"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, my

boy; it is the pickaxe style of criticism. But there are plenty of

other ways. Your education will complete itself in time. When you are

absolutely obliged to speak of a man whom you do not like, for

proprietors and editors are sometimes under compulsion, you bring out

a neutral special article. You put the title of the book at the head

of it, and begin with general remarks, on the Greeks and the Romans if

you like, and wind up with--'and this brings us to Mr. So-and-so's

book, which will form the subject of a second article.' The second

article never appears, and in this way you snuff out the book between

two promises. But in this case you are writing down, not Nathan, but

Dauriat; he needs the pickaxe style. If the book is really good, the

pickaxe does no harm; but it goes to the core of it if it is bad. In

the first case, no one but the publisher is any the worse; in the

second, you do the public a service. Both methods, moreover, are

equally serviceable in political criticism."

Etienne Lousteau's cruel lesson opened up possibilities for Lucien's

imagination. He understood this craft to admiration.

"Let us go to the office," said Lousteau; "we shall find our friends

there, and we will agree among ourselves to charge at Nathan; they

will laugh, you will see."

Arrived in the Rue Saint-Fiacre, they went up to the room in the roof

where the paper was made up, and Lucien was surprised and gratified no

less to see the alacrity with which his comrades proceeded to demolish

Nathan's book. Hector Merlin took up a piece of paper and wrote a few

lines 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, Lousteau

inserted 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 hot

desire to be revenged on Dauriat took the place of conscience and

inspiration. For three days he never left Coralie's room; he sat at

work by the fire, waited upon by Berenice; petted, in moments of

weariness, by the silent and attentive Coralie; till, at the end of

that time, he had made a fair copy of about three columns of

criticism, 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 off

with it pell-mell down the staircase.

"What has come to him?" cried Lucien.

"He has taken your article straight to the printer," said Hector

Merlin. "'Tis a masterpiece; not a line to add, nor a word to take

out."

"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," began

Lucien; "if it takes, I could write you a series."

"Read it over," said Lousteau, and Lucien read the first of the

delightful short papers which made the fortune of the little

newspaper; a series of sketches of Paris life, a portrait, a type, an

ordinary event, or some of the oddities of the great city. This

specimen--"The Man in the Street"--was written in a way that was fresh

and original; the thoughts were struck out by the shock of the words,

the sounding ring of the adverbs and adjectives caught the reader's

ear. The paper was as different from the serious and profound article

on 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 two

bombshells hurled into his magazine. I have just come from him. He was

hurling imprecations, and in such a rage with Finot, who told him that

he had sold his paper to you. As for me, I took him aside and just

said a word in his ear. 'The _Marguerites_ will cost you dear,' I told

him. '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 beginning

to 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 a

weakling, that buck of the Empire, and he has lost his head. Have you

seen the paper? It is a funny article. Look, 'Funeral of the Heron,

and the Cuttlefish-bone's lament.' Mme. de Bargeton is called the

Cuttlefish-bone now, and no mistake, and Chatelet is known everywhere

as Baron Heron."

Lucien took up the paper, and could not help laughing at Vernou's

extremely clever skit.

"They will capitulate soon," said Hector Merlin.

Lucien merrily assisted at the manufacture of epigrams and jokes at

the end of the paper; and the associates smoked and chatted over the

day's adventures, over the foibles of some among their number, or some

new bit of personal gossip. From their witty, malicious, bantering

talk, Lucien gained a knowledge of the inner life of literature, and

of the manners and customs of the craft.

"While they are setting up the paper, I will go round with you and

introduce you to the managers of your theatres, and take you behind

the scenes," said Lousteau. "And then we will go to the

Panorama-Dramatique, and have a frolic in their dressing-rooms."

Arm-in-arm, they went from theatre to theatre. Lucien was introduced

to this one and that, and enthroned as a dramatic critic. Managers

complimented him, actresses flung him side glances; for every one of

them knew that this was the critic who, by a single article, had

gained an engagement at the Gymnase, with twelve thousand francs a

year, for Coralie, and another for Florine at the Panorama-Dramatique

with eight thousand francs. Lucien was a man of importance. The little

ovations raised Lucien in his own eyes, and taught him to know his

power. 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?" said

Nathan, looking from one to the other.

"Just you wait till to-morrow, my dear fellow, and you shall see how

Lucien has taken you in hand. Upon my word, you will be pleased. A

piece 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 the

greenroom of the Vaudeville was saying that I had been cut up."

"Let him talk, and wait," cried Lucien, and took refuge in Coralie's

dressing-room. Coralie, in her alluring costume, had just come off the

stage.

Next morning, as Lucien and Coralie sat at breakfast, a carriage drove

along the Rue de Vendome. The street was quiet enough, so that they

could hear the light sound made by an elegant cabriolet; and there was

that in the pace of the horse, and the manner of pulling up at the

door, which tells unmistakably of a thoroughbred. Lucien went to the

window, and there, in fact, beheld a splendid English horse, and no

less a person than Dauriat flinging the reins to his man as he stepped

down.

"'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 great

rush of tenderness. This mere girl had made his interests hers in a

wonderful way; she was quick-witted where he was concerned. The

apparition of the insolent publisher, the sudden and complete collapse

of that prince of charlatans, was due to circumstances almost entirely

forgotten, so utterly has the book trade changed during the last

fifteen years.

From 1816 to 1827, when newspaper reading-rooms were only just

beginning to lend new books, the fiscal law pressed more heavily than

ever upon periodical publications, and necessity created the invention

of advertisements. Paragraphs and articles in the newspapers were the

only means of advertisement known in those days; and French newspapers

before the year 1822 were so small, that the largest sheet of those

times was not so large as the smallest daily paper of ours. Dauriat

and Ladvocat, the first publishers to make a stand against the tyranny

of journalists, were also the first to use the placards which caught

the attention of Paris by strange type, striking colors, vignettes,

and (at a later time) by lithograph illustrations, till a placard

became a fairy-tale for the eyes, and not unfrequently a snare for the

purse of the amateur. So much originality indeed was expended on

placards in Paris, that one of that peculiar kind of maniacs, known as

a collector, possesses a complete series.

At first the placard was confined to the shop-windows and stalls upon

the Boulevards in Paris; afterwards it spread all over France, till it

was supplanted to some extent by a return to advertisements in the

newspapers. But the placard, nevertheless, which continues to strike

the eye, after the advertisement and the book which is advertised are

both forgotten, will always be among us; it took a new lease of life

when walls were plastered with posters.

Newspaper advertising, the offspring of heavy stamp duties, a high

rate of postage, and the heavy deposits of caution-money required by

the government as security for good behavior, is within the reach of

all who care to pay for it, and has turned the fourth page of every

journal into a harvest field alike for the speculator and the Inland

Revenue Department. The press restrictions were invented in the time

of M. de Villele, who had a chance, if he had but known it, of

destroying the power of journalism by allowing newspapers to multiply

till no one took any notice of them; but he missed his opportunity,

and a sort of privilege was created, as it were, by the almost

insuperable difficulties put in the way of starting a new venture. So,

in 1821, the periodical press might be said to have power of life and

death over the creations of the brain and the publishing trade. A few

lines among the items of news cost a fearful amount. Intrigues were

multiplied in newspaper offices; and of a night when the columns were

divided up, and this or that article was put in or left out to suit

the space, the printing-room became a sort of battlefield; so much so,

that the largest publishing firms had writers in their pay to insert

short articles in which many ideas are put in little space. Obscure

journalists of this stamp were only paid after the insertion of the

items, and not unfrequently spent the night in the printing-office to

make sure that their contributions were not omitted; sometimes putting

in a long article, obtained heaven knows how, sometimes a few lines of

a puff.

The manners and customs of journalism and of the publishing houses

have since changed so much, that many people nowadays will not believe

what immense efforts were made by writers and publishers of books to

secure a newspaper puff; the martyrs of glory, and all those who are

condemned to the penal servitude of a life-long success, were reduced

to such shifts, and stooped to depths of bribery and corruption as

seem fabulous to-day. Every kind of persuasion was brought to bear on

journalists--dinners, flattery, and presents. The following story will

throw more light on the close connection between the critic and the

publisher than any quantity of flat assertions.

There was once upon a time an editor of an important paper, a clever

writer with a prospect of becoming a statesman; he was young in those

days, and fond of pleasure, and he became the favorite of a well-known

publishing house. One Sunday the wealthy head of the firm was

entertaining several of the foremost journalists of the time in the

country, and the mistress of the house, then a young and pretty woman,

went to walk in her park with the illustrious visitor. The head-clerk

of the firm, a cool, steady, methodical German with nothing but

business in his head, was discussing a project with one of the

journalists, and as they chatted they walked on into the woods beyond

the park. In among the thickets the German thought he caught a glimpse

of his hostess, put up his eyeglass, made a sign to his young

companion to be silent, and turned back, stepping softly.--"What did

you see?" asked the journalist.--"Nothing particular," said the clerk.

"Our affair of the long article is settled. To-morrow we shall have at

least 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 for

some time a "nightingale" on the bookseller's shelves. A single

article in the _Journal des Debats_ sold the work in a week. In those

days, when there were no lending libraries, a publisher would sell an

edition of ten thousand copies of a book by a Liberal if it was well

reviewed by the Opposition papers; but then the Belgian pirated

editions were not as yet.

The preparatory attacks made by Lucien's friends, followed up by his

article on Nathan, proved efficacious; they stopped the sale of his

book. Nathan escaped with the mortification; he had been paid; he had

nothing 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. A

ream of blank paper costs fifteen francs, a ream of printed paper is

worth anything between a hundred sous and a hundred crowns, according

to its success; a favorable or unfavorable review at a critical time

often decides the question; and Dauriat having five hundred reams of

printed paper on hand, hurried to make terms with Lucien. The sultan

was now the slave.

