A Distinguished Provincial at Paris ...................................................................................................................1

Honore de Balzac .....................................................................................................................................1

PART I .....................................................................................................................................................1

PART II ..................................................................................................................................................59

Mme. de Bargeton and Lucien de Rubempre had left Angouleme behind, and were traveling together upon

the road to Paris. Not one of the party who made that journey alluded to it afterwards; but it may be believed

that an infatuated youth who had looked forward to the delights of an elopement, must have found the

continual presence of Gentil, the man servant, and Albertine, the maid, not a little irksome on the way.

Lucien, traveling post for the first time in his life, was horrified to see pretty nearly the whole sum on which

he meant to live in Paris for a twelvemonth dropped along the road. Like other men who combine great

intellectual powers with the charming simplicity of childhood, he openly expressed his surprise at the new

and wonderful things which he saw, and thereby made a mistake. A man should study a woman very

carefully before he allows her to see his thoughts and emotions as they arise in him. A woman, whose nature

is large as her heart is tender, can smile upon childishness, and make allowances; but let her have ever so

small a spice of vanity herself, and she cannot forgive childishness, or littleness, or vanity in her lover. Many

a woman is so extravagant a worshiper that she must always see the god in her idol; but there are yet others

who love a man for his sake and not for their own, and adore his failings with his greater qualities.

Lucien had not guessed as yet that Mme. de Bargeton's love was grafted on pride. He made another mistake

when he failed to discern the meaning of certain smiles which flitted over Louise's lips from time to time; and

instead of keeping himself to himself, he indulged in the playfulness of the young rat emerging from his hole

The travelers were set down before daybreak at the sign of the GaillardBois in the Rue de l'Echelle, both so

tired out with the journey that Louise went straight to bed and slept, first bidding Lucien to engage the room

immediately overhead. Lucien slept on till four o'clock in the afternoon, when he was awakened by Mme. de

Bargeton's servant, and learning the hour, made a hasty toilet and hurried downstairs.

Louise was sitting in the shabby inn sittingroom. Hotel accommodation is a blot on the civilization of Paris;

for with all its pretensions to elegance, the city as yet does not boast a single inn where a well todo traveler

can find the surroundings to which he is accustomed at home. To Lucien's justawakened, sleepdimmed

eyes, Louise was hardly recognizable in this cheerless, sunless room, with the shabby window curtains, the

comfortless polished floor, the hideous furniture bought secondhand, or much the worse for wear.

Some people no longer look the same when detached from the background of faces, objects, and

surroundings which serve as a setting, without which, indeed, they seem to lose something of their intrinsic

worth. Personality demands its appropriate atmosphere to bring out its values, just as the figures in Flemish

interiors need the arrangement of light and shade in which they are placed by the painter's genius if they are

to live for us. This is especially true of provincials. Mme. de Bargeton, moreover, looked more thoughtful

and dignified than was necessary now, when no barriers stood between her and happiness.

Gentil and Albertine waited upon them, and while they were present Lucien could not complain. The dinner,

sent in from a neighboring restaurant, fell far below the provincial average, both in quantity and quality; the

essential goodness of country fare was wanting, and in point of quantity the portions were cut with so strict

an eye to business that they savored of short commons. In such small matters Paris does not show its best side

to travelers of moderate fortune. Lucien waited till the meal was over. Some change had come over Louise,

And a change had, in fact, taken place. Events had occurred while he slept; for reflection is an event in our

About two o'clock that afternoon, Sixte du Chatelet made his appearance in the Rue de l'Echelle and asked

for Albertine. The sleeping damsel was roused, and to her he expressed his wish to speak with her mistress.

Mme. de Bargeton had scarcely time to dress before he came back again. The unaccountable apparition of M.

du Chatelet roused the lady's curiosity, for she had kept her journey a profound secret, as she thought. At

"I have risked a reprimand from headquarters to follow you," he said, as he greeted her; "I foresaw coming

"I can see plainly that you love Lucien," he continued, with an air of tender resignation. "You must love

indeed if YOU can act thus recklessly, and disregard the conventions which you know so well. Dear adored

Nais, can you really imagine that Mme. d'Espard's salon, or any other salon in Paris, will not be closed to you

as soon as it is known that you have fled from Angouleme, as it were, with a young man, especially after the

duel between M. de Bargeton and M. de Chandour? The fact that your husband has gone to the Escarbas

looks like a separation. Under such circumstances a gentleman fights first and afterwards leaves his wife at

liberty. By all means, give M. de Rubempre your love and your countenance; do just as you please; but you

must not live in the same house. If anybody here in Paris knew that you had traveled together, the whole

"And, Nais, do not make these sacrifices for a young man whom you have as yet compared with no one else;

he, on his side, has been put to no proof; he may forsake you for some Parisienne, better able, as he may

fancy, to further his ambitions. I mean no harm to the man you love, but you will permit me to put your own

interests before his, and to beg you to study him, to be fully aware of the serious nature of this step that you

are taking. And, then, if you find all doors closed against you, and that none of the women call upon you,

make sure at least that you will feel no regret for all that you have renounced for him. Be very certain first

that he for whom you will have given up so much will always be worthy of your sacrifices and appreciate

"Just now," continued Chatelet, "Mme. d'Espard is the more prudish and particular because she herself is

separated from her husband, nobody knows why. The Navarreins, the Lenoncourts, the BlamontChauvrys,

and the rest of the relations have all rallied round her; the most strait laced women are seen at her house, and

receive her with respect, and the Marquis d'Espard has been put in the wrong. The first call that you pay will

make it clear to you that I am right; indeed, knowing Paris as I do, I can tell you beforehand that you will no

sooner enter the Marquise's salon than you will be in despair lest she should find out that you are staying at

the GaillardBois with an apothecary's son, though he may wish to be called M. de Rubempre.

"You will have rivals here, women far more astute and shrewd than Amelie; they will not fail to discover who

you are, where you are, where you come from, and all that you are doing. You have counted upon your

incognito, I see, but you are one of those women for whom an incognito is out of the question. You will meet

Angouleme at every turn. There are the deputies from the Charente coming up for the opening of the session;

there is the Commandant in Paris on leave. Why, the first man or woman from Angouleme who happens to

see you would cut your career short in a strange fashion. You would simply be Lucien's mistress.

"If you need me at any time, I am staying with the ReceiverGeneral in the Rue du Faubourg SaintHonore,

two steps away from Mme. d'Espard's. I am sufficiently acquainted with the Marechale de Carigliano, Mme.

de Serizy, and the President of the Council to introduce you to those houses; but you will meet so many

people at Mme. d'Espard's, that you are not likely to require me. So far from wishing to gain admittance to

Chatelet talked on; Mme. de Bargeton made no interruption. She was struck with his perspicacity. The queen

"Allow me to find suitable furnished lodgings for you," suggested Chatelet; "that way of living is less

expensive than an inn. You will have a home of your own; and, if you will take my advice, you will sleep in

"Your traveling carriage is easily recognized; and, besides, I was following you. At Sevres your postilion told

mine that he had brought you here. Will you permit me to act as your harbinger? I will write as soon as I have

"Very well, do so," said she. And in those seemingly insignificant words, all was said. The Baron du Chatelet

had spoken the language of worldly wisdom to a woman of the world. He had made his appearance before

her in faultless dress, a neat cab was waiting for him at the door; and Mme. de Bargeton, standing by the

A few moments later Lucien appeared, half awake and hastily dressed. He was handsome, it is true; but his

clothes, his last year's nankeen trousers, and his shabby tight jacket were ridiculous. Put Antinous or the

Apollo Belvedere himself into a watercarrier's blouse, and how shall you recognize the godlike creature of

the Greek or Roman chisel? The eyes note and compare before the heart has time to revise the swift

involuntary judgment; and the contrast between Lucien and Chatelet was so abrupt that it could not fail to

Towards six o'clock that evening, when dinner was over, Mme. de Bargeton beckoned Lucien to sit beside

her on the shabby sofa, covered with a flowered chintza yellow pattern on a red ground.

"Lucien mine," she said, "don't you think that if we have both of us done a foolish thing, suicidal for both our

interests, it would only be common sense to set matters right? We ought not to live together in Paris, dear

boy, and we must not allow anyone to suspect that we traveled together. Your career depends so much upon

my position that I ought to do nothing to spoil it. So, tonight, I am going to remove into lodgings near by.

But you will stay on here, we can see each other every day, and nobody can say a word against us."

And Louise explained conventions to Lucien, who opened wide eyes. He had still to learn that when a woman

thinks better of her folly, she thinks better of her love; but one thing he understoodhe saw that he was no

longer the Lucien of Angouleme. Louise talked of herself, of HER interests, HER reputation, and of the

world; and, to veil her egoism, she tried to make him believe that this was all on his account. He had no claim

upon Louise thus suddenly transformed into Mme. de Bargeton, and, more serious still, he had no power over

"If I am your glory," cried the poet, "you are yet more to meyou are my one hope, my whole future rests

with you. I thought that if you meant to make my successes yours, you would surely make my adversity

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

"Darling, I will stay if you like. We shall both be ruined, we shall have no one to come to our aid. But when

we are both equally wretched, and every one shuts their door upon us both, when failure (for we must look all

possibilities in the face), when failure drives us back to the Escarbas, then remember, love, that I foresaw the

end, and that at the first I proposed that we should make your way by conforming to established rules."

"Louise," he cried, with his arms around her, "you are wise; you frighten me! Remember that I am a child,

that I have given myself up entirely to your dear will. I myself should have preferred to overcome obstacles

and win my way among men by the power that is in me; but if I can reach the goal sooner through your aid, I

shall be very glad to owe all my success to you. Forgive me! You mean so much to me that I cannot help

fearing all kinds of things; and, for me, parting means that desertion is at hand, and desertion is death."

"But, my dear boy, the world's demands are soon satisfied," returned she. "You must sleep here; that is all.

A few kisses set Lucien's mind completely at rest. An hour later Gentil brought in a note from Chatelet. He

told Mme. de Bargeton that he had found lodgings for her in the Rue NuevedeLuxembourg. Mme. de

Bargeton informed herself of the exact place, and found that it was not very far from the Rue de l'Echelle.

Two hours afterwards Louise stepped into the hired carriage sent by Chatelet for the removal to the new

rooms. The apartments were of the class that upholsterers furnish and let to wealthy deputies and persons of

consideration on a short visit to Parisshowy and uncomfortable. It was eleven o'clock when Lucien

returned to his inn, having seen nothing as yet of Paris except the part of the Rue Saint Honore which lies

between the Rue NeuvedeLuxembourg and the Rue de l'Echelle. He lay down in his miserable little room,

and could not help comparing it in his own mind with Louise's sumptuous apartments.

Just as he came away the Baron du Chatelet came in, gorgeously arrayed in evening dress, fresh from the

Minister for Foreign Affairs, to inquire whether Mme. de Bargeton was satisfied with all that he had done on

her behalf. Nais was uneasy. The splendor was alarming to her mind. Provincial life had reacted upon her;

she was painfully conscientious over her accounts, and economical to a degree that is looked upon as miserly

in Paris. She had brought with her twenty thousand francs in the shape of a draft on the ReceiverGeneral,

considering that the sum would more than cover the expenses of four years in Paris; she was afraid already

lest she should not have enough, and should run into debt; and now Chatelet told her that her rooms would

"A mere trifle," added he, seeing that Nais was startled. "For five hundred francs a month you can have a

carriage from a livery stable; fifty louis in all. You need only think of your dress. A woman moving in good

society could not well do less; and if you mean to obtain a ReceiverGeneral's appointment for M. de

Bargeton, or a post in the Household, you ought not to look povertystricken. Here, in Paris, they only give

to the rich. It is most fortunate that you brought Gentil to go out with you, and Albertine for your own

woman, for servants are enough to ruin you here. But with your introductions you will seldom be home to a

Mme. de Bargeton and the Baron de Chatelet chatted about Paris. Chatelet gave her all the news of the day,

the myriad nothings that you are bound to know, under penalty of being a nobody. Before very long the

Baron also gave advice as to shopping, recommending Herbault for toques and Juliette for hats and bonnets;

he added the address of a fashionable dressmaker to supersede Victorine. In short, he made the lady see the

necessity of rubbing off Angouleme. Then he took his leave after a final flash of happy inspiration.

"I expect I shall have a box at one of the theatres tomorrow," he remarked carelessly; "I will call for you and

"There is more generosity in his character than I thought," said Mme. de Bargeton to herself when Lucien

In the month of June ministers are often puzzled to know what to do with boxes at the theatre; ministerialist

deputies and their constituents are busy in their vineyards or harvest fields, and their more exacting

acquaintances are in the country or traveling about; so it comes to pass that the best seats are filled at this

season with heterogeneous theatregoers, never seen at any other time of year, and the house is apt to look as

if it were tapestried with very shabby material. Chatelet had thought already that this was his opportunity of

giving Nais the amusements which provincials crave most eagerly, and that with very little expense.

The next morning, the very first morning in Paris, Lucien went to the Rue NuevedeLuxembourg and found

that Louise had gone out. She had gone to make some indispensable purchases, to take counsel of the mighty

and illustrious authorities in the matter of the feminine toilette, pointed out to her by Chatelet, for she had

written to tell the Marquise d'Espard of her arrival. Mme. de Bargeton possessed the selfconfidence born of

a long habit of rule, but she was exceedingly afraid of appearing to be provincial. She had tact enough to

know how greatly the relations of women among themselves depend upon first impressions; and though she

felt that she was equal to taking her place at once in such a distinguished set as Mme. de d'Espard's, she felt

also that she stood in need of goodwill at her first entrance into society, and was resolved, in the first place,

that she would leave nothing undone to secure success. So she felt boundlessly thankful to Chatelet for

pointing out these ways of putting herself in harmony with the fashionable world.

A singular chance so ordered it that the Marquise was delighted to find an opportunity of being useful to a

connection of her husband's family. The Marquis d'Espard had withdrawn himself without apparent reason

from society, and ceased to take any active interest in affairs, political or domestic. His wife, thus left

mistress of her actions, felt the need of the support of public opinion, and was glad to take the Marquis' place

and give her countenance to one of her husband's relations. She meant to be ostentatiously gracious, so as to

put her husband more evidently in the wrong; and that very day she wrote, "Mme. de Bargeton nee

Negrepelisse" a charming billet, one of the prettily worded compositions of which time alone can discover

"She was delighted that circumstances had brought a relative, of whom she had heard, whose acquaintance

she had desired to make, into closer connection with her family. Friendships in Paris were not so solid but

that she longed to find one more to love on earth; and if this might not be, there would only be one more

illusion to bury with the rest. She put herself entirely at her cousin's disposal. She would have called upon her

if indisposition had not kept her to the house, and she felt that she lay already under obligations to the cousin

Lucien, meanwhile, taking his first ramble along the Rue de la Paix and through the Boulevards, like all

newcomers, was much more interested in the things that he saw than in the people he met. The general effect

of Paris is wholly engrossing at first. The wealth in the shop windows, the high houses, the streams of traffic,

the contrast everywhere between the last extremes of luxury and want struck him more than anything else. In

his astonishment at the crowds of strange faces, the man of imaginative temper felt as if he himself had

shrunk, as it were, immensely. A man of any consequence in his native place, where he cannot go out but he

meets with some recognition of his importance at every step, does not readily accustom himself to the sudden

and total extinction of his consequence. You are somebody in your own country, in Paris you are nobody.

The transition between the first state and the last should be made gradually, for the too abrupt fall is

something like annihilation. Paris could not fail to be an appalling wilderness for a young poet, who looked

for an echo for all his sentiments, a confidant for all his thoughts, a soul to share his least sensations.

Lucien had not gone in search of his luggage and his best blue coat; and painfully conscious of the

shabbiness, to say no worse, of his clothes, he went to Mme. de Bargeton, feeling that she must have

returned. He found the Baron du Chatelet, who carried them both off to dinner at the Rocher de Cancale.

Lucien's head was dizzy with the whirl of Paris, the Baron was in the carriage, he could say nothing to

Louise, but he squeezed her hand, and she gave a warm response to the mute confidence.

After dinner Chatelet took his guests to the Vaudeville. Lucien, in his heart, was not over well pleased to see

Chatelet again, and cursed the chance that had brought the Baron to Paris. The Baron said that ambition had

brought him to town; he had hopes of an appointment as secretarygeneral to a government department, and

meant to take a seat in the Council of State as Master of Requests. He had come to Paris to ask for fulfilment

of the promises that had been given him, for a man of his stamp could not be expected to remain a

comptroller all his life; he would rather be nothing at all, and offer himself for election as deputy, or reenter

diplomacy. Chatelet grew visibly taller; Lucien dimly began to recognize in this elderly beau the superiority

of the man of the world who knows Paris; and, most of all, he felt ashamed to owe his evening's amusement

to his rival. And while the poet looked ill at ease and awkward Her Royal Highness' exsecretary was quite in

his element. He smiled at his rival's hesitations, at his astonishment, at the questions he put, at the little

mistakes which the latter ignorantly made, much as an old salt laughs at an apprentice who has not found his

sea legs; but Lucien's pleasure at seeing a play for the first time in Paris outweighed the annoyance of these

That evening marked an epoch in Lucien's career; he put away a good many of his ideas as to provincial life

in the course of it. His horizon widened; society assumed different proportions. There were fair Parisiennes in

fresh and elegant toilettes all about him; Mme. de Bargeton's costume, tolerably ambitious though it was,

looked dowdy by comparison; the material, like the fashion and the color, was out of date. That way of

arranging her hair, so bewitching in Angouleme, looked frightfully ugly here among the daintily devised

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

In the provinces comparison and choice are out of the question; when a face has grown familiar it comes to

possess a certain beauty that is taken for granted. But transport the pretty woman of the provinces to Paris,

and no one takes the slightest notice of her; her prettiness is of the comparative degree illustrated by the

saying that among the blind the oneeyed are kings. Lucien's eyes were now busy comparing Mme. de

Bargeton with other women, just as she herself had contrasted him with Chatelet on the previous day. And

Mme. de Bargeton, on her part, permitted herself some strange reflections upon her lover. The poet cut a poor

figure notwithstanding his singular beauty. The sleeves of his jacket were too short; with his illcut country

gloves and a waistcoat too scanty for him, he looked prodigiously ridiculous, compared with the young men

in the balcony"positively pitiable," thought Mme. de Bargeton. Chatelet, interested in her without

presumption, taking care of her in a manner that revealed a profound passion; Chatelet, elegant, and as much

at home as an actor treading the familiar boards of his theatre, in two days had recovered all the ground lost

Ordinary people will not admit that our sentiments towards each other can totally change in a moment, and

yet certain it is, that two lovers not seldom fly apart even more quickly than they drew together. In Mme. de

Bargeton and in Lucien a process of disenchantment was at work; Paris was the cause. Life had widened out

before the poet's eyes, as society came to wear a new aspect for Louise. Nothing but an accident now was

needed to sever finally the bond that united them; nor was that blow, so terrible for Lucien, very long

Mme. de Bargeton set Lucien down at his inn, and drove home with Chatelet, to the intense vexation of the

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

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

"That is the way with those who have a world of thoughts in their heart and brain. Men who have so much in

them to give out in great works long dreamed of, profess a certain contempt for conversation, a commerce in

which the intellect spends itself in small change," returned the haughty Negrepelisse. She still had courage to

"I grant it you willingly," replied the Baron, "but we live with human beings and not with books. There, dear

Nais! I see how it is, there is nothing between you yet, and I am delighted that it is so. If you decide to bring

an interest of a kind hitherto lacking into your life, let it not be this socalled genius, I implore you. How if

you have made a mistake? Suppose that in a few days' time, when you have compared him with men whom

you will meet, men of real ability, men who have distinguished themselves in good earnest; suppose that you

should discover, dear and fair siren, that it is no lyrebearer that you have borne into port on your dazzling

shoulders, but a little ape, with no manners and no capacity; a presumptuous fool who may be a wit in

L'Houmeau, but turns out a very ordinary specimen of a young man in Paris? And, after all, volumes of verse

come out every week here, the worst of them better than all M. Chardon's poetry put together. For pity's sake,

wait and compare! Tomorrow, Friday, is Opera night," he continued as the carriage turned into the Rue

NuevedeLuxembourg; "Mme. d'Espard has the box of the First Gentlemen of the Chamber, and will take

you, no doubt. I shall go to Mme. de Serizy's box to behold you in your glory. They are giving Les

Next morning Mme. de Bargeton tried to arrange a suitable toilette in which to call on her cousin, Mme.

d'Espard. The weather was rather chilly. Looking through the dowdy wardrobe from Angouleme, she found

nothing better than a certain green velvet gown, trimmed fantastically enough. Lucien, for his part, felt that he

must go at once for his celebrated blue best coat; he felt aghast at the thought of his tight jacket, and

determined to be well dressed, lest he should meet the Marquise d'Espard or receive a sudden summons to her

house. He must have his luggage at once, so he took a cab, and in two hours' time spent three or four francs,

matter for much subsequent reflection on the scale of the cost of living in Paris. Having dressed himself in his

best, such as it was, he went to the Rue NuevedeLuxembourg, and on the doorstep encountered Gentil in

"I was just going round to you, sir, madame gave me a line for you," said Gentil, ignorant of Parisian forms

of respect, and accustomed to homely provincial ways. The chasseur took the poet for a servant.

Lucien tore open the note, and learned that Mme. de Bargeton had gone to spend the day with the Marquise

d'Espard. She was going to the Opera in the evening, but she told Lucien to be there to meet her. Her cousin

permitted her to give him a seat in her box. The Marquise d'Espard was delighted to procure the young poet

"Then she loves me! my fears were all nonsense!" said Lucien to himself. "She is going to present me to her

He jumped for joy. He would spend the day that separated him from the happy evening as joyously as might

be. He dashed out in the direction of the Tuileries, dreaming of walking there until it was time to dine at

Very's. And now, behold Lucien frisking and skipping, light of foot because light of heart, on his way to the

Terrasse des Feuillants to take a look at the people of quality on promenade there. Pretty women walk

arminarm with men of fashion, their adorers, couples greet each other with a glance as they pass; how

different it is from the terrace at Beaulieu! How far finer the birds on this perch than the Angouleme species!

It is as if you beheld all the colors that glow in the plumage of the feathered tribes of India and America,

Those were two wretched hours that Lucien spent in the Garden of the Tuileries. A violent revulsion swept

In the first place, not a single one of these gilded youths wore a swallowtail coat. The few exceptions, one

or two poor wretches, a clerk here and there, an annuitant from the Marais, could be ruled out on the score of

age; and hard upon the discovery of a distinction between morning and evening dress, the poet's quick

sensibility and keen eyes saw likewise that his shabby old clothes were not fit to be seen; the defects in his

coat branded that garment as ridiculous; the cut was oldfashioned, the color was the wrong shade of blue,

the collar outrageously ungainly, the coat tails, by dint of long wear, overlapped each other, the buttons were

reddened, and there were fatal white lines along the seams. Then his waistcoat was too short, and so

grotesquely provincial, that he hastily buttoned his coat over it; and, finally, no man of any pretension to

fashion wore nankeen trousers. Welldressed men wore charming fancy materials or immaculate white, and

every one had straps to his trousers, while the shrunken hems of Lucien's nether garments manifested a

violent antipathy for the heels of boots which they wedded with obvious reluctance. Lucien wore a white

cravat with embroidered ends; his sister had seen that M. du Hautoy and M. de Chandour wore such things,

and hastened to make similar ones for her brother. Here, no one appeared to wear white cravats of a morning

except a few grave seniors, elderly capitalists, and austere public functionaries, until, in the street on the other

side of the railings, Lucien noticed a grocer's boy walking along the Rue de Rivoli with a basket on his head;

him the man of Angouleme detected in the act of sporting a cravat, with both ends adorned by the handiwork

of some adored shopgirl. The sight was a stab to Lucien's breast; penetrating straight to that organ as yet

undefined, the seat of our sensibility, the region whither, since sentiment has had any existence, the sons of

men carry their hands in any excess of joy or anguish. Do not accuse this chronicle of puerility. The rich, to

be sure, never having experienced sufferings of this kind, may think them incredibly petty and small; but the

agonies of less fortunate mortals are as well worth our attention as crises and vicissitudes in the lives of the

mighty and privileged ones of earth. Is not the pain equally great for either? Suffering exalts all things. And,

after all, suppose that we change the terms and for a suit of clothes, more or less fine, put instead a ribbon, or

a star, or a title; have not brilliant careers been tormented by reason of such apparent trifles as these? Add,

moreover, that for those people who must seem to have that which they have not, the question of clothes is of

enormous importance, and not unfrequently the appearance of possession is the shortest road to possession at

A cold sweat broke out over Lucien as he bethought himself that tonight he must make his first appearance

before the Marquise in this dressthe Marquise d'Espard, relative of a First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, a

woman whose house was frequented by the most illustrious among illustrious men in every field.

"I look like an apothecary's son, a regular shopdrudge," he raged inwardly, watching the youth of the

Faubourg SaintGermain pass under his eyes; graceful, spruce, fashionably dressed, with a certain uniformity

of air, a sameness due to a fineness of contour, and a certain dignity of carriage and expression; though, at the

same time, each one differed from the rest in the setting by which he had chosen to bring his personal

characteristics into prominence. Each one made the most of his personal advantages. Young men in Paris

understand the art of presenting themselves quite as well as women. Lucien had inherited from his mother the

invaluable physical distinction of race, but the metal was still in the ore, and not set free by the craftsman's

His hair was badly cut. Instead of holding himself upright with an elastic corset, he felt that he was cooped up

inside a hideous shirt collar; he hung his dejected head without resistance on the part of a limp cravat. What

woman could guess that a handsome foot was hidden by the clumsy boots which he had brought from

Angouleme? What young man could envy him his graceful figure, disguised by the shapeless blue sack which

hitherto he had mistakenly believed to be a coat? What bewitching studs he saw on those dazzling white shirt

fronts, his own looked dingy by comparison; and how marvelously all these elegant persons were gloved, his

own gloves were only fit for a policeman! Yonder was a youth toying with a cane exquisitely mounted; there,

another with dainty gold studs in his wristbands. Yet another was twisting a charming ridingwhip while he

talked with a woman; there were specks of mud on the ample folds of his white trousers, he wore clanking

spurs and a tightfitting jacket, evidently he was about to mount one of the two horses held by a

hopo'mythumb of a tiger. A young man who went past drew a watch no thicker than a fivefranc piece

from his pocket, and looked at it with the air of a person who is either too early or too late for an

Lucien, seeing these petty trifles, hitherto unimagined, became aware of a whole world of indispensable

superfluities, and shuddered to think of the enormous capital needed by a professional pretty fellow! The

more he admired these gay and careless beings, the more conscious he grew of his own outlandishness; he

knew that he looked like a man who has no idea of the direction of the streets, who stands close to the Palais

Royal and cannot find it, and asks his way to the Louvre of a passerby, who tells him, "Here you are."

Lucien saw a great gulf fixed between him and this new world, and asked himself how he might cross over,

for he meant to be one of these delicate, slim youths of Paris, these young patricians who bowed before

women divinely dressed and divinely fair. For one kiss from one of these, Lucien was ready to be cut in

pieces like Count Philip of Konigsmark. Louise's face rose up somewhere in the shadowy background of

memorycompared with these queens, she looked like an old woman. He saw women whose names will

appear in the history of the nineteenth century, women no less famous than the queens of past times for their

wit, their beauty, or their lovers; one who passed was the heroine Mlle. des Touches, so well known as

Camille Maupin, the great woman of letters, great by her intellect, great no less by her beauty. He overheard

What was Mme. de Bargeton in comparison with this angel in all the glory of youth, and hope, and promise

of the future, with that sweet smile of hers, and the great dark eyes with all heaven in them, and the glowing

light of the sun? She was laughing and chatting with Mme. Firmiani, one of the most charming women in

Paris. A voice indeed cried, "Intellect is the lever by which to move the world," but another voice cried no

He would not stay any longer on the scene of his collapse and defeat, and went towards the Palais Royal. He

did not know the topography of his quarter yet, and was obliged to ask his way. Then he went to Very's and

ordered dinner by way of an initiation into the pleasures of Paris, and a solace for his discouragement. A

bottle of Bordeaux, oysters from Ostend, a dish of fish, a partridge, a dish of macaroni and dessert,this was

the ne plus ultra of his desire. He enjoyed this little debauch, studying the while how to give the Marquise

d'Espard proof of his wit, and redeem the shabbiness of his grotesque accoutrements by the display of

intellectual riches. The total of the bill drew him down from these dreams, and left him the poorer by fifty of

the francs which were to have gone such a long way in Paris. He could have lived in Angouleme for a month

on the price of that dinner. Wherefore he closed the door of the palace with awe, thinking as he did so that he

"Eve was right," he said to himself, as he went back under the stone arcading for some more money. "There is

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

"No," he exclaimed, "I will NOT appear before Mme. d'Espard dressed out as I am."

He fled to his inn, fleet as a stag, rushed up to his room, took out a hundred crowns, and went down again to

the Palais Royal, where his future elegance lay scattered over half a score of shops. The first tailor whose

door he entered tried as many coats upon him as he would consent to put on, and persuaded his customer that

all were in the very latest fashion. Lucien came out the owner of a green coat, a pair of white trousers, and a

"fancy waistcoat," for which outfit he gave two hundred francs. Ere long he found a very elegant pair of

ready made shoes that fitted his foot; and, finally, when he had made all necessary purchases, he ordered the

tradespeople to send them to his address, and inquired for a hairdresser. At seven o'clock that evening he

called a cab and drove away to the Opera, curled like a Saint John of a Procession Day, elegantly waistcoated

and gloved, but feeling a little awkward in this kind of sheath in which he found himself for the first time.

In obedience to Mme. de Bargeton's instructions, he asked for the box reserved for the First Gentleman of the

Bedchamber. The man at the box office looked at him, and beholding Lucien in all the grandeur assumed for

the occasion, in which he looked like a best man at a wedding, asked Lucien for his order.

"It is not our business to know that," said the man, who could not help exchanging a barely perceptible smile

A carriage stopped under the peristyle as he spoke. A chasseur, in a livery which Lucien did not recognize, let

down the step, and two women in evening dress came out of the brougham. Lucien had no mind to lay

himself open to an insolent order to get out of the way from the official. He stepped aside to let the two ladies

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

Lucien was so much the more confounded because Mme. de Bargeton did not seem to recognize him in his

The functionaries at the box office grew serious again as Lucien followed Mme. de Bargeton. On their way

up the great staircase the lady introduced M. de Rubempre to her cousin. The box belonging to the First

Gentleman of the Bedchamber is situated in one of the angles at the back of the house, so that its occupants

see and are seen all over the theatre. Lucien took his seat on a chair behind Mme. de Bargeton, thankful to be

"M. de Rubempre," said the Marquise with flattering graciousness, "this is your first visit to the Opera, is it

not? You must have a view of the house; take this seat, sit in front of the box; we give you permission."

"You have made good use of your time," Louise said in his ear, in her first surprise at the change in his

Louise was still the same. The near presence of the Marquise d'Espard, a Parisian Mme. de Bargeton, was so

damaging to her; the brilliancy of the Parisienne brought out all the defects in her country cousin so clearly

by contrast; that Lucien, looking out over the fashionable audience in the superb building, and then at the

great lady, was twice enlightened, and saw poor Anais de Negrepelisse as she really was, as Parisians saw

hera tall, lean, withered woman, with a pimpled face and faded complexion; angular, stiff, affected in her

manner; pompous and provincial in her speech; and, and above all these things, dowdily dressed. As a matter

of fact, the creases in an old dress from Paris still bear witness to good taste, you can tell what the gown was

meant for; but an old dress made in the country is inexplicable, it is a thing to provoke laughter. There was

neither charm nor freshness about the dress or its wearer; the velvet, like the complexion had seen wear.

Lucien felt ashamed to have fallen in love with this cuttlefish bone, and vowed that he would profit by

Louise's next fit of virtue to leave her for good. Having an excellent view of the house, he could see the

operaglasses pointed at the aristocratic box par excellence. The bestdressed women must certainly be

If Mme. d'Espard knew the object of their sarcasms from those feminine smiles and gestures, she was

perfectly insensible to them. In the first place, anybody must see that her companion was a poor relation from

the country, an affliction with which any Parisian family may be visited. And, in the second, when her cousin

had spoken to her of her dress with manifest misgivings, she had reassured Anais, seeing that, when once

properly dressed, her relative would very easily acquire the tone of Parisian society. If Mme. de Bargeton

needed polish, on the other hand she possessed the native haughtiness of good birth, and that indescribable

something which may be called "pedigree." So, on Monday her turn would come. And, moreover, the

Marquise knew that as soon as people learned that the stranger was her cousin, they would suspend their

Lucien did not foresee the change in Louise's appearance shortly to be worked by a scarf about her throat, a

pretty dress, an elegant coiffure, and Mme. d'Espard's advice. As they came up the staircase even now, the

Marquise told her cousin not to hold her handkerchief unfolded in her hand. Good or bad taste turns upon

hundreds of such almost imperceptible shades, which a quickwitted woman discerns at once, while others

will never grasp them. Mme. de Bargeton, plentifully apt, was more than clever enough to discover her

shortcomings. Mme. d'Espard, sure that her pupil would do her credit, did not decline to form her. In short,

the compact between the two women had been confirmed by selfinterest on either side.

Mme. de Bargeton, enthralled, dazzled, and fascinated by her cousin's manner, wit, and acquaintances, had

suddenly declared herself a votary of the idol of the day. She had discerned the signs of the occult power

exerted by the ambitious great lady, and told herself that she could gain her end as the satellite of this star, so

she had been outspoken in her admiration. The Marquise was not insensible to the artlessly admitted

conquest. She took an interest in her cousin, seeing that she was weak and poor; she was, besides, not

indisposed to take a pupil with whom to found a school, and asked nothing better than to have a sort of

ladyinwaiting in Mme. de Bargeton, a dependent who would sing her praises, a treasure even more scarce

among Parisian women than a staunch and loyal critic among the literary tribe. The flutter of curiosity in the

house was too marked to be ignored, however, and Mme. d'Espard politely endeavored to turn her cousin's

"If any one comes to our box," she said, "perhaps we may discover the cause to which we owe the honor of

"I have a strong suspicion that it is my old velvet gown and Angoumoisin air which Parisian ladies find

"No, it is not you; it is something that I cannot explain," she added, turning to the poet, and, as she looked at

"There is M. du Chatelet," exclaimed Lucien at that moment, and he pointed a finger towards Mme. de

Mme. de Bargeton bit her lips with chagrin as she saw that gesture, and saw besides the Marquise's

illsuppressed smile of contemptuous astonishment. "Where does the young man come from?" her look said,

and Louise felt humbled through her love, one of the sharpest of all pangs for a Frenchwoman, a

In these circles where trifles are of such importance, a gesture or a word at the outset is enough to ruin a

newcomer. It is the principal merit of fine manners and the highest breeding that they produce the effect of a

harmonious whole, in which every element is so blended that nothing is startling or obtrusive. Even those

who break the laws of this science, either through ignorance or carried away by some impulse, must

comprehend that it is with social intercourse as with music, a single discordant note is a complete negation of

the art itself, for the harmony exists only when all its conditions are observed down to the least particular.

"Who is that gentleman?" asked Mme. d'Espard, looking towards Chatelet. "And have you made Mme. de

"Oh! is that the famous Mme. de Serizy who has had so many adventures and yet goes everywhere?"

"An unheardofthing, my dear, explicable but unexplained. The most formidable men are her friends, and

why? Nobody dares to fathom the mystery. Then is this person the lion of Angouleme?"

"Well, M. le Baron du Chatelet has been a good deal talked about," answered Mme. de Bargeton, moved by

vanity to give her adorer the title which she herself had called in question. "He was M. de Montriveau's

"Ah!" said the Marquise d'Espard, "I never hear that name without thinking of the Duchesse de Langeais,

poor thing. She vanished like a falling star.That is M. de Rastignac with Mme. de Nucingen," she

continued, indicating another box; "she is the wife of a contractor, a banker, a city man, a broker on a large

scale; he forced his way into society with his money, and they say that he is not very scrupulous as to his

methods of making it. He is at endless pains to establish his credit as a staunch upholder of the Bourbons, and

has tried already to gain admittance into my set. When his wife took Mme. de Langeais' box, she thought that

she could take her charm, her wit, and her success as well. It is the old fable of the jay in the peacock's

"How do M. and Mme. de Rastignac manage to keep their son in Paris, when, as we know, their income is

under a thousand crowns?" asked Lucien, in his astonishment at Rastignac's elegant and expensive dress.

"It is easy to see that you come from Angouleme," said Mme. d'Espard, ironically enough, as she continued

Her remark was lost upon Lucien; the allabsorbing spectacle of the boxes prevented him from thinking of

anything else. He guessed that he himself was an object of no small curiosity. Louise, on the other hand, was

exceedingly mortified by the evident slight esteem in which the Marquise held Lucien's beauty.

"He cannot be so handsome as I thought him," she said to herself; and between "not so handsome and "not so

The curtain fell. Chatelet was now paying a visit to the Duchesse de Carigliano in an adjourning box; Mme.

de Bargeton acknowledged his bow by a slight inclination of the head. Nothing escapes a woman of the

world; Chatelet's air of distinction was not lost upon Mme. d'Espard. Just at that moment four personages,

The most striking feature of the first comer, M. de Marsay, famous for the passions which he had inspired,

was his girlish beauty; but its softness and effeminacy were counteracted by the expression of his eyes,

unflinching, steady, untamed, and hard as a tiger's. He was loved and he was feared. Lucien was no less

handsome; but Lucien's expression was so gentle, his blue eyes so limpid, that he scarcely seemed to possess

the strength and the power which attract women so strongly. Nothing, moreover, so far had brought out the

poet's merits; while de Marsay, with his flow of spirits, his confidence in his power to please, and appropriate

style of dress, eclipsed every rival by his presence. Judge, therefore, the kind of figure that Lucien, stiff,

starched, unbending in clothes as new and unfamiliar as his surroundings, was likely to cut in de Marsay's

vicinity. De Marsay with his wit and charm of manner was privileged to be insolent. From Mme. d'Espard's

reception of this personage his importance was at once evident to Mme. de Bargeton.

The second comer was a Vandenesse, the cause of the scandal in which Lady Dudley was concerned. Felix de

Vandenesse, amiable, intellectual, and modest, had none of the characteristics on which de Marsay prided

himself, and owed his success to diametrically opposed qualities. He had been warmly recommended to

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

The fourth, M. de Canalis, one of the most famous poets of the day, and as yet a newly risen celebrity, was

prouder of his birth than of his genius, and dangled in Mme. d'Espard's train by way of concealing his love

for the Duchesse de Chaulieu. In spite of his graces and the affectation that spoiled them, it was easy to

discern the vast, lurking ambitions that plunged him at a later day into the storms of political life. A face that

might be called insignificantly pretty and caressing manners thinly disguised the man's deeplyrooted egoism

and habit of continually calculating the chances of a career which at that time looked problematical enough;

though his choice of Mme. de Chaulieu (a woman past forty) made interest for him at Court, and brought him

the applause of the Faubourg SaintGermain and the gibes of the Liberal party, who dubbed him "the poet of

Mme. de Bargeton, with these remarkable figures before her, no longer wondered at the slight esteem in

which the Marquise held Lucien's good looks. And when conversation began, when intellects so keen, so

subtle, were revealed in twoedged words with more meaning and depth in them than Anais de Bargeton

heard in a month of talk at Angouleme; and, most of all, when Canalis uttered a sonorous phrase, summing

up a materialistic epoch, and gilding it with poetrythen Anais felt all the truth of Chatelet's dictum of the

previous evening. Lucien was nothing to her now. Every one cruelly ignored the unlucky stranger; he was so

much like a foreigner listening to an unknown language, that the Marquise d'Espard took pity upon him. She

"Permit me to introduce M. de Rubempre," she said. "You rank too high in the world of letters not to

welcome a debutant. M. de Rubempre is from Angouleme, and will need your influence, no doubt, with the

powers that bring genius to light. So far, he has no enemies to help him to success by their attacks upon him.

Is there enough originality in the idea of obtaining for him by friendship all that hatred has done for you to

The four newcomers all looked at Lucien while the Marquise was speaking. De Marsay, only a couple of

paces away, put up an eyeglass and looked from Lucien to Mme. de Bargeton, and then again at Lucien,

coupling them with some mocking thought, cruelly mortifying to both. He scrutinized them as if they had

been a pair of strange animals, and then he smiled. The smile was like a stab to the distinguished provincial.

Felix de Vandenesse assumed a charitable air. Montriveau looked Lucien through and through.

"Madame," M. de Canalis answered with a bow, "I will obey you, in spite of the selfish instinct which

"Very well, do me the pleasure of dining with me on Monday with M. de Rubempre, and you can talk of

matters literary at your ease. I will try to enlist some of the tyrants of the world of letters and the great people

who protect them, the author of Ourika, and one or two young poets with sound views."

"Mme. la Marquise," said de Marsay, "if you give your support to this gentleman for his intellect, I will

support him for his good looks. I will give him advice which will put him in a fair way to be the luckiest

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

"Is that why your lordship is thinking of marriage?" inquired the dandy, addressing Canalis, and watching

Canalis shrugged his shoulders, and Mme. d'Espard, Mme. de Chaulieu's niece, began to laugh. Lucien in his

new clothes felt as if he were an Egyptian statue in its narrow sheath; he was ashamed that he had nothing to

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

Chatelet came in as he spoke; he had seen Montriveau, and by hook or crook snatched at the chance of a good

introduction to the Marquise d'Espard through one of the kings of Paris. He bowed to Mme. de Bargeton, and

begged Mme. d'Espard to pardon him for the liberty he took in invading her box; he had been separated so

long from his traveling companion! Montriveau and Chatelet met for the first time since they parted in the

Montriveau introduced the Baron du Chatelet to the Marquise, and the Marquise received Her Royal

Highness' exsecretary the more graciously because she had seen that he had been very well received in three

boxes already. Mme. de Serizy knew none but unexceptionable people, and moreover he was Montriveau's

traveling companion. So potent was this last credential, that Mme. de Bargeton saw from the manner of the

group that they accepted Chatelet as one of themselves without demur. Chatelet's sultan's airs in Angouleme

At length the Baron saw Lucien, and favored him with a cool, disparaging little nod, indicative to men of the

world of the recipient's inferior station. A sardonic expression accompanied the greeting, "How does HE

come here?" he seemed to say. This was not lost on those who saw it; for de Marsay leaned towards

"Do ask him who the queerlooking young fellow is that looks like a dummy at a tailor's shopdoor."

Chatelet spoke a few words in his traveling companion's ear, and while apparently renewing his

If Lucien was surprised at the apt wit and the subtlety with which these gentlemen formulated their replies, he

felt bewildered with epigram and repartee, and, most of all, by their offhand way of talking and their ease of

manner. The material luxury of Paris had alarmed him that morning; at night he saw the same lavish

expenditure of intellect. By what mysterious means, he asked himself, did these people make such piquant

reflections on the spur of the moment, those repartees which he could only have made after much pondering?

And not only were they at ease in their speech, they were at ease in their dress, nothing looked new, nothing

looked old, nothing about them was conspicuous, everything attracted the eyes. The fine gentleman of today

was the same yesterday, and would be the same tomorrow. Lucien guessed that he himself looked as if he

"My dear fellow," said de Marsay, addressing Felix de Vandenesse, "that young Rastignac is soaring away

like a paperkite. Look at him in the Marquise de Listomere's box; he is making progress, he is putting up his

eyeglass at us! He knows this gentleman, no doubt," added the dandy, speaking to Lucien, and looking

"He can scarcely fail to have heard the name of a great man of whom we are proud," said Mme. de Bargeton.

"Quite lately his sister was present when M. de Rubempre read us some very fine poetry."

Felix de Vandenesse and de Marsay took leave of the Marquise d'Espard, and went off to Mme. de

Listomere, Vandenesse's sister. The second act began, and the three were left to themselves again. The

curious women learned how Mme. de Bargeton came to be there from some of the party, while the others

announced the arrival of a poet, and made fun of his costume. Canalis went back to the Duchesse de

Lucien was glad when the rising of the curtain produced a diversion. All Mme. de Bargeton's misgivings with

regard to Lucien were increased by the marked attention which the Marquise d'Espard had shown to Chatelet;

her manner towards the Baron was very different from the patronizing affability with which she treated

Lucien. Mme. de Listomere's box was full during the second act, and, to all appearance, the talk turned upon

Mme. de Bargeton and Lucien. Young Rastignac evidently was entertaining the party; he had raised the

laughter that needs fresh fuel every day in Paris, the laughter that seizes upon a topic and exhausts it, and

leaves it stale and threadbare in a moment. Mme. d'Espard grew uneasy. She knew that an illnatured speech

is not long in coming to the ears of those whom it will wound, and waited till the end of the act.

After a revulsion of feeling such as had taken place in Mme. de Bargeton and Lucien, strange things come to

pass in a brief space of time, and any revolution within us is controlled by laws that work with great

swiftness. Chatelet's sage and politic words as to Lucien, spoken on the way home from the Vaudeville, were

fresh in Louise's memory. Every phrase was a prophecy, it seemed as if Lucien had set himself to fulfil the

predictions one by one. When Lucien and Mme. de Bargeton had parted with their illusions concerning each

other, the luckless youth, with a destiny not unlike Rousseau's, went so far in his predecessor's footsteps that

he was captivated by the great lady and smitten with Mme. d'Espard at first sight. Young men and men who

remember their young emotions can see that this was only what might have been looked for. Mme. d'Espard

with her dainty ways, her delicate enunciation, and the refined tones of her voice; the fragile woman so

envied, of such high place and high degree, appeared before the poet as Mme. de Bargeton had appeared to

him in Angouleme. His fickle nature prompted him to desire influence in that lofty sphere at once, and the

surest way to secure such influence was to possess the woman who exerted it, and then everything would be

Involuntarily, and despite the novel counter fascination of the stage, his eyes turned to the Celimene in her

splendor; he glanced furtively at her every moment; the longer he looked, the more he desired to look at her.

Mme. de Bargeton caught the gleam in Lucien's eyes, and saw that he found the Marquise more interesting

than the opera. If Lucien had forsaken her for the fifty daughters of Danaus, she could have borne his

desertion with equanimity; but another glancebolder, more ardent and unmistakable than any

beforerevealed the state of Lucien's feelings. She grew jealous, but not so much for the future as for the

Then she saw that she had made a mistake; and when a woman once begins to repent of her weaknesses, she

sponges out the whole past. Every one of Lucien's glances roused her indignation, but to all outward

appearance she was calm. De Marsay came back in the interval, bringing M. de Listomere with him; and that

serious person and the young coxcomb soon informed the Marquise that the wedding guest in his holiday

suit, whom she had the bad luck to have in her box, had as much right to the appellation of Rubempre as a

Jew to a baptismal name. Lucien's father was an apothecary named Chardon. M. de Rastignac, who knew all

about Angouleme, had set several boxes laughing already at the mummy whom the Marquise styled her

cousin, and at the Marquise's forethought in having an apothecary at hand to sustain an artificial life with

drugs. In short, de Marsay brought a selection from the thousandandone jokes made by Parisians on the

spur of the moment, and no sooner uttered than forgotten. Chatelet was at the back of it all, and the real

Mme. d'Espard turned to Mme. de Bargeton, put up her fan, and said, "My dear, tell me if your protege's

"My dear friend, I felt quite sure that all Paris could not be laughing at any one whom I took up. I do not care

to stay here when wags come in in high glee because there is an apothecary's son in my box. If you will

Mme. d'Espard's expression was insolent enough; Lucien was at a loss to account for her change of

countenance. He thought that his waistcoat was in bad taste, which was true; and that his coat looked like a

caricature of the fashion, which was likewise true. He discerned, in bitterness of soul, that he must put

himself in the hands of an expert tailor, and vowed that he would go the very next morning to the most

celebrated artist in Paris. On Monday he would hold his own with the men in the Marquise's house.

Yet, lost in thought though he was, he saw the third act to an end, and, with his eyes fixed on the gorgeous

scene upon the stage, dreamed out his dream of Mme. d'Espard. He was in despair over her sudden coldness;

it gave a strange check to the ardent reasoning through which he advanced upon this new love, undismayed

by the immense difficulties in the way, difficulties which he saw and resolved to conquer. He roused himself

from these deep musings to look once more at his new idol, turned his head, and saw that he was alone; he

had heard a faint rustling sound, the door closedMadame d'Espard had taken her cousin with her. Lucien

was surprised to the last degree by the sudden desertion; he did not think long about it, however, simply

When the carriage was rolling along the Rue de Richelieu on the way to the Faubourg SaintHonore, the

"My dear child, what are you thinking about? Pray wait till an apothecary's son has made a name for himself

before you trouble yourself about him. The Duchesse de Chaulieu does not acknowledge Canalis even now,

and he is famous and a man of good family. This young fellow is neither your son nor your lover, I suppose?"

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

"Very well," continued the Marquise, taking the expression in her cousin's eyes for an answer, "drop him, I

beg of you. Taking an illustrious name in that way!Why, it is a piece of impudence that will meet with its

desserts in society. It is his mother's name, I dare say; but just remember, dear, that the King alone can

confer, by a special ordinance, the title of de Rubempre on the son of a daughter of the house. If she made a

mesalliance, the favor would be enormous, only to be granted to vast wealth, or conspicuous services, or very

powerful influence. The young man looks like a shopman in his Sunday suit; evidently he is neither wealthy

nor noble; he has a fine head, but he seems to me to be very silly; he has no idea what to do, and has nothing

Mme. de Bargeton renounced Lucien as Lucien himself had renounced her; a ghastly fear lest her cousin

"People do not compromise me," Mme. d'Espard said, smiling; "I am only thinking of you."

"I shall be ill," the Marquise said quickly; "you can tell him so, and I shall leave orders that he is not to be

During the interval Lucien noticed that every one was walking up and down the lobby. He would do the

same. In the first place, not one of Mme. d'Espard's visitors recognized him nor paid any attention to him,

their conduct seemed nothing less than extraordinary to the provincial poet; and, secondly, Chatelet, on

whom he tried to hang, watched him out of the corner of his eye and fought shy of him. Lucien walked to and

fro, watching the eddying crowd of men, till he felt convinced that his costume was absurd, and he went back

to his box, ensconced himself in a corner, and stayed there till the end. At times he thought of nothing but the

magnificent spectacle of the ballet in the great Inferno scene in the fifth act; sometimes the sight of the house

absorbed him, sometimes his own thoughts; he had seen society in Paris, and the sight had stirred him to the

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

As he walked home through the streets he thought over all that had been said by Mme. d'Espard's courtiers;

memory reproducing with strange faithfulness their demeanor, their gestures, their manner of coming and

Next day, towards noon, Lucien betook himself to Staub, the great tailor of that day. Partly by dint of

entreaties, and partly by virtue of cash, Lucien succeeded in obtaining a promise that his clothes should be

ready in time for the great day. Staub went so far as to give his word that a perfectly elegant coat, a waistcoat,

and a pair of trousers should be forthcoming. Lucien then ordered linen and pockethandkerchiefs, a little

outfit, in short, of a linendraper, and a celebrated bootmaker measured him for shoes and boots. He bought a

neat walking cane at Verdier's; he went to Mme. Irlande for gloves and shirt studs; in short, he did his best to

reach the climax of dandyism. When he had satisfied all his fancies, he went to the Rue

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

Lucien dined for two francs at a restaurant in the Palais Royal, and went to bed early. The next day was

Sunday. He went to Louise's lodging at eleven o'clock. Louise had not yet risen. At two o'clock he returned

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

"I do not know," Albertine answered very impertinently; and Lucien, less surprised by Albertine's answer

than by a note from Mme. de Bargeton, took the billet, and read the following discouraging lines:

"Mme. d'Espard is not well; she will not be able to see you on Monday. I am not feeling very well myself, but

I am about to dress and go to keep her company. I am in despair over this little disappointment; but your

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

With the gift of secondsight which accompanies genius, he began to suspect that the chilly note was but a

warning of the catastrophe to come. Lost in thought, he walked on and on, gazing at the monuments in the

It was a sunny day; a stream of fine carriages went past him on the way to the Champs Elysees. Following the

direction of the crowd of strollers, he saw the three or four thousand carriages that turn the Champs Elysees

into an improvised Longchamp on Sunday afternoons in summer. The splendid horses, the toilettes, and

liveries bewildered him; he went further and further, until he reached the Arc de Triomphe, then unfinished.

What were his feelings when, as he returned, he saw Mme. de Bargeton and Mme. d'Espard coming towards

him in a wonderfully appointed caleche, with a chasseur behind it in waving plumes and that

goldembroidered green uniform which he knew only too well. There was a block somewhere in the row,

and the carriages waited. Lucien beheld Louise transformed beyond recognition. All the colors of her toilette

had been carefully subordinated to her complexion; her dress was delicious, her hair gracefully and

becomingly arranged, her hat, in exquisite taste, was remarkable even beside Mme. d'Espard, that leader of

There is something in the art of wearing a hat that escapes definition. Tilted too far to the back of the head, it

imparts a bold expression to the face; bring it too far forward, it gives you a sinister look; tipped to one side,

it has a jaunty air; a welldressed woman wears her hat exactly as she means to wear it, and exactly at the

right angle. Mme. de Bargeton had solved this curious problem at sight. A dainty girdle outlined her slender

waist. She had adopted her cousin's gestures and tricks of manner; and now, as she sat by Mme. d'Espard's

side, she played with a tiny scent bottle that dangled by a slender gold chain from one of her fingers,

displayed a little wellgloved hand without seeming to do so. She had modeled herself on Mme. d'Espard

without mimicking her; the Marquise had found a cousin worthy of her, and seemed to be proud of her pupil.

The men and women on the footways all gazed at the splendid carriage, with the bearings of the d'Espards

and BlamontChauvrys upon the panels. Lucien was amazed at the number of greetings received by the

cousins; he did not know that the "all Paris," which consists in some score of salons, was well aware already

of the relationship between the ladies. A little group of young men on horseback accompanied the carriage in

the Bois; Lucien could recognize de Marsay and Rastignac among them, and could see from their gestures

that the pair of coxcombs were complimenting Mme. de Bargeton upon her transformation. Mme. d'Espard

was radiant with health and grace. So her indisposition was simply a pretext for ridding herself of him, for

The wrathful poet went towards the caleche; he walked slowly, waited till he came in full sight of the two

ladies, and made them a bow. Mme. de Bargeton would not see him; but the Marquise put up her eyeglass,

and deliberately cut him. He had been disowned by the sovereign lords of Angouleme, but to be disowned by

society in Paris was another thing; the boobysquires by doing their utmost to mortify Lucien admitted his

power and acknowledged him as a man; for Mme. d'Espard he had positively no existence. This was a

sentence, it was a refusal of justice. Poor poet! a deadly cold seized on him when he saw de Marsay eying

him through his glass; and when the Parisian lion let that optical instrument fall, it dropped in so singular a

The caleche went by. Rage and a craving for vengeance took possession of his slighted soul. If Mme. de

Bargeton had been in his power, he could have cut her throat at that moment; he was a FouquierTinville

gloating over the pleasure of sending Mme. d'Espard to the scaffold. If only he could have put de Marsay to

the torture with refinements of savage cruelty! Canalis went by on horseback, bowing to the prettiest women,

"Great heavens!" exclaimed Lucien. "Money, money at all costs! money is the one power before which the

world bends the knee." ("No!" cried conscience, "not money, but glory; and glory means work! Work! that

was what David said.") "Great heavens! what am I doing here? But I will triumph. I will drive along this

avenue in a caleche with a chasseur behind me! I will possess a Marquise d'Espard." And flinging out the

Next morning, at nine o'clock, he went to the Rue NeuvedeLuxembourg to upbraid Louise for her

barbarity. But Mme. de Bargeton was not at home to him, and not only so, but the porter would not allow him

to go up to her rooms; so he stayed outside in the street, watching the house till noon. At twelve o'clock

Chatelet came out, looked at Lucien out of the corner of his eye, and avoided him.

Stung to the quick, Lucien hurried after his rival; and Chatelet, finding himself closely pursued, turned and

"Spare me just a moment for pity's sake, sir," said Lucien; "I want just a word or two with you. You have

shown me friendship, I now ask the most trifling service of that friendship. You have just come from Mme.

de Bargeton; how have I fallen into disgrace with her and Mme. d'Espard?please explain."

"M. Chardon, do you know why the ladies left you at the Opera that evening?" asked Chatelet, with

"Well, it was M. de Rastignac who spoke against you from the beginning. They asked him about you, and the

young dandy simply said that your name was Chardon, and not de Rubempre; that your mother was a

monthly nurse; that your father, when he was alive, was an apothecary in L'Houmeau, a suburb of

Angouleme; and that your sister, a charming girl, gets up shirts to admiration, and is just about to be married

to a local printer named Sechard. Such is the world! You no sooner show yourself than it pulls you to pieces.

"M. de Marsay came to Mme. d'Espard to laugh at you with her; so the two ladies, thinking that your

presence put them in a false position, went out at once. Do not attempt to go to either house. If Mme. de

Bargeton continued to receive your visits, her cousin would have nothing to do with her. You have genius; try

to avenge yourself. The world looks down upon you; look down in your turn upon the world. Take refuge in

some garret, write your masterpieces, seize on power of any kind, and you will see the world at your feet.

Then you can give back the bruises which you have received, and in the very place where they were given.

Mme. de Bargeton will be the more distant now because she has been friendly. That is the way with women.

But the question now for you is not how to win back Anais' friendship, but how to avoid making an enemy of

her. I will tell you of a way. She has written letters to you; send all her letters back to her, she will be sensible

that you are acting like a gentleman; and at a later time, if you should need her, she will not be hostile. For

my own part, I have so high an opinion of your future, that I have taken your part everywhere; and if I can do

The elderly beau seemed to have grown young again in the atmosphere of Paris. He bowed with frigid

politeness; but Lucien, woebegone, haggard, and undone, forgot to return the salutation. He went back to his

inn, and there found the great Staub himself, come in person, not so much to try his customer's clothes as to

make inquiries of the landlady with regard to that customer's financial status. The report had been

satisfactory. Lucien had traveled post; Mme. de Bargeton brought him back from Vaudeville last Thursday in

her carriage. Staub addressed Lucien as "Monsieur le Comte," and called his customer's attention to the

"A young man in such a costume has only to walk in the Tuileries," he said, "and he will marry an English

Lucien brightened a little under the influences of the German tailor's joke, the perfect fit of his new clothes,

the fine cloth, and the sight of a graceful figure which met his eyes in the lookingglass. Vaguely he told

himself that Paris was the capital of chance, and for the moment he believed in chance. Had he not a volume

of poems and a magnificent romance entitled The Archer of Charles IX. in manuscript? He had hope for the

The next day the bootmaker, linendraper, and tailor all returned armed each with his bill, which Lucien, still

under the charm of provincial habits, paid forthwith, not knowing how otherwise to rid himself of them. After

he had paid, there remained but three hundred and sixty francs out of the two thousand which he had brought

with him from Angouleme, and he had been but one week in Paris! Nevertheless, he dressed and went to take

a stroll in the Terrassee des Feuillants. He had his day of triumph. He looked so handsome and so graceful, he

was so well dressed, that women looked at him; two or three were so much struck with his beauty, that they

turned their heads to look again. Lucien studied the gait and carriage of the young men on the Terrasse, and

took a lesson in fine manners while he meditated on his three hundred and sixty francs.

That evening, alone in his chamber, an idea occurred to him which threw a light on the problem of his

existence at the GaillardBois, where he lived on the plainest fare, thinking to economize in this way. He

asked for his account, as if he meant to leave, and discovered that he was indebted to his landlord to the

extent of a hundred francs. The next morning was spent in running around the Latin Quarter, recommended

for its cheapness by David. For a long while he looked about till, finally, in the Rue de Cluny, close to the

Sorbonne, he discovered a place where he could have a furnished room for such a price as he could afford to

pay. He settled with his hostess of the GaillardBois, and took up his quarters in the Rue de Cluny that same

When he had taken possession of his poor room, he made a packet of Mme. de Bargeton's letters, laid them

on the table, and sat down to write to her; but before he wrote he fell to thinking over that fatal week. He did

not tell himself that he had been the first to be faithless; that for a sudden fancy he had been ready to leave his

Louise without knowing what would become of her in Paris. He saw none of his own shortcomings, but he

saw his present position, and blamed Mme. de Bargeton for it. She was to have lighted his way; instead she

had ruined him. He grew indignant, he grew proud, he worked himself into a paroxysm of rage, and set

"What would you think, madame, of a woman who should take a fancy to some poor and timid child full of

the noble superstitions which the grown man calls 'illusions;' and using all the charms of woman's coquetry,

all her most delicate ingenuity, should feign a mother's love to lead that child astray? Her fondest promises,

the cardcastles which raised his wonder, cost her nothing; she leads him on, tightens her hold upon him,

sometimes coaxing, sometimes scolding him for his want of confidence, till the child leaves his home and

follows her blindly to the shores of a vast sea. Smiling, she lures him into a frail skiff, and sends him forth

alone and helpless to face the storm. Standing safe on the rock, she laughs and wishes him luck. You are that

"The child has a keepsake in his hands, something which might betray the wrongs done by your beneficence,

your kindness in deserting him. You might have to blush if you saw him struggling for life, and chanced to

recollect that once you clasped him to your breast. When you read these words the keepsake will be in your

"Once you pointed out fair hopes to me in the skies, I awake to find reality in the squalid poverty of Paris.

While you pass, and others bow before you, on your brilliant path in the great world, I, I whom you deserted

on the threshold, shall be shivering in the wretched garret to which you consigned me. Yet some pang may

perhaps trouble your mind amid festivals and pleasures; you may think sometimes of the child whom you

thrust into the depths. If so, madame, think of him without remorse. Out of the depths of his misery the child

offers you the one thing left to himhis forgiveness in a last look. Yes, madame, thanks to you, I have

nothing left. Nothing! was not the world created from nothing? Genius should follow the Divine example; I

begin with Godlike forgiveness, but as yet I know not whether I possess the Godlike power. You need only

tremble lest I should go astray; for you would be answerable for my sins. Alas! I pity you, for you will have

After penning this rhetorical effusion, full of the sombre dignity which an artist of oneandtwenty is rather

apt to overdo, Lucien's thoughts went back to them at home. He saw the pretty rooms which David had

furnished for him, at the cost of part of his little store, and a vision rose before him of quiet, simple pleasures

in the past. Shadowy figures came about him; he saw his mother and Eve and David, and heard their sobs

over his leavetaking, and at that he began to cry himself, for he felt very lonely in Paris, and friendless and

"My dear Eve,When a sister shares the life of a brother who devotes himself to art, it is her sad privilege to

take more sorrow than joy into her life; and I am beginning to fear that I shall be a great trouble to you. Have

I not abused your goodness already? have not all of you sacrificed yourselves to me? It is the memory of the

past, so full of family happiness, that helps me to bear up in my present loneliness. Now that I have tasted the

first beginnings of poverty and the treachery of the world of Paris, how my thoughts have flown to you, swift

as an eagle back to its eyrie, so that I might be with true affection again. Did you see sparks in the candle?

Did a coal pop out of the fire? Did you hear singing in your ears? And did mother say, 'Lucien is thinking of

"My Eve, I am writing this letter for your eyes only. I cannot tell any one else all that has happened to me,

good and bad, blushing for both, as I write, for good here is as rare as evil ought to be. You shall have a great

piece of news in a very few words. Mme. de Bargeton was ashamed of me, disowned me, would not see me,

and gave me up nine days after we came to Paris. She saw me in the street and looked another way; when,

simply to follow her into the society to which she meant to introduce me, I had spent seventeen hundred and

sixty francs out of the two thousand I brought from Angouleme, the money so hardly scraped together. 'How

did you spend it?' you will ask. Paris is a strange bottomless gulf, my poor sister; you can dine here for less

than a franc, yet the simplest dinner at a fashionable restaurant costs fifty francs; there are waistcoats and

trousers to be had for four francs and two francs each; but a fashionable tailor never charges less than a

hundred francs. You pay for everything; you pay a halfpenny to cross the kennel in the street when it rains;

"I have been staying in one of the best parts of Paris, but now I am living at the Hotel de Cluny, in the Rue de

Cluny, one of the poorest and darkest slums, shut in between three churches and the old buildings of the

Sorbonne. I have a furnished room on the fourth floor; it is very bare and very dirty, but, all the same, I pay

fifteen francs a month for it. For breakfast I spend a penny on a roll and a halfpenny for milk, but I dine very

decently for twentytwo sous at a restaurant kept by a man named Flicoteaux in the Place de la Sorbonne

itself. My expenses every month will not exceed sixty francs, everything included, until the winter begins

at least I hope not. So my two hundred and forty francs ought to last me for the first four months. Between

now and then I shall have sold The Archer of Charles IX. and the Marguerites no doubt. Do not be in the least

uneasy on my account. If the present is cold and bare and povertystricken, the blue distant future is rich and

splendid; most great men have known the vicissitudes which depress but cannot overwhelm me.

"Plautus, the great comic Latin poet, was once a miller's lad. Machiavelli wrote The Prince at night, and by

day was a common workingman like any one else; and more than all, the great Cervantes, who lost an arm

at the battle of Lepanto, and helped to win that famous day, was called a 'baseborn, handless dotard' by the

scribblers of his day; there was an interval of ten years between the appearance of the first part and the

second of his sublime Don Quixote for lack of a publisher. Things are not so bad as that nowadays.

Mortifications and want only fall to the lot of unknown writers; as soon as a man's name is known, he grows

rich, and I will be rich. And besides, I live within myself, I spend half the day at the Bibliotheque

SainteGenevieve, learning all that I want to learn; I should not go far unless I knew more than I do. So at

this moment I am almost happy. In a few days I have fallen in with my life very gladly. I begin the work that

I love with daylight, my subsistence is secure, I think a great deal, and I study. I do not see that I am open to

attack at any point, now that I have renounced a world where my vanity might suffer at any moment. The

great men of every age are obliged to lead lives apart. What are they but birds in the forest? They sing, nature

falls under the spell of their song, and no one should see them. That shall be my lot, always supposing that I

"Mme. de Bargeton I do not regret. A woman who could behave as she behaved does not deserve a thought.

Nor am I sorry that I left Angouleme. She did wisely when she flung me into the sea of Paris to sink or swim.

This is the place for men of letters and thinkers and poets; here you cultivate glory, and I know how fair the

harvest is that we reap in these days. Nowhere else can a writer find the living works of the great dead, the

works of art which quicken the imagination in the galleries and museums here; nowhere else will you find

great reference libraries always open in which the intellect may find pasture. And lastly, here in Paris there is

a spirit which you breathe in the air; it infuses the least details, every literary creation bears traces of its

influence. You learn more by talk in a cafe, or at a theatre, in one half hour, than you would learn in ten years

in the provinces. Here, in truth, wherever you go, there is always something to see, something to learn, some

comparison to make. Extreme cheapness and excessive dearnessthere is Paris for you; there is honeycomb

here for every bee, every nature finds its own nourishment. So, though life is hard for me just now, I repent of

nothing. On the contrary, a fair future spreads out before me, and my heart rejoices though it is saddened for

the moment. Goodbye my dear sister. Do not expect letters from me regularly; it is one of the peculiarities

of Paris that one really does not know how the time goes. Life is so alarmingly rapid. I kiss the mother and

The name of Flicoteaux is engraved on many memories. Few indeed were the students who lived in the Latin

Quarter during the last twelve years of the Restoration and did not frequent that temple sacred to hunger and

impecuniosity. There a dinner of three courses, with a quarter bottle of wine or a bottle of beer, could be had

for eighteen sous; or for twentytwo sous the quarter bottle becomes a bottle. Flicoteaux, that friend of youth,

would beyond a doubt have amassed a colossal fortune but for a line on his bill of fare, a line which rival

establishments are wont to print in capital letters, thusBREAD AT DISCRETION, which, being

Flicoteaux has been nursingfather to many an illustrious name. Verily, the heart of more than one great man

ought to wax warm with innumerable recollections of inexpressible enjoyment at the sight of the small,

square window panes that look upon the Place de la Sorbonne, and the Rue NeuvedeRichelieu. Flicoteaux

II. and Flicoteaux III. respected the old exterior, maintaining the dingy hue and general air of a respectable,

oldestablished house, showing thereby the depth of their contempt for the charlatanism of the shop front,

the kind of advertisement which feasts the eyes at the expense of the stomach, to which your modern

restaurant almost always has recourse. Here you beheld no piles of strawstuffed game never destined to

make the acquaintance of the spit, no fantastical fish to justify the mountebank's remark, "I saw a fine carp

today; I expect to buy it this day week." Instead of the prime vegetables more fittingly described by the

word primeval, artfully displayed in the window for the delectation of the military man and his fellow

country woman the nursemaid, honest Flicoteaux exhibited full saladbowls adorned with many a rivet, or

pyramids of stewed prunes to rejoice the sight of the customer, and assure him that the word "dessert," with

which other handbills made too free, was in this case no charter to hoodwink the public. Loaves of six

pounds' weight, cut in four quarters, made good the promise of "bread at discretion." Such was the plenty of

the establishment, that Moliere would have celebrated it if it had been in existence in his day, so comically

Flicoteaux still subsists; so long as students are minded to live, Flicoteaux will make a living. You feed there,

neither more nor less; and you feed as you work, with morose or cheerful industry, according to the

At that time his wellknown establishment consisted of two dining halls, at right angles to each other; long,

narrow, lowceiled rooms, looking respectively on the Rue NeuvedeRichelieu and the Place de la

Sorbonne. The furniture must have come originally from the refectory of some abbey, for there was a

monastic look about the lengthy tables, where the serviettes of regular customers, each thrust through a

numbered ring of crystallized tin plate, were laid by their places. Flicoteaux I. only changed the serviettes of a

Sunday; but Flicoteaux II. changed them twice a week, it is said, under pressure of competition which

Flicoteaux's restaurant is no banquetinghall, with its refinements and luxuries; it is a workshop where

suitable tools are provided, and everybody gets up and goes as soon as he has finished. The coming and going

within are swift. There is no dawdling among the waiters; they are all busy; every one of them is wanted.

The fare is not very varied. The potato is a permanent institution; there might not be a single tuber left in

Ireland, and prevailing dearth elsewhere, but you would still find potatoes at Flicoteaux's. Not once in thirty

years shall you miss its pale gold (the color beloved of Titian), sprinkled with chopped verdure; the potato

enjoys a privilege that women might envy; such as you see it in 1814, so shall you find it in 1840. Mutton

cutlets and fillet of beef at Flicoteaux's represent black game and fillet of sturgeon at Very's; they are not on

the regular bill of fare, that is, and must be ordered beforehand. Beef of the feminine gender there prevails;

the young of the bovine species appears in all kinds of ingenious disguises. When the whiting and mackerel

abound on our shores, they are likewise seen in large numbers at Flicoteaux's; his whole establishment,

indeed, is directly affected by the caprices of the season and the vicissitudes of French agriculture. By eating

your dinners at Flicoteaux's you learn a host of things of which the wealthy, the idle, and folk indifferent to

the phases of Nature have no suspicion, and the student penned up in the Latin Quarter is kept accurately

informed of the state of the weather and good or bad seasons. He knows when it is a good year for peas or

French beans, and the kind of salad stuff that is plentiful; when the Great Market is glutted with cabbages, he

is at once aware of the fact, and the failure of the beetroot crop is brought home to his mind. A slander, old in

circulation in Lucien's time, connected the appearance of beefsteaks with a mortality among horseflesh.

Few Parisian restaurants are so well worth seeing. Every one at Flicoteaux's is young; you see nothing but

youth; and although earnest faces and grave, gloomy, anxious faces are not lacking, you see hope and

confidence and poverty gaily endured. Dress, as a rule, is careless, and regular comers in decent clothes are

marked exceptions. Everybody knows at once that something extraordinary is afoot: a mistress to visit, a

theatre party, or some excursion into higher spheres. Here, it is said, friendships have been made among

students who became famous men in after days, as will be seen in the course of this narrative; but with the

exception of a few knots of young fellows from the same part of France who make a group about the end of a

table, the gravity of the diners is hardly relaxed. Perhaps this gravity is due to the catholicity of the wine,

Flicoteaux's frequenters may recollect certain sombre and mysterious figures enveloped in the gloom of the

chilliest penury; these beings would dine there daily for a couple of years and then vanish, and the most

inquisitive regular comer could throw no light on the disappearance of such goblins of Paris. Friendships

struck up over Flicoteaux's dinners were sealed in neighboring cafes in the flames of heady punch, or by the

generous warmth of a small cup of black coffee glorified by a dash of something hotter and stronger.

Lucien, like all neophytes, was modest and regular in his habits in those early days at the Hotel de Cluny.

After the first unlucky venture in fashionable life which absorbed his capital, he threw himself into his work

with the first earnest enthusiasm, which is frittered away so soon over the difficulties or in the bypaths of

every life in Paris. The most luxurious and the very poorest lives are equally beset with temptations which

nothing but the fierce energy of genius or the morose persistence of ambition can overcome.

Lucien used to drop in at Flicoteaux's about halfpast four, having remarked the advantages of an early

arrival; the billoffare was more varied, and there was still some chance of obtaining the dish of your

choice. Like all imaginative persons, he had taken a fancy to a particular seat, and showed discrimination in

his selection. On the very first day he had noticed a table near the counter, and from the faces of those who

sat about it, and chance snatches of their talk, he recognized brothers of the craft. A sort of instinct, moreover,

pointed out the table near the counter as a spot whence he could parlay with the owners of the restaurant. In

time an acquaintance would grow up, he thought, and then in the day of distress he could no doubt obtain the

necessary credit. So he took his place at a small square table close to the desk, intended probably for casual

comers, for the two clean serviettes were unadorned with rings. Lucien's opposite neighbor was a thin, pallid

youth, to all appearance as poor as himself; his handsome face was somewhat worn, already it told of hopes

that had vanished, leaving lines upon his forehead and barren furrows in his soul, where seeds had been sown

that had come to nothing. Lucien felt drawn to the stranger by these tokens; his sympathies went out to him

After a week's exchange of small courtesies and remarks, the poet from Angouleme found the first person

with whom he could chat. The stranger's name was Etienne Lousteau. Two years ago he had left his native

place, a town in Berri, just as Lucien had come from Angouleme. His lively gestures, bright eyes, and

occasionally curt speech revealed a bitter apprenticeship to literature. Etienne had come from Sancerre with

his tragedy in his pocket, drawn to Paris by the same motives that impelled Lucienhope of fame and power

Sometimes Etienne Lousteau came for several days together; but in a little while his visits became few and

far between, and he would stay away for five or six days in succession. Then he would come back, and

Lucien would hope to see his poet next day, only to find a stranger in his place. When two young men meet

daily, their talk harks back to their last conversation; but these continual interruptions obliged Lucien to break

the ice afresh each time, and further checked an intimacy which made little progress during the first few

weeks. On inquiry of the damsel at the counter, Lucien was told that his future friend was on the staff of a

small newspaper, and wrote reviews of books and dramatic criticism of pieces played at the

AmbiguComique, the Gaite, and the PanoramaDramatique. The young man became a personage all at

once in Lucien's eyes. Now, he thought, he would lead the conversation on rather more personal topics, and

make some effort to gain a friend so likely to be useful to a beginner. The journalist stayed away for a

fortnight. Lucien did not know that Etienne only dined at Flicoteaux's when he was hard up, and hence his

gloomy air of disenchantment and the chilly manner, which Lucien met with gracious smiles and amiable

remarks. But, after all, the project of a friendship called for mature deliberation. This obscure journalist

appeared to lead an expensive life in which petits verres, cups of coffee, punchbowls, sightseeing, and

suppers played a part. In the early days of Lucien's life in the Latin Quarter, he behaved like a poor child

bewildered by his first experience of Paris life; so that when he had made a study of prices and weighed his

purse, he lacked courage to make advances to Etienne; he was afraid of beginning a fresh series of blunders

of which he was still repenting. And he was still under the yoke of provincial creeds; his two guardian angels,

Eve and David, rose up before him at the least approach of an evil thought, putting him in mind of all the

hopes that were centered on him, of the happiness that he owed to the old mother, of all the promises of his

He spent his mornings in studying history at the Bibliotheque Sainte Genevieve. His very first researches

made him aware of frightful errors in the memoirs of The Archer of Charles IX. When the library closed, he

went back to his damp, chilly room to correct his work, cutting out whole chapters and piecing it together

anew. And after dining at Flicoteaux's, he went down to the Passage du Commerce to see the newspapers at

Blosse's readingroom, as well as new books and magazines and poetry, so as to keep himself informed of

the movements of the day. And when, towards midnight, he returned to his wretched lodgings, he had used

neither fuel nor candlelight. His reading in those days made such an enormous change in his ideas, that he

revised the volume of flowersonnets, his beloved Marguerites, working them over to such purpose, that

So in the beginning Lucien led the honest, innocent life of the country lad who never leaves the Latin

Quarter; devoting himself wholly to his work, with thoughts of the future always before him; who finds

Flicoteaux's ordinary luxurious after the simple homefare; and strolls for recreation along the alleys of the

Luxembourg, the blood surging back to his heart as he gives timid side glances to the pretty women. But this

could not last. Lucien, with his poetic temperament and boundless longings, could not withstand the

The TheatreFrancais, the Vaudeville, the Varietes, the OperaComique relieved him of some sixty francs,

although he always went to the pit. What student could deny himself the pleasure of seeing Talma in one of

his famous roles? Lucien was fascinated by the theatre, that first love of all poetic temperaments; the actors

and actresses were awe inspiring creatures; he did not so much as dream of the possibility of crossing the

footlights and meeting them on familiar terms. The men and women who gave him so much pleasure were

surely marvelous beings, whom the newspapers treated with as much gravity as matters of national interest.

To be a dramatic author, to have a play produced on the stage! What a dream was this to cherish! A dream

which a few bold spirits like Casimir Delavigne had actually realized. Thick swarming thoughts like these,

and moments of belief in himself, followed by despair gave Lucien no rest, and kept him in the narrow way

of toil and frugality, in spite of the smothered grumblings of more than one frenzied desire.

Carrying prudence to an extreme, he made it a rule never to enter the precincts of the Palais Royal, that place

of perdition where he had spent fifty francs at Very's in a single day, and nearly five hundred francs on his

clothes; and when he yielded to temptation, and saw Fleury, Talma, the two Baptistes, or Michot, he went no

further than the murky passage where theatregoers used to stand in a string from halfpast five in the

afternoon till the hour when the doors opened, and belated comers were compelled to pay ten sous for a place

near the ticketoffice. And after waiting for two hours, the cry of "All tickets are sold!" rang not unfrequently

in the ears of disappointed students. When the play was over, Lucien went home with downcast eyes, through

streets lined with living attractions, and perhaps fell in with one of those commonplace adventures which

One day Lucien counted over his remaining stock of money, and took alarm at the melting of his funds; a

cold perspiration broke out upon him when he thought that the time had come when he must find a publisher,

and try also to find work for which a publisher would pay him. The young journalist, with whom he had

made a onesided friendship, never came now to Flicoteaux's. Lucien was waiting for a chancewhich

failed to present itself. In Paris there are no chances except for men with a very wide circle of acquaintance;

chances of success of every kind increase with the number of your connections; and, therefore, in this sense

also the chances are in favor of the big battalions. Lucien had sufficient provincial foresight still left, and had

no mind to wait until only a last few coins remained to him. He resolved to face the publishers.

So one tolerably chilly September morning Lucien went down the Rue de la Harpe, with his two manuscripts

under his arm. As he made his way to the Quai des Augustins, and went along, looking into the booksellers'

windows on one side and into the Seine on the other, his good genius might have counseled him to pitch

himself into the water sooner than plunge into literature. After heartsearching hesitations, after a profound

scrutiny of the various countenances, more or less encouraging, softhearted, churlish, cheerful, or

melancholy, to be seen through the window panes, or in the doorways of the booksellers' establishments, he

espied a house where the shopmen were busy packing books at a great rate. Goods were being despatched.

JUST OUT. LE SOLITAIRE, by M. le Vicomte d'Arlincourt. Third edition. LEONIDE, by Victor Ducange;

five volumes 12mo, printed on fine paper. 12 francs. INDUCTIONS MORALES, by Keratry.

The placard, a new and original idea of the celebrated Ladvocat, was just beginning to blossom out upon the

walls. In no long space Paris was to wear motley, thanks to the exertions of his imitators, and the Treasury

Anxiety sent the blood surging to Lucien's heart, as he who had been so great at Angouleme, so insignificant

of late in Paris, slipped past the other houses, summoned up all his courage, and at last entered the shop

thronged with assistants, customers, and booksellers"And authors too, perhaps!" thought Lucien.

"I want to speak with M. Vidal or M. Porchon," he said, addressing a shopman. He had read the names on the

Left to himself, the poet scrutinized the packages, and amused himself for a couple of hours by scanning the

titles of books, looking into them, and reading a page or two here and there. At last, as he stood leaning

against a window, he heard voices, and suspecting that the green curtains hid either Vidal or Porchon, he

"Will you take five hundred copies of me? If you will, I will let you have them at five francs, and give

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

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

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

"But in a year's time shall we have placed a hundred copies of Leonide?" said the other voice. "If books went

off as fast as the publishers would like, we should be millionaires, my good sir; but they don't, they go as the

public pleases. There is some one now bringing out an edition of Scott's novels at eighteen sous per volume,

three livres twelve sous per copy, and you want me to give you more for your stale remainders? No. If you

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

"Two hundred of Le Petit Vieillard de Calais, but to sell them I was obliged to cry down two books which

(A "nightingale," as Lucien afterwards learned, is a bookseller's name for books that linger on hand, perched

"And besides," added Vidal, "Picard is bringing out some novels, as you know. We have been promised

"Very well, at twelve months," the publisher answered in a piteous voice, thunderstruck by Vidal's

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

"We have three hundred copies on order now. We will keep him waiting for his settlement, sell the Leonides

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

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

"I have a French historical romance after the style of Scott. It is called The Archer of Charles IX.; I propose

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

"We are not publishing booksellers, sir; we are booksellers' agents," he said. "When we bring out a book

ourselves, we only deal in well known names; and we only take serious literature besideshistory and

"But my book is very serious. It is an attempt to set the struggle between Catholics and Calvinists in its true

light; the Catholics were supporters of absolute monarchy, and the Protestants for a republic."

"I don't say, sir, that your book is not a masterpiece," replied Porchon, with scanty civility, "but we only deal

in books that are ready printed. Go and see somebody that buys manuscripts. There is old Doguereau in the

Rue du Coq, near the Louvre, he is in the romance line. If you had only spoken sooner, you might have seen

Pollet, a competitor of Doguereau and of the publisher in the Wooden Galleries."

"POETRY!" Porchon exclaimed angrily. "For what do you take me?" he added, laughing in Lucien's face.

Lucien went back across the Pont Neuf absorbed in reflection. From all that he understood of this mercantile

dialect, it appeared that books, like cotton nightcaps, were to be regarded as articles of merchandise to be sold

"I have made a mistake," said Lucien to himself; but, all the same, this roughandready practical aspect of

In the Rue du Coq he stopped in front of a modestlooking shop, which he had passed before. He saw the

inscription DOGUEREAU, BOOKSELLER, painted above it in yellow letters on a green ground, and

remembered that he had seen the name at the foot of the titlepage of several novels at Blosse's

readingroom. In he went, not without the inward trepidation which a man of any imagination feels at the

prospect of a battle. Inside the shop he discovered an oddlooking old man, one of the queer characters of the

Doguereau wore a black coat with vast square skirts, when fashion required swallowtail coats. His waistcoat

was of some cheap material, a checked pattern of many colors; a steel chain, with a copper key attached to it,

hung from his fob and dangled down over a roomy pair of black nether garments. The booksellers' watch

must have been the size of an onion. Irongray ribbed stockings, and shoes with silver buckles completed is

costume. The old man's head was bare, and ornamented with a fringe of grizzled locks, quite poetically

scanty. "Old Doguereau," as Porchon styled him, was dressed half like a professor of belleslettres as to his

trousers and shoes, half like a tradesman with respect to the variegated waistcoat, the stockings, and the

watch; and the same odd mixture appeared in the man himself. He united the magisterial, dogmatic air, and

the hollow countenance of the professor of rhetoric with the sharp eyes, suspicious mouth, and vague

"True," and the old bookseller took up the manuscript. "Ah, begad! The Archer of Charles IX., a good title.

"It is a historical work, sir, in the style of Scott. The character of the struggle between the Protestants and

Catholics is depicted as a struggle between two opposed systems of government, in which the throne is

"Eh! but you have ideas, young man. Very well, I will read your book, I promise you. I would rather have had

something more in Mrs. Radcliffe's style; but if you are industrious, if you have some notion of style,

conceptions, ideas, and the art of telling a story, I don't ask better than to be of use to you. What do we want

"I am going into the country this evening; I shall be back again the day after tomorrow. I shall have read

your manuscript by that time; and if it suits me, we might come to terms that very day."

Seeing his acquaintance so easy, Lucien was inspired with the unlucky idea of bringing the Marguerites upon

"Oh! you are a poet! Then I don't want your romance," and the old man handed back the manuscript. "The

rhyming fellows come to grief when they try their hands at prose. In prose you can't use words that mean

"That is true," said Doguereau, relenting. He guessed that the young fellow before him was poor, and kept the

Lucien, all unsuspicious of the idea at the back of the old man's head, gave his address; he did not see that he

had to do with a bookseller of the old school, a survival of the eighteenth century, when booksellers tried to

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

"Good man!" thought Lucien, as he took his leave. "So I have met with a friend to young authors, a man of

taste who knows something. That is the kind of man for me! It is just as I said to Davidtalent soon makes

Lucien went home again happy and light of heart; he dreamed of glory. He gave not another thought to the

ominous words which fell on his ear as he stood by the counter in Vidal and Porchon's shop; he beheld

himself the richer by twelve hundred francs at least. Twelve hundred francs! It meant a year in Paris, a whole

year of preparation for the work that he meant to do. What plans he built on that hope! What sweet dreams,

what visions of a life established on a basis of work! Mentally he found new quarters, and settled himself in

them; it would not have taken much to set him making a purchase or two. He could only stave off impatience

Two days later old Doguereau come to the lodgings of his budding Sir Walter Scott. He was struck with the

pains which Lucien had taken with the style of this his first work, delighted with the strong contrasts of

character sanctioned by the epoch, and surprised at the spirited imagination which a young writer always

displays in the scheming of a first plothe had not been spoiled, thought old Daddy Doguereau. He had

made up his mind to give a thousand francs for The Archer of Charles IX.; he would buy the copyright out

and out, and bind Lucien by an engagement for several books, but when he came to look at the house, the old

"A young fellow that lives here has none but simple tastes," said he to himself; "he is fond of study, fond of

"Fourth floor," answered the landlady, when he asked for M. Lucien de Rubempre. The old bookseller,

"This young fellow," thought he, "is a goodlooking lad; one might go so far as to say that he is very

handsome. If he were to make too much money, he would only fall into dissipated ways, and then he would

not work. In the interests of us both, I shall only offer six hundred francs, in coin though, not paper."

He climbed the stairs and gave three raps at the door. Lucien came to open it. The room was forlorn in its

bareness. A bowl of milk and a penny roll stood on the table. The destitution of genius made an impression

"Let him preserve these simple habits of life, this frugality, these modest requirements," thought he.Aloud

he said: "It is a pleasure to me to see you. Thus, sir, lived JeanJacques, whom you resemble in more ways

than one. Amid such surroundings the fire of genius shines brightly; good work is done in such rooms as

these. This is how men of letters should work, instead of living riotously in cafes and restaurants, wasting

"Your romance is not bad, young man. I was a professor of rhetoric once; I know French history, there are

Lucien's heart swelled and throbbed with gladness. He was about to enter the world of literature; he should

"I will give you four hundred francs," continued Doguereau in honeyed accents, and he looked at Lucien with

"For the romance," said Doguereau, heedless of Lucien's surprise. "In ready money," he added; "and you

shall undertake to write two books for me every year for six years. If the first book is out of print in six

months, I will give you six hundred francs for the others. So, if you write two books each year, you will be

making a hundred francs a month; you will have a sure income, you will be well off. There are some authors

whom I only pay three hundred francs for a romance; I give two hundred for translations of English books.

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

"Here it is," said the old bookseller. "You know nothing of business, sir. Before an author's first book can

appear, a publisher is bound to sink sixteen hundred francs on the paper and the printing of it. It is easier to

write a romance than to find all that money. I have a hundred romances in manuscript, and I have not a

hundred and sixty thousand francs in my cash box, alas! I have not made so much in all these twenty years

that I have been a bookseller. So you don't make a fortune by printing romances, you see. Vidal and Porchon

only take them of us on conditions that grow harder and harder day by day. You have only your time to lose,

while I am obliged to disburse two thousand francs. If we fail, habent sua fata libelli, I lose two thousand

francs; while, as for you, you simply hurl an ode at the thickheaded public. When you have thought over

this that I have the honor of telling you, you will come back to me.YOU WILL COME BACK TO ME!"

he asserted authoritatively, by way of reply to a scornful gesture made involuntarily by Lucien. "So far from

finding a publisher obliging enough to risk two thousand francs for an unknown writer, you will not find a

publisher's clerk that will trouble himself to look through your screed. Now that I have read it I can point out

a good many slips in grammar. You have put observer for faire observer and malgre que. Malgre is a

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

With that he rose and took his leave. On the threshold he said, "If you had not something in you, and a future

before you; if I did not take an interest in studious youth, I should not have made you such a handsome offer.

A hundred francs per month! Think of it! After all, a romance in a drawer is not eating its head off like a

Lucien devoured his bread and supped his bowl of milk, then he went downstairs. His room was not large

enough for him; he was turning round and round in it like a lion in a cage at the Jardin des Plantes.

At the Bibliotheque SaintGenevieve, whither Lucien was going, he had come to know a stranger by sight; a

young man of fiveandtwenty or thereabouts, working with the sustained industry which nothing can

disturb nor distract, the sign by which your genuine literary worker is known. Evidently the young man had

been reading there for some time, for the librarian and attendants all knew him and paid him special attention;

the librarian would even allow him to take away books, with which Lucien saw him return in the morning. In

Palefaced and slight and thin, with a fine forehead hidden by masses of black, tolerably unkempt hair, there

was something about him that attracted indifferent eyes: it was a vague resemblance which he bore to

portraits of the young Bonaparte, engraved from Robert Lefebvre's picture. That engraving is a poem of

melancholy intensity, of suppressed ambition, of power working below the surface. Study the face carefully,

and you will discover genius in it and discretion, and all the subtlety and greatness of the man. The portrait

has speaking eyes like a woman's; they look out, greedy of space, craving difficulties to vanquish. Even if the

name of Bonaparte were not written beneath it, you would gaze long at that face.

Lucien's young student, the incarnation of this picture, usually wore footed trousers, shoes with thick soles to

them, an overcoat of coarse cloth, a black cravat, a waistcoat of some grayandwhite material buttoned to

the chin, and a cheap hat. Contempt for superfluity in dress was visible in his whole person. Lucien also

discovered that the mysterious stranger with that unmistakable stamp which genius sets upon the forehead of

its slaves was one of Flicoteaux's most regular customers; he ate to live, careless of the fare which appeared

to be familiar to him, and drank water. Wherever Lucien saw him, at the library or at Flicoteaux's, there was a

dignity in his manner, springing doubtless from the consciousness of a purpose that filled his life, a dignity

which made him unapproachable. He had the expression of a thinker, meditation dwelt on the fine nobly

carved brow. You could tell from the dark bright eyes, so clearsighted and quick to observe, that their owner

was wont to probe to the bottom of things. He gesticulated very little, his demeanor was grave. Lucien felt an

Many times already the pair had looked at each other at the Bibliotheque or at Flicoteaux's; many times they

had been on the point of speaking, but neither of them had ventured so far as yet. The silent young man went

off to the further end of the library, on the side at right angles to the Place de la Sorbonne, and Lucien had no

opportunity of making his acquaintance, although he felt drawn to a worker whom he knew by indescribable

tokens for a character of no common order. Both, as they came to know afterwards, were unsophisticated and

shy, given to fears which cause a pleasurable emotion to solitary creatures. Perhaps they never would have

been brought into communication if they had not come across each other that day of Lucien's disaster; for as

Lucien turned into the Rue des Gres, he saw the student coming away from the Bibliotheque

Tears were standing in Lucien's eyes; he expressed his thanks by one of those gestures that speak more

eloquently than words, and unlock hearts at once when two men meet in youth. They went together along the

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

"No; one's ideas will not flow in the proper current," remarked the stranger. "Something seems to have

"I have just had a queer adventure," said Lucien, and he told the history of his visit to the Quai, and gave an

account of his subsequent dealings with the old bookseller. He gave his name and said a word or two of his

position. In one month or thereabouts he had spent sixty francs on his board, thirty for lodging, twenty more

francs in going to the theatre, and ten at Blosse's reading roomone hundred and twenty francs in all, and

"Your story is mine, monsieur, and the story of ten or twelve hundred young fellows besides who come from

the country to Paris every year. There are others even worse off than we are. Do you see that theatre?" he

continued, indicating the turrets of the Odeon. "There came one day to lodge in one of the houses in the

square a man of talent who had fallen into the lowest depths of poverty. He was married, in addition to the

misfortunes which we share with him, to a wife whom he loved; and the poorer or the richer, as you will, by

two children. He was burdened with debt, but he put his faith in his pen. He took a comedy in five acts to the

Odeon; the comedy was accepted, the management arranged to bring it out, the actors learned their parts, the

stage manager urged on the rehearsals. Five several bits of luck, five dramas to be performed in real life, and

far harder tasks than the writing of a fiveact play. The poor author lodged in a garret; you can see the place

from here. He drained his last resources to live until the first representation; his wife pawned her clothes, they

all lived on dry bread. On the day of the final rehearsal, the household owed fifty francs in the Quarter to the

baker, the milkwoman, and the porter. The author had only the strictly necessary clothesa coat, a shirt,

trousers, a waistcoat, and a pair of boots. He felt sure of his success; he kissed his wife. The end of their

troubles was at hand. 'At last! There is nothing against us now,' cried he.'Yes, there is fire,' said his wife;

'look, the Odeon is on fire!'The Odeon was on fire, monsieur. So do not you complain. You have clothes,

you have neither wife nor child, you have a hundred and twenty francs for emergencies in your pocket, and

you owe no one a penny.Well, the piece went through a hundred and fifty representations at the Theatre

Louvois. The King allowed the author a pension. 'Genius is patience,' as Buffon said. And patience after all is

a man's nearest approach to Nature's processes of creation. What is Art, monsieur, but Nature concentrated?"

By this time the young men were striding along the walks of the Luxembourg, and in no long time Lucien

learned the name of the stranger who was doing his best to administer comfort. That name has since grown

famous. Daniel d'Arthez is one of the most illustrious of living men of letters; one of the rare few who show

us an example of "a noble gift with a noble nature combined," to quote a poet's fine thought.

"There is no cheap route to greatness," Daniel went on in his kind voice. "The works of Genius are watered

with tears. The gift that is in you, like an existence in the physical world, passes through childhood and its

maladies. Nature sweeps away sickly or deformed creatures, and Society rejects an imperfectly developed

talent. Any man who means to rise above the rest must make ready for a struggle and be undaunted by

difficulties. A great writer is a martyr who does not die; that is all.There is the stamp of genius on your

forehead," d'Arthez continued, enveloping Lucien by a glance; "but unless you have within you the will of

genius, unless you are gifted with angelic patience, unless, no matter how far the freaks of Fate have set you

from your destined goal, you can find the way to your Infinite as the turtles in the Indies find their way to the

"Trials of every kind, slander and treachery, and effrontery and cunning, the rivals who act unfairly, and the

keen competition of the literary market," his companion said resignedly. "What is a first loss, if only your

"So be it," said d'Arthez. "I am living in the Rue des QuatreVents. Desplein, one of the most illustrious men

of genius in our time, the greatest surgeon that the world has known, once endured the martyrdom of early

struggles with the first difficulties of a glorious career in the same house. I think of that every night, and the

thought gives me the stock of courage that I need every morning. I am living in the very room where, like

The poets grasped each other's hands with a rush of melancholy and tender feeling inexpressible in words,

and went their separate ways; Lucien to fetch his manuscript, Daniel d'Arthez to pawn his watch and buy a

couple of faggots. The weather was cold, and his newfound friend should find a fire in his room.

Lucien was punctual. He noticed at once that the house was of an even poorer class than the Hotel de Cluny.

A staircase gradually became visible at the further end of a dark passage; he mounted to the fifth floor, and

A bookcase of darkstained wood, with rows of labeled cardboard cases on the shelves, stood between the

two crazy windows. A gaunt, painted wooden bedstead, of the kind seen in school dormitories, a night table,

picked up cheaply somewhere, and a couple of horsehair armchairs, filled the further end of the room. The

wallpaper, a Highland plaid pattern, was glazed over with the grime of years. Between the window and the

grate stood a long table littered with papers, and opposite the fireplace there was a cheap mahogany chest of

drawers. A secondhand carpet covered the floora necessary luxury, for it saved firing. A common office

armchair, cushioned with leather, crimson once, but now hoary with wear, was drawn up to the table. Add

halfadozen rickety chairs, and you have a complete list of the furniture. Lucien noticed an oldfashioned

candlesconce for a card table, with an adjustable screen attached, and wondered to see four wax candles in

the sockets. D'Arthez explained that he could not endure the smell of tallow, a little trait denoting great

delicacy of sense perception, and the exquisite sensibility which accompanies it.

The reading lasted for seven hours. Daniel listened conscientiously, forbearing to interrupt by word or

"You have made a good start on the right way," d'Arthez answered judicially, "but you must go over your

work again. You must strike out a different style for yourself if you do not mean to ape Sir Walter Scott, for

you have taken him for your model. You begin, for instance, as he begins, with long conversations to

introduce your characters, and only when they have said their say does description and action follow.

"This opposition, necessary in all work of a dramatic kind, comes last. Just put the terms of the problem the

other way round. Give descriptions, to which our language lends itself so admirably, instead of diffuse

dialogue, magnificent in Scott's work, but colorless in your own. Lead naturally up to your dialogue. Plunge

straight into the action. Treat your subject from different points of view, sometimes in a sidelight,

sometimes retrospectively; vary your methods, in fact, to diversify your work. You may be original while

adapting the Scots novelist's form of dramatic dialogue to French history. There is no passion in Scott's

novels; he ignores passion, or perhaps it was interdicted by the hypocritical manners of his country. Woman

for him is duty incarnate. His heroines, with possibly one or two exceptions, are all alike; he has drawn them

all from the same model, as painters say. They are, every one of them, descended from Clarissa Harlowe.

And returning continually, as he did, to the same idea of woman, how could he do otherwise than produce a

single type, varied only by degrees of vividness in the coloring? Woman brings confusion into Society

through passion. Passion gives infinite possibilities. Therefore depict passion; you have one great resource

open to you, foregone by the great genius for the sake of providing family reading for prudish England. In

France you have the charming sinner, the brightlycolored life of Catholicism, contrasted with sombre

Calvinistic figures on a background of the times when passions ran higher than at any other period of our

"Every epoch which has left authentic records since the time of Charles the Great calls for at least one

romance. Some require four or five; the periods of Louis XIV., of Henry IV., of Francis I., for instance. You

would give us in this way a picturesque history of France, with the costumes and furniture, the houses and

their interiors, and domestic life, giving us the spirit of the time instead of a laborious narration of ascertained

facts. Then there is further scope for originality. You can remove some of the popular delusions which

disfigure the memories of most of our kings. Be bold enough in this first work of yours to rehabilitate the

great magnificent figure of Catherine, whom you have sacrificed to the prejudices which still cloud her name.

And finally, paint Charles IX. for us as he really was, and not as Protestant writers have made him. Ten years

By this time it was nine o'clock; Lucien followed the example set in secret by his future friend by asking him

to dine at Eldon's, and spent twelve francs at that restaurant. During the dinner Daniel admitted Lucien into

the secret of his hopes and studies. Daniel d'Arthez would not allow that any writer could attain to a

preeminent rank without a profound knowledge of metaphysics. He was engaged in ransacking the spoils of

ancient and modern philosophy, and in the assimilation of it all; he would be like Moliere, a profound

philosopher first, and a writer of comedies afterwards. He was studying the world of books and the living

world about himthought and fact. His friends were learned naturalists, young doctors of medicine, political

D'Arthez earned a living by conscientious and illpaid work; he wrote articles for encyclopaedias,

dictionaries of biography and natural science, doing just enough to enable him to live while he followed his

own bent, and neither more nor less. He had a piece of imaginative work on hand, undertaken solely for the

sake of studying the resources of language, an important psychological study in the form of a novel,

unfinished as yet, for d'Arthez took it up or laid it down as the humor took him, and kept it for days of great

distress. D'Arthez's revelations of himself were made very simply, but to Lucien he seemed like an

intellectual giant; and by eleven o'clock, when they left the restaurant, he began to feel a sudden, warm

friendship for this nature, unconscious of its loftiness, this unostentatious worth.

Lucien took d'Arthez's advice unquestioningly, and followed it out to the letter. The most magnificent palaces

of fancy had been suddenly flung open to him by a noblygifted mind, matured already by thought and

critical examinations undertaken for their own sake, not for publication, but for the solitary thinker's own

satisfaction. The burning coal had been laid on the lips of the poet of Angouleme, a word uttered by a hard

student in Paris had fallen upon ground prepared to receive it in the provincial. Lucien set about recasting his

In his gladness at finding in the wilderness of Paris a nature abounding in generous and sympathetic feeling,

the distinguished provincial did, as all young creatures hungering for affection are wont to do; he fastened,

like a chronic disease, upon this one friend that he had found. He called for D'Arthez on his way to the

Bibliotheque, walked with him on fine days in the Luxembourg Gardens, and went with his friend every

evening as far as the door of his lodginghouse after sitting next to him at Flicoteaux's. He pressed close to

his friend's side as a soldier might keep by a comrade on the frozen Russian plains.

During those early days of his acquaintance, he noticed, not without chagrin, that his presence imposed a

certain restraint on the circle of Daniel's intimates. The talk of those superior beings of whom d'Arthez spoke

to him with such concentrated enthusiasm kept within the bounds of a reserve but little in keeping with the

evident warmth of their friendships. At these times Lucien discreetly took his leave, a feeling of curiosity

mingling with the sense of something like pain at the ostracism to which he was subjected by these strangers,

who all addressed each other by their Christian names. Each one of them, like d'Arthez, bore the stamp of

After some private opposition, overcome by d'Arthez without Lucien's knowledge, the newcomer was at

length judged worthy to make one of the cenacle of lofty thinkers. Henceforward he was to be one of a little

group of young men who met almost every evening in d'Arthez's room, united by the keenest sympathies and

by the earnestness of their intellectual life. They all foresaw a great writer in d'Arthez; they looked upon him

as their chief since the loss of one of their number, a mystical genius, one of the most extraordinary intellects

of the age. This former leader had gone back to his province for reasons on which it serves no purpose to

enter, but Lucien often heard them speak of this absent friend as "Louis." Several of the group were destined

to fall by the way; but others, like d'Arthez, have since won all the fame that was their due. A few details as

to the circle will readily explain Lucien's strong feeling of interest and curiosity.

One among those who still survive was Horace Bianchon, then a house student at the HotelDieu; later, a

shining light at the Ecole de Paris, and now so well known that it is needless to give any description of his

Next came Leon Giraud, that profound philosopher and bold theorist, turning all systems inside out,

criticising, expressing, and formulating, dragging them all to the feet of his idolHumanity; great even in

his errors, for his honesty ennobled his mistakes. An intrepid toiler, a conscientious scholar, he became the

acknowledged head of a school of moralists and politicians. Time alone can pronounce upon the merits of his

theories; but if his convictions have drawn him into paths in which none of his old comrades tread, none the

Art was represented by Joseph Bridau, one of the best painters among the younger men. But for a too

impressionable nature, which made havoc of Joseph's heart, he might have continued the traditions of the

great Italian masters, though, for that matter, the last word has not yet been said concerning him. He

combines Roman outline with Venetian color; but love is fatal to his work, love not merely transfixes his

heart, but sends his arrow through the brain, deranges the course of his life, and sets the victim describing the

strangest zigzags. If the mistress of the moment is too kind or too cruel, Joseph will send into the Exhibition

sketches where the drawing is clogged with color, or pictures finished under the stress of some imaginary

woe, in which he gave his whole attention to the drawing, and left the color to take care of itself. He is a

constant disappointment to his friends and the public; yet Hoffmann would have worshiped him for his daring

experiments in the realms of art. When Bridau is wholly himself he is admirable, and as praise is sweet to

him, his disgust is great when one praises the failures in which he alone discovers all that is lacking in the

eyes of the public. He is whimsical to the last degree. His friends have seen him destroy a finished picture

because, in his eyes, it looked too smooth. "It is overdone," he would say; "it is niggling work."

With his eccentric, yet lofty nature, with a nervous organization and all that it entails of torment and delight,

the craving for perfection becomes morbid. Intellectually he is akin to Sterne, though he is not a literary

worker. There is an indescribable piquancy about his epigrams and sallies of thought. He is eloquent, he

knows how to love, but the uncertainty that appears in his execution is a part of the very nature of the man.

The brotherhood loved him for the very qualities which the philistine would style defects.

Last among the living comes Fulgence Ridal. No writer of our times possesses more of the exuberant spirit of

pure comedy than this poet, careless of fame, who will fling his more commonplace productions to theatrical

managers, and keep the most charming scenes in the seraglio of his brain for himself and his friends. Of the

public he asks just sufficient to secure his independence, and then declines to do anything more. Indolent and

prolific as Rossini, compelled, like great poetcomedians, like Moliere and Rabelais, to see both sides of

everything, and all that is to be said both for and against, he is a sceptic, ready to laugh at all things. Fulgence

Ridal is a great practical philosopher. His worldly wisdom, his genius for observation, his contempt for fame

("fuss," as he calls it) have not seared a kind heart. He is as energetic on behalf of another as he is careless

where his own interests are concerned; and if he bestirs himself, it is for a friend. Living up to his Rabelaisian

mask, he is no enemy to good cheer, though he never goes out of his way to find it; he is melancholy and gay.

His friends dubbed him the "Dog of the Regiment." You could have no better portrait of the man than his

Three more of the band, at least as remarkable as the friends who have just been sketched in outline, were

destined to fall by the way. Of these, Meyraux was the first. Meyraux died after stirring up the famous

controversy between Cuvier and Geoffroy SaintHilaire, a great question which divided the whole scientific

world into two opposite camps, with these two men of equal genius as leaders. This befell some months

before the death of the champion of rigorous analytical science as opposed to the pantheism of one who is

still living to bear an honored name in Germany. Meyraux was the friend of that "Louis" of whom death was

With these two, both marked by death, and unknown today in spite of their wide knowledge and their

genius, stands a third, Michel Chrestien, the great Republican thinker, who dreamed of European Federation,

and had no small share in bringing about the Saint Simonian movement of 1830. A politician of the calibre

of SaintJust and Danton, but simple, meek as a maid, and brimful of illusions and lovingkindness; the

owner of a singing voice which would have sent Mozart, or Weber, or Rossini into ecstasies, for his singing

of certain songs of Beranger's could intoxicate the heart in you with poetry, or hope, or loveMichel

Chrestien, poor as Lucien, poor as Daniel d'Arthez, as all the rest of his friends, gained a living with the

haphazard indifference of a Diogenes. He indexed lengthy works, he drew up prospectuses for booksellers,

and kept his doctrines to himself, as the grave keeps the secrets of the dead. Yet the gay bohemian of

intellectual life, the great statesman who might have changed the face of the world, fell as a private soldier in

the cloister of SaintMerri; some shopkeeper's bullet struck down one of the noblest creatures that ever trod

French soil, and Michel Chrestien died for other doctrines than his own. His Federation scheme was more

dangerous to the aristocracy of Europe than the Republican propaganda; it was more feasible and less

extravagant than the hideous doctrines of indefinite liberty proclaimed by the young madcaps who assume the

character of heirs of the Convention. All who knew the noble plebeian wept for him; there is not one of them

Esteem and friendship kept the peace between the extremes of hostile opinion and conviction represented in

the brotherhood. Daniel d'Arthez came of a good family in Picardy. His belief in the Monarchy was quite as

strong as Michel Chrestien's faith in European Federation. Fulgence Ridal scoffed at Leon Giraud's

philosophical doctrines, while Giraud himself prophesied for d'Arthez's benefit the approaching end of

Christianity and the extinction of the institution of the family. Michel Chrestien, a believer in the religion of

Christ, the divine lawgiver, who taught the equality of men, would defend the immortality of the soul from

There was plenty of discussion, but no bickering. Vanity was not engaged, for the speakers were also the

audience. They would talk over their work among themselves and take counsel of each other with the

delightful openness of youth. If the matter in hand was serious, the opponent would leave his own position to

enter into his friend's point of view; and being an impartial judge in a matter outside his own sphere, would

prove the better helper; envy, the hideous treasure of disappointment, abortive talent, failure, and mortified

vanity, was quite unknown among them. All of them, moreover, were going their separate ways. For these

reasons, Lucien and others admitted to their society felt at their ease in it. Wherever you find real talent, you

will find frank good fellowship and sincerity, and no sort of pretension, the wit that caresses the intellect and

When the first nervousness, caused by respect, wore off, it was unspeakably pleasant to make one of this elect

company of youth. Familiarity did not exclude in each a consciousness of his own value, nor a profound

esteem for his neighbor; and finally, as every member of the circle felt that he could afford to receive or to

give, no one made a difficulty of accepting. Talk was unflagging, full of charm, and ranging over the most

varied topics; words light as arrows sped to the mark. