. My fellow-townsmen, dear boy, have treated me to a fine serenade. _My fellow-townsmen_, forsooth! I begin to wonder how many fools go to make up that word, since I learned that two or three of my old schoolfellows worked up the capital of the Angoumois to this pitch of enthusiasm. 

 "If you could contrive to slip a few lines as to my reception in among the news items, I should be several inches taller for it here; and besides, I should make Mme. La Prefete feel that, if I have not friends, I have some credit, at any rate, with the Parisian press. I give up none of my hopes, and I will return the compliment. If you want a good, solid, substantial article for some magazine or other, I have time enough now to think something out. I only say the word, my dear friend; I count upon you as you may count upon me, and I am yours sincerely. 

 "LUCIEN DE R. 

 "P. S. --Send the things to the coach office to wait until called for. "

Lucien held up his head again. In this mood he wrote the letter, andas he wrote his thoughts went back to Paris. He had spent six days inthe provinces, and the uneventful quietness of provincial life hadalready entered into his soul; his mind returned to those dear oldmiserable days with a vague sense of regret. The Comtesse du Chateletfilled his thoughts for a whole week; and at last he came to attach somuch importance to his reappearance, that he hurried down to the coachoffice in L'Houmeau after nightfall in a perfect agony of suspense, like a woman who has set her last hopes upon a new dress, and waits indespair until it arrives. 

"Ah! Lousteau, all your treasons are forgiven, " he said to himself, ashe eyed the packages, and knew from the shape of them that everythinghad been sent. Inside the hatbox he found a note from Lousteau:--

 FLORINE'S DRAWING-ROOM. 

 "MY DEAR BOY, --The tailor behaved very well; but as thy profound retrospective glance led thee to forbode, the cravats, the hats, and the silk hosen perplexed our souls, for there was nothing in our purse to be perplexed thereby. As said Blondet, so say we; there is a fortune awaiting the establishment which will supply young men with inexpensive articles on credit; for when we do not pay in the beginning, we pay dear in the end. And by the by, did not the great Napoleon, who missed a voyage to the Indies for want of boots, say that, 'If a thing is easy, it is never done?' So everything went well--except the boots. I beheld a vision of thee, fully dressed, but without a hat! appareled in waistcoats, yet shoeless! and bethought me of sending a pair of moccasins given to Florine as a curiosity by an American. Florine offered the huge sum of forty francs, that we might try our luck at play for you. Nathan, Blondet, and I had such luck (as we were not playing for ourselves) that we were rich enough to ask La Torpille, des Lupeaulx's sometime 'rat, ' to supper. Frascati certainly owed us that much. Florine undertook the shopping, and added three fine shirts to the purchases. Nathan sends you a cane. Blondet, who won three hundred francs, is sending you a gold chain; and the gold watch, the size of a forty-franc piece, is from La Torpille; some idiot gave the thing to her, and it will not go. 'Trumpery rubbish, ' she says, 'like the man that owned it. ' Bixiou, who came to find us up at the _Rocher de Cancale_, wished to enclose a bottle of Portugal water in the package. Said our first comic man, 'If this can make him happy, let him have it!' growling it out in a deep bass voice with the _bourgeois_ pomposity that he can act to the life. Which things, my dear boy, ought to prove to you how much we care for our friends in adversity. Florine, whom I have had the weakness to forgive, begs you to send us an article on Nathan's hat. Fare thee well, my son. I can only commiserate you on finding yourself back in the same box from which you emerged when you discovered your old comrade. 

 "ETIENNE L. "

"Poor fellows! They have been gambling for me, " said Lucien; he wasquite touched by the letter. A waft of the breeze from an unhealthycountry, from the land where one has suffered most, may seem to bringthe odors of Paradise; and in a dull life there is an indefinablesweetness in memories of past pain. 

Eve was struck dumb with amazement when her brother came down in hisnew clothes. She did not recognize him. 

"Now I can walk out in Beaulieu, " he cried; "they shall not say it ofme that I came back in rags. Look, here is a watch which I shallreturn to you, for it is mine; and, like its owner, it is erratic inits ways. "

"What a child he is!" exclaimed Eve. "It is impossible to bear you anygrudge. "

"Then do you imagine, my dear girl, that I sent for all this with thesilly idea of shining in Angouleme? I don't care _that_ for Angouleme"(twirling his cane with the engraved gold knob). "I intend to repairthe wrong I have done, and this is my battle array. "

Lucien's success in this kind was his one real triumph; but thetriumph, be it said, was immense. If admiration freezes some people'stongues, envy loosens at least as many more, and if women lost theirheads over Lucien, men slandered him. He might have cried, in thewords of the songwriter, "I thank thee, my coat!" He left two cards atthe prefecture, and another upon Petit-Claud. The next day, the day ofthe banquet, the following paragraph appeared under the heading"Angouleme" in the Paris newspapers:--

 "ANGOULEME. 

 "The return of the author of _The Archer of Charles IX. _ has been the signal for an ovation which does equal honor to the town and to M. Lucien de Rubempre, the young poet who has made so brilliant a beginning; the writer of the one French historical novel not written in the style of Scott, and of a preface which may be called a literary event. The town hastened to offer him a patriotic banquet on his return. The name of the recently-appointed prefect is associated with the public demonstration in honor of the author of the _Marguerites_, whose talent received such warm encouragement from Mme. Du Chatelet at the outset of his career. "

In France, when once the impulse is given, nobody can stop. Thecolonel of the regiment offered to put his band at the disposal of thecommittee. The landlord of the _Bell_ (renowned for truffled turkeys, despatched in the most wonderful porcelain jars to the uttermost partsof the earth), the famous innkeeper of L'Houmeau, would supply therepast. At five o'clock some forty persons, all in state and festivalarray, were assembled in his largest ball, decorated with hangings, crowns of laurel, and bouquets. The effect was superb. A crowd ofonlookers, some hundred persons, attracted for the most part by themilitary band in the yard, represented the citizens of Angouleme. 

Petit-Claud went to the window. "All Angouleme is here, " he said, looking out. 

"I can make nothing of this, " remarked little Postel to his wife (theyhad come out to hear the band play). "Why, the prefect and thereceiver-general, and the colonel and the superintendent of the powderfactory, and our mayor and deputy, and the headmaster of the school, and the manager of the foundry at Ruelle, and the public prosecutor, M. Milaud, and all the authorities, have just gone in!"

The bank struck up as they sat down to table with variations on theair _Vive le roy, vive la France_, a melody which has never foundpopular favor. It was then five o'clock in the evening; it was eighto'clock before dessert was served. Conspicuous among the sixty-fivedishes appeared an Olympus in confectionery, surmounted by a figure ofFrance modeled in chocolate, to give the signal for toasts andspeeches. 

"Gentlemen, " called the prefect, rising to his feet, "the King! therightful ruler of France! To what do we owe the generation of poetsand thinkers who maintain the sceptre of letters in the hands ofFrance, if not to the peace which the Bourbons have restored----"

"Long live the King!" cried the assembled guests (ministerialistspredominated). 

The venerable headmaster rose. 

"To the hero of the day, " he said, "to the young poet who combines thegift of the _prosateur_ with the charm and poetic faculty of Petrarch inthat sonnet-form which Boileau declares to be so difficult. "

Cheers. 

The colonel rose next. "Gentlemen, to the Royalist! for the hero ofthis evening had the courage to fight for sound principles!"

"Bravo!" cried the prefect, leading the applause. 

Then Petit-Claud called upon all Lucien's schoolfellows there present. "To the pride of the grammar-school of Angouleme! to the venerableheadmaster so dear to us all, to whom the acknowledgment for some partof our triumph is due!"

The old headmaster dried his eyes; he had not expected this toast. Lucien rose to his feet, the whole room was suddenly silent, and thepoet's face grew white. In that pause the old headmaster, who sat onhis left, crowned him with a laurel wreath. A round of applausefollowed, and when Lucien spoke it was with tears in his eyes and asob in his throat. 

"He is drunk, " remarked the attorney-general-designate to hisneighbor, Petit-Claud. 

"My dear fellow-countrymen, my dear comrades, " Lucien said at last, "Icould wish that all France might witness this scene; for thus men riseto their full stature, and in such ways as these our land demandsgreat deeds and noble work of us. And when I think of the little thatI have done, and of this great honor shown to me to-day, I can onlyfeel confused and impose upon the future the task of justifying yourreception of me. The recollection of this moment will give me renewedstrength for efforts to come. Permit me to indicate for your homage myearliest muse and protectress, and to associate her name with that ofmy birthplace; so--to the Comtesse du Chatelet and the noble town ofAngouleme!"

"He came out of that pretty well!" said the public prosecutor, noddingapproval; "our speeches were all prepared, and his was improvised. "

At ten o'clock the party began to break up, and little knots of guestswent home together. David Sechard heard the unwonted music. 

"What is going on in L'Houmeau?" he asked of Basine. 

"They are giving a dinner to your brother-in-law, Lucien----"

"I know that he would feel sorry to miss me there, " he said. 

At midnight Petit-Claud walked home with Lucien. As they reached thePlace du Murier, Lucien said, "Come life, come death, we are friends, my dear fellow. "

"My marriage contract, " said the lawyer, "with Mlle. Francoise de laHaye will be signed to-morrow at Mme. De Senonches' house; do me thepleasure of coming. Mme. De Senonches implored me to bring you, andyou will meet Mme. Du Chatelet; they are sure to tell her of yourspeech, and she will feel flattered by it. "

"I knew what I was about, " said Lucien. 

"Oh! you will save David. "

"I am sure I shall, " the poet replied. 

Just at that moment David appeared as if by magic in the Place duMurier. This was how it had come about. He felt that he was in arather difficult position; his wife insisted that Lucien must neithergo to David nor know of his hiding-place; and Lucien all the while waswriting the most affectionate letters, saying that in a few days' timeall should be set right; and even as Basine Clerget explained thereason why the band played, she put two letters into his hands. Thefirst was from Eve. 

 "DEAREST, " she wrote, "do as if Lucien were not here; do not trouble yourself in the least; our whole security depends upon the fact that your enemies cannot find you; get that idea firmly into your head. I have more confidence in Kolb and Marion and Basine than in my own brother; such is my misfortune. Alas! poor Lucien is not the ingenuous and tender-hearted poet whom we used to know; and it is simply because he is trying to interfere on your behalf, and because he imagines that he can discharge our debts (and this from pride, my David), that I am afraid of him. Some fine clothes have been sent from Paris for him, and five gold pieces in a pretty purse. He gave the money to me, and we are living on it. 

 "We have one enemy the less. Your father has gone, thanks to Petit-Claud. Petit-Claud unraveled his designs, and put an end to them at once by telling him that you would do nothing without consulting him, and that he (Petit-Claud) would not allow you to concede a single point in the matter of the invention until you had been promised an indemnity of thirty thousand francs; fifteen thousand to free you from embarrassment, and fifteen thousand more to be yours in any case, whether your invention succeeds or no. I cannot understand Petit-Claud. I embrace you, dear, a wife's kiss for her husband in trouble. Our little Lucien is well. How strange it is to watch him grow rosy and strong, like a flower, in these stormy days! Mother prays God for you now, as always, and sends love only less tender than mine. --Your "EVE. "

As a matter of fact, Petit-Claud and the Cointets had taken fright atold Sechard's peasant shrewdness, and got rid of him so much the moreeasily because it was now vintage time at Marsac. Eve's letterenclosed another from Lucien:--

 "MY DEAR DAVID, --Everything is going well. I am armed _cap-a-pie_; to-day I open the campaign, and in forty-eight hours I shall have made great progress. How glad I shall be to embrace you when you are free again and my debts are all paid! My mother and sister persist in mistrusting me; their suspicion wounds me to the quick. As if I did not know already that you are hiding with Basine, for every time that Basine comes to the house I hear news of you and receive answers to my letters; and besides, it is plain that my sister could not find any one else to trust. It hurts me cruelly to think that I shall be so near you to-day, and yet that you will not be present at this banquet in my honor. I owe my little triumph to the vainglory of Angouleme; in a few days it will be quite forgotten, and you alone would have taken a real pleasure in it. But, after all, in a little while you will pardon everything to one who counts it more than all the triumphs in the world to be your brother, "LUCIEN. "

Two forces tugged sharply at David's heart; he adored his wife; and ifhe held Lucien in somewhat less esteem, his friendship was scarcelydiminished. In solitude our feelings have unrestricted play; and a manpreoccupied like David, with all-absorbing thoughts, will give way toimpulses for which ordinary life would have provided a sufficientcounterpoise. As he read Lucien's letter to the sound of militarymusic, and heard of this unlooked-for recognition, he was deeplytouched by that expression of regret. He had known how it would be. Avery slight expression of feeling appeals irresistibly to a sensitivesoul, for they are apt to credit others with like depths. How shouldthe drop fall unless the cup were full to the brim?

So at midnight, in spite of all Basine's entreaties, David must go tosee Lucien. 

"Nobody will be out in the streets at this time of night, " he said; "Ishall not be seen, and they cannot arrest me. Even if I should meetpeople, I can make use of Kolb's way of going into hiding. Andbesides, it is so intolerably long since I saw my wife and child. "

The reasoning was plausible enough; Basine gave way, and David went. Petit-Claud was just taking leave as he came up and at his cry of_"Lucien!"_ the two brothers flung their arms about each other withtears in their eyes. 

Life holds not many moments such as these. Lucien's heart went out inresponse to this friendship for its own sake. There was never questionof debtor and creditor between them, and the offender met with noreproaches save his own. David, generous and noble that he was, waslonging to bestow pardon; he meant first of all to read Lucien alecture, and scatter the clouds that overspread the love of thebrother and sister; and with these ends in view, the lack of money andits consequent dangers disappeared entirely from his mind. 

"Go home, " said Petit-Claud, addressing his client; "take advantage ofyour imprudence to see your wife and child again, at any rate; and youmust not be seen, mind you!--How unlucky!" he added, when he was alonein the Place du Murier. "If only Cerizet were here----"

The buildings magniloquently styled the Angouleme Law Courts were thenin process of construction. Petit-Claud muttered these words tohimself as he passed by the hoardings, and heard a tap upon theboards, and a voice issuing from a crack between two planks. 

"Here I am, " said Cerizet; "I saw David coming out of L'Houmeau. I wasbeginning to have my suspicions about his retreat, and now I am sure;and I know where to have him. But I want to know something of Lucien'splans before I set the snare for David; and here are you sending himinto the house! Find some excuse for stopping here, at least, and whenDavid and Lucien come out, send them round this way; they will thinkthey are quite alone, and I shall overhear their good-bye. "

"You are a very devil, " muttered Petit-Claud. 

"Well, I'm blessed if a man wouldn't do anything for the thing youpromised me. "

Petit-Claud walked away from the hoarding, and paced up and down inthe Place du Murier; he watched the windows of the room where thefamily sat together, and thought of his own prospects to keep up hiscourage. Cerizet's cleverness had given him the chance of striking thefinal blow. Petit-Claud was a double-dealer of the profoundly cautiousstamp that is never caught by the bait of a present satisfaction, norentangled by a personal attachment, after his first initiation intothe strategy of self-seeking and the instability of the human heart. So, from the very first, he had put little trust in Cointet. Heforesaw that his marriage negotiations might very easily be brokenoff, saw also that in that case he could not accuse Cointet of badfaith, and he had taken his measures accordingly. But since hissuccess at the Hotel de Bargeton, Petit-Claud's game was above board. A certain under-plot of his was useless now, and even dangerous to aman with his political ambitions. He had laid the foundations of hisfuture importance in the following manner:--

Gannerac and a few of the wealthy men of business in L'Houmeau formeda sort of Liberal clique in constant communication (through commercialchannels) with the leaders of the Opposition. The Villele ministry, accepted by the dying Louis XVIII. , gave the signal for a change oftactics in the Opposition camp; for, since the death of Napoleon, theliberals had ceased to resort to the dangerous expedient ofconspiracy. They were busy organizing resistance by lawful meansthroughout the provinces, and aiming at securing control of the greatbulk of electors by convincing the masses. Petit-Claud, a rabidLiberal, and a man of L'Houmeau, was the instigator, the secretcounselor, and the very life of this movement in the lower town, whichgroaned under the tyranny of the aristocrats at the upper end. He wasthe first to see the danger of leaving the whole press of thedepartment in the control of the Cointets; the Opposition must haveits organ; it would not do to be behind other cities. 