After waiting for some time, fidgeting and making as much noise as he

could while parleying with Berenice, he at last obtained speech of

Lucien; and, arrogant publisher though he was, he came in with the

radiant 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, just

like a pair of turtle-doves! Who would think now, mademoiselle, that

he, with that girl's face of his, could be a tiger with claws of

steel, ready to tear a reputation to rags, just as he tears your

wrappers, I'll be bound, when you are not quick enough to unfasten

them," 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. He

judged it expedient to fire his name at her like a pistol shot, for

he considered that Coralie was less cordial than she should have been.

"Have you breakfasted, monsieur; will you keep us company?" asked

Coralie.

"Why, yes; it is easier to talk at table," said Dauriat. "Besides, by

accepting your invitation I shall have a right to expect you to dine

with my friend Lucien here, for we must be close friends now, hand and

glove!"

"Berenice! Bring oysters, lemons, fresh butter, and champagne," said

Coralie.

"You are too clever not to know what has brought me here," said

Dauriat, 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." As

he spoke he took out a neat pocketbook, drew from it three bills for a

thousand francs each, and laid them before Lucien with a suppliant

air. "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 controlled

himself, but he longed to sing aloud, to jump for joy; he was ready to

believe in Aladdin's lamp and in enchantment; he believed in his own

genius, in short.

"Then the _Marguerites_ are mine," continued Dauriat; "but you will

undertake not to attack my publications, won't you?"

"The _Marguerites_ are yours, but I cannot pledge my pen; it is at the

service of my friends, as theirs are mine."

"But you are one of my authors now. All my authors are my friends. So

you won't spoil my business without warning me beforehand, so that I

am 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 buying

your _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 no

difficulty in selling your book. I am the same man of business that I

was four days ago. It is not I who have changed; it is _you_. Last week

your sonnets were so many cabbage leaves for me; to-day your position

has ranked them beside Delavigne."

"Ah well," said Lucien, "if you have not read my sonnets, you have

read my article." With the sultan's pleasure of possessing a fair

mistress, and the certainty of success, he had grown satirical and

adorably impertinent of late.

"Yes, my friend; do you think I should have come here in such a hurry

but 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 and

make the most of your vogue," he added, with good humor, which masked

the extreme insolence of the speech. "But have you yourself a copy of

the paper? Have you seen your article in print?"

"Not yet," said Lucien, "though this is the first long piece of prose

which I have published; but Hector will have sent a copy to my address

in 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," she

laughed.

Dauriat was unwontedly courtier-like and complimentary. He was afraid

of Lucien, and therefore he asked him to a great dinner which he was

giving to a party of journalists towards the end of the week, and

Coralie was included in the invitation. He took the _Marguerites_ away

with him when he went, asking _his_ poet to look in when he pleased in

the Wooden Galleries, and the agreement should be ready for his

signature. Dauriat never forgot the royal airs with which he

endeavored to overawe superficial observers, and to impress them with

the notion that he was a Maecenas rather than a publisher; at this

moment he left the three thousand francs, waving away in lordly

fashion the receipt which Lucien offered, kissed Coralie's hand, and

took his departure.

"Well, dear love, would you have seen many of these bits of paper if

you had stopped in your hole in the Rue de Cluny, prowling about among

the musty old books in the Bibliotheque de Sainte-Genevieve?" asked

Coralie, 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 great

ninnies, it seems to me."

His brothers of the _cenacle_! And Lucien could hear the verdict and

laugh.

He had seen himself in print; he had just experienced the ineffable

joy of the author, that first pleasurable thrill of gratified vanity

which comes but once. The full import and bearing of his article

became apparent to him as he read and re-read it. The garb of print is

to manuscript as the stage is to women; it brings beauties and defects

to light, killing and giving life; the fine thoughts and the faults

alike stare you in the face.

Lucien, in his excitement and rapture, gave not another thought to

Nathan. Nathan was a stepping-stone for him--that was all; and he

(Lucien) was happy exceedingly--he thought himself rich. The money

brought by Dauriat was a very Potosi for the lad who used to go about

unnoticed through the streets of Angouleme and down the steep path

into L'Houmeau to Postel's garret, where his whole family had lived

upon an income of twelve hundred francs. The pleasures of his life in

Paris must inevitably dim the memories of those days; but so keen were

they, 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 the

notes. While she went he wrote a few lines to his family, and on the

maid's return he sent her to the coach-office with a packet of five

hundred francs addressed to his mother. He could not trust himself; he

wanted 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 meritorious

action. Coralie put her arms about her lover and kissed him, and

thought him a model son and brother; she could not make enough of him,

for generosity is a trait of character which delights these kindly

creatures, who always carry their hearts in their hands.

"We have a dinner now every day for a week," she said; "we will make a

little carnival; you have worked quite hard enough."

Coralie, fain to delight in the beauty of a man whom all other women

should envy her, took Lucien back to Staub. He was not dressed finely

enough for her. Thence the lovers went to drive in the Bois de

Boulogne, 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 the

artists and speculators, all the men who seek for violent sensations

as a relief from immense labors, gave Lucien a welcome among them. And

Lucien had gained confidence; he gave himself out in talk as though he

had 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 Royalist

paper to be entitled the _Reveil_ at a later day.

After dinner, Merlin and Lucien, Coralie and Mme. du Val-Noble, went

to the Opera, where Merlin had a box. The whole party adjourned

thither, and Lucien triumphant reappeared upon the scene of his first

serious check.

He walked in the lobby, arm in arm with Merlin and Blondet, looking

the 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 the

Marquise d'Espard's box; Rastignac had paid a long visit, and the

Marquise and Mme. de Bargeton put up their opera-glasses at Coralie.

Did the sight of Lucien send a pang of regret through Mme. de

Bargeton's heart? This thought was uppermost in the poet's mind. The

longing for revenge aroused in him by the sight of the Corinne of

Angouleme was as fierce as on that day when the lady and her cousin

had cut him in the Champs-Elysees.

"Did you bring an amulet with you from the provinces?"--It was Blondet

who made this inquiry some few days later, when he called at eleven

o'clock in the morning and found that Lucien was not yet risen.--"His

good looks are making ravages from cellar to garret, high and low,"

continued Blondet, kissing Coralie on the forehead. "I have come to

enlist you, dear fellow," he continued, grasping Lucien by the hand.

"Yesterday, at the Italiens, the Comtesse de Montcornet asked me to

bring you to her house. You will not give a refusal to a charming

woman? You meet people of the first fashion there."

"If Lucien is nice, he will not go to see your Countess," put in

Coralie. "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 once

had six months of de Marsay."

"Do you suppose, child, that _I_ am particularly anxious to take such

a handsome fellow as your poet to Mme. de Montcornet's house? If you

object, let us consider that nothing has been said. But I don't fancy

that the women are so much in question as a poor devil that Lucien

pilloried in his newspaper; he is begging for mercy and peace. The

Baron du Chatelet is imbecile enough to take the thing seriously. The

Marquise d'Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Mme. de Montcornet's set have

taken up the Heron's cause; and I have undertaken to reconcile

Petrarch and his Laura--Mme. de Bargeton and Lucien."

"Aha!" cried Lucien, the glow of the intoxication of revenge throbbing

full-pulsed through every vein. "Aha! so my foot is on their necks!

You make me adore my pen, worship my friends, bow down to the

fate-dispensing power of the press. I have not written a single

sentence as yet upon the Heron and the Cuttlefish-bone.--I will go with

you, 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 as

it is." He flourished the pen which had written the article upon Nathan.

"To-morrow," he cried, "I will hurl a couple of columns at their

heads. Then, we shall see. Don't be frightened, Coralie, it is not

love but revenge; revenge! And I will have it to the full!"

"What a man it is!" said Blondet. "If you but knew, Lucien, how rare

such explosions are in this jaded Paris, you might appreciate

yourself. You will be a precious scamp" (the actual expression was a

trifle 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 by

treading over a corpse, he shall have Coralie's body for a

stepping-stone," said the girl.

"You are a pair of lovers of the Golden Age," said Blondet.--"I

congratulate 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 immensely

flattered by this attention. Felicien Vernou brought a hundred francs

for Lucien's article; it was felt that such a contributor must be well

paid to attach him to the paper.

Coralie, looking round at the chapter of journalists, ordered in a

breakfast from the _Cadran bleu_, the nearest restaurant, and asked her

visitors to adjourn to her handsomely furnished dining-room when

Berenice announced that the meal was ready. In the middle of the

repast, when the champagne had gone to all heads, the motive of the

visit 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 ugly

trick with your first book. You have your _Archer of Charles IX._ to

sell, have you not? We went round to Nathan this morning; he is in a

terrible way. But you will set about another article, and puff praise

in 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?" asked

Blondet.

"You article was not signed," added Lousteau. "Felicien, not being

quite such a new hand as you are, was careful to put an initial C at

the 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 an

L. If you cut a man up, you do it anonymously; if you praise him, it

is just as well to put your name to your article."

"It is not the signatures that trouble me," returned Lucien, "but I

cannot 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 credited

you with the omnipotence of the great mind--the power of seeing both

sides of everything. In literature, my boy, every idea is reversible,

and no man can take upon himself to decide which is the right or wrong

side. Everything is bi-lateral in the domain of thought. Ideas are

binary. Janus is a fable signifying criticism and the symbol of

Genius. The Almighty alone is triform. What raises Moliere and

Corneille above the rest of us but the faculty of saying one thing

with an Alceste or an Octave, and another with a Philinte or a Cinna?

Rousseau wrote a letter against dueling in the _Nouvelle_ Heloise, and

another 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 could

give judgement for Clarissa or Lovelace, Hector or Achilles? Who was

Homer's hero? What did Richardson himself think? It is the function of

criticism to look at a man's work in all its aspects. We draw up our

case, in short."

"Do you really stick to your written opinions?" asked Vernou, with a

satirical expression. "Why, we are retailers of phrases; that is how

we make a livelihood. When you try to do a good piece of work--to

write 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, read

to-day and forgotten to-morrow, they are worth nothing in my eyes but

the money that is paid for them. If you attach any importance to such

drivel, you might as well make the sign of the Cross and invoke heaven

when you sit down to write a tradesman's circular."

Every one apparently was astonished at Lucien's scruples. The last

rags of the boyish conscience were torn away, and he was invested with

the _toga virilis_ of journalism.

"Do you know what Nathan said by way of comforting himself after your

criticism?" asked Lousteau.

"How should I know?"

"Nathan exclaimed, 'Paragraphs pass away; but a great work lives!' He

will be here to supper in two days, and he will be sure to fall flat

at your feet, and kiss your claws, and swear that you are a great

man."

"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 had

begun to take effect. "But what am I to say?"

"Oh well, refute yourself in three good columns in Merlin's paper. We

have been enjoying the sight of Nathan's wrath; we have just been

telling him that he owes us no little gratitude for getting up a hot

controversy that will sell his second edition in a week. In his eyes

at this present moment you are a spy, a scoundrel, a caitiff wretch;

the day after to-morrow you will be a genius, an uncommonly clever

fellow, one of Plutarch's men. Nathan will hug you and call you his

best friend. Dauriat has been to see you; you have your three thousand

francs; you have worked the trick! Now you want Nathan's respect and

esteem. Nobody ought to be let in except the publisher. We must not

immolate any one but an enemy. We should not talk like this if it were

a question of some outsider, some inconvenient person who had made a

name for himself without us and was not wanted; but Nathan is one of

us. Blondet got some one to attack him in the _Mercure_ for the pleasure

of replying in the _Debats_. For which reason the first edition went off

at once."

"My friends, upon my word and honor, I cannot write two words in

praise of that book----"

"You will have another hundred francs," interrupted Merlin. "Nathan

will have brought you in ten louis d'or, to say nothing of an article

that you might put in Finot's paper; you would get a hundred francs

for 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 some

thought. "Say that the envy that fastens on all good work, like wasps

on ripe fruit, has attempted to set its fangs in this production. The

captious critic, trying his best to find fault, has been obliged to

invent theories for that purpose, and has drawn a distinction between

two kinds of literature--'the literature of ideas and the literature

of imagery,' as he calls them. On the heads of that, youngster, say

that to give expression to ideas through imagery is the highest form

of art. Try to show that all poetry is summed up in that, and lament

that there is so little poetry in French; quote foreign criticisms on

the unimaginative precision of our style, and then extol M. de Canalis

and Nathan for the services they have done France by infusing a less

prosaic spirit into the language. Knock your previous argument to

pieces by calling attention to the fact that we have made progress

since the eighteenth century. (Discover the 'progress,' a beautiful

word to mystify the bourgeois public.) Say that the new methods in

literature concentrate all styles, comedy and tragedy, description,

character-drawing and dialogues, in a series of pictures set in the

brilliant frame of a plot which holds the reader's interest. The

Novel, which demands sentiment, style, and imagery, is the greatest

creation of modern days; it is the successor of stage comedy grown

obsolete with its restrictions. Facts and ideas are all within the

province of fiction. The intellect of an incisive moralist, like La

Bruyere, the power of treating character as Moliere could treat it,

the grand machinery of a Shakespeare, together with the portrayal of

the most subtle shades of passion (the one treasury left untouched by

our predecessors)--for all this the modern novel affords free scope.

How far superior is all this to the cut-and-dried logic-chopping, the

cold analysis to the eighteenth century!--'The Novel,' say

sententiously, 'is the Epic grown amusing.' Instance _Corinne_, bring

Mme. de Stael up to support your argument. The eighteenth century

called all things in question; it is the task of the nineteenth to

conclude and speak the last word; and the last word of the nineteenth

century has been for realities--realities which live however and move.

Passion, in short, an element unknown in Voltaire's philosophy, has

been brought into play. Here a diatribe against Voltaire, and as for

Rousseau, his characters are polemics and systems masquerading. Julie

and 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 new

and original literature to the Peace and the Restoration of the

Bourbons, 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 our

contemporary's work, and to what end? To depreciate a fine work, to

deceive the public, and to arrive at this conclusion--"A book that

sells, does not sell."' _Proh pudor_! (Mind you put _Proh pudor_! 'tis a

harmless expletive that stimulates the reader's interest.) Foresee the

approaching decadence of criticism, in fact. Moral--'There is but one

kind of literature, the literature which aims to please. Nathan has

started upon a new way; he understands his epoch and fulfils the

requirements of his age--the demand for drama, the natural demand of a

century in which the political stage has become a permanent puppet

show. Have we not seen four dramas in a score of years--the

Revolution, the Directory, the Empire, and the Restoration?' With

that, wallow in dithyramb and eulogy, and the second edition shall

vanish like smoke. This is the way to do it. Next Saturday put a

review in our magazine, and sign it 'de Rubempre,' out in full.

"In that final article say that 'fine work always brings about

abundant controversy. This week such and such a paper contained such

and such an article on Nathan's book, and such another paper made a

vigorous reply.' Then you criticise the critics 'C' and 'L'; pay me a

passing compliment on the first article in the _Debats_, and end by

averring that Nathan's work is the great book of the epoch; which is

all as if you said nothing at all; they say the same of everything

that comes out.

"And so," continued Blondet, "you will have made four hundred francs

in a week, to say nothing of the pleasure of now and again saying what

you really think. A discerning public will maintain that either C or L

or Rubempre is in the right of it, or mayhap all the three. Mythology,

beyond doubt one of the grandest inventions of the human brain, places

Truth 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 on

both cheeks.

"I am going to my shop," said he. And every man likewise departed to

his shop. For these "_hommes forts_," a newspaper office was nothing but

a shop.

They were to meet again in the evening at the Wooden Galleries, and

Lucien would sign his treaty of peace with Dauriat. Florine and

Lousteau, Lucien and Coralie, Blondet and Finot, were to dine at the

Palais-Royal; du Bruel was giving the manager of the

Panorama-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. Four

hundred francs for three articles! Doguereau would scarcely give me as

much for a book which cost me two years of work."

"Write criticism," said Coralie, "have a good time! Look at me, I am

an Andalusian girl to-night, to-morrow I may be a gypsy, and a man the

night after. Do as I do, give them grimaces for their money, and let

us live happily."

Lucien, smitten with love of Paradox, set himself to mount and ride

that unruly hybrid product of Pegasus and Balaam's ass; started out at

a 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 arise

from that transaction in the future. He took a turn of work at the

office, wrote off a couple of columns, and came back to the Rue de

Vendome. Next morning he found the germs of yesterday's ideas had

sprung up and developed in his brain, as ideas develop while the

intellect is yet unjaded and the sap is rising; and thoroughly did he

enjoy the projection of this new article. He threw himself into it

with enthusiasm. At the summons of the spirit of contradiction, new

charms met beneath his pen. He was witty and satirical, he rose to yet

new views of sentiment, of ideas and imagery in literature. With

subtle ingenuity, he went back to his own first impressions of

Nathan's work, when he read it in the newsroom of the Cour du

Commerce; and the ruthless, bloodthirsty critic, the lively mocker,

became a poet in the final phrases which rose and fell with majestic

rhythm like the swaying censer before the altar.

"One hundred francs, Coralie!" cried he, holding up eight sheets of

paper covered with writing while she dressed.

The mood was upon him; he went on to indite, stroke by stroke, the

promised terrible article on Chatelet and Mme. de Bargeton. That

morning he experienced one of the keenest personal pleasures of

journalism; he knew what it was to forge the epigram, to whet and

polish the cold blade to be sheathed in a victim's heart, to make of

the hilt a cunning piece of workmanship for the reader to admire. For

the public admires the handle, the delicate work of the brain, while

the cruelty is not apparent; how should the public know that the steel

of the epigram, tempered in the fire of revenge, has been plunged

deftly, to rankle in the very quick of a victim's vanity, and is

reeking from wounds innumerable which it has inflicted? It is a

hideous joy, that grim, solitary pleasure, relished without witnesses;

it is like a duel with an absent enemy, slain at a distance by a

quill; a journalist might really possess the magical power of

talismans in Eastern tales. Epigram is distilled rancor, the

quintessence of a hate derived from all the worst passions of man,

even as love concentrates all that is best in human nature. The man

does not exist who cannot be witty to avenge himself; and, by the same

rule, there is not one to whom love does not bring delight. Cheap and

easy as this kind of wit may be in France, it is always relished.

Lucien's article was destined to raise the previous reputation of the

paper for venomous spite and evil-speaking. His article probed two

hearts 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 horses

are fidgeting. There is no need to kill yourself."

"We will take the article on Nathan to Hector. Journalism is really

very 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 Paris

which had but lately given Lucien the cold shoulder, and now was

beginning to talk about him. To have Paris talking of you! and this

after you have learned how large the great city is, how hard it is to

be anybody there--it was this thought that turned Lucien's head with

exultation.

"Let us go by way of your tailor's, dear boy, and tell him to be quick

with your clothes, or try them on if they are ready. If you are going

to your fine ladies' houses, you shall eclipse that monster of a de

Marsay and young Rastignac and any Ajuda-Pinto or Maxime de Trailles

or Vandenesse of them all. Remember that your mistress is Coralie! But

you will not play me any tricks, eh?"

Two days afterwards, on the eve of the supper-party at Coralie's

house, there was a new play at the Ambigu, and it fell to Lucien to

write the dramatic criticism. Lucien and Coralie walked together after

dinner from the Rue de Vendome to the Panorama-Dramatique, going along

the Cafe Turc side of the Boulevard du Temple, a lounge much

frequented at that time. People wondered at his luck, and praised

Coralie's beauty. Chance remarks reached his ears; some said that

Coralie was the finest woman in Paris, others that Lucien was a match

for her. The romantic youth felt that he was in his atmosphere. This

was the life for him. The brotherhood was so far away that it was

almost out of sight. Only two months ago, how he had looked up to

those lofty great natures; now he asked himself if they were not just

a trifle ridiculous with their notions and their Puritanism. Coralie's

careless words had lodged in Lucien's mind, and begun already to bear

fruit. He took Coralie to her dressing-room, and strolled about like a

sultan behind the scenes; the actresses gave him burning glances and

flattering 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; the

box-office keeper, who did not know him as yet, said that they had sent

orders 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 at

this.

"What a dunce you are!" said the leading lady, addressing the

box-office keeper, "that is Coralie's adorer."

The box-office keeper turned round immediately at this. "I will speak

to the manager at once, sir," he said.

In all these small details Lucien saw the immense power wielded by the

press. His vanity was gratified. The manager appeared to say that the

Duc de Rhetore and Tullia the opera-dancer were in the stage-box, and

they 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, my

friends have been mere skirmishers, but I have given them red-hot shot

to-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 a

byword, a name for the type of courtiers who deny their benefactor and

rally 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 personage

should see how gross a mistake Mesdames d'Espard and de Bargeton had

made when they slighted Lucien de Rubempre. But he showed the tip of

his ear when he asserted his right to bear the name of Rubempre, the

Duc de Rhetore having purposely addressed him as Chardon.

"You should go over to the Royalists," said the Duke. "You have proved

yourself a man of ability; now show your good sense. The one way of

obtaining a patent of nobility and the right to bear the title of your

mother's family, is by asking for it in return for services to be

rendered 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 long

run, and the press is the only formidable power. They have borne with

it too long as it is; the press is sure to be muzzled. Take advantage

of the last moments of liberty to make yourself formidable, and you

will have everything--intellect, nobility, and good looks; nothing

will be out of your reach. So if you are a Liberal, let it be simply

for the moment, so that you can make a better bargain for your

Royalism."

With that the Duke entreated Lucien to accept an invitation to dinner,

which the German Minister (of Florine's supper-party) was about to

send. Lucien fell under the charm of the noble peer's arguments; the

salons from which he had been exiled for ever, as he thought, but a

few months ago, would shortly open their doors for him! He was

delighted. He marveled at the power of the press; Intellect and the

Press, these then were the real powers in society. Another thought

shaped itself in his mind--Was Etienne Lousteau sorry that he had

opened the gate of the temple to a newcomer? Even now he (Lucien) felt

on his own account that it was strongly advisable to put difficulties

in the way of eager and ambitious recruits from the provinces. If a

poet 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, and

made a pretty good guess at the matter of his meditations. He himself

had opened out wide horizons of public life before an ambitious poet,

with a vacillating will, it is true, but not without aspirations; and

the journalists had already shown the neophyte, from a pinnacle of the

temple, 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 Rhetore

had spoken of Lucien's cleverness, and Mme. d'Espard's set had taken

alarm. Mme. de Bargeton had commissioned the Duke to sound Lucien, and

with that object in view, the noble youth had come to the

Ambigu-Comique.

Do not believe in stories of elaborate treachery. Neither the great

world nor the world of journalists laid any deep schemes; definite

plans are not made by either; their Machiavelism lives from hand to

mouth, so to speak, and consists, for the most part, in being always

on the spot, always on the alert to turn everything to account, always

on the watch for the moment when a man's ruling passion shall deliver

him into the hands of his enemies. The young Duke had seen through

Lucien at Florine's supper-party; he had just touched his vain

susceptibilities; and now he was trying his first efforts in diplomacy

upon the living subject.

Lucien hurried to the Rue Saint-Fiacre after the play to write his

article. It was a piece of savage and bitter criticism, written in

pure wantonness; he was amusing himself by trying his power. The

melodrama, 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 send

everybody to see a bad one, as his associates had said.

He unfolded the sheet at breakfast next morning, telling Coralie as he

did so that he had cut up the Ambigu-Comique; and not a little

astonished was he to find below his paper on Mme. de Bargeton and

Chatelet a notice of the Ambigu, so mellowed and softened in the

course of the night, that although the witty analysis was still

preserved, the judgment was favorable. The article was more likely to

fill the house than to empty it. No words can describe his wrath. He

determined to have a word or two with Lousteau. He had already begun

to think himself an indespensable man, and he vowed that he would not

submit to be tyrannized over and treated like a fool. To establish his

power beyond cavil, he wrote the article for Dauriat's review, summing

up and weighing all the various opinions concerning Nathan's book; and

while he was in the humor, he hit off another of his short sketches

for Lousteau's newspaper. Inexperienced journalists, in the first

effervescence of youth, make a labor of love of ephemeral work, and

lavish their best thought unthriftily thereon.

The manager of the Panorama-Dramatique gave a first performance of a

vaudeville that night, so that Florine and Coralie might be free for

the evening. There were to be cards before supper. Lousteau came for

the short notice of the vaudeville; it had been written beforehand

after the general rehearsal, for Etienne wished to have the paper off

his mind. Lucien read over one of the charming sketches of Parisian

whimsicalities which made the fortune of the paper, and Lousteau

kissed him on both eyelids, and called him the providence of

journalism.

"Then why do you amuse yourself by turning my article inside out?"

asked Lucien. He had written his brilliant sketch simply and solely to

give 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 Ambigu

pays for thirty copies, and only takes nine for the manager and box

office-keeper and their mistresses, and for the three lessees of the

theatre. Every one of the Boulevard theatres pays eight hundred francs

in this way to the paper; and there is quite as much again in boxes

and orders for Finot, to say nothing of the contributions of the

company. And if the minor theatres do this, you may imagine what the

big ones do! Now you understand? We are bound to show a good deal of

indulgence."

"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 the

theatre? You must have had some reason for it, or you would not have

cut up the play as you did. If you slash for the sake of slashing, the

paper will get into trouble, and when there is good reason for hitting

hard 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 him

that I softened it down; you will find it serves you better than if it

had appeared in print. Go and ask him for tickets to-morrow, and he

will sign forty blank orders every month. I know a man who can get rid

of them for you; I will introduce you to him, and he will buy them all

up at half-price. There is a trade done in theatre tickets, just as

Barbet trades in reviewers' copies. This is another Barbet, the leader

of the _claque_. He lives near by; come and see him, there is time

enough."

"But, my dear fellow, it is a scandalous thing that Finot should levy

blackmail in matters intellectual. Sooner or later----"

"Really!" cried Lousteau, "where do you come from? For what do you

take Finot? Beneath his pretence of good-nature, his ignorance and

stupidity, and those Turcaret's airs of his, there is all the cunning

of his father the hatter. Did you notice an old soldier of the Empire

in the den at the office? That is Finot's uncle. The uncle is not only

one of the right sort, he has the luck to be taken for a fool; and he

takes all that kind of business upon his shoulders. An ambitious man

in Paris is well off indeed if he has a willing scapegoat at hand. In

public life, as in journalism, there are hosts of emergencies in which

the chiefs cannot afford to appear. If Finot should enter on a

political career, his uncle would be his secretary, and receive all

the contributions levied in his department on big affairs. Anybody

would take Giroudeau for a fool at first sight, but he has just enough

shrewdness to be an inscrutable old file. He is on picket duty; he

sees that we are not pestered with hubbub, beginners wanting a job, or

advertisements. 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 du

Faubourg-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 the

dramatic authors of the Boulevards are in his clutches, and have a

standing account with him as if he were a banker. Orders and

complimentary tickets are sold here. Braulard knows where to get rid

of such merchandise. Now for a turn at statistics, a useful science

enough in its way. At the rate of fifty complimentary tickets every

evening for each theatre, you have two hundred and fifty tickets

daily. Suppose, taking one with another, that they are worth a couple

of francs apiece, Braulard pays a hundred and twenty-five francs daily

for them, and takes his chance of making cent per cent. In this way

authors' tickets alone bring him in about four thousand francs every

month, or forty-eight thousand francs per annum. Allow twenty thousand

francs 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 of

complimentary tickets for unreserved seats, and the theatre reserves

the right of admitting those who pay. There are fine warm evenings to

be 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 tribute

to him; if they did not, there would be no applause when they come on

or go off."

Lousteau gave this explanation in a low voice as they went up the

stair.

"Paris is a queer place," said Lucien; it seemed to him that he saw

self-interest squatting in every corner.

A smart maid-servant opened the door. At the sight of Etienne

Lousteau, the dealer in orders and tickets rose from a sturdy chair

before a large cylinder desk, and Lucien beheld the leader of the

_claque_, Braulard himself, dressed in a gray molleton jacket, footed

trousers, and red slippers; for all the world like a doctor or a

solicitor. He was a typical self-made man, Lucien thought--a

vulgar-looking face with a pair of exceedingly cunning gray eyes,

hands made for hired applause, a complexion over which hard living

had passed like rain over a roof, grizzled hair, and a somewhat husky

voice.

"You have come from Mlle. Florine, no doubt, sir, and this gentleman

for Mlle. Coralie," said Braulard; "I know you very well by sight.

Don't trouble yourself, sir," he continued, addressing Lucien; "I am

buying the Gymnase connection, I will look after your lady, and I will

give 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 have

come 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 is

getting on, is Finot. I have asked him to dine with me at the end of

the week; if you will do me the honor and pleasure of coming, you may

bring your ladies, and there will be a grand jollification. Adele

Dupuis 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 repay

the loan, so I have been organizing a success. Ducange is a clever

man; 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 a

competent critic. "If she is a good girl, I will take her part, for

they have got up a cabal against her at the Gymnase. This is how I

mean to do it. I will have a few well-dressed men in the balconies to

smile and make a little murmur, and the applause will follow. That is

a dodge which makes a position for an actress. I have a liking for

Coralie, and you ought to be satisfied, for she has feeling. Aha! I

can 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 the

beginning of the month. He is a friend of yours, and I will treat him

as I do you. You have five theatres; you will get thirty tickets--that

will be something like seventy-five francs a month. Perhaps you will

be wanting an advance?" added Braulard, lifting a cash-box full of

coin out of his desk.

"No, no," said Lousteau; "we will keep that shift against a rainy

day."

"I will work with Coralie, sir, and we will come to an understanding,"

said Braulard, addressing Lucien, who was looking about him, not

without profound astonishment. There was a bookcase in Braulard's

study, there were framed engravings and good furniture; and as they

passed through the drawing room, he noticed that the fittings were

neither too luxurious nor yet mean. The dining-room seemed to be the

best ordered room, he remarked on this jokingly.

"But Braulard is an epicure," said Lousteau; "his dinners are famous

in dramatic literature, and they are what you might expect from his

cash-box."

"I have good wine," Braulard replied modestly.--"Ah! here are my

lamplighters," he added, as a sound of hoarse voices and strange

footsteps came up from the staircase.

Lucien on his way down saw a march past of _claqueurs_ and retailers of

tickets. It was an ill smelling squad, attired in caps, seedy

trousers, and threadbare overcoats; a flock of gallows-birds with

bluish and greenish tints in their faces, neglected beards, and a

strange mixture of savagery and subservience in their eyes. A horrible

population lives and swarms upon the Paris boulevards; selling watch

guards and brass jewelry in the streets by day, applauding under the

chandeliers of the theatre at night, and ready to lend themselves to

any dirty business in the great city.

"Behold the Romans!" laughed Lousteau; "behold fame incarnate for

actresses and dramatic authors. It is no prettier than our own when

you come to look at it close."

"It is difficult to keep illusions on any subject in Paris," answered

Lucien as they turned in at his door. "There is a tax upon everything

--everything has its price, and anything can be made to order--even

success."

Thirty guests were assembled that evening in Coralie's rooms, her

dining room would not hold more. Lucien had asked Dauriat and the

manager of the Panorama-Dramatique, Matifat and Florine, Camusot,

Lousteau, Finot, Nathan, Hector Merlin and Mme. du Val-Noble, Felicien

Vernou, Blondet, Vignon, Philippe Bridau, Mariette, Giroudeau, Cardot

and Florentine, and Bixiou. He had also asked all his friends of the

Rue des Quatre-Vents. Tullia the dancer, who was not unkind, said

gossip, to du Bruel, had come without her duke. The proprietors of the

newspapers, for whom most of the journalists wrote, were also of the

party.

At eight o'clock, when the lights of the candles in the chandeliers

shone over the furniture, the hangings, and the flowers, the rooms

wore the festal air that gives to Parisian luxury the appearance of a

dream; and Lucien felt indefinable stirrings of hope and gratified

vanity and pleasure at the thought that he was the master of the

house. But how and by whom the magic wand had been waved he no longer

sought to remember. Florine and Coralie, dressed with the fanciful

extravagance and magnificent artistic effect of the stage, smiled on

the poet like two fairies at the gates of the Palace of Dreams. And

Lucien was almost in a dream.

His life had been changed so suddenly during the last few months; he

had gone so swiftly from the depths of penury to the last extreme of

luxury, that at moments he felt as uncomfortable as a dreaming man who

knows that he is asleep. And yet, he looked round at the fair reality

about him with a confidence to which envious minds might have given

the name of fatuity.

Lucien himself had changed. He had grown paler during these days of

continual enjoyment; languor had lent a humid look to his eyes; in

short, to use Mme. d'Espard's expression, he looked like a man who is

loved. He was the handsomer for it. Consciousness of his powers and

his strength was visible in his face, enlightened as it was by love

and experience. Looking out over the world of letters and of men, it

seemed to him that he might go to and fro as lord of it all. Sober

reflection never entered his romantic head unless it was driven in by

the pressure of adversity, and just now the present held not a care

for him. The breath of praise swelled the sails of his skiff; all the

instruments of success lay there to his hand; he had an establishment,

a mistress whom all Paris envied him, a carriage, and untold wealth in

his inkstand. Heart and soul and brain were alike transformed within

him; why should he care to be over nice about the means, when the

great results were visibly there before his eyes.

As such a style of living will seem, and with good reason, to be

anything but secure to economists who have any experience of Paris, it

will not be superfluous to give a glance to the foundation, uncertain

as it was, upon which the prosperity of the pair was based.

Camusot had given Coralie's tradesmen instructions to grant her credit

for three months at least, and this had been done without her

knowledge. During those three months, therefore, horses and servants,

like everything else, waited as if by enchantment at the bidding of

two children, eager for enjoyment, and enjoying to their hearts'

content.

Coralie had taken Lucien's hand and given him a glimpse of the

transformation scene in the dining-room, of the splendidly appointed

table, of chandeliers, each fitted with forty wax-lights, of the

royally luxurious dessert, and a menu of Chevet's. Lucien kissed her

on the forehead and held her closely to his heart.

"I shall succeed, child," he said, "and then I will repay you for such

love 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 lips

against his.

When they went back to the others, Florine, Lousteau, Matifat, and

Camusot were setting out the card-tables. Lucien's friends began to

arrive, for already these folk began to call themselves "Lucien's

friends"; and they sat over the cards from nine o'clock till midnight.

Lucien was unacquainted with a single game, but Lousteau lost a

thousand francs, and Lucien could not refuse to lend him the money

when 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 serious

enough, not to say ill at ease. D'Arthez could not come, he was

finishing his book; Leon Giraud was busy with the first number of his

review; so the brotherhood had sent three artists among their number,

thinking that they would feel less out of their element in an

uproarious supper party than the rest.

"Well, my dear fellows," said Lucien, assuming a slightly patronizing

tone, "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 an

elderly adorer, a merchant, and she showed him the door, poor fellow.

I am better off than your brother Philippe," he added, addressing

Joseph 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 a

magnificent portrait she would make!"

"Beautiful and good," said Lucien; "she is an angel, upon my word. And

you shall paint her portrait; she shall sit to you if you like for

your 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 both

his hands and shook them in a sudden access of violent friendship.

"Oh, my good friend, you are something more than a great man, you have

a heart," cried he, "a much rarer thing than genius in these days. You

are a devoted friend. I am yours, in short, through thick and thin; I

shall never forget all that you have done for me this week."

Lucien's joy had reached the highest point; to be thus caressed by a

man of whom everyone was talking! He looked at his three friends of

the brotherhood with something like a superior air. Nathan's

appearance 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's

issue.

"I only consented to write the attack on condition that I should be

allowed to reply to it myself," Lucien said in Nathan's ear. "I am one

of you." This incident was opportune; it justified the remark which

amused Fulgence. Lucien was radiant.

"When d'Arthez's book comes out," he said, turning to the three, "I am

in a position to be useful to him. That thought in itself would induce

me 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 grew

fast and furious. Talk was less restrained in Lucien's house than at

Matifat's, for no one suspected that the representatives of the

brotherhood and the newspaper writers held divergent opinions. Young

intellects, depraved by arguing for either side, now came into

conflict with each other, and fearful axioms of the journalistic

jurisprudence, then in its infancy, hurtled to and fro. Claude Vignon,

upholding the dignity of criticism, inveighed against the tendency of

the smaller newspapers, saying that the writers of personalities

lowered themselves in the end. Lousteau, Merlin, and Finot took up the

cudgels 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, there

ought 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 print

will fancy that he has made a success."

"Any one would think that the question interested you," exclaimed

Finot.

"And how about our sonnets," said Michel Chrestien; "is that the way

they 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 at

his first appearance, for he shall be shelved like the saints in their

shrines, and no man shall pay him the slightest attention," said

Vernou.

"People will say, 'Look elsewhere, simpleton; you have had your due

already,' as Champcenetz said to the Marquis de Genlis, who was

looking too fondly at his wife," added Blondet.

"Success is the ruin of a man in France," said Finot. "We are so

jealous of one another that we try to forget, and to make others

forget, the triumphs of yesterday."

"Contradiction is the life of literature, in fact," said Claude

Vignon.

"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 couple

of 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 an

article 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 party

applauded.

"How could that article have been written unless the attack had

preceded it?" asked Lousteau.

Dauriat drew the proof of the third article from his pocket and read

it over, Finot listening closely; for it was to appear in the second

number of his own review, and as editor he exaggerated his enthusiasm.

"Gentlemen," said he, "so and not otherwise would Bossuet have written

if he had lived in our day."

"I am sure of it," said Merlin. "Bossuet would have been a journalist

to-day."

"To Bossuet the Second!" cried Claude Vignon, raising his glass with

an ironical bow.

"To my Christopher Columbus!" returned Lucien, drinking a health to

Dauriat.

"Bravo!" cried Nathan.

"Is it a nickname?" Merlin inquired, looking maliciously from Finot to

Lucien.

"If you go on at this pace, you will be quite beyond us," said

Dauriat; "these gentlemen" (indicating Camusot and Matifat) "cannot

follow you as it is. A joke is like a bit of thread; if it is spun too

fine, it breaks, as Bonaparte said."

"Gentlemen," said Lousteau, "we have been eye-witnesses of a strange,

portentous, unheard-of, and truly surprising phenomenon. Admire the

rapidity with which our friend here has been transformed from a

provincial into a journalist!"

"He is a born journalist," said Dauriat.

"Children!" called Finot, rising to his feet, "all of us here present

have encouraged and protected our amphitryon in his entrance upon a

career in which he has already surpassed our hopes. In two months he

has shown us what he can do in a series of excellent articles known to

us 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 to

Coralie's dressing-room and brought back a box of tumbled artificial

flowers. The more incapable members of the party were grotesquely

tricked out in these blossoms, and a crown of roses was soon woven.

Finot, as high priest, sprinkled a few drops of champagne on Lucien's

golden curls, pronouncing with delicious gravity the words--"In the

name of the Government Stamp, the Caution-money, and the Fine, I

baptize 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 hats

and went out amid a storm of invective.

"Queer customers!" said Merlin.

"Fulgence used to be a good fellow," added Lousteau, "before they

perverted his morals."

"Who are 'they'?" asked Claude Vignon.

"Some very serious young men," said Blondet, "who meet at a

philosophico-religious symposium in the Rue des Quatre-Vents, and

worry themselves about the meaning of human life----"

"Oh! oh!"

"They are trying to find out whether it goes round in a circle, or

makes some progress," continued Blondet. "They were very hard put to

it between the straight line and the curve; the triangle, warranted by

Scripture, seemed to them to be nonsense, when, lo! there arose among

them 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 the

guillotine."

"They have not come to that yet," said Bixiou; "they have only come as

far as the designs of Providence in the invention of champagne, the

humanitarian significance of breeches, and the blind deity who keeps

the 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's

head among them."

"Bianchon, my old schoolfellow, gives me the cold shoulder now," said

Lousteau; "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 their

theories."

"Pshaw!" said Lousteau; "he will be a great physician anyhow."

"Isn't d'Arthez their visible head?" asked Nathan, "a little youngster

that 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 benefit

of his neighbor; and when a clever man feels a pressing need of

explaining himself, and of unlocking his heart, it is pretty clear

that wine has got the upper hand. An hour later, all the men in the

company were the best friends in the world, addressing each other as

great men and bold spirits, who held the future in their hands.

Lucien, in his quality of host, was sufficiently clearheaded to

apprehend the meaning of the sophistries which impressed him and

completed his demoralization.

"The Liberal party," announced Finot, "is compelled to stir up

discussion somehow. There is no fault to find with the action of the

Government, and you may imagine what a fix the Opposition is in. Which

of you now cares to write a pamphlet in favor of the system of

primogeniture, and raise a cry against the secret designs of the

Court? 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 we

will 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," remarked

Lousteau.

"It is simply the Chabot affair carried into the region of abstract

ideas," said Finot. "Fasten intentions on the Government, and then let

loose public opinion."

"How a Government can leave the control of ideas to such a pack of

scamps as we are, is matter for perpetual and profound astonishment to

me," said Claude Vignon.

"If the Ministry blunders so far as to come down into the arena, we

can give them a drubbing. If they are nettled by it, the thing will

rankle in people's minds, and the Government will lose its hold on the

masses. The newspaper risks nothing, and the authorities have

everything to lose."

"France will be a cipher until newspapers are abolished by law," said

Claude Vignon. "You are making progress hourly," he added, addressing

Finot. "You are a modern order of Jesuits, lacking the creed, the

fixed idea, the discipline, and the union."

They went back to the card-tables; and before long the light of the

candles grew feeble in the dawn.

"Lucien, your friends from the Rue des Quatre-Vents looked as dismal

as 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 away

by an irresistible current into a vortex of dissipation and easy work.

He no longer thought of the future. The power of calculation amid the

complications of life is the sign of a strong will which poets,

weaklings, and men who live a purely intellectual life can never

counterfeit. Lucien was living from hand to mouth, spending his money

as fast as he made it, like many another journalist; nor did he give

so much as a thought to those periodically recurrent days of reckoning

which 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 herself

to give her beloved poet the accoutrements which had so stirred his

envy in the Garden of the Tuileries. Lucien had wonderful canes, and a

charming eyeglass; he had diamond studs, and scarf-rings, and

signet-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 to

the German Minister's dinner, all the young men regarded him with

suppressed envy; yet de Marsay, Vandenesse, Ajuda-Pinto, Maxime de

Trailles, Rastignac, Beaudenord, Manerville, and the Duc de

Maufrigneuse gave place to none in the kingdom of fashion. Men of

fashion are as jealous among themselves as women, and in the same way.

Lucien was placed between Mme. de Montcornet and Mme. d'Espard, in

whose honor the dinner was given; both ladies overwhelmed him with

flatteries.

"Why did you turn your back on society when you would have been so

well received?" asked the Marquise. "Every one was prepared to make

much of you. And I have a quarrel with you too. You owed me a call--I

am 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 of

me."

"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 I

know. You do not know all that Louise was trying to do for you, nor

how tactfully she laid her plans for you.--Oh! and she would have

succeeded," the Marquise continued, replying to Lucien's mute

incredulity. "Her husband is dead now; died, as he was bound to die,

of an indigestion; could you doubt that she would be free sooner or

later? 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 Comtesse

de Rubempre. Love, you see, is a great vanity, which requires the

lesser vanities to be in harmony with itself--especially in marriage.

I might love you to madness--which is to say, sufficiently to marry

you--and yet I should find it very unpleasant to be called Madame

Chardon. You can see that. And now that you understand the

difficulties of Paris life, you will know how many roundabout ways you

must take to reach your end; very well, then, you must admit that

Louise was aspiring to an all but impossible piece of Court favor; she

was quite unknown, she is not rich, and therefore she could not afford

to neglect any means of success.

"You are clever," the Marquise d'Espard continued; "but we women, when

we love, are cleverer than the cleverest man. My cousin tried to make

that absurd Chatelet useful--Oh!" she broke off, "I owe not a little

amusement to you; your articles on Chatelet made me laugh heartily."

Lucien knew not what to think of all this. Of the treachery and bad

faith of journalism he had had some experience; but in spite of his

perspicacity, he scarcely expected to find bad faith or treachery in

society. 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 was

amusing, and not seldom one seems to sacrifice friends the better to

serve them. Are you still a novice? You mean to write, and yet you

know nothing of current deceit? My cousin apparently sacrificed you to

the Heron, but how could she dispense with his influence for you? Our

friend stands well with the present ministry; and we have made him see

that your attacks will do him service--up to a certain point, for we

want you to make it up again some of these days. Chatelet has received

compensations for his troubles; for, as des Lupeaulx said, 'While the

newspapers are making Chatelet ridiculous, they will leave the

Ministry 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 seeing

you in my house," said the Comtesse de Montcornet. "You will meet a

few artists and men of letters, and some one else who has the keenest

desire to become acquainted with you--Mlle. des Touches, the owner of

talents 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 has

heard that you are as handsome as you are clever, and is dying to meet

you."

Lucien could only pour out incoherent thanks and glance enviously at

Emile Blondet. There was as great a difference between a great lady

like Mme. de Montcornet and Coralie as between Coralie and a girl out

of the streets. The Countess was young and witty and beautiful, with

the very white fairness of women of the north. Her mother was the

Princess Scherbellof, and the Minister before dinner had paid her the

most respectful attention.

By this time the Marquise had made an end of trifling disdainfully

with the wing of a chicken.

"My poor Louise felt so much affection for you," she said. "She took

me 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 when

you sent back her letters! Cruelty we can forgive; those who hurt us

must have still some faith in us; but indifference! Indifference is

like polar snows, it extinguishes all life. So, you must see that you

have lost a precious affection through your own fault. Why break with

her? Even if she had scorned you, you had your way to make, had you

not?--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 her

not to take you into her confidence. Between ourselves, you know, you

seemed so little used to the ways of the world, that I took alarm. I

was afraid that your inexperience and rash ardor might wreck our

carefully-made schemes. Can you recollect yourself as you were then?

You must admit that if you could see your double to-day, you would say

the same yourself. You are not like the same man. That was our

mistake. But would one man in a thousand combine such intellectual

gifts with such wonderful aptitude for taking the tone of society? I

did not think that you would be such an astonishing exception. You

were transformed so quickly, you acquired the manner of Paris so

easily, that I did not recognize you in the Bois de Boulogne a month

ago."

Lucien heard the great lady with inexpressible pleasure; the

flatteries were spoken with such a petulant, childlike, confiding air,

and she seemed to take such a deep interest in him, that he thought of

his first evening at the Panorama-Dramatique, and began to fancy that

some such miracle was about to take place a second time. Everything

had smiled upon him since that happy evening; his youth, he thought,

was the talisman that worked this change. He would prove this great

lady; 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 name

and title of Rubempre. She wished to put Chardon out of sight. Your

opinions have put that out of the question now, but _then_ it would not

have 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," she

continued; "but we know something of life, and we know, too, all the

solid advantages of a Count's title when it is borne by a fashionable

and extremely charming young man. Announce 'M. Chardon' and 'M. le

Comte de Rubempre' before heiresses or English girls with a million to

their fortune, and note the difference of the effect. The Count might

be in debt, but he would find open hearts; his good looks, brought

into 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 these

notions; they are everywhere in the world, even among the burgeois.

You are turning your back on fortune at this minute. Do you see that

good-looking young man? He is the Vicomte Felix de Vandenesse, one of

the King's private secretaries. The King is fond enough of young men

of talent, and Vandenesse came from the provinces with baggage nearly

as light as yours. You are a thousand times cleverer than he; but do

you 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, he

would not sell his little farm of Lupeaulx for a million, he will be

Comte 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 will

be all over with you. See how much wiser M. Emile Blondet has been! He

is engaged on a Government newspaper; he is well looked on by those in

authority; he can afford to mix with Liberals, for he holds sound

opinions; and soon or later he will succeed. But then he understood

how 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 two

deputies. She made a wealthy marriage with her name; she sees a great

deal of society at her house; she has influence, she will move the

political world for young M. Blondet. Where will a Coralie take you?

In a few years' time you will be hopelessly in debt and weary of

pleasure. You have chosen badly in love, and you are arranging your

life ill. The woman whom you delight to wound was at the Opera the

other night, and this was how she spoke of you. She deplored the way

in 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 dashed

by 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 his

own 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 gracious

to him, and asked him (at a sign from Mme. d'Espard) to spend an

evening at her house. It was to be a small and quiet gathering to

which only friends were invited--Mme. de Bargeton would be there in

spite of her mourning; Lucien would be pleased, she was sure, to meet

Mme. 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 whether

she will meet me?"

"Put an end to those ridiculous attacks, which only couple her name

with the name of a man for whom she does not care at all, and you will

soon sign a treaty of peace. You thought that she had used you ill, I

am told, but I myself have seen her in sadness because you had

forsaken 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 loved

for her own sake; and Mme. de Bargeton cared less for you than for

your 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 the

great world and that other world beyond the pale in which he had

lately been living. There was no sort of resemblance between the two

kinds of splendor, no single point in common. The loftiness and

disposition of the rooms in one of the handsomest houses in the

Faubourg Saint-Germain, the ancient gilding, the breadth of decorative

style, the subdued richness of the accessories, all this was strange

and new to him; but Lucien had learned very quickly to take luxury for

granted, and he showed no surprise. His behavior was as far removed

from assurance or fatuity on the one hand as from complacency and

servility upon the other. His manner was good; he found favor in the

eyes of all who were not prepared to be hostile, like the younger men,

who resented his sudden intrusion into the great world, and felt

jealous of his good looks and his success.

When they rose from table, he offered his arm to Mme. d'Espard, and

was not refused. Rastignac, watching him, saw that the Marquise was

gracious to Lucien, and came in the character of a fellow-countryman

to remind the poet that they had met once before at Mme. du

Val-Noble's. The young patrician seemed anxious to find an ally in

the great man from his own province, asked Lucien to breakfast with

him some morning, and offered to introduce him to some young men of

fashion. Lucien was nothing loath.

"The dear Blondet is coming," said Rastignac.

The two were standing near the Marquis de Ronquerolles, the Duc de

Rhetore, de Marsay, and General Montriveau. The Minister came across

to join the group.

"Well," said he, addressing Lucien with a bluff German heartiness that

concealed his dangerous subtlety; "well, so you have made your peace

with Mme. d'Espard; she is delighted with you, and we all know," he

added, looking round the group, "how difficult it is to please her."

"Yes, but she adores intellect," said Rastignac, "and my illustrious

fellow-countryman has wit enough to sell."

"He will soon find out that he is not doing well for himself," Blondet

put 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 older

and responsible men laid down the law with one or two profound

remarks; 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 that

evening in the Luxembourg Gardens.

"He has taken on a bear-leader," continued Blondet, "one Etienne

Lousteau, 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 the

gratitude and patriotism of their worships the gentlemen of the Left.

As a Rubempre, Lucien's sympathies should lean towards the

aristocracy; as a journalist, he ought to be for authority, or he will

never be either Rubempre or a secretary-general."

The Minister now asked Lucien to take a hand at whist; but, to the

great astonishment of those present, he declared that he did not know

the game.

"Come early to me on the day of that breakfast affair," Rastignac

whispered, "and I will teach you to play. You are a discredit to the

royal city of Angouleme; and, to repeat M. de Talleyrand's saying, you

are laying up an unhappy old age for yourself."

Des Lupeaulx was announced. He remembered Lucien, whom he had met at

Mme. du Val-Noble's, and bowed with a semblance of friendliness which

the poet could not doubt. Des Lupeaulx was in favor, he was a Master

of Requests, and did the Ministry secret services; he was, moreover,

cunning and ambitious, slipping himself in everywhere; he was

everybody's friend, for he never knew whom he might need. He saw

plainly that this was a young journalist whose social success would

probably equal his success in literature; saw, too, that the poet was

ambitious, and overwhelmed him with protestations and expressions of

friendship and interest, till Lucien felt as if they were old friends

already, and took his promises and speeches for more than their worth.

Des Lupeaulx made a point of knowing a man thoroughly well if he

wanted to get rid of him or feared him as a rival. So, to all

appearance, Lucien was well received. He knew that much of his success

was 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 ladies

before taking leave, and talked his very best for them.

"What a coxcomb!" said des Lupeaulx, turning to the Marquise when he

had gone.

"He will be rotten before he is ripe," de Marsay added, smiling. "You

must have private reasons of your own, madame, for turning his head in

this way."

When Lucien stepped into the carriage in the courtyard, he found

Coralie waiting for him. She had come to fetch him. The little

attention touched him; he told her the history of his evening; and, to

his no small astonishment, the new notions which even now were running

in his head met with Coralie's approval. She strongly advised him to

enlist under the ministerial banner.

"You have nothing to expect from the Liberals but hard knocks," she

said. "They plot and conspire; they murdered the Duc de Berri. Will

they upset the Government? Never! You will never come to anything

through them, while you will be Comte de Rubempre if you throw in your

lot with the other side. You might render services to the State, and

be a peer of France, and marry an heiress. Be an Ultra. It is the

proper thing besides," she added, this being the last word with her on

all subjects. "I dined with the Val-Noble; she told me that Theodore

Gaillard is really going to start his little Royalist _Revue_, so as to

reply to your witticisms and the jokes in the _Miroir_. To hear them

talk, M. Villele's party will be in office before the year is out. Try

to turn the change to account before they come to power; and say

nothing to Etienne and your friends, for they are quite equal to

playing you some ill turn."

A week later, Lucien went to Mme. de Montcornet's house, and saw the

woman whom he had so loved, whom later he had stabbed to the heart

with a jest. He felt the most violent agitation at the sight of her,

for Louise also had undergone a transformation. She was the Louise

that she would always have been but for her detention in the provinces

--she was a great lady. There was a grace and refinement in her

mourning dress which told that she was a happy widow; Lucien fancied

that 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 he

vacillated between Coralie's warm, voluptuous beauty and the dried-up,

haughty, cruel Louise. He could not make up his mind to sacrifice the

actress to the great lady; and Mme. de Bargeton--all the old feeling

reviving in her at the sight of Lucien, Lucien's beauty, Lucien's

cleverness--was waiting and expecting that sacrifice all evening; and

after all her insinuating speeches and her fascinations, she had her

trouble for her pains. She left the room with a fixed determination to

be revenged.

"Well, dear Lucien," she had said, and in her kindness there was both

generosity and Parisian grace; "well, dear Lucien, so you, that were

to have been my pride, took me for your first victim; and I forgave

you, my dear, for I felt that in such a revenge there was a trace of

love still left."

With that speech, and the queenly way in which it was uttered, Mme. de

Bargeton recovered her position. Lucien, convinced that he was a

thousand 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 the

terrible farewell letter! A woman of the world has a wonderful genius

for diminishing her faults by laughing at them; she can obliterate

them all with a smile or a question of feigned surprise, and she knows

this. She remembers nothing, she can explain everything; she is

amazed, asks questions, comments, amplifies, and quarrels with you,

till in the end her sins disappear like stains on the application of a

little soap and water; black as ink you knew them to be; and lo! in a

moment, you behold immaculate white innocence, and lucky are you if

you do not find that you yourself have sinned in some way beyond

redemption.

In a moment old illusions regained their power over Lucien and Louise;

they talked like friends, as before; but when the lady, with a

hesitating sigh, put the question, "Are you happy?" Lucien was not

ready with a prompt, decided answer; he was intoxicated with gratified

vanity; Coralie, who (let us admit it) had made life easy for him, had

turned his head. A melancholy "No" would have made his fortune, but he

must needs begin to explain his position with regard to Coralie. He

said that he was loved for his own sake; he said a good many foolish

things 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 became

the hero of the evening, so to speak. He was flattered, petted, and

made much of by the three women; he was entangled with art which no

words can describe. His social success in this fine and brilliant

circle was at least as great as his triumphs in journalism. Beautiful

Mlle. des Touches, so well known as "Camille Maupin," asked him to one

of her Wednesday dinners; his beauty, now so justly famous, seemed to

have made an impression upon her. Lucien exerted himself to show that

his wit equaled his good looks, and Mlle. des Touches expressed her

admiration with a playful outspokenness and a pretty fervor of

friendship which deceives those who do not know life in Paris to its

depths, nor suspect how continual enjoyment whets the appetite for

novelty.

"If she should like me as much as I like her, we might abridge the

romance," 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 love

with each other? A time is sure to come when they begin to make little

cutting remarks."

"It would not be a bad dream for you," laughed de Marsay. "The

charming young lady is thirty years old, it is true, but she has an

income of eighty thousand livres. She is adorably capricious, and her

style of beauty wears well. Coralie is a silly little fool, my dear

boy, 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 actress

will 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 taken

precedence 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 not

compromise those who take an interest in him," she said. "If he wishes

to drop his patronymic and to bear his mother's name, he should at any

rate 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 and

uncle; they are in waiting, they will speak to the Chancellor for

you."

The diplomatist and the two women had very soon discovered Lucien's

weak 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 a

glittering title, and he himself was plain Chardon. Unspeakable

mortification filled him at the sound of it. Wherever he had been

during the last few days, that pang had been constantly present with

him. He felt, moreover, a sensation quite as unpleasant when he went

back to his desk after an evening spent in the great world, in which

he made a tolerable figure, thanks to Coralie's carriage and Coralie's

servants.

He learned to ride, in order to escort Mme. d'Espard, Mlle. des

Touches, and the Comtesse de Montcornet when they drove in the Bois, a

privilege which he had envied other young men so greatly when he first

came to Paris. Finot was delighted to give his right-hand man an order

for the Opera, so Lucien wasted many an evening there, and

thenceforward he was among the exquisites of the day.

The poet asked Rastignac and his new associates to a breakfast, and

made the blunder of giving it in Coralie's rooms in the Rue de

Vendome; he was too young, too much of a poet, too self-confident, to

discern certain shades and distinctions in conduct; and how should an

actress, a good-hearted but uneducated girl, teach him life? His

guests were anything but charitably disposed towards him; it was

clearly proven to their minds that Lucien the critic and the actress

were in collusion for their mutual interests, and all of the young men

were jealous of an arrangement which all of them stigmatized. The most

pitiless of those who laughed that evening at Lucien's expense was

Rastignac himself. Rastignac had made and held his position by very

similar means; but so careful had he been of appearances, that he

could 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 with

the peculiar short-sightedness of an all-absorbing love, which sees

nothing beyond the moment, and is ready to sacrifice anything, even

the future, to the present enjoyment. Coralie looked on cards as a

safe-guard against rivals. A great love has much in common with

childhood--a child's heedless, careless, spendthrift ways, a child's

laughter and tears.

In those days there lived and flourished a set of young men, some of

them 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 intrepid

drinkers. These spendthrifts mingled the roughest practical jokes with

a life not so much reckless as suicidal; they drew back from no

impossibility, and gloried in pranks which, nevertheless, were

confined within certain limits; and as they showed the most original

wit in their escapades, it was impossible not to pardon them.

No sign of the times more plainly discovered the helotism to which the

Restoration had condemned the young manhood of the epoch. The younger

men, being at a loss to know what to do with themselves, were

compelled to find other outlets for their superabundant energy besides

journalism, or conspiracy, or art, or letters. They squandered their

strength in the wildest excesses, such sap and luxuriant power was

there in young France. The hard workers among these gilded youths

wanted power and pleasure; the artists wished for money; the idle

sought to stimulate their appetites or wished for excitement; one and

all of them wanted a place, and one and all were shut out from

politics and public life. Nearly all the "free-livers" were men of

unusual mental powers; some held out against the enervating life,

others were ruined by it. The most celebrated and the cleverest among

them was Eugene Rastignac, who entered, with de Marsay's help, upon a

political career, in which he has since distinguished himself. The

practical jokes, in which the set indulged became so famous, that not

a few vaudevilles have been founded upon them.

Blondet introduced Lucien to this society of prodigals, of which he

became a brilliant ornament, ranking next to Bixiou, one of the most

mischievous and untiring scoffing wits of his time. All through that

winter Lucien's life was one long fit of intoxication, with intervals

of easy work. He continued his series of sketches of contemporary

life, and very occasionally made great efforts to write a few pages of

serious criticism, on which he brought his utmost power of thought to

bear. But study was the exception, not the rule, and only undertaken

at the bidding of necessity; dinners and breakfasts, parties of

pleasure and play, took up most of his time, and Coralie absorbed all

that was left. He would not think of the morrow. He saw besides that

his so-called friends were leading the same life, earning money easily

by writing publishers' prospectuses and articles paid for by

speculators; all of them lived beyond their incomes, none of them

thought seriously of the future.

Lucien had been admitted into the ranks of journalism and of

literature on terms of equality; he foresaw immense difficulties in

the way if he should try to rise above the rest. Every one was willing

to 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, for

it seemed easier to gain success in politics.

"Intrigue raises less opposition than talent," du Chatelet had said

one day (for Lucien and the Baron had made up their quarrel); "a plot

below the surface rouses no one's attention. Intrigue, moreover, is

superior to talent, for it makes something out of nothing; while, for

the most part, the immense resources of talent only injure a man."

So Lucien never lost sight of his principal idea; and though

to-morrow, following close upon the heels of to-day in the midst of an

orgy, never found the promised work accomplished, Lucien was assiduous

in society. He paid court to Mme. de Bargeton, the Marquise d'Espard,

and the Comtesse de Montcornet; he never missed a single party given

by Mlle. des Touches, appearing in society after a dinner given by

authors or publishers, and leaving the salons for a supper given in

consequence of a bet. The demands of conversation and the excitement

of play absorbed all the ideas and energy left by excess. The poet had

lost the lucidity of judgment and coolness of head which must be

preserved if a man is to see all that is going on around him, and

never to lose the exquisite tact which the _parvenu_ needs at every

moment. How should he know how many a time Mme. de Bargeton left him

with wounded susceptibilities, how often she forgave him or added one

more condemnation to the rest?

Chatelet saw that his rival had still a chance left, so he became

Lucien's friend. He encouraged the poet in dissipation that wasted his

energies. Rastignac, jealous of his fellow-countryman, and thinking,

besides, that Chatelet would be a surer and more useful ally than

Lucien, had taken up the Baron's cause. So, some few days after the

meeting of the Petrarch and Laura of Angouleme, Rastignac brought

about the reconciliation between the poet and the elderly beau at a

sumptuous supper given at the _Rocher de Cancale_. Lucien never returned

home till morning, and rose in the middle of the day; Coralie was

always at his side, he could not forego a single pleasure. Sometimes

he saw his real position, and made good resolutions, but they came to

nothing 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 had

encouraged him in this reckless expenditure, because she thought that

the cravings which she fostered would bind her lover to her. But

tender-hearted and loving as she was, she found courage to advise

Lucien not to forget his work, and once or twice was obliged to remind

him that he had earned very little during the month. Their debts were

growing frightfully fast. The fifteen hundred francs which remained

from the purchase-money of the _Marguerites_ had been swallowed up at

once, together with Lucien's first five hundred livres. In three

months he had only made a thousand francs, yet he felt as though he

had been working tremendously hard. But by this time Lucien had

adopted the "free-livers" pleasant theory of debts.

Debts are becoming to a young man, but after the age of

five-and-twenty they are inexcusable. It should be observed that there

are certain natures in which a really poetic temper is united with a

weakened will; and these while absorbed in feeling, that they may

transmute personal experience, sensation, or impression into some

permanent form are essentially deficient in the moral sense which

should accompany all observation. Poets prefer rather to receive their

own impressions than to enter into the souls of others to study the

mechanism of their feelings and thoughts. So Lucien neither asked his

associates what became of those who disappeared from among them, nor

looked into the futures of his so-called friends. Some of them were

heirs to property, others had definite expectations; yet others either

possessed names that were known in the world, or a most robust belief

in their destiny and a fixed resolution to circumvent the law. Lucien,

too, believed in his future on the strength of various profound

axiomatic sayings of Blondet's: "Everything comes out all right at

last--If a man has nothing, his affairs cannot be embarrassed--We have

nothing to lose but the fortune that we seek--Swim with the stream; it

will take you somewhere--A clever man with a footing in society can

make 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 new

Royalist paper; Theodore Gaillard and Hector Merlin only brought out

the first number of the _Reveil_ in March 1822. The affair had been

settled at Mme. du Val-Noble's house. Mme. du val-Noble exercised a

certain influence over the great personages, Royalist writers, and

bankers who met in her splendid rooms--"fit for a tale out of the

_Arabian Nights_," as the elegant and clever courtesan herself used to

say--to transact business which could not be arranged elsewhere. The

editorship had been promised to Hector Merlin. Lucien, Merlin's

intimate, 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 secretly

making ready for this change of front. Child as he was, he fancied

that he was a deep politician because he concealed the preparation for

the approaching transformation-scene, while he was counting upon

Ministerial largesses to extricate himself from embarrassment and to

lighten Coralie's secret cares. Coralie said nothing of her distress;

she smiled now, as always; but Berenice was bolder, she kept Lucien

informed of their difficulties; and the budding great man, moved,

after the fashion of poets, by the tale of disasters, would vow that

he would begin to work in earnest, and then forget his resolution, and

drown his fleeting cares in excess. One day Coralie saw the poetic

brow overcast, and scolded Berenice, and told her lover that

everything would be settled.

Mme. d'Espard and Mme. de Bargeton were waiting for Lucien's

profession of his new creed, so they said, before applying through

Chatelet for the patent which should permit Lucien to bear the so-much

desired name. Lucien had proposed to dedicate the _Marguerites_ to Mme.

d'Espard, and the Marquise seemed to be not a little flattered by a

compliment which authors have been somewhat chary of paying since they

became a power in the land; but when Lucien went to Dauriat and asked

after his book, that worthy publisher met him with excellent reasons

for 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 second

series of _Meditations_ was in the press, and two important collections

of poetry ought not to appear together.

By this time, however, Lucien's needs were so pressing that he had

recourse to Finot, and received an advance on his work. When, at a

supper-party that evening, the poet journalist explained his position

to his friends in the fast set, they drowned his scruples in

champagne, iced with pleasantries. Debts! There was never yet a man of

any power without debts! Debts represented satisfied cravings,

clamorous vices. A man only succeeds under the pressure of the iron

hand of necessity. Debts forsooth!

"Why, the one pledge of which a great man can be sure, is given him by

his 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 had

everything."

The party contrived to convince the novice that his debts were a

golden spur to urge on the horses of the chariot of his fortunes.

There is always the stock example of Julius Caesar with his debt of

forty millions, and Friedrich II. on an allowance of one ducat a

month, and a host of other great men whose failings are held up for

the corruption of youth, while not a word is said of their

wide-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 and

asked his friend to meet his bill for the thousand francs lent to pay

gaming debts; but Lousteau showed him certain pieces of stamped paper,

which proved that Florine was in much the same case. Lousteau was

grateful, however, and offered to take the necessary steps for the

sale 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 if

Florine chooses, she can make him pay dear for his treachery. I will

tell you all about it."

Three days after this bootless errand, Lucien and Coralie were

breakfasting in melancholy spirits beside the fire in their pretty

bedroom. 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 was

not a single object of any value in the house. A goodly collection of

pawntickets, forming a very instructive octavo volume, represented all

the gold, silver, and jewelry. Berenice had kept back a couple of

spoons and forks, that was all.

Lousteau's newspaper was of service now to Coralie and Lucien, little

as they suspected it; for the tailor, dressmaker, and milliner were

afraid to meddle with a journalist who was quite capable of writing

down 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 a

hundred francs worth of books into cash, children. We will go halves."

He handed fifty francs to Coralie, and sent Berenice out in quest of a

more 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 give

more than four thousand francs for two thousand copies, and you want

six thousand francs. We made you out twice as great as Sir Walter

Scott! 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 not

simply the writer of one more or less ingenious novel, you are going

to write a whole series. The word 'series' did it! So, mind you, don't

forget that you have a great historical series on hand--_La Grande

Mademoiselle_, or _The France of Louis Quatorze_; _Cotillon I._, or _The

Early Days of Louis Quinze_; _The Queen and the Cardinal_, or _Paris and

the Fronde_; _The Son of the Concini_, or _Richelieu's Intrigue_. These

novels will be announced on the wrapper of the book. We call this

manoeuvre 'giving a success a toss in the coverlet,' for the titles

are all to appear on the cover, till you will be better known for the

books 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 you

will do. Come, now, let us have a little fun! Here comes the

champagne. You can understand, Lucien, that our men opened eyes as big

as saucers. By the by, I see that you have saucers still left."

"They are attached," explained Coralie.