"If each one of us gives Gannerac a bill for five hundred francs, hewould have some twenty thousand francs and more; we might buy upSechard's printing-office, and we could do as we liked with themaster-printer if we lent him the capital, " Petit-Claud had said. 

Others had taken up the idea, and in this way Petit-Claud strengthenedhis position with regard to David on the one side and the Cointets onthe other. Casting about him for a tool for his party, he naturallythought that a rogue of Cerizet's calibre was the very man for thepurpose. 

"If you can find Sechard's hiding-place and put him in our hands, somebody will lend you twenty thousand francs to buy his business, andvery likely there will be a newspaper to print. So, set about it, " hehad said. 

Petit-Claud put more faith in Cerizet's activity than in all theDoublons in existence; and then it was that he promised Cointet thatSechard should be arrested. But now that the little lawyer cherishedhopes of office, he saw that he must turn his back upon the Liberals;and, meanwhile, the amount for the printing-office had been subscribedin L'Houmeau. Petit-Claud decided to allow things to take theirnatural course. 

"Pooh!" he thought, "Cerizet will get into trouble with his paper, andgive me an opportunity of displaying my talents. "

He walked up to the door of the printing-office and spoke to Kolb, thesentinel. "Go up and warn David that he had better go now, " he said, "and take every precaution. I am going home; it is one o'clock. "

Marion came to take Kolb's place. Lucien and David came down togetherand went out, Kolb a hundred paces ahead of them, and Marion at thesame distance behind. The two friends walked past the hoarding, Lucientalking eagerly the while. 

"My plan is extremely simple, David; but how could I tell you about itwhile Eve was there? She would never understand. I am quite sure thatat the bottom of Louise's heart there is a feeling that I can rouse, and I should like to arouse it if it is only to avenge myself uponthat idiot the prefect. If our love affair only lasts for a week, Iwill contrive to send an application through her for the subvention oftwenty thousand francs for you. I am going to see her again to-morrowin the little boudoir where our old affair of the heart began;Petit-Claud says that the room is the same as ever; I shall play mypart in the comedy; and I will send word by Basine to-morrow morningto tell you whether the actor was hissed. You may be at liberty bythen, who knows?--Now do you understand how it was that I wantedclothes from Paris? One cannot act the lover's part in rags. "

At six o'clock that morning Cerizet went to Petit-Claud. 

"Doublon can be ready to take his man to-morrow at noon, I will answerfor it, " he said; "I know one of Mlle. Clerget's girls, do youunderstand?" Cerizet unfolded his plan, and Petit-Claud hurried tofind Cointet. 

"If M. Francis du Hautoy will settle his property on Francoise, youshall sign a deed of partnership with Sechard in two days. I shall notbe married for a week after the contract is signed, so we shall bothbe within the terms of our little agreement, tit for tat. To-night, however, we must keep a close watch over Lucien and Mme. La Comtessedu Chatelet, for the whole business lies in that. . . . If Lucienhopes to succeed through the Countess' influence, I have Davidsafe----"

"You will be Keeper of the Seals yet, it is my belief, " said Cointet. 

"And why not? No one objects to M. De Peyronnet, " said Petit-Claud. Hehad not altogether sloughed his skin of Liberalism. 

Mlle. De la Haye's ambiguous position brought most of the upper townto the signing of the marriage contract. The comparative poverty ofthe young couple and the absence of a _corbeille_ quickened the interestthat people love to exhibit; for it is with beneficence as withovations, we prefer the deeds of charity which gratify self-love. TheMarquise de Pimentel, the Comtesse du Chatelet, M. De Senonches, andone or two frequenters of the house had given Francoise a few weddingpresents, which made great talk in the city. These pretty trifles, together with the trousseau which Zephirine had been preparing for thepast twelve months, the godfather's jewels, and the usual weddinggifts, consoled Francoise and roused the curiosity of some mothers ofdaughters. 

Petit-Claud and Cointet had both remarked that their presence in theAngouleme Olympus was endured rather than courted. Cointet wasFrancoise's trustee and quasi-guardian; and if Petit-Claud was to signthe contract, Petit-Claud's presence was as necessary as theattendance of the man to be hanged at an execution; but though, oncemarried, Mme. Petit-Claud might keep her right of entry to hergodmother's house, Petit-Claud foresaw some difficulty on his ownaccount, and resolved to be beforehand with these haughty personages. 

He felt ashamed of his parents. He had sent his mother to stay atMansle; now he begged her to say that she was out of health and togive her consent in writing. So humiliating was it to be withoutrelations, protectors, or witnesses to his signature, that Petit-Claudthought himself in luck that he could bring a presentable friend atthe Countess' request. He called to take up Lucien, and they drove tothe Hotel de Bargeton. 

On that memorable evening the poet dressed to outshine every manpresent. Mme. De Senonches had spoken of him as the hero of the hour, and a first interview between two estranged lovers is the kind ofscene that provincials particularly love. Lucien had come to be thelion of the evening; he was said to be so handsome, so much changed, so wonderful, that every well-born woman in Angouleme was curious tosee him again. Following the fashion of the transition period betweenthe eighteenth century small clothes and the vulgar costume of thepresent day, he wore tight-fitting black trousers. Men still showedtheir figures in those days, to the utter despair of lean, clumsily-made mortals; and Lucien was an Apollo. The open-work graysilk stockings, the neat shoes, and the black satin waistcoat werescrupulously drawn over his person, and seemed to cling to him. Hisforehead looked the whiter by contrast with the thick, bright curlsthat rose above it with studied grace. The proud eyes were radiant. The hands, small as a woman's, never showed to better advantage thanwhen gloved. He had modeled himself upon de Marsay, the famousParisian dandy, holding his hat and cane in one hand, and keeping theother free for the very occasional gestures which illustrated histalk. 

Lucien had quite intended to emulate the famous false modesty of thosewho bend their heads to pass beneath the Porte Saint-Denis, and toslip unobserved into the room; but Petit-Claud, having but one friend, made him useful. He brought Lucien almost pompously through a crowdedroom to Mme. De Senonches. The poet heard a murmur as he passed; notso very long ago that hum of voices would have turned his head, to-dayhe was quite different; he did not doubt that he himself was greaterthan the whole Olympus put together. 

"Madame, " he said, addressing Mme. De Senonches, "I have alreadycongratulated my friend Petit-Claud (a man with the stuff in him ofwhich Keepers of the Seals are made) on the honor of his approachingconnection with you, slight as are the ties between godmother andgoddaughter----" (this with the air of a man uttering an epigram, byno means lost upon any woman in the room, for every woman waslistening without appearing to do so. ) "And as for myself, " hecontinued, "I am delighted to have the opportunity of paying my homageto you. "

He spoke easily and fluently, as some great lord might speak under theroof of his inferiors; and as he listened to Zephirine's involvedreply, he cast a glance over the room to consider the effect that hewished to make. The pause gave him time to discover Francis du Hautoyand the prefect; to bow gracefully to each with the proper shade ofdifference in his smile, and, finally, to approach Mme. Du Chatelet asif he had just caught sight of her. That meeting was the real event ofthe evening. No one so much as thought of the marriage contract lyingin the adjoining bedroom, whither Francoise and the notary led guestafter guest to sign the document. Lucien made a step towards Louise deNegrepelisse, and then spoke with that grace of manner now associated, for her, with memories of Paris. 

"Do I owe to you, madame, the pleasure of an invitation to dine at thePrefecture the day after to-morrow?" he said. 

"You owe it solely to your fame, monsieur, " Louise answered drily, somewhat taken aback by the turn of a phrase by which Luciendeliberately tried to wound her pride. 

"Ah! Madame la Comtesse, I cannot bring you the guest if the man is indisgrace, " said Lucien, and, without waiting for an answer, he turnedand greeted the Bishop with stately grace. 

"Your lordship's prophecy has been partially fulfilled, " he said, andthere was a winning charm in his tones; "I will endeavor to fulfil itto the letter. I consider myself very fortunate since this eveningbrings me an opportunity of paying my respects to you. "

Lucien drew the Bishop into a conversation that lasted for tenminutes. The women looked on Lucien as a phenomenon. His unexpectedinsolence had struck Mme. Du Chatelet dumb; she could not find ananswer. Looking round the room, she saw that every woman admiredLucien; she watched group after group repeating the phrases by whichLucien crushed her with seeming disdain, and her heart contracted witha spasm of mortification. 

"Suppose that he should not come to the Prefecture after this, whattalk there would be!" she thought. "Where did he learn this pride? CanMlle. Des Touches have taken a fancy for him? . . . He is so handsome. They say that she hurried to see him in Paris the day after thatactress died. . . . Perhaps he has come to the rescue of hisbrother-in-law, and happened to be behind our caleche at Mansle byaccident. Lucien looked at us very strangely that morning. "

A crowd of thoughts crossed Louise's brain, and unluckily for her, shecontinued to ponder visibly as she watched Lucien. He was talking withthe Bishop as if he were the king of the room; making no effort tofind any one out, waiting till others came to him, looking round abouthim with varying expression, and as much at his ease as his model deMarsay. M. De Senonches appeared at no great distance, but Lucienstill stood beside the prelate. 

At the end of ten minutes Louise could contain herself no longer. Sherose and went over to the Bishop and said:

"What is being said, my lord, that you smile so often?"

Lucien drew back discreetly, and left Mme. Du Chatelet with hislordship. 

"Ah! Mme. La Comtesse, what a clever young fellow he is! He wasexplaining to me that he owed all he is to you----"

"_I_ am not ungrateful, madame, " said Lucien, with a reproachfulglance that charmed the Countess. 

"Let us have an understanding, " she said, beckoning him with her fan. "Come into the boudoir. My Lord Bishop, you shall judge between us. "

"She has found a funny task for his lordship, " said one of theChandour camp, sufficiently audibly. 

"Judge between us!" repeated Lucien, looking from the prelate to thelady; "then, is one of us in fault?"

Louise de Negrepelisse sat down on the sofa in the familiar boudoir. She made the Bishop sit on one side and Lucien on the other, then shebegan to speak. But Lucien, to the joy and surprise of his old love, honored her with inattention; her words fell unheeded on his ears; hesat like Pasta in _Tancredi_, with the words _O patria!_ upon her lips, the music of the great cavatina _Dell Rizzo_ might have passed into hisface. Indeed, Coralie's pupil had contrived to bring the tears to hiseyes. 

"Oh! Louise, how I loved you!" he murmured, careless of the Bishop'spresence, heedless of the conversation, as soon as he knew that theCountess had seen the tears. 

"Dry your eyes, or you will ruin me here a second time, " she said inan aside that horrified the prelate. 

"And once is enough, " was Lucien's quick retort. "That speech fromMme. D'Espard's cousin would dry the eyes of a weeping Magdalene. Ohme! for a little moment old memories, and lost illusions, and mytwentieth year came back to me, and you have----"

His lordship hastily retreated to the drawing-room at this; it seemedto him that his dignity was like to be compromised by this sentimentalpair. Every one ostentatiously refrained from interrupting them, and aquarter of an hour went by; till at last Sixte du Chatelet, vexed bythe laughter and talk, and excursions to the boudoir door, went inwith a countenance distinctly overclouded, and found Louise and Lucientalking excitedly. 

"Madame, " said Sixte in his wife's ear, "you know Angouleme betterthan I do, and surely you should think of your position as Mme. LaPrefete and of the Government?"

"My dear, " said Louise, scanning her responsible editor with ahaughtiness that made him quake, "I am talking with M. De Rubempre ofmatters which interest you. It is a question of rescuing an inventorabout to fall a victim to the basest machinations; you will help us. As to those ladies yonder, and their opinion of me, you shall see howI will freeze the venom of their tongues. "

She came out of the boudoir on Lucien's arm, and drew him across tosign the contract with a great lady's audacity. 

"Write your name after mine, " she said, handing him the pen. AndLucien submissively signed in the place indicated beneath her name. 

"M. De Senonches, would you have recognized M. De Rubempre?" shecontinued, and the insolent sportsman was compelled to greet Lucien. 

She returned to the drawing-room on Lucien's arm, and seated him onthe awe-inspiring central sofa between herself and Zephirine. There, enthroned like a queen, she began, at first in a low voice, aconversation in which epigram evidently was not wanting. Some of herold friends, and several women who paid court to her, came to join thegroup, and Lucien soon became the hero of the circle. The Countessdrew him out on the subject of life in Paris; his satirical talkflowed with spontaneous and incredible spirit; he told anecdotes ofcelebrities, those conversational luxuries which the provincialdevours with such avidity. His wit was as much admired as his goodlooks. And Mme. La Comtesse Sixte du Chatelet, preparing Lucien'striumph so patiently, sat like a player enraptured with the sound ofhis instrument; she gave him opportunities for a reply; she lookedround the circle for applause so openly, that not a few of the womenbegan to think that their return together was something more than acoincidence, and that Lucien and Louise, loving with all their hearts, had been separated by a double treason. Pique, very likely, hadbrought about this ill-starred match with Chatelet. And a reaction setin against the prefect. 

Before the Countess rose to go at one o'clock in the morning, sheturned to Lucien and said in a low voice, "Do me the pleasure ofcoming punctually to-morrow evening. " Then, with the friendliestlittle nod, she went, saying a few words to Chatelet, who was lookingfor his hat. 

"If Mme. Du Chatelet has given me a correct idea of the state ofaffairs, count on me, my dear Lucien, " said the prefect, preparing tohurry after his wife. She was going away without him, after the Parisfashion. "Your brother-in-law may consider that his troubles are at anend, " he added as he went. 

"M. Le Comte surely owes me so much, " smiled Lucien. 

Cointet and Petit-Claud heard these farewell speeches. 

"Well, well, we are done for now, " Cointet muttered in hisconfederate's ear. Petit-Claud, thunderstruck by Lucien's success, amazed by his brilliant wit and varying charm, was gazing at Francoisede la Haye; the girl's whole face was full of admiration for Lucien. "Be like your friend, " she seemed to say to her betrothed. A gleam ofjoy flitted over Petit-Claud's countenance. 

"We still have a whole day before the prefect's dinner; I will answerfor everything. "

An hour later, as Petit-Claud and Lucien walked home together, Lucientalked of his success. "Well, my dear fellow, I came, I saw, Iconquered! Sechard will be very happy in a few hours' time. "

"Just what I wanted to know, " thought Petit-Claud. Aloud he said--"Ithought you were simply a poet, Lucien, but you are a Lauzun too, thatis to say--twice a poet, " and they shook hands--for the last time, asit proved. 

"Good news, dear Eve, " said Lucien, waking his sister, "David willhave no debts in less than a month!"

"How is that?"

"Well, my Louise is still hidden by Mme. Du Chatelet's petticoat. Sheloves me more than ever; she will send a favorable report of ourdiscovery to the Minister of the Interior through her husband. So wehave only to endure our troubles for one month, while I avenge myselfon the prefect and complete the happiness of his married life. "

Eve listened, and thought that she must be dreaming. 

"I saw the little gray drawing-room where I trembled like a child twoyears ago; it seemed as if scales fell from my eyes when I saw thefurniture and the pictures and the faces again. How Paris changesone's ideas!"

"Is that a good thing?" asked Eve, at last beginning to understand. 

"Come, come; you are still asleep. We will talk about it to-morrowafter breakfast. "

Cerizet's plot was exceedingly simple, a commonplace stratagemfamiliar to the provincial bailiff. Its success entirely depends uponcircumstances, and in this case it was certain, so intimate wasCerizet's knowledge of the characters and hopes of those concerned. Cerizet had been a kind of Don Juan among the young work-girls, rulinghis victims by playing one off against another. Since he had been theCointet's extra foreman, he had singled out one of Basine Clerget'sassistants, a girl almost as handsome as Mme. Sechard. HenrietteSignol's parents owned a small vineyard two leagues out of Angouleme, on the road to Saintes. The Signols, like everybody else in thecountry, could not afford to keep their only child at home; so theymeant her to go out to service, in country phrase. The art ofclear-starching is a part of every country housemaid's training; andso great was Mme. Prieur's reputation, that the Signols sent Henrietteto her as apprentice, and paid for their daughter's board and lodging. 

Mme. Prieur was one of the old-fashioned mistresses, who consider thatthey fill a parent's place towards their apprentices. They were partof the family; she took them with her to church, and lookedscrupulously after them. Henriette Signol was a tall, fine-lookinggirl, with bold eyes, and long, thick, dark hair, and the pale, veryfair complexion of girls in the South--white as a magnolia flower. Forwhich reasons Henriette was one of the first on whom Cerizet cast hiseyes; but Henriette came of "honest farmer folk, " and only yielded atlast to jealousy, to bad example, and the treacherous promise ofsubsequent marriage. By this time Cerizet was the Cointet's foreman. When he learned that the Signols owned a vineyard worth some ten ortwelve thousand francs, and a tolerably comfortable cottage, hehastened to make it impossible for Henriette to marry any one else. Affairs had reached this point when Petit-Claud held out the prospectof a printing office and twenty thousand francs of borrowed capital, which was to prove a yoke upon the borrower's neck. Cerizet wasdazzled, the offer turned his head; Henriette Signol was now only anobstacle in the way of his ambitions, and he neglected the poor girl. Henriette, in her despair, clung more closely to her seducer as hetried to shake her off. When Cerizet began to suspect that David washiding in Basine's house, his views with regard to Henriette underwentanother change, though he treated her as before. A kind of frenzyworks in a girl's brain when she must marry her seducer to conceal herdishonor, and Cerizet was on the watch to turn this madness to his ownaccount. 

During the morning of the day when Lucien had set himself to reconquerhis Louise, Cerizet told Basine's secret to Henriette, giving her tounderstand at the same time that their marriage and future prospectsdepended upon the discovery of David's hiding-place. Thus instructed, Henriette easily made certain of the fact that David was in BasineClerget's inner room. It never occurred to the girl that she was doingwrong to act the spy, and Cerizet involved her in the guilt ofbetrayal by this first step. 

Lucien was still sleeping while Cerizet, closeted with Petit-Claud, heard the history of the important trifles with which all Angoulemepresently would ring. 

The Cointets' foreman gave a satisfied nod as Petit-Claud came to anend. "Lucien surely has written you a line since he came back, has henot?" he asked. 

"This is all that I have, " answered the lawyer, and he held out a noteon Mme. Sechard's writing-paper. 

"Very well, " said Cerizet, "let Doublon be in wait at the Palet Gateabout ten minutes before sunset; tell him to post his gendarmes, andyou shall have our man. "

"Are you sure of _your_ part of the business?" asked Petit-Claud, scanning Cerizet. 

"I rely on chance, " said the ex-street boy, "and she is a saucy huzzy;she does not like honest folk. 

"You must succeed, " said Cerizet. "You have pushed me into this dirtybusiness; you may as well let me have a few banknotes to wipe off thestains. "--Then detecting a look that he did not like in the attorney'sface, he continued, with a deadly glance, "If you have cheated me, sir, if you don't buy the printing-office for me within a week--youwill leave a young widow;" he lowered his voice. 

"If we have David on the jail register at six o'clock, come round toM. Gannerac's at nine, and we will settle your business, " saidPetit-Claud peremptorily. 

"Agreed. Your will shall be done, governor, " said Cerizet. 

Cerizet understood the art of washing paper, a dangerous art for theTreasury. He washed out Lucien's four lines and replaced them, imitating the handwriting with a dexterity which augured ill for hisown future:--

 "MY DEAR DAVID, --Your business is settled; you need not fear to go to the prefect. You can go out at sunset. I will come to meet you and tell you what to do at the prefecture. --Your brother, "LUCIEN. "

At noon Lucien wrote to David, telling him of his evening's success. The prefect would be sure to lend his influence, he said; he was fullof enthusiasm over the invention, and was drawing up a report thatvery day to send to the Government. Marion carried the letter toBasine, taking some of Lucien's linen to the laundry as a pretext forthe errand. 

Petit-Claud had told Cerizet that a letter would in all probability besent. Cerizet called for Mlle. Signol, and the two walked by theCharente. Henriette's integrity must have held out for a long while, for the walk lasted for two hours. A whole future of happiness andease and the interests of a child were at stake, and Cerizet asked amere trifle of her. He was very careful besides to say nothing of theconsequences of that trifle. She was only to carry a letter and amessage, that was all; but it was the greatness of the reward for thetrifling service that frightened Henriette. Nevertheless, Cerizetgained her consent at last; she would help him in his stratagem. 

At five o'clock Henriette must go out and come in again, tellingBasine Clerget that Mme. Sechard wanted to speak to her at once. Fifteen minutes after Basine's departure she must go upstairs, knockat the door of the inner room, and give David the forged note. Thatwas all. Cerizet looked to chance to manage the rest. 

For the first time in twelve months, Eve felt the iron grasp ofnecessity relax a little. She began at last to hope. She, too, wouldenjoy her brother's visit; she would show herself abroad on the arm ofa man feted in his native town, adored by the women, beloved by theproud Comtesse du Chatelet. She dressed herself prettily, and proposedto walk out after dinner with her brother to Beaulieu. In Septemberall Angouleme comes out at that hour to breathe the fresh air. 

"Oh! that is the beautiful Mme. Sechard, " voices said here and there. 

"I should never have believed it of her, " said a woman. 

"The husband is in hiding, and the wife walks abroad, " said Mme. Postel for young Mme. Sechard's benefit. 

"Oh, let us go home, " said poor Eve; "I have made a mistake. "

A few minutes before sunset, the sound of a crowd rose from the stepsthat lead down to L'Houmeau. Apparently some crime had been committed, for persons coming from L'Houmeau were talking among themselves. Curiosity drew Lucien and Eve towards the steps. 

"A thief has just been arrested no doubt, the man looks as pale asdeath, " one of these passers-by said to the brother and sister. Thecrowd grew larger. 

Lucien and Eve watched a group of some thirty children, old women andmen, returning from work, clustering about the gendarmes, whosegold-laced caps gleamed above the heads of the rest. About a hundredpersons followed the procession, the crowd gathering like a stormcloud. 

"Oh! it is my husband!" Eve cried out. 

_"David!"_ exclaimed Lucien. 

"It is his wife, " said voices, and the crowd made way. 

"What made you come out?" asked Lucien. 

"Your letter, " said David, haggard and white. 

"I knew it!" said Eve, and she fainted away. Lucien raised his sister, and with the help of two strangers he carried her home; Marion laidher in bed, and Kolb rushed off for a doctor. Eve was still insensiblewhen the doctor arrived; and Lucien was obliged to confess to hismother that he was the cause of David's arrest; for he, of course, knew nothing of the forged letter and Cerizet's stratagem. Then hewent up to his room and locked himself in, struck dumb by themalediction in his mother's eyes. 

In the dead of night he wrote one more letter amid constantinterruptions; the reader can divine the agony of the writer's mindfrom those phrases, jerked out, as it were, one by one:--

 "MY BELOVED SISTER, --We have seen each other for the last time. My resolution is final, and for this reason. In many families there is one unlucky member, a kind of disease in their midst. I am that unlucky one in our family. The observation is not mine; it was made at a friendly supper one evening at the _Rocher de Cancale_ by a diplomate who has seen a great deal of the world. While we laughed and joked, he explained the reason why some young lady or some other remained unmarried, to the astonishment of the world --it was 'a touch of her father, ' he said, and with that he unfolded his theory of inherited weaknesses. He told us how such and such a family would have flourished but for the mother; how it was that a son had ruined his father, or a father had stripped his children of prospects and respectability. It was said laughingly, but we thought of so many cases in point in ten minutes that I was struck with the theory. The amount of truth in it furnished all sorts of wild paradoxes, which journalists maintain cleverly enough for their own amusement when there is nobody else at hand to mystify. I bring bad luck to our family. My heart is full of love for you, yet I behave like an enemy. The blow dealt unintentionally is the cruelest blow of all. While I was leading a bohemian life in Paris, a life made up of pleasure and misery; taking good fellowship for friendship, forsaking my true friends for those who wished to exploit me, and succeeded; forgetful of you, or remembering you only to cause you trouble, --all that while you were walking in the humble path of hard work, making your way slowly but surely to the fortune which I tried so madly to snatch. While you grew better, I grew worse; a fatal element entered into my life through my own choice. Yes, unbounded ambition makes an obscure existence simply impossible for me. I have tastes and remembrances of past pleasures that poison the enjoyments within my reach; once I should have been satisfied with them, now it is too late. Oh, dear Eve, no one can think more hardly of me than I do myself; my condemnation is absolute and pitiless. The struggle in Paris demands steady effort; my will power is spasmodic, my brain works intermittently. The future is so appalling that I do not care to face it, and the present is intolerable. 

 "I wanted to see you again. I should have done better to stay in exile all my days. But exile without means of subsistence would be madness; I will not add another folly to the rest. Death is better than a maimed life; I cannot think of myself in any position in which my overweening vanity would not lead me into folly. 

 "Some human beings are like the figure 0, another must be put before it, and they acquire ten times their value. I am nothing unless a strong inexorable will is wedded to mine. Mme. De Bargeton was in truth my wife; when I refused to leave Coralie for her I spoiled my life. You and David might have been excellent pilots for me, but you are not strong enough to tame my weakness, which in some sort eludes control. I like an easy life, a life without cares; to clear an obstacle out of my way I can descend to baseness that sticks at nothing. I was born a prince. I have more than the requisite intellectual dexterity for success, but only by moments; and the prizes of a career so crowded by ambitious competitors are to those who expend no more than the necessary strength, and retain a sufficient reserve when they reach the goal. 

 "I shall do harm again with the best intentions in the world. Some men are like oaks, I am a delicate shrub it may be, and I forsooth, must needs aspire to be a forest cedar. 

 "There you have my bankrupt's schedule. The disproportion between my powers and my desires, my want of balance, in short, will bring all my efforts to nothing. There are many such characters among men of letters, many men whose intellectual powers and character are always at variance, who will one thing and wish another. What would become of me? I can see it all beforehand, as I think of this and that great light that once shone on Paris, now utterly forgotten. On the threshold of old age I shall be a man older than my age, needy and without a name. My whole soul rises up against the thought of such a close; I will not be a social rag. Ah, dear sister, loved and worshiped at least as much for your severity at the last as for your tenderness at the first--if we have paid so dear for my joy at seeing you all once more, you and David may perhaps some day think that you could grudge no price however high for a little last happiness for an unhappy creature who loved you. Do not try to find me, Eve; do not seek to know what becomes of me. My intellect for once shall be backed by my will. Renunciation, my angel, is daily death of self; my renunciation will only last for one day; I will take advantage now of that day. . . . 

 "_Two o'clock_. 

 "Yes, I have quite made up my mind. Farewell for ever, dear Eve. There is something sweet in the thought that I shall live only in your hearts henceforth, and I wish no other burying place. Once more, farewell. . . . That is the last word from your brother

 "LUCIEN. "

Lucien read the letter over, crept noiselessly down stairs, and leftit in the child's cradle; amid falling tears he set a last kiss on theforehead of his sleeping sister; then he went out. He put out hiscandle in the gray dusk, took a last look at the old house, stolesoftly along the passage, and opened the street door; but in spite ofhis caution, he awakened Kolb, who slept on a mattress on the workshopfloor. 

"Who goes there?" cried Kolb. 

"It is I, Lucien; I am going away, Kolb. "

"You vould haf done better gif you at nefer kom, " Kolb mutteredaudibly. 

"I should have done better still if I had never come into the world, "Lucien answered. "Good-bye, Kolb; I don't bear you any grudge forthinking as I think myself. Tell David that I was sorry I could notbid him good-bye, and say that this was my last thought. "

By the time the Alsacien was up and dressed, Lucien had shut the housedoor, and was on his way towards the Charente by the Promenade deBeaulieu. He might have been going to a festival, for he had put onhis new clothes from Paris and his dandy's trinkets for a drowningshroud. Something in Lucien's tone had struck Kolb. At first the manthought of going to ask his mistress whether she knew that her brotherhad left the house; but as the deepest silence prevailed, he concludedthat the departure had been arranged beforehand, and lay down againand slept. 

Little, considering the gravity of the question, has been written onthe subject of suicide; it has not been studied. Perhaps it is adisease that cannot be observed. Suicide is one effect of a sentimentwhich we will call self-esteem, if you will, to prevent confusion byusing the word "honor. " When a man despises himself, and sees thatothers despise him, when real life fails to fulfil his hopes, thencomes the moment when he takes his life, and thereby does homage tosociety--shorn of his virtues or his splendor, he does not care toface his fellows. Among atheists--Christians being without thequestion of suicide--among atheists, whatever may be said to thecontrary, none but a base coward can take up a dishonored life. 

There are three kinds of suicide--the first is only the last and acutestage of a long illness, and this kind belongs distinctly topathology; the second is the suicide of despair; and the third thesuicide based on logical argument. Despair and deductive reasoning hadbrought Lucien to this pass, but both varieties are curable; it isonly the pathological suicide that is inevitable. Not infrequently youfind all three causes combined, as in the case of Jean-JacquesRousseau. 

Lucien having made up his mind fell to considering methods. The poetwould fain die as became a poet. At first he thought of throwinghimself into the Charente and making an end then and there; but as hecame down the steps from Beaulieu for the last time, he heard thewhole town talking of his suicide; he saw the horrid sight of adrowned dead body, and thought of the recognition and the inquest;and, like some other suicides, felt that vanity reached beyond death. 

He remembered the day spent at Courtois' mill, and his thoughtsreturned to the round pool among the willows that he saw as he camealong by the little river, such a pool as you often find on smallstreams, with a still, smooth surface that conceals great depthsbeneath. The water is neither green nor blue nor white nor tawny; itis like a polished steel mirror. No sword-grass grows about themargin; there are no blue water forget-me-nots, nor broad lily leaves;the grass at the brim is short and thick, and the weeping willows thatdroop over the edge grow picturesquely enough. It is easy to imagine asheer precipice beneath filled with water to the brim. Any man whoshould have the courage to fill his pockets with pebbles would notfail to find death, and never be seen thereafter. 

At the time while he admired the lovely miniature of a landscape, thepoet had thought to himself, "'Tis a spot to make your mouth waterfor a _noyade_. "

He thought of it now as he went down into L'Houmeau; and when he tookhis way towards Marsac, with the last sombre thoughts gnawing at hisheart, it was with the firm resolve to hide his death. There should beno inquest held over him, he would not be laid in earth; no one shouldsee him in the hideous condition of the corpse that floats on thesurface of the water. Before long he reached one of the slopes, commonenough on all French highroads, and commonest of all between Angoulemeand Poitiers. He saw the coach from Bordeaux to Paris coming up atfull speed behind him, and knew that the passengers would probablyalight to walk up the hill. He did not care to be seen just then. Turning off sharply into a beaten track, he began to pick the flowersin a vineyard hard by. 

When Lucien came back to the road with a great bunch of the yellowstone-crop which grows everywhere upon the stony soil of thevineyards, he came out upon a traveler dressed in black from head tofoot. The stranger wore powder, there were silver buckles on his shoesof Orleans leather, and his brown face was scarred and seamed as if hehad fallen into the fire in infancy. The traveler, so obviouslyclerical in his dress, was walking slowly and smoking a cigar. Heturned as Lucien jumped down from the vineyard into the road. The deepmelancholy on the handsome young face, the poet's symbolical flowers, and his elegant dress seemed to strike the stranger. He looked atLucien with something of the expression of a hunter that has found hisquarry at last after long and fruitless search. He allowed Lucien tocome alongside in nautical phrase; then he slackened his pace, andappeared to look along the road up the hill; Lucien, following thedirection of his eyes, saw a light traveling carriage with two horses, and a post-boy standing beside it. 

"You have allowed the coach to pass you, monsieur; you will lose yourplace unless you care to take a seat in my caleche and overtake themail, for it is rather quicker traveling post than by the publicconveyance. " The traveler spoke with extreme politeness and a verymarked Spanish accent. 

Without waiting for an answer, he drew a cigar-case from his pocket, opened it, and held it out to Lucien. 

"I am not on a journey, " said Lucien, "and I am too near the end of mystage to indulge in the pleasure of smoking----"

"You are very severe with yourself, " returned the Spaniard. "Though Iam a canon of the cathedral of Toledo, I occasionally smoke acigarette. God gave us tobacco to allay our passions and our pains. You seem to be downcast, or at any rate, you carry the symbolicalflower of sorrow in your hand, like the rueful god Hymen. Come! allyour troubles will vanish away with the smoke, " and again theecclesiastic held out his little straw case; there was somethingfascinating in his manner, and kindliness towards Lucien lighted uphis eyes. 

"Forgive me, father" Lucien answered stiffly; "there is no cigar thatcan scatter my troubles. " Tears came to his eyes at the words. 

"It must surely be Divine Providence that prompted me to take a littleexercise to shake off a traveler's morning drowsiness, " said thechurchman. "A divine prompting to fulfil my mission here on earth byconsoling you. --What great trouble can you have at your age?"

"Your consolations, father, can do nothing for me. You are a Spaniard, I am a Frenchman; you believe in the commandments of the Church, I aman atheist. "

"_Santa Virgen del Pilar_! you are an atheist!" cried the other, layinga hand on Lucien's arm with maternal solicitude. "Ah! here is one ofthe curious things I promised myself to see in Paris. We, in Spain, donot believe in atheists. There is no country but France where one canhave such opinions at nineteen years. "

"Oh! I am an atheist in the fullest sense of the word. I have nobelief in God, in society, in happiness. Take a good look at me, father; for in a few hours' time life will be over for me. My last sunhas risen, " said Lucien; with a sort of rhetorical effect he waved hishand towards the sky. 

"How so; what have you done that you must die? Who has condemned youto die?"

"A tribunal from which there is no appeal--I myself. "

"You, child!" cried the priest. "Have you killed a man? Is thescaffold waiting for you? Let us reason together a little. If you areresolved, as you say, to return to nothingness, everything on earth isindifferent to you, is it not?"

Lucien bowed assent. 

"Very well, then; can you not tell me about your troubles? Some littleaffair of the heart has taken a bad turn, no doubt?"

Lucien shrugged his shoulders very significantly. 

"Are you resolved to kill yourself to escape dishonor, or do youdespair of life? Very good. You can kill yourself at Poitiers quite aseasily as at Angouleme, and at Tours it will be no harder than atPoitiers. The quicksands of the Loire never give up their prey----"

"No, father, " said Lucien; "I have settled it all. Not three weeks agoI chanced upon the most charming raft that can ferry a man sick andtired of this life into the other world----"

"The other world? You are not an atheist. "

"Oh! by another world I mean my next transformation, animal or plant. "

"Have you some incurable disease?"

"Yes, father. "

"Ah! now we come to the point. What is it?"

"Poverty. "

The priest looked at Lucien. "The diamond does not know its ownvalue, " he said, and there was an inexpressible charm, and a touch ofsomething like irony in his smile. 

"None but a priest could flatter a poor man about to die, " exclaimedLucien. 

"You are not going to die, " the Spaniard returned authoritatively. 

"I have heard many times of men that were robbed on the highroad, butI have never yet heard of one that found a fortune there, " saidLucien. 

"You will hear of one now, " said the priest, glancing towards thecarriage to measure the time still left for their walk together. "Listen to me, " he continued, with his cigar between his teeth; "ifyou are poor, that is no reason why you should die. I need asecretary, for mine has just died at Barcelona. I am in the sameposition as the famous Baron Goertz, minister of Charles XII. He wastraveling toward Sweden (just as I am going to Paris), and in somelittle town or other he chanced upon the son of a goldsmith, a youngman of remarkable good looks, though they could scarcely equal yours. . . . Baron Goertz discerned intelligence in the young man (just as Isee poetry on your brow); he took him into his traveling carriage, asI shall take you very shortly; and of a boy condemned to spend hisdays in burnishing spoons and forks and making trinkets in some littletown like Angouleme, he made a favorite, as you shall be mine. 

"Arrived at Stockholm, he installed his secretary and overwhelmed himwith work. The young man spent his nights in writing, and, like allgreat workers, he contracted a bad habit, a trick--he took to chewingpaper. The late M. De Malesherbes use to rap people over the knuckles;and he did this once, by the by, to somebody or other whose suitdepended upon him. The handsome young secretary began by chewing blankpaper, found it insipid for a while, and acquired a taste formanuscript as having more flavor. People did not smoke as yet in thosedays. At last, from flavor to flavor, he began to chew parchment andswallow it. Now, at that time a treaty was being negotiated betweenRussia and Sweden. The States-General insisted that Charles XII. Should make peace (much as they tried in France to make Napoleon treatfor peace in 1814) and the basis of these negotiations was the treatybetween the two powers with regard to Finland. Goertz gave theoriginal into his secretary's keeping; but when the time came forlaying the draft before the States-General, a trifling difficultyarose; the treaty was not to be found. The States-General believedthat the Minister, pandering to the King's wishes, had taken it intohis head to get rid of the document. Baron Goertz was, in fact, accused of this, and the secretary owned that he had eaten the treaty. He was tried and convicted and condemned to death. --But you have notcome to that yet, so take a cigar and smoke till we reach thecaleche. "

Lucien took a cigar and lit it, Spanish fashion, at the priest'scigar. "He is right, " he thought; "I can take my life at any time. "

"It often happens that a young man's fortunes take a turn when despairis darkest, " the Spaniard continued. "That is what I wished to tellyou, but I preferred to prove it by a case in point. Here was thehandsome young secretary lying under sentence of death, and his casethe more desperate because, as he had been condemned by theStates-General, the King could not pardon him, but he connived at hisescape. The secretary stole away in a fishing-boat with a few crownsin his pocket, and reached the court of Courland with a letter ofintroduction from Goertz, explaining his secretary's adventures andhis craze for paper. The Duke of Courland was a spendthrift; he had asteward and a pretty wife--three several causes of ruin. He placed thecharming young stranger with his steward. 

"If you can imagine that the sometime secretary had been cured of hisdepraved taste by a sentence of death, you do not know the grip that aman's failings have upon him; let a man discover some satisfaction forhimself, and the headsman will not keep him from it. --How is it thatthe vice has this power? Is it inherent strength in the vice, orinherent weakness in human nature? Are there certain tastes thatshould be regarded as verging on insanity? For myself, I cannot helplaughing at the moralists who try to expel such diseases by finephrases. --Well, it so fell out that the steward refused a demand formoney; and the Duke taking fright at this, called for an audit. Sheerimbecility! Nothing easier than to make out a balance-sheet; thedifficulty never lies there. The steward gave his secretary all thenecessary documents for compiling a schedule of the civil list ofCourland. He had nearly finished it when, in the dead of night, theunhappy paper-eater discovered that he was chewing up one of theDuke's discharges for a considerable sum. He had eaten half thesignature! Horror seized upon him; he fled to the Duchess, flunghimself at her feet, told her of his craze, and implored the aid ofhis sovereign lady, implored her in the middle of the night. Thehandsome young face made such an impression on the Duchess that shemarried him as soon as she was left a widow. And so in the mid-eighteenth century, in a land where the king-at-arms is king, thegoldsmith's son became a prince, and something more. On the death ofCatherine I. He was regent; he ruled the Empress Anne, and tried to bethe Richelieu of Russia. Very well, young man; now know this--if youare handsomer than Biron, I, simple canon that I am, am worth morethan a Baron Goertz. So get in; we will find a duchy of Courland foryou in Paris, or failing the duchy, we shall certainly find theduchess. "

The Spanish priest laid a hand on Lucien's arm, and literally forcedhim into the traveling carriage. The postilion shut the door. 

"Now speak; I am listening, " said the canon of Toledo, to Lucien'sbewilderment. "I am an old priest; you can tell me everything, thereis nothing to fear. So far we have only run through our patrimony orsquandered mamma's money. We have made a flitting from our creditors, and we are honor personified down to the tips of our elegant littleboots. . . . Come, confess, boldly; it will be just as if you weretalking to yourself. "

Lucien felt like that hero of an Eastern tale, the fisher who tried todrown himself in mid-ocean, and sank down to find himself a king ofcountries under the sea. The Spanish priest seemed so reallyaffectionate, that the poet hesitated no longer; between Angouleme andRuffec he told the story of his whole life, omitting none of hismisdeeds, and ended with the final catastrophe which he had broughtabout. The tale only gained in poetic charm because this was the thirdtime he had told it in the past fortnight. Just as he made an end theypassed the house of the Rastignac family. 

"Young Rastignac left that place for Paris, " said Lucien; "he iscertainly not my equal, but he has had better luck. "

The Spaniard started at the name. "Oh!" he said. 

"Yes. That shy little place belongs to his father. As I was tellingyou just now, he was the lover of Mme. De Nucingen, the famousbanker's wife. I drifted into poetry; he was cleverer, he took thepractical side. "

The priest stopped the caleche; and was so far curious as to walk downthe little avenue that led to the house, showing more interest in theplace than Lucien expected from a Spanish ecclesiastic. 

"Then, do you know the Rastignacs?" asked Lucien. 

"I know every one in Paris, " said the Spaniard, taking his place againin the carriage. "And so for want of ten or twelve thousand francs, you were about to take your life; you are a child, you know neithermen nor things. A man's future is worth the value that he chooses toset upon it, and you value yours at twelve thousand francs! Well, Iwill give more than that for you any time. As for yourbrother-in-law's imprisonment, it is the merest trifle. If this dearM. Sechard has made a discovery, he will be a rich man some day, and arich man has never been imprisoned for debt. You do not seem to me tobe strong in history. History is of two kinds--there is the officialhistory taught in schools, a lying compilation _ad usum delphini_; andthere is the secret history which deals with the real causes of events--a scandalous chronicle. Let me tell you briefly a little story whichyou have not heard. There was, once upon a time, a man, young andambitious, and a priest to boot. He wanted to enter upon a politicalcareer, so he fawned on the Queen's favorite; the favorite took aninterest in him, gave him the rank of minister, and a seat at thecouncil board. One evening somebody wrote to the young aspirant, thinking to do him a service (never do a service, by the by, unlessyou are asked), and told him that his benefactor's life was in danger. The King's wrath was kindled against his rival; to-morrow, if thefavorite went to the palace, he would certainly be stabbed; so saidthe letter. Well, now, young man, what would you have done?"

"I should have gone at once to warn my benefactor, " Lucien exclaimedquickly. 

"You are indeed the child which your story reveals!" said the priest. "Our man said to himself, 'If the King is resolved to go to suchlengths, it is all over with my benefactor; I must receive this lettertoo late;' so he slept on till the favorite was stabbed----"

"He was a monster!" said Lucien, suspecting that the priest meant tosound him. 

"So are all great men; this one was the Cardinal de Richelieu, and hisbenefactor was the Marechal d'Ancre. You really do not know yourhistory of France, you see. Was I not right when I told you thathistory as taught in schools is simply a collection of facts anddates, more than doubtful in the first place, and with no bearingwhatever on the gist of the matter. You are told that such a person asJeanne Darc once existed; where is the use of that? Have you neverdrawn your own conclusions from that fact? never seen that if Francehad accepted the Angevin dynasty of the Plantagenets, the two peoplesthus reunited would be ruling the world to-day, and the islands thatnow brew political storms for the continent would be French provinces?. . . Why, have you so much as studied the means by which simplemerchants like the Medicis became Grand Dukes of Tuscany?"

"A poet in France is not bound to be 'as learned as a Benedictine, '"said Lucien. 

"Well, they became Grand-Dukes as Richelieu became a minister. If youhad looked into history for the causes of events instead of gettingthe headings by heart, you would have found precepts for your guidancein this life. These real facts taken at random from among so manysupply you with the axiom--'Look upon men, and on women most of all, as your instruments; but never let them see this. ' If some one higherin place can be useful to you, worship him as your god; and neverleave him until he has paid the price of your servility to the lastfarthing. In your intercourse with men, in short, be grasping and meanas a Jew; all that the Jew does for money, you must do for power. Andbesides all this, when a man has fallen from power, care no more forhim than if he had ceased to exist. And do you ask why you must dothese things? You mean to rule the world, do you not? You must beginby obeying and studying it. Scholars study books; politicians studymen, and their interests and the springs of action. Society andmankind in masses are fatalists; they bow down and worship theaccomplished fact. Do you know why I am giving you this little historylesson? It seems to me that your ambition is boundless----"

"Yes, father. "

"I saw that myself, " said the priest. "But at this moment you arethinking, 'Here is this Spanish canon inventing anecdotes andstraining history to prove to me that I have too much virtue----'"

Lucien began to smile; his thoughts had been read so clearly. 

"Very well, let us take facts that every schoolboy knows. One dayFrance is almost entirely overrun by the English; the King has only asingle province left. Two figures arise from among the people--a poorherd girl, that very Jeanne Darc of whom we were speaking, and aburgher named Jacques Coeur. The girl brings the power of virginity, the strength of her arm; the burgher gives his gold, and the kingdomis saved. The maid is taken prisoner, and the King, who could haveransomed her, leaves her to be burned alive. The King allows hiscourtier to accuse the great burgher of capital crime, and they robhim and divide all his wealth among themselves. The spoils of aninnocent man, hunted down, brought to bay, and driven into exile bythe Law, went to enrich five noble houses; and the father of theArchbishop of Bourges left the kingdom for ever without one sou of allhis possessions in France, and no resource but moneys remitted toArabs and Saracens in Egypt. It is open to you to say that theseexamples are out of date, that three centuries of public educationhave since elapsed, and that the outlines of those ages are more orless dim figures. Well, young man, do you believe in the last demi-godof France, in Napoleon? One of his generals was in disgrace allthrough his career; Napoleon made him a marshal grudgingly, and neversent him on service if he could help it. That marshal was Kellermann. Do you know the reason of the grudge? . . . Kellermann saved Franceand the First Consul at Marengo by a brilliant charge; the ranksapplauded under fire and in the thick of the carnage. That heroiccharge was not even mentioned in the bulletin. Napoleon's coolnesstoward Kellermann, Fouche's fall, and Talleyrand's disgrace were allattributable to the same cause; it is the ingratitude of a CharlesVII. , or a Richelieu, or ----"

"But, father, " said Lucien, "suppose that you should save my life andmake my fortune, you are making the ties of gratitude somewhatslight. "

"Little rogue, " said the Abbe, smiling as he pinched Lucien's ear withan almost royal familiarity. "If you are ungrateful to me, it will bebecause you are a strong man, and I shall bend before you. But you arenot that just yet; as a simple 'prentice you have tried to be mastertoo soon, the common fault of Frenchmen of your generation. Napoleon'sexample has spoiled them all. You send in your resignation because youhave not the pair of epaulettes that you fancied. But have youattempted to bring the full force of your will and every action ofyour life to bear upon your one idea?"

"Alas! no. "

"You have been inconsistent, as the English say, " smiled the canon. 

"What I have been matters nothing now, " said Lucien, "if I can benothing in the future. "

"If at the back of all your good qualities there is power _sempervirens_, " continued the priest, not averse to show that he had a littleLatin, "nothing in this world can resist you. I have taken enough of aliking for you already----"

Lucien smiled incredulously. 

"Yes, " said the priest, in answer to the smile, "you interest me asmuch as if you had been my son; and I am strong enough to afford totalk to you as openly as you have just done to me. Do you know what itis that I like about you?--This: you have made a sort of _tabula rasa_within yourself, and are ready to hear a sermon on morality that youwill hear nowhere else; for mankind in the mass are even moreconsummate hypocrites than any one individual can be when hisinterests demand a piece of acting. Most of us spend a good part ofour lives in clearing our minds of the notions that sprang upunchecked during our nonage. This is called 'getting ourexperience. '"

Lucien, listening, thought within himself, "Here is some old intriguerdelighted with a chance of amusing himself on a journey. He is pleasedwith the idea of bringing about a change of opinion in a poor wretchon the brink of suicide; and when he is tired of his amusement, hewill drop me. Still he understands paradox, and seems to be quite amatch for Blondet or Lousteau. "

But in spite of these sage reflections, the diplomate's poison hadsunk deeply into Lucien's soul; the ground was ready to receive it, and the havoc wrought was the greater because such famous exampleswere cited. Lucien fell under the charm of his companion's cynicaltalk, and clung the more willingly to life because he felt that thisarm which drew him up from the depths was a strong one. 

In this respect the ecclesiastic had evidently won the day; and, indeed, from time to time a malicious smile bore his cynical anecdotescompany. 

"If your system of morality at all resembles your manner of regardinghistory, " said Lucien, "I should dearly like to know the motive ofyour present act of charity, for such it seems to be. "

"There, young man, I have come to the last head of my sermon; you willpermit me to reserve it, for in that case we shall not part companyto-day, " said the canon, with the tact of the priest who sees that hisguile has succeeded. 

"Very well, talk morality, " said Lucien. To himself he said, "I willdraw him out. "

"Morality begins with the law, " said the priest. "If it were simply aquestion of religion, laws would be superfluous; religious peopleshave few laws. The laws of statecraft are above civil law. Well, doyou care to know the inscription which a politician can read, writtenat large over your nineteenth century? In 1793 the French invented theidea of the sovereignty of the people--and the sovereignty of thepeople came to an end under the absolute ruler in the Emperor. So muchfor your history as a nation. Now for your private manners. Mme. Tallien and Mme. Beauharnais both acted alike. Napoleon married theone, and made her your Empress; the other he would never receive atcourt, princess though she was. The sans-culotte of 1793 takes theIron Crown in 1804. The fanatical lovers of Equality or Death conspirefourteen years afterwards with a Legitimist aristocracy to bring backLouis XVIII. And that same aristocracy, lording it to-day in theFaubourg Saint-Germain, has done worse--has been merchant, usurer, pastry-cook, farmer, and shepherd. So in France systems political andmoral have started from one point and reached another diametricallyopposed; and men have expressed one kind of opinion and acted onanother. There has been no consistency in national policy, nor in theconduct of individuals. You cannot be said to have any morality left. Success is the supreme justification of all actions whatsoever. Thefact in itself is nothing; the impression that it makes upon others iseverything. Hence, please observe a second precept: Present a fairexterior to the world, keep the seamy side of life to yourself, andturn a resplendent countenance upon others. Discretion, the motto ofevery ambitious man, is the watchword of our Order; take it for yourown. Great men are guilty of almost as many base deeds as pooroutcasts; but they are careful to do these things in shadow and toparade their virtues in the light, or they would not be great men. Your insignificant man leaves his virtues in the shade; he publiclydisplays his pitiable side, and is despised accordingly. You, forinstance, have hidden your titles to greatness and made a display ofyour worst failings. You openly took an actress for your mistress, lived with her and upon her; you were by no means to blame for this;everybody admitted that both of you were perfectly free to do as youliked; but you ran full tilt against the ideas of the world, and theworld has not shown you the consideration that is shown to those whoobey the rules of the game. If you had left Coralie to this M. Camusot, if you had hidden your relations with her, you might havemarried Mme. De Bargeton; you would now be prefect of Angouleme andMarquis de Rubempre. 

"Change your tactics, bring your good looks, your charm, your wit, your poetry to the front. If you indulge in small discreditablecourses, let it be within four walls, and you will never again beguilty of a blot on the decorations of this great theatrical scenecalled society. Napoleon called this 'washing dirty linen at home. 'The corollary follows naturally on this second precept--Form iseverything. Be careful to grasp the meaning of that word 'form. ' Thereare people who, for want of knowing better, will help themselves tomoney under pressure of want, and take it by force. These people arecalled criminals; and, perforce, they square accounts with Justice. Apoor man of genius discovers some secret, some invention as good as atreasure; you lend him three thousand francs (for that, practically, the Cointets have done; they hold your bills, and they are about torob your brother-in-law); you torment him until he reveals or partlyreveals his secret; you settle your accounts with your own conscience, and your conscience does not drag you into the assize court. 

"The enemies of social order, beholding this contrast, take occasionto yap at justice, and wax wroth in the name of the people, because, forsooth, burglars and fowl-stealers are sent to the hulks, while aman who brings whole families to ruin by a fraudulent bankruptcy islet off with a few months' imprisonment. But these hypocrites knowquite well that the judge who passes sentence on the thief ismaintaining the barrier set between the poor and the rich, and that ifthat barrier were overturned, social chaos would ensue; while, in thecase of the bankrupt, the man who steals an inheritance cleverly, andthe banker who slaughters a business for his own benefit, money merelychanges hands, that is all. 

"Society, my son, is bound to draw those distinctions which I havepointed out for your benefit. The one great point is this--you must bea match for society. Napoleon, Richelieu, and the Medicis were a matchfor their generations. And as for you, you value yourself at twelvethousand francs! You of this generation in France worship the goldencalf; what else is the religion of your Charter that will notrecognize a man politically unless he owns property? What is this butthe command, 'Strive to be rich?' Some day, when you shall have made afortune without breaking the law, you will be rich; you will be theMarquis de Rubempre, and you can indulge in the luxury of honor. Youwill be so extremely sensitive on the point of honor that no one willdare to accuse you of past shortcomings if in the process of makingyour way you should happen to smirch it now and again, which I myselfshould never advise, " he added, patting Lucien's hand. 

"So what must you put in that comely head of yours? Simply this andnothing more--propose to yourself a brilliant and conspicuous goal, and go towards it secretly; let no one see your methods or yourprogress. You have behaved like a child; be a man, be a hunter, lie inwait for your quarry in the world of Paris, wait for your chance andyour game; you need not be particular nor mindful of your dignity, asit is called; we are all of us slaves to something, to some failing ofour own or to necessity; but keep that law of laws--secrecy. "

"Father, you frighten me, " said Lucien; "this seems to me to be ahighwayman's theory. "

"And you are right, " said the canon, "but it is no invention of mine. All _parvenus_ reason in this way--the house of Austria and the house ofFrance alike. You have nothing, you say? The Medicis, Richelieu, andNapoleon started from precisely your standpoint; but _they_, my child, considered that their prospects were worth ingratitude, treachery, andthe most glaring inconsistencies. You must dare all things to gain allthings. Let us discuss it. Suppose that you sit down to a game of_bouillotte_, do you begin to argue over the rules of the game? Therethey are, you accept them. "

"Come, now, " thought Lucien, "he can play _bouillotte_. "

"And what do you do?" continued the priest; "do you practise openness, that fairest of virtues? Not merely do you hide your tactics, but youdo your best to make others believe that you are on the brink of ruinas soon as you are sure of winning the game. In short, you dissemble, do you not? You lie to win four or five louis d'or. What would youthink of a player so generous as to proclaim that he held a hand fullof trumps? Very well; the ambitious man who carries virtue's preceptsinto the arena when his antagonists have left them behind is behavinglike a child. Old men of the world might say to him, as card-playerswould say to the man who declines to take advantage of his trumps, 'Monsieur, you ought not to play at _bouillotte_. '

"Did you make the rules of the game of ambition? Why did I tell you tobe a match for society?--Because, in these days, society by degreeshas usurped so many rights over the individual, that the individual iscompelled to act in self-defence. There is no question of laws now, their place has been taken by custom, which is to say grimacings, andforms must always be observed. "

Lucien started with surprise. 

"Ah, my child!" said the priest, afraid that he had shocked Lucien'sinnocence; "did you expect to find the Angel Gabriel in an Abbe loadedwith all the iniquities of the diplomacy and counter-diplomacy of twokings? I am an agent between Ferdinand VII. And Louis XVIII. , two--kings who owe their crowns to profound--er--combinations, let ussay. I believe in God, but I have a still greater belief in our Order, and our Order has no belief save in temporal power. In order tostrengthen and consolidate the temporal power, our Order upholds theCatholic Apostolic and Roman Church, which is to say, the doctrineswhich dispose the world at large to obedience. We are the Templars ofmodern times; we have a doctrine of our own. Like the Templars, we havebeen dispersed, and for the same reasons; we are almost a match for theworld. If you will enlist as a soldier, I will be your captain. Obeyme as a wife obeys her husband, as a child obeys his mother, and Iwill guarantee that you shall be Marquis de Rubempre in less than sixmonths; you shall marry into one of the proudest houses in theFaubourg Saint-Germain, and some day you shall sit on a bench withpeers of France. What would you have been at this moment if I had notamused you by my conversation?--An undiscovered corpse in a deep bedof mud. Well and good, now for an effort of imagination----"

Lucien looked curiously at his protector. 

"Here, in this caleche beside the Abbe Carlos Herrera, canon ofToledo, secret envoy from His Majesty Ferdinand VII. To his Majestythe King of France, bearer of a despatch thus worded it may be--'Whenyou have delivered me, hang all those whom I favor at this moment, more especially the bearer of this despatch, for then he can tell notales'--well, beside this envoy sits a young man who has nothing incommon with that poet recently deceased. I have fished you out of thewater, I have brought you to life again, you belong to me as thecreature belongs to the creator, as the efrits of fairytales belong tothe genii, as the janissary to the Sultan, as the soul to the body. Iwill sustain you in the way to power with a strong hand; and at thesame time I promise that your life shall be a continual course ofpleasure, honors, and enjoyment. You shall never want for money. Youshall shine, you shall go bravely in the eyes of the world; while I, crouching in the mud, will lay a firm foundation for the brilliantedifice of your fortunes. For I love power for its own sake. I shallalways rejoice in your enjoyment, forbidden to me. In short, my selfshall become your self! Well, if a day should come when this pactbetween man and the tempter, this agreement between the child and thediplomatist should no longer suit your ideas, you can still look aboutfor some quiet spot, like that pool of which you were speaking, anddrown yourself; you will only be as you are now, or a little more or alittle less wretched and dishonored. "

"This is not like the Archbishop of Granada's homily, " said Lucien asthey stopped to change horses. 

"Call this concentrated education by what name you will, my son, foryou are my son, I adopt you henceforth, and shall make you my heir; itis the Code of ambition. God's elect are few and far between. There isno choice, you must bury yourself in the cloister (and there you veryoften find the world again in miniature) or accept the Code. "

"Perhaps it would be better not to be so wise, " said Lucien, trying tofathom this terrible priest. 

"What!" rejoined the canon. "You begin to play before you know therules of the game, and now you throw it up just as your chances arebest, and you have a substantial godfather to back you! And you do noteven care to play a return match? You do not mean to say that you haveno mind to be even with those who drove you from Paris?"

Lucien quivered; the sounds that rang through every nerve seemed tocome from some bronze instrument, some Chinese gong. 

"I am only a poor priest, " returned his mentor, and a grim expression, dreadful to behold, appeared for a moment on a face burned to acopper-red by the sun of Spain, "I am only a poor priest; but if I hadbeen humiliated, vexed, tormented, betrayed, and sold as you have beenby the scoundrels of whom you have told me, I should do like an Arabof the desert--I would devote myself body and soul to vengeance. Imight end by dangling from a gibbet, garroted, impaled, guillotined inyour French fashion, I should not care a rap; but they should not havemy head until I had crushed my enemies under my heel. "

Lucien was silent; he had no wish to draw the priest out any further. 

"Some are descended from Cain and some from Abel, " the canonconcluded; "I myself am of mixed blood--Cain for my enemies, Abel formy friends. Woe to him that shall awaken Cain! After all, you are aFrenchman; I am a Spaniard, and, what is more, a canon. "

"What a Tartar!" thought Lucien, scanning the protector thus sent tohim by Heaven. 

There was no sign of the Jesuit, nor even of the ecclesiastic, aboutthe Abbe Carlos Herrera. His hands were large, he was thick-set andbroad-chested, evidently he possessed the strength of a Hercules; histerrific expression was softened by benignity assumed at will; but acomplexion of impenetrable bronze inspired feelings of repulsionrather than attachment for the man. 

The strange diplomatist looked somewhat like a bishop, for he worepowder on his long, thick hair, after the fashion of the Prince deTalleyrand; a gold cross, hanging from a strip of blue ribbon with awhite border, indicated an ecclesiastical dignitary. The outlinesbeneath the black silk stockings would not have disgraced an athlete. The exquisite neatness of his clothes and person revealed an amount ofcare which a simple priest, and, above all, a Spanish priest, does notalways take with his appearance. A three-cornered hat lay on the frontseat of the carriage, which bore the arms of Spain. 

In spite of the sense of repulsion, the effect made by the man'sappearance was weakened by his manner, fierce and yet winning as itwas; he evidently laid himself out to please Lucien, and the winningmanner became almost coaxing. Yet Lucien noticed the smallest triflesuneasily. He felt that the moment of decision had come; they hadreached the second stage beyond Ruffec, and the decision meant life ordeath. 

The Spaniard's last words vibrated through many chords in his heart, and, to the shame of both, it must be said that all that was worst inLucien responded to an appeal deliberately made to his evil impulses, and the eyes that studied the poet's beautiful face had read him veryclearly. Lucien beheld Paris once more; in imagination he caught againat the reins of power let fall from his unskilled hands, and heavenged himself! The comparisons which he himself had drawn so latelybetween the life of Paris and life in the provinces faded from hismind with the more painful motives for suicide; he was about to returnto his natural sphere, and this time with a protector, a politicalintriguer unscrupulous as Cromwell. 

"I was alone, now there will be two of us, " he told himself. And thenthis priest had been more and more interested as he told of his sinsone after another. The man's charity had grown with the extent of hismisdoings; nothing had astonished this confessor. And yet, what couldbe the motive of a mover in the intrigues of kings? Lucien at firstwas fain to be content with the banal answer--the Spanish are agenerous race. The Spaniard is generous! even so the Italian isjealous and a poisoner, the Frenchman fickle, the German frank, theJew ignoble, and the Englishman noble. Reverse these verdicts and youshall arrive within a reasonable distance of the truth! The Jews havemonopolized the gold of the world; they compose _Robert the Devil_, act_Phedre_, sing _William Tell_, give commissions for pictures and buildpalaces, write _Reisebilder_ and wonderful verse; they are more powerfulthan ever, their religion is accepted, they have lent money to theHoly Father himself! As for Germany, a foreigner is often askedwhether he has a contract in writing, and this is in the smallestmatters, so tricky are they in their dealings. In France the spectacleof national blunders has never lacked national applause for the pastfifty years; we continue to wear hats which no mortal can explain, andevery change of government is made on the express condition thatthings shall remain exactly as they were before. England flaunts herperfidy in the face of the world, and her abominable treachery is onlyequaled by her greed. All the gold of two Indies passed through thehands of Spain, and now she has nothing left. There is no country inthe world where poison is so little in request as in Italy, no countrywhere manners are easier or more gentle. As for the Spaniard, he hastraded largely on the reputation of the Moor. 

As the Canon of Toledo returned to the caleche, he had spoken a wordto the post-boy. "Drive post-haste, " he said, "and there will be threefrancs for drink-money for you. " Then, seeing that Lucien hesitated, "Come! come!" he exclaimed, and Lucien took his place again, tellinghimself that he meant to try the effect of the _argumentum ad hominem_. 

"Father, " he began, "after pouring out, with all the coolness in theworld, a series of maxims which the vulgar would consider profoundlyimmoral----"

"And so they are, " said the priest; "that is why Jesus Christ saidthat it must needs be that offences come, my son; and that is why theworld displays such horror of offences. "

"A man of your stamp will not be surprised by the question which I amabout to ask?"

"Indeed, my son, you do not know me, " said Carlos Herrera. "Do yousuppose that I should engage a secretary unless I knew that I coulddepend upon his principles sufficiently to be sure that he would notrob me? I like you. You are as innocent in every way as atwenty-year-old suicide. Your question?"

"Why do you take an interest in me? What price do you set on myobedience? Why should you give me everything? What is your share?"

The Spaniard looked at Lucien, and a smile came over his face. 

"Let us wait till we come to the next hill; we can walk up and talkout in the open. The back seat of a traveling carriage is not theplace for confidences. "

They traveled in silence for sometime; the rapidity of the movementseemed to increase Lucien's moral intoxication. 

"Here is a hill, father, " he said at last awakening from a kind ofdream. 

"Very well, we will walk. " The Abbe called to the postilion to stop, and the two sprang out upon the road. 

"You child, " said the Spaniard, taking Lucien by the arm, "have youever thought over Otway's _Venice Preserved_? Did you understand theprofound friendship between man and man which binds Pierre and Jaffiereach to each so closely that a woman is as nothing in comparison, andall social conditions are changed?--Well, so much for the poet. "

"So the canon knows something of the drama, " thought Lucien. "Have youread Voltaire?" he asked. 

"I have done better, " said the other; "I put his doctrine inpractice. "

"You do not believe in God?"

"Come! it is I who am the atheist, is it?" the Abbe said, smiling. "Let us come to practical matters, my child, " he added, putting an armround Lucien's waist. "I am forty-six years old, I am the natural sonof a great lord; consequently, I have no family, and I have a heart. But, learn this, carve it on that still so soft brain of yours--mandreads to be alone. And of all kinds of isolation, inward isolation isthe most appalling. The early anchorite lived with God; he dwelt inthe spirit world, the most populous world of all. The miser lives in aworld of imagination and fruition; his whole life and all that he is, even his sex, lies in his brain. A man's first thought, be he leper orconvict, hopelessly sick or degraded, is to find another with a likefate to share it with him. He will exert the utmost that is in him, every power, all his vital energy, to satisfy that craving; it is hisvery life. But for that tyrannous longing, would Satan have foundcompanions? There is a whole poem yet to be written, a first part of_Paradise Lost_; Milton's poem is only the apology for the revolt. "

"It would be the Iliad of Corruption, " said Lucien. 

"Well, I am alone, I live alone. If I wear the priest's habit, I havenot a priest's heart. I like to devote myself to some one; that is myweakness. That is my life, that is how I came to be a priest. I am notafraid of ingratitude, and I am grateful. The Church is nothing to me;it is an idea. I am devoted to the King of Spain, but you cannot giveaffection to a King of Spain; he is my protector, he towers above me. I want to love my creature, to mould him, fashion him to my use, andlove him as a father loves his child. I shall drive in your tilbury, my boy, enjoy your success with women, and say to myself, 'This fineyoung fellow, this Marquis de Rubempre, my creation whom I havebrought into this great world, is my very Self; his greatness is mydoing, he speaks or is silent with my voice, he consults me ineverything. ' The Abbe de Vermont felt thus for Marie-Antoinette. "

"He led her to the scaffold. "

"He did not love the Queen, " said the priest. "HE only loved the Abbede Vermont. "

"Must I leave desolation behind me?"

"I have money, you shall draw on me. "

"I would do a great deal just now to rescue David Sechard, " saidLucien, in the tone of one who has given up all idea of suicide. 

"Say but one word, my son, and by to-morrow morning he shall havemoney enough to set him free. "

"What! Would you give me twelve thousand francs?"

"Ah! child, do you not see that we are traveling on at the rate offour leagues an hour? We shall dine at Poitiers before long, andthere, if you decide to sign the pact, to give me a single proof ofobedience, a great proof that I shall require, then the Bordeaux coachshall carry fifteen thousand francs to your sister----"

"Where is the money?"

The Spaniard made no answer, and Lucien said within himself, "There Ihad him; he was laughing at me. "

In another moment they took their places. Neither of them said a word. Silently the Abbe groped in the pocket of the coach, and drew out atraveler's leather pouch with three divisions in it; thence he took ahundred Portuguese moidores, bringing out his large hand filled withgold three times. 

"Father, I am yours, " said Lucien, dazzled by the stream of gold. 

"Child!" said the priest, and set a tender kiss on Lucien's forehead. "There is twice as much still left in the bag, besides the money fortraveling expenses. "

"And you are traveling alone!" cried Lucien. 

"What is that?" asked the Spaniard. "I have more than a hundredthousand crowns in drafts on Paris. A diplomatist without money is inyour position of this morning--a poet without a will of his own!"

As Lucien took his place in the caleche beside the so-called Spanishdiplomatist, Eve rose to give her child a draught of milk, found thefatal letter in the cradle, and read it. A sudden cold chilled thedamps of morning slumber, dizziness came over her, she could not see. She called aloud to Marion and Kolb. 

"Has my brother gone out?" she asked, and Kolb answered at once with, "Yes, Montame, pefore tay. "

"Keep this that I am going to tell you a profound secret, " said Eve. "My brother has gone no doubt to make away with himself. Hurry, bothof you, make inquiries cautiously, and look along the river. "

Eve was left alone in a dull stupor, dreadful to see. Her trouble wasat its height when Petit-Claud came in at seven o'clock to talk overthe steps to be taken in David's case. At such a time, any voice inthe world may speak, and we let them speak. 

"Our poor, dear David is in prison, madame, " so began Petit-Claud. "Iforesaw all along that it would end in this. I advised him at the timeto go into partnership with his competitors the Cointets; for whileyour husband has simply the idea, they have the means of putting itinto practical shape. So as soon as I heard of his arrest yesterdayevening, what did I do but hurry away to find the Cointets and try toobtain such concessions as might satisfy you. If you try to keep thediscovery to yourselves, you will continue to live a life of shiftsand chicanery. You must give in, or else when you are exhausted and atthe last gasp, you will end by making a bargain with some capitalistor other, and perhaps to your own detriment, whereas to-day I hope tosee you make a good one with MM. Cointet. In this way you will saveyourselves the hardships and the misery of the inventor's duel withthe greed of the capitalist and the indifference of the public. Let ussee! If the MM. Cointet should pay your debts--if, over and above yourdebts, they should pay you a further sum of money down, whether or nothe invention succeeds; while at the same time it is thoroughlyunderstood that if it succeeds a certain proportion of the profits ofworking the patent shall be yours, would you not be doing very well?--You yourself, madame, would then be the proprietor of the plant inthe printing-office. You would sell the business, no doubt; it is quiteworth twenty thousand francs. I will undertake to find you a buyer atthat price. 

"Now if you draw up a deed of partnership with the MM. Cointet, andreceive fifteen thousand francs of capital; and if you invest it inthe funds at the present moment, it will bring you in an income of twothousand francs. You can live on two thousand francs in the provinces. Bear in mind, too, madame, that, given certain contingencies, therewill be yet further payments. I say 'contingencies, ' because we mustlay our accounts with failure. 

"Very well, " continued Petit-Claud, "now these things I am sure that Ican obtain for you. First of all, David's release from prison;secondly, fifteen thousand francs, a premium paid on his discovery, whether the experiments fail or succeed; and lastly, a partnershipbetween David and the MM. Cointet, to be taken out after privateexperiment made jointly. The deed of partnership for the working ofthe patent should be drawn up on the following basis: The MM. Cointetto bear all the expenses, the capital invested by David to be confinedto the expenses of procuring the patent, and his share of the profitsto be fixed at twenty-five per cent. You are a clear-headed and verysensible woman, qualities which are not often found combined withgreat beauty; think over these proposals, and you will see that theyare very favorable. "

Poor Eve in her despair burst into tears. "Ah, sir! why did you notcome yesterday evening to tell me this? We should have been spareddisgrace and--and something far worse----"

"I was talking with the Cointets until midnight. They are behindMetivier, as you must have suspected. But how has something worse thanour poor David's arrest happened since yesterday evening?"

"Here is the awful news that I found when I awoke this morning, " shesaid, holding out Lucien's letter. "You have just given me proof ofyour interest in us; you are David's friend and Lucien's; I need notask you to keep the secret----"

"You need not feel the least anxiety, " said Petit-Claud, as hereturned the letter. "Lucien will not take his life. Your husband'sarrest was his doing; he was obliged to find some excuse for leavingyou, and this exit of his looks to me like a piece of stage business. "

The Cointets had gained their ends. They had tormented the inventorand his family, until, worn out by the torture, the victims longed fora respite, and then seized their opportunity and made the offer. Notevery inventor has the tenacity of the bull-dog that will perish withhis teeth fast set in his capture; the Cointets had shrewdly estimatedDavid's character. The tall Cointet looked upon David's imprisonmentas the first scene of the first act of the drama. The second actopened with the proposal which Petit-Claud had just made. Asarch-schemer, the attorney looked upon Lucien's frantic folly as a bitof unhoped-for luck, a chance that would finally decide the issues ofthe day. 

Eve was completely prostrated by this event; Petit-Claud saw this, andmeant to profit by her despair to win her confidence, for he saw atlast how much she influenced her husband. So far from discouragingEve, he tried to reassure her, and very cleverly diverted her thoughtsto the prison. She should persuade David to take the Cointets intopartnership. 

"David told me, madame, that he only wished for a fortune for yoursake and your brother's; but it should be clear to you by now that totry to make a rich man of Lucien would be madness. The youngster wouldrun through three fortunes. "

Eve's attitude told plainly enough that she had no more illusions leftwith regard to her brother. The lawyer waited a little so that hersilence should have the weight of consent. 

"Things being so, it is now a question of you and your child, " hesaid. "It rests with you to decide whether an income of two thousandfrancs will be enough for your welfare, to say nothing of oldSechard's property. Your father-in-law's income has amounted to sevenor eight thousand francs for a long time past, to say nothing ofcapital lying out at interest. So, after all, you have a good prospectbefore you. Why torment yourself?"

Petit-Claud left Eve Sechard to reflect upon this prospect. The wholescheme had been drawn up with no little skill by the tall Cointet theevening before. 

"Give them the glimpse of a possibility of money in hand, " the lynxhad said, when Petit-Claud brought the news of the arrest; "once letthem grow accustomed to that idea, and they are ours; we will drive abargain, and little by little we shall bring them down to our pricefor the secret. "

The argument of the second act of the commercial drama was in a mannersummed up in that speech. 

Mme. Sechard, heartbroken and full of dread for her brother's fate, dressed and came downstairs. An agony of terror seized her when shethought that she must cross Angouleme alone on the way to the prison. Petit-Claud gave little thought to his fair client's distress. When hecame back to offer his arm, it was from a tolerably Machiavellianmotive; but Eve gave him credit for delicate consideration, and heallowed her to thank him for it. The little attention, at such amoment, from so hard a man, modified Mme. Sechard's previous opinionof Petit-Claud. 

"I am taking you round by the longest way, " he said, "and we shallmeet nobody. "

"For the first time in my life, monsieur, I feel that I have no rightto hold up my head before other people; I had a sharp lesson given tome last night----"

"It will be the first and the last. "

"Oh! I certainly shall not stay in the town now----"

"Let me know if your husband consents to the proposals that are allbut definitely offered by the Cointets, " said Petit-Claud at the gateof the prison; "I will come at once with an order for David's releasefrom Cachan, and in all likelihood he will not go back again toprison. "

This suggestion, made on the very threshold of the jail, was a pieceof cunning strategy--a _combinazione_, as the Italians call anindefinable mixture of treachery and truth, a cunningly planned fraudwhich does not break the letter of the law, or a piece of defttrickery for which there is no legal remedy. St. Bartholomew's forinstance, was a political combination. 

Imprisonment for debt, for reasons previously explained, is such arare occurrence in the provinces, that there is no house of detention, and a debtor is perforce imprisoned with the accused, convicted, andcondemned--the three graduated subdivisions of the class genericallystyled criminal. David was put for the time being in a cell on theground floor from which some prisoner had probably been recentlydischarged at the end of his time. Once inscribed on the jailer'sregister, with the amount allowed by the law for a prisoner's boardfor one month, David confronted a big, stout man, more powerful thanthe King himself in a prisoner's eyes; this was the jailer. 

An instance of a thin jailer is unknown in the provinces. The place, to begin with, is almost a sinecure, and a jailer is a kind ofinnkeeper who pays no rent and lives very well, while his prisonersfare very ill; for, like an innkeeper, he gives them rooms accordingto their payments. He knew David by name, and what was more, knewabout David's father, and thought that he might venture to let theprinter have a good room on credit for one night; for David waspenniless. 

The prison of Angouleme was built in the Middle Ages, and has no morechanged than the old cathedral. It is built against the old _presidial_, or ancient court of appeal, and people still call it the _maison dejustice_. It boasts the conventional prison gateway, the solid-looking, nail-studded door, the low, worn archway which the better deserves thequalification "cyclopean, " because the jailer's peephole or _judas_looks out like a single eye from the front of the building. As youenter you find yourself in a corridor which runs across the entirewidth of the building, with a row of doors of cells that give upon theprison yard and are lighted by high windows covered with a square irongrating. The jailer's house is separated from these cells by anarchway in the middle, through which you catch a glimpse of the irongate of the prison yard. The jailer installed David in a cell next tothe archway, thinking that he would like to have a man of David'sstamp as a near neighbor for the sake of company. 

"This is the best room, " he said. David was struck dumb with amazementat the sight of it. 

The stone walls were tolerably damp. The windows, set high in thewall, were heavily barred; the stone-paved floor was cold as ice, andfrom the corridor outside came the sound of the measured tramp of thewarder, monotonous as waves on the beach. "You are a prisoner! you arewatched and guarded!" said the footsteps at every moment of everyhour. All these small things together produce a prodigious effect uponthe minds of honest folk. David saw that the bed was execrable, butthe first night in a prison is full of violent agitation, and only onthe second night does the prisoner notice that his couch is hard. Thejailer was graciously disposed; he naturally suggested that hisprisoner should walk in the yard until nightfall. 

David's hour of anguish only began when he was locked into his cellfor the night. Lights are not allowed in the cells. A prisonerdetained on arrest used to be subjected to rules devised formalefactors, unless he brought a special exemption signed by thepublic prosecutor. The jailer certainly might allow David to sit byhis fire, but the prisoner must go back to his cell at locking-uptime. Poor David learned the horrors of prison life by experience, therough coarseness of the treatment revolted him. Yet a revulsion, familiar to those who live by thought, passed over him. He detachedhimself from his loneliness, and found a way of escape in a poet'swaking dream. 

At last the unhappy man's thoughts turned to his own affairs. Thestimulating influence of a prison upon conscience and self-scrutiny isimmense. David asked himself whether he had done his duty as the headof a family. What despairing grief his wife must feel at this moment!Why had he not done as Marion had said, and earned money enough topursue his investigations at leisure?

"How can I stay in Angouleme after such a disgrace? And when I comeout of prison, what will become of us? Where shall we go?"

Doubts as to his process began to occur to him, and he passed throughan agony which none save inventors can understand. Going from doubt todoubt, David began to see his real position more clearly; and tohimself he said, as the Cointets had said to old Sechard, asPetit-Claud had just said to Eve, "Suppose that all should go well, what does it amount to in practice? The first thing to be done is totake out a patent, and money is needed for that--and experiments mustbe tried on a large scale in a paper-mill, which means that thediscovery must pass into other hands. Oh! Petit-Claud was right!"

A very vivid light sometimes dawns in the darkest prison. 

"Pshaw!" said David; "I shall see Petit-Claud to-morrow no doubt, " andhe turned and slept on the filthy mattress covered with coarse brownsacking. 

So when Eve unconsciously played into the hands of the enemy thatmorning, she found her husband more than ready to listen to proposals. She put her arms about him and kissed him, and sat down on the edge ofthe bed (for there was but one chair of the poorest and commonest kindin the cell). Her eyes fell on the unsightly pail in a corner, andover the walls covered with inscriptions left by David's predecessors, and tears filled the eyes that were red with weeping. She had sobbedlong and very bitterly, but the sight of her husband in a felon's celldrew fresh tears. 

"And the desire of fame may lead one to this!" she cried. "Oh! myangel, give up your career. Let us walk together along the beatentrack; we will not try to make haste to be rich, David. . . . I needvery little to be very happy, especially now, after all that we havebeen through. . . . And if you only knew--the disgrace of arrest isnot the worst. . . . Look. "

She held out Lucien's letter, and when David had read it, she tried tocomfort him by repeating Petit-Claud's bitter comment. 

"If Lucien has taken his life, the thing is done by now, " said David;"if he has not made away with himself by this time, he will not killhimself. As he himself says, 'his courage cannot last longer than amorning----'"

"But the suspense!" cried Eve, forgiving almost everything at thethought of death. Then she told her husband of the proposals whichPetit-Claud professed to have received from the Cointets. Davidaccepted them at once with manifest pleasure. 

"We shall have enough to live upon in a village near L'Houmeau, wherethe Cointets' paper-mill stands. I want nothing now but a quiet life, "said David. "If Lucien has punished himself by death, we can wait solong as father lives; and if Lucien is still living, poor fellow, hewill learn to adapt himself to our narrow ways. The Cointets certainlywill make money by my discovery; but, after all, what am I comparedwith our country? One man in it, that is all; and if the whole countryis benefited, I shall be content. There! dear Eve, neither you nor Iwere meant to be successful in business. We do not care enough aboutmaking a profit; we have not the dogged objection to parting with ourmoney, even when it is legally owing, which is a kind of virtue of thecounting-house, for these two sorts of avarice are called prudence anda faculty of business. "

Eve felt overjoyed; she and her husband held the same views, and thisis one of the sweetest flowers of love; for two human beings who loveeach other may not be of the same mind, nor take the same view oftheir interests. She wrote to Petit-Claud telling him that they bothconsented to the general scheme, and asked him to release David. Thenshe begged the jailer to deliver the message. 

Ten minutes later Petit-Claud entered the dismal place. "Go home, madame, " he said, addressing Eve, "we will follow you. --Well, my dearfriend" (turning to David), "so you allowed them to catch you! Why didyou come out? How came you to make such a mistake?"

"Eh! how could I do otherwise? Look at this letter that Lucien wrote. "

David held out a sheet of paper. It was Cerizet's forged letter. 

Petit-Claud read it, looked at it, fingered the paper as he talked, and still taking, presently, as if through absence of mind, folded itup and put it in his pocket. Then he linked his arm in David's, andthey went out together, the order for release having come during theconversation. 

It was like heaven to David to be at home again. He cried like a childwhen he took little Lucien in his arms and looked round his room afterthree weeks of imprisonment, and the disgrace, according to provincialnotions, of the last few hours. Kolb and Marion had come back. Marionhad heard in L'Houmeau that Lucien had been seen walking along on theParis road, somewhere beyond Marsac. Some country folk, coming in tomarket, had noticed his fine clothes. Kolb, therefore, had set out onhorseback along the highroad, and heard at last at Mansle that Lucienwas traveling post in a caleche--M. Marron had recognized him as hepassed. 

"What did I tell you?" said Petit-Claud. "That fellow is not a poet;he is a romance in heaven knows how many chapters. "

"Traveling post!" repeated Eve. "Where can he be going this time?"

"Now go to see the Cointets, they are expecting you, " saidPetit-Claud, turning to David. 

"Ah, monsieur!" cried the beautiful Eve, "pray do your best for ourinterests; our whole future lies in your hands. "

"If you prefer it, madame, the conference can be held here. I willleave David with you. The Cointets will come this evening, and youshall see if I can defend your interests. "

"Ah! monsieur, I should be very glad, " said Eve. 

"Very well, " said Petit-Claud; "this evening, at seven o'clock. "

"Thank you, " said Eve; and from her tone and glance Petit-Claud knewthat he had made great progress in his fair client's confidence. 

"You have nothing to fear; you see I was right, " he added. "Yourbrother is a hundred miles away from suicide, and when all comes toall, perhaps you will have a little fortune this evening. A _bona-fide_purchaser for the business has turned up. "

"If that is the case, " said Eve, "why should we not wait awhile beforebinding ourselves to the Cointets?"

Petit-Claud saw the danger. "You are forgetting, madame, " he said, "that you cannot sell your business until you have paid M. Metivier;for a distress warrant has been issued. "

As soon as Petit-Claud reached home he sent for Cerizet, and when theprinter's foreman appeared, drew him into the embrasure of the window. 

"To-morrow evening, " he said, "you will be the proprietor of theSechards' printing-office, and then there are those behind you whohave influence enough to transfer the license;" (then in a loweredvoice), "but you have no mind to end in the hulks, I suppose?"

"The hulks! What's that? What's that?"

"Your letter to David was a forgery. It is in my possession. Whatwould Henriette say in a court of law? I do not want to ruin you, " headded hastily, seeing how white Cerizet's face grew. 

"You want something more of me?" cried Cerizet. 

"Well, here it is, " said Petit-Claud. "Follow me carefully. You willbe a master printer in Angouleme in two months' time . . . But youwill not have paid for your business--you will not pay for it in tenyears. You will work a long while yet for those that have lent you themoney, and you will be the cat's-paw of the Liberal party. . . . Now_I_ shall draw up your agreement with Gannerac, and I can draw it upin such a way that you will have the business in your own hands one ofthese days. But--if the Liberals start a paper, if you bring it out, and if I am deputy public prosecutor, then you will come to anunderstanding with the Cointets and publish articles of such a naturethat they will have the paper suppressed. . . . The Cointets will payyou handsomely for that service. . . . I know, of course, that youwill be a hero, a victim of persecution; you will be a personage amongthe Liberals--a Sergeant Mercier, a Paul-Louis Courier, a Manual on asmall scale. I will take care that they leave you your license. Infact, on the day when the newspaper is suppressed, I will burn thisletter before your eyes. . . . Your fortune will not cost you much. "

A working man has the haziest notions as to the law with regard toforgery; and Cerizet, who beheld himself already in the dock, breathedagain. 

"In three years' time, " continued Petit-Claud, "I shall be publicprosecutor in Angouleme. You may have need of me some day; bear thatin mind. "

"It's agreed, " said Cerizet, "but you don't know me. Burn that letternow and trust to my gratitude. "

Petit-Claud looked Cerizet in the face. It was a duel in which oneman's gaze is a scalpel with which he essays to probe the soul ofanother, and the eyes of that other are a theatre, as it were, towhich all his virtue is summoned for display. 

Petit-Claud did not utter a word. He lighted a taper and burned theletter. "He has his way to make, " he said to himself. 

"Here is one that will go through fire and water for you, " saidCerizet. 

David awaited the interview with the Cointets with a vague feeling ofuneasiness; not, however, on account of the proposed partnership, norfor his own interests--he felt nervous as to their opinion of hiswork. He was in something the same position as a dramatic authorbefore his judges. The inventor's pride in the discovery so nearlycompleted left no room for any other feelings. 

At seven o'clock that evening, while Mme. Du Chatelet, pleading a sickheadache, had gone to her room in her unhappiness over the rumors ofLucien's departure; while M. De Comte, left to himself, wasentertaining his guests at dinner--the tall Cointet and his stoutbrother, accompanied by Petit-Claud, opened negotiations with thecompetitor who had delivered himself up, bound hand and foot. 

A difficulty awaited them at the outset. How was it possible to drawup a deed of partnership unless they knew David's secret? And if Daviddivulged his secret, he would be at the mercy of the Cointets. Petit-Claud arranged that the deed of partnership should be the firstdrawn up. Thereupon the tall Cointet asked to see some specimens ofDavid's work, and David brought out the last sheet that he had made, guaranteeing the price of production. 

"Well, " said Petit-Claud, "there you have the basis of the agreementready made. You can go into partnership on the strength of thosesamples, inserting a clause to protect yourselves in case theconditions of the patent are not fulfilled in the manufacturingprocess. "

"It is one thing to make samples of paper on a small scale in your ownroom with a small mould, monsieur, and another to turn out aquantity, " said the tall Cointet, addressing David. "Quite anotherthing, as you may judge from this single fact. We manufacture coloredpapers. We buy parcels of coloring absolutely identical. Every cake ofindigo used for 'blueing' our post-demy is taken from a batch suppliedby the same maker. Well, we have never yet been able to obtain twobatches of precisely the same shade. There are variations in thematerial which we cannot detect. The quantity and the quality of thepulp modify every question at once. Suppose that you have in a caldrona quantity of ingredients of some kind (I don't ask to know what theyare), you can do as you like with them, the treatment can be uniformlyapplied, you can manipulate, knead, and pestle the mass at yourpleasure until you have a homogeneous substance. But who willguarantee that it will be the same with a batch of five hundred reams, and that your plan will succeed in bulk?"

David, Eve, and Petit-Claud looked at one another; their eyes saidmany things. 

"Take a somewhat similar case, " continued the tall Cointet after apause. "You cut two or three trusses of meadow hay, and store it in aloft before 'the heat is out of the grass, ' as the peasants say; thehay ferments, but no harm comes of it. You follow up your experimentby storing a couple of thousand trusses in a wooden barn--and, ofcourse, the hay smoulders, and the barn blazes up like a lightedmatch. You are an educated man, " continued Cointet; "you can see theapplication for yourself. So far, you have only cut your two trussesof hay; we are afraid of setting fire to our paper-mill by bringing ina couple of thousand trusses. In other words, we may spoil more thanone batch, make heavy losses, and find ourselves none the better forlaying out a good deal of money. "

David was completely floored by this reasoning. Practical wisdom spokein matter-of-fact language to theory, whose word is always for thefuture. 

"Devil fetch me, if I'll sign such a deed of partnership!" the stoutCointet cried bluntly. "You may throw away your money if you like, Boniface; as for me, I shall keep mine. Here is my offer--to pay M. Sechard's debts _and_ six thousand francs, and another three thousandfrancs in bills at twelve and fifteen months, " he added. "That will bequite enough risk to run. --We have a balance of twelve thousand francsagainst Metivier. That will make fifteen thousand francs. --That is allthat I would pay for the secret if I were going to exploit it formyself. So this is the great discovery that you were talking about, Boniface! Many thanks! I thought you had more sense. No, you can'tcall this business. "

"The question for you, " said Petit-Claud, undismayed by the explosion, "resolves itself into this: 'Do you care to risk twenty thousandfrancs to buy a secret that may make rich men of you?' Why, the riskusually is in proportion to the profit, gentlemen. You stake twentythousand francs on your luck. A gambler puts down a louis at roulettefor a chance of winning thirty-six, but he knows that the louis islost. Do the same. "

"I must have time to think it over, " said the stout Cointet; "I am notso clever as my brother. I am a plain, straight-forward sort of chap, that only knows one thing--how to print prayer-books at twenty sousand sell them for two francs. Where I see an invention that has onlybeen tried once, I see ruin. You succeed with the first batch, youspoil the next, you go on, and you are drawn in; for once put an arminto that machinery, the rest of you follows, " and he related ananecdote very much to the point--how a Bordeaux merchant had ruinedhimself by following a scientific man's advice, and trying to bringthe Landes into cultivation; and followed up the tale withhalf-a-dozen similar instances of agricultural and commercial failuresnearer home in the departments of the Charente and Dordogne. He waxedwarm over his recitals. He would not listen to another word. Petit-Claud's demurs, so far from soothing the stout Cointet, appearedto irritate him. 

"I would rather give more for a certainty, if I made only a smallprofit on it, " he said, looking at his brother. "It is my opinion thatthings have gone far enough for business, " he concluded. 

"Still you came here for something, didn't you?" asked Petit-Claud. "What is your offer?"

"I offer to release M. Sechard, and, if his plan succeeds, to give himthirty per cent of the profits, " the stout Cointet answered briskly. 

"But, monsieur, " objected Eve, "how should we live while theexperiments were being made? My husband has endured the disgrace ofimprisonment already; he may as well go back to prison, it makes nodifference now, and we will pay our debts ourselves----"

Petit-Claud laid a finger on his lips in warning. 

"You are unreasonable, " said he, addressing the brothers. "You haveseen the paper; M. Sechard's father told you that he had shut his sonup, and that he had made capital paper in a single night frommaterials that must have cost a mere nothing. You are here to make anoffer. Are you purchasers, yes or no?"

"Stay, " said the tall Cointet, "whether my brother is willing or no, Iwill risk this much myself. I will pay M. Sechard's debts, I will paysix thousand francs over and above the debts, and M. Sechard shallhave thirty per cent of the profits. But mind this--if in the space ofone year he fails to carry out the undertakings which he himself willmake in the deed of partnership, he must return the six thousandfrancs, and we shall keep the patent and extricate ourselves as bestwe may. "

"Are you sure of yourself?" asked Petit-Claud, taking David aside. 

"Yes, " said David. He was deceived by the tactics of the brothers, andafraid lest the stout Cointet should break off the negotiations onwhich his future depended. 

"Very well, I will draft the deed, " said Petit-Claud, addressing therest of the party. "Each of you shall have a copy to-night, and youwill have all to-morrow morning in which to think it over. To-morrowafternoon at four o'clock, when the court rises, you will sign theagreement. You, gentlemen, will withdraw Metivier's suit, and I, formy part, will write to stop proceedings in the Court-Royal; we willgive notice on either side that the affair has been settled out ofcourt. "

David Sechard's undertakings were thus worded in the deed:--

 "M. David Sechard, printer of Angouleme, affirming that he has discovered a method of sizing paper-pulp in the vat, and also a method of affecting a reduction of fifty per cent in the price of all kinds of manufactured papers, by introducing certain vegetable substances into the pulp, either by intermixture of such substances with the rags already in use, or by employing them solely without the addition of rags: a partnership for working the patent to be presently applied for is entered upon by M. David Sechard and the firm of Cointet Brothers, subject to the following conditional clauses and stipulations. "

One of the clauses so drafted that David Sechard forfeited all hisrights if he failed to fulfil his engagements within the year; thetall Cointet was particularly careful to insert that clause, and DavidSechard allowed it to pass. 

When Petit-Claud appeared with a copy of the agreement next morning athalf-past seven o'clock, he brought news for David and his wife. Cerizet offered twenty-two thousand francs for the business. The wholeaffair could be signed and settled in the course of the evening. "Butif the Cointets knew about it, " he added, "they would be quite capableof refusing to sign the deed of partnership, of harassing you, andselling you up. "

"Are you sure of payment?" asked Eve. She had thought it hopeless totry to sell the business; and now, to her astonishment, a bargainwhich would have been their salvation three months ago was concludedin this summary fashion. 

"The money has been deposited with me, " he answered succinctly. 

"Why, here is magic at work!" said David, and he asked Petit-Claud foran explanation of this piece of luck. 

"No, " said Petit-Claud, "it is very simple. The merchants in L'Houmeauwant a newspaper. "

"But I am bound not to publish a paper, " said David. 

"Yes, you are bound, but is your successor?--However it is, " hecontinued, "do not trouble yourself at all; sell the business, pocketthe proceeds, and leave Cerizet to find his way through the conditionsof the sale--he can take care of himself. "

"Yes, " said Eve. 

"And if it turns out that you may not print a newspaper in Angouleme, "said Petit-Claud, "those who are finding the capital for Cerizet willbring out the paper in L'Houmeau. "

The prospect of twenty-two thousand francs, of want now at end, dazzled Eve. The partnership and its hopes took a second place. And, therefore, M. And Mme. Sechard gave way on a final point of dispute. The tall Cointet insisted that the patent should be taken out in thename of any one of the partners. What difference could it make? Thestout Cointet said the last word. 

"He is finding the money for the patent; he is bearing the expenses ofthe journey--another two thousand francs over and above the rest ofthe expenses. He must take it out in his own name, or we will not stirin the matter. "

The lynx gained a victory at all points. The deed of partnership wassigned that afternoon at half-past four. 

The tall Cointet politely gave Mme. Sechard a dozen thread-patternforks and spoons and a beautiful Ternaux shawl, by way of pin-money, said he, and to efface any unpleasant impression made in the heat ofdiscussion. The copies of the draft had scarcely been made out, Cachanhad barely had time to send the documents to Petit-Claud, togetherwith the three unlucky forged bills, when the Sechards heard adeafening rumble in the street, a dray from the Messageries stoppedbefore the door, and Kolb's voice made the staircase ring again. 

"Montame! montame! vifteen tausend vrancs, vrom Boidiers" (Poitiers). "Goot money! vrom Monziere Lucien!"

"Fifteen thousand francs!" cried Eve, throwing up her arms. 

"Yes, madame, " said the carman in the doorway, "fifteen thousandfrancs, brought by the Bordeaux coach, and they didn't want any moreneither! I have two men downstairs bringing up the bags. M. LucienChardon de Rubempre is the sender. I have brought up a little leatherbag for you, containing five hundred francs in gold, and a letter it'slikely. "

Eve thought that she must be dreaming as she read:--

 "MY DEAR SISTER, --Here are fifteen thousand francs. Instead of taking my life, I have sold it. I am no longer my own; I am only the secretary of a Spanish diplomatist; I am his creature. A new and dreadful life is beginning for me. Perhaps I should have done better to drown myself. 

 "Good-bye. David will be released, and with the four thousand francs he can buy a little paper-mill, no doubt, and make his fortune. Forget me, all of you. This is the wish of your unhappy brother. "LUCIEN. "

"It is decreed that my poor boy should be unlucky in everything, andeven when he does well, as he said himself, " said Mme. Chardon, as shewatched the men piling up the bags. 

"We have had a narrow escape!" exclaimed the tall Cointet, when he wasonce more in the Place du Murier. "An hour later the glitter of thesilver would have thrown a new light on the deed of partnership. Ourman would have fought shy of it. We have his promise now, and in threemonths' time we shall know what to do. "

That very evening, at seven o'clock, Cerizet bought the business, andthe money was paid over, the purchaser undertaking to pay rent for thelast quarter. The next day Eve sent forty thousand francs to theReceiver-General, and bought two thousand five hundred francs of_rentes_ in her husband's name. Then she wrote to her father-in-law andasked him to find a small farm, worth about ten thousand francs, forher near Marsac. She meant to invest her own fortune in this way. 

The tall Cointet's plot was formidably simple. From the very first heconsidered that the plan of sizing the pulp in the vat wasimpracticable. The real secret of fortune lay in the composition ofthe pulp, in the cheap vegetable fibre as a substitute for rags. Hemade up his mind, therefore, to lay immense stress on the secondaryproblem of sizing the pulp, and to pass over the discovery of cheapraw material, and for the following reasons:

The Angouleme paper-mills manufacture paper for stationers. Notepaper, foolscap, crown, and post-demy are all necessarily sized; and thesepapers have been the pride of the Angouleme mills for a long whilepast, stationery being the specialty of the Charente. This fact gavecolor to the Cointet's urgency upon the point of sizing in thepulping-trough; but, as a matter of fact, they cared nothing for thispart of David's researches. The demand for writing-paper isexceedingly small compared with the almost unlimited demand forunsized paper for printers. As Boniface Cointet traveled to Paris totake out the patent in his own name, he was projecting plans that werelike to work a revolution in his paper-mill. Arrived in Paris, he tookup his quarters with Metivier, and gave his instructions to his agent. Metivier was to call upon the proprietors of newspapers, and offer todeliver paper at prices below those quoted by all other houses; hecould guarantee in each case that the paper should be a better color, and in every way superior to the best kinds hitherto in use. Newspapers are always supplied by contract; there would be time beforethe present contracts expired to complete all the subterraneanoperations with buyers, and to obtain a monopoly of the trade. Cointetcalculated that he could rid himself of Sechard while Metivier wastaking orders from the principal Paris newspapers, which even thenconsumed two hundred reams daily. Cointet naturally offered Metivier alarge commission on the contracts, for he wished to secure a cleverrepresentative on the spot, and to waste no time in traveling to andfro. And in this manner the fortunes of the firm of Metivier, one ofthe largest houses in the paper trade, were founded. The tall Cointetwent back to Angouleme to be present at Petit-Claud's wedding, with amind at rest as to the future. 

Petit-Claud had sold his professional connection, and was only waitingfor M. Milaud's promotion to take the public prosecutor's place, whichhad been promised to him by the Comtesse du Chatelet. The publicprosecutor's second deputy was appointed first deputy to the Court ofLimoges, the Keeper of the Seals sent a man of his own to Angouleme, and the post of first deputy was kept vacant for a couple of months. The interval was Petit-Claud's honeymoon. 

While Boniface Cointet was in Paris, David made a first experimentalbatch of unsized paper far superior to that in common use fornewspapers. He followed it up with a second batch of magnificentvellum paper for fine printing, and this the Cointets used for a newedition of their diocesan prayer-book. The material had been privatelyprepared by David himself; he would have no helpers but Kolb andMarion. 

When Boniface came back the whole affair wore a different aspect; helooked at the samples, and was fairly satisfied. 

"My good friend, " he said, "the whole trade of Angouleme is in crownpaper. We must make the best possible crown paper at half the presentprice; that is the first and foremost question for us. "

Then David tried to size the pulp for the desired paper, and theresult was a harsh surface with grains of size distributed all overit. On the day when the experiment was concluded and David held thesheets in his hand, he went away to find a spot where he could bealone and swallow his bitter disappointment. But Boniface Cointet wentin search of him and comforted him. Boniface was delightfully amiable. 

"Do not lose heart, " he said; "go on! I am a good fellow, I understandyou; I will stand by you to the end. "

"Really, " David said to his wife at dinner, "we are with good people;I should not have expected that the tall Cointet would be sogenerous. " And he repeated his conversation with his wily partner. 

Three months were spent in experiments. David slept at the mill; henoted the effects of various preparations upon the pulp. At one timehe attributed his non-success to an admixture of rag-pulp with his owningredients, and made a batch entirely composed of the new material;at another, he endeavored to size pulp made exclusively from rags;persevering in his experiments under the eyes of the tall Cointet, whom he had ceased to mistrust, until he had tried every possiblecombination of pulp and size. David lived in the paper-mill for thefirst six months of 1823--if it can be called living, to leave fooduntasted, and go in neglect of person and dress. He wrestled sodesperately with the difficulties, that anybody but the Cointets wouldhave seen the sublimity of the struggle, for the brave fellow was notthinking of his own interests. The moment had come when he cared fornothing but the victory. With marvelous sagacity he watched theunaccountable freaks of the semi-artificial substances called intoexistence by man for ends of his own; substances in which nature hadbeen tamed, as it were, and her tacit resistance overcome; and fromthese observations drew great conclusions; finding, as he did, thatsuch creations can only be obtained by following the laws of the moreremote affinities of things, of "a second nature, " as he called it, insubstances. 

Towards the end of August he succeeded to some extent in sizing thepaper pulp in the vat; the result being a kind of paper identical witha make in use for printers' proofs at the present day--a kind of paperthat cannot be depended upon, for the sizing itself is not alwayscertain. This was a great result, considering the condition of thepaper trade in 1823, and David hoped to solve the final difficultiesof the problem, but--it had cost ten thousand francs. 

Singular rumors were current at this time in Angouleme and L'Houmeau. It was said that David Sechard was ruining the firm of CointetBrothers. Experiments had eaten up twenty thousand francs; and theresult, said gossip, was wretchedly bad paper. Other manufacturerstook fright at this, hugged themselves on their old-fashioned methods, and, being jealous of the Cointets, spread rumors of the approachingfall of that ambitious house. As for the tall Cointet, he set up thenew machinery for making lengths of paper in a ribbon, and allowedpeople to believe that he was buying plant for David's experiments. Then the cunning Cointet used David's formula for pulp, while urginghis partner to give his whole attention to the sizing process; andthousands of reams of the new paper were despatched to Metivier inParis. 

When September arrived, the tall Cointet took David aside, and, learning that the latter meditated a crowning experiment, dissuadedhim from further attempts. 

"Go to Marsac, my dear David, see your wife, and take a rest afteryour labors; we don't want to ruin ourselves, " said Cointet in thefriendliest way. "This great triumph of yours, after all, is only astarting-point. We shall wait now for awhile before trying any newexperiments. To be fair! see what has come of them. We are not merelypaper-makers, we are printers besides and bankers, and people say thatyou are ruining us. "

David Sechard's gesture of protest on behalf of his good faith wassublime in its simplicity. 

"Not that fifty thousand francs thrown into the Charente would ruinus, " said Cointet, in reply to mute protest, "but we do not wish to beobliged to pay cash for everything in consequence of slanders thatshake our credit; _that_ would bring us to a standstill. We have reachedthe term fixed by our agreement, and we are bound on either side tothink over our position. "

"He is right, " thought David. He had forgotten the routine work of thebusiness, thoroughly absorbed as he had been in experiments on a largescale. 

David went to Marsac. For the past six months he had gone over onSaturday evening, returning again to L'Houmeau on Tuesday morning. Eve, after much counsel from her father-in-law, had bought a housecalled the Verberie, with three acres of land and a croft planted withvines, which lay like a wedge in the old man's vineyard. Here, withher mother and Marion, she lived a very frugal life, for five thousandfrancs of the purchase money still remained unpaid. It was a charminglittle domain, the prettiest bit of property in Marsac. The house, with a garden before it and a yard at the back, was built of whitetufa ornamented with carvings, cut without great expense in thateasily wrought stone, and roofed with slate. The pretty furniture fromthe house in Angouleme looked prettier still at Marsac, for there wasnot the slightest attempt at comfort or luxury in the country in thosedays. A row of orange-trees, pomegranates, and rare plants stoodbefore the house on the side of the garden, set there by the lastowner, an old general who died under M. Marron's hands. 

David was enjoying his holiday sitting under an orange-tree with hiswife, and father, and little Lucien, when the bailiff from Mansleappeared. Cointet Brothers gave their partner formal notice to appointan arbitrator to settle disputes, in accordance with a clause in theagreement. The Cointets demanded that the six thousand francs shouldbe refunded, and the patent surrendered in consideration of theenormous outlay made to no purpose. 

"People say that you are ruining them, " said old Sechard. "Well, well, of all that you have done, that is the one thing that I am glad toknow. "

At nine o'clock the next morning Eve and David stood in Petit-Claud'swaiting-room. The little lawyer was the guardian of the widow andorphan by virtue of his office, and it seemed to them that they couldtake no other advice. Petit-Claud was delighted to see his clients, and insisted that M. And Mme. Sechard should do him the pleasure ofbreakfasting with him. 

"Do the Cointets want six thousand francs of you?" he asked, smiling. "How much is still owing of the purchase-money of the Verberie?"

"Five thousand francs, monsieur, " said Eve, "but I have twothousand----"

"Keep your money, " Petit-Claud broke in. "Let us see: fivethousand--why, you want quite another ten thousand francs to settleyourselves comfortably down yonder. Very good, in two hours' time theCointets shall bring you fifteen thousand francs----"

Eve started with surprise. 

"If you will renounce all claims to the profits under the deed ofpartnership, and come to an amicable settlement, " said Petit-Claud. "Does that suit you?"

"Will it really be lawfully ours?" asked Eve. 

"Very much so, " said the lawyer, smiling. "The Cointets have workedyou trouble enough; I should like to make an end of their pretensions. Listen to me; I am a magistrate now, and it is my duty to tell you thetruth. Very good. The Cointets are playing you false at this moment, but you are in their hands. If you accept battle, you might possiblygain the lawsuit which they will bring. Do you wish to be where youare now after ten years of litigation? Experts' fees and expenses ofarbitration will be multiplied, the most contradictory opinions willbe given, and you must take your chance. And, " he added, smilingagain, "there is no attorney here that can defend you, so far as Isee. My successor has not much ability. There, a bad compromise isbetter than a successful lawsuit. "

"Any arrangement that will give us a quiet life will do for me, " saidDavid. 

Petit-Claud called to his servant. 

"Paul! go and ask M. Segaud, my successor, to come here. --He shall goto see the Cointets while we breakfast" said Petit-Claud, addressinghis former clients, "and in a few hours' time you will be on your wayhome to Marsac, ruined, but with minds at rest. Ten thousand francswill bring you in another five hundred francs of income, and you willlive comfortably on your bit of property. "

Two hours later, as Petit-Claud had prophesied, Maitre Segaud cameback with an agreement duly drawn up and signed by the Cointets, andfifteen notes each for a thousand francs. 

"We are much indebted to you, " said Sechard, turning to Petit-Claud. 

"Why, I have just this moment ruined you, " said Petit-Claud, lookingat his astonished former clients. "I tell you again, I have ruinedyou, as you will see as time goes on; but I know you, you would ratherbe ruined than wait for a fortune which perhaps might come too late. "

"We are not mercenary, monsieur, " said Madame Eve. "We thank you forgiving us the means of happiness; we shall always feel grateful toyou. "

"Great heavens! don't call down blessings on _me_!" cried Petit-Claud. "It fills me with remorse; but to-day, I think, I have made fullreparation. If I am a magistrate, it is entirely owing to you; and ifanybody is to feel grateful, it is I. Good-bye. "

As time went on, Kolb changed his opinion of Sechard senior; and asfor the old man, he took a liking to Kolb when he found that, likehimself, the Alsacien could neither write nor read a word, and that itwas easy to make him tipsy. The old "bear" imparted his ideas on vineculture and the sale of a vintage to the ex-cuirassier, and trainedhim with a view to leaving a man with a head on his shoulders to lookafter his children when he should be gone; for he grew childish at thelast, and great were his fears as to the fate of his property. He hadchosen Courtois the miller as his confidant. "You will see how thingswill go with my children when I am under ground. Lord! it makes meshudder to think of it. "

Old Sechard died in the month of March, 1929, leaving about twohundred thousand francs in land. His acres added to the Verberie madea fine property, which Kolb had managed to admiration for some twoyears. 

David and his wife found nearly a hundred thousand crowns in gold inthe house. The department of the Charente had valued old Sechard'smoney at a million; rumor, as usual, exaggerating the amount of ahoard. Eve and David had barely thirty thousand francs of income whenthey added their little fortune to the inheritance; they waitedawhile, and so it fell out that they invested their capital inGovernment securities at the time of the Revolution of July. 

Then, and not until then, could the department of the Charente andDavid Sechard form some idea of the wealth of the tall Cointet. Richto the extent of several millions of francs, the elder Cointet becamea deputy, and is at this day a peer of France. It is said that he willbe Minister of Commerce in the next Government; for in 1842 he marriedMlle. Popinot, daughter of M. Anselme Popinot, one of the mostinfluential statesmen of the dynasty, deputy and mayor of anarrondissement in Paris. 

David Sechard's discovery has been assimilated by the Frenchmanufacturing world, as food is assimilated by a living body. Thanksto the introduction of materials other than rags, France can producepaper more cheaply than any other European country. Dutch paper, asDavid foresaw, no longer exists. Sooner or later it will be necessary, no doubt, to establish a Royal Paper Manufactory; like the Gobelins, the Sevres porcelain works, the Savonnerie, and the Imprimerie royale, which so far have escaped the destruction threatened by _bourgeois_vandalism. 

David Sechard, beloved by his wife, father of two boys and a girl, hasthe good taste to make no allusion to his past efforts. Eve had thesense to dissuade him from following his terrible vocation; for theinventor like Moses on Mount Horeb, is consumed by the burning bush. He cultivates literature by way of recreation, and leads a comfortablelife of leisure, befitting the landowner who lives on his own estate. He has bidden farewell for ever to glory, and bravely taken his placein the class of dreamers and collectors; for he dabbles in entomology, and is at present investigating the transformations of insects whichscience only knows in the final stage. 

Everybody has heard of Petit-Claud's success as attorney-general; heis the rival of the great Vinet of Provins, and it is his ambition tobe President of the Court-Royal of Poitiers. 

Cerizet has been in trouble so frequently for political offences thathe has been a good deal talked about; and as one of the boldest_enfants perdus_ of the Liberal party he was nicknamed the "BraveCerizet. " When Petit-Claud's successor compelled him to sell hisbusiness in Angouleme, he found a fresh career on the provincialstage, where his talents as an actor were like to be turned tobrilliant account. The chief stage heroine, however, obliged him to goto Paris to find a cure for love among the resources of science, andthere he tried to curry favor with the Liberal party. 

As for Lucien, the story of his return to Paris belongs to the _Scenesof Parisian_ life. 

 ADDENDUM

The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy. 

Cerizet Two Poets A Man of Business Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Middle Classes

Chardon, Madame (nee Rubempre) Two Poets Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Chatelet, Sixte, Baron du Two Poets A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Thirteen

Chatelet, Marie-Louise-Anais de Negrepelisse, Baronne du Two Poets A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Government Clerks

Cointet, Boniface Two Poets The Firm of Nucingen The Member for Arcis

Cointet, Jean Two Poets

Collin, Jacques Father Goriot A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Member for Arcis

Conti, Gennaro Beatrix

Courtois Two Poets

Courtois, Madame Two Poets

Hautoy, Francis du Two Poets

Herrera, Carlos Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Marron Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

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 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris Letters of Two Brides The Ball at Sceaux Modeste Mignon The Secrets of a Princess The Gondreville Mystery A Daughter of Eve

Metivier The Government Clerks The Middle Classes

Milaud The Muse of the Department

Nucingen, Baron Frederic de The Firm of Nucingen Father Goriot Pierrette Cesar Birotteau A Distinguished Provincial at Paris 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 A Distinguished Provincial at Paris 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

Petit-Claud Two Poets

Pimentel, Marquis and Marquise de Two Poets

Postel Two Poets

Prieur, Madame Two Poets

Rastignac, Baron and Baronne de (Eugene's parents) Father Goriot Two Poets

Rastignac, Eugene de Father Goriot A Distinguished Provincial at Paris 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

Rubempre, Lucien-Chardon de Two Poets A Distinguished Provincial at Paris The Government Clerks Ursule Mirouet Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Sechard, Jerome-Nicholas Two Poets

Sechard, David Two Poets A Distinguished Provincial At Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Sechard, Madame David Two Poets A Distinguished Provincial At Paris Scenes from a Courtesan's Life

Senonches, Jacques de Two Poets

Senonches, Madame Jacques de Two Poets

Touches, Mademoiselle Felicite des Beatrix A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Bachelor's Establishment Another Study of Woman A Daughter of Eve Honorine Beatrix The Muse of the Department

Victorine Massimilla Doni Letters of Two Brides Gaudissart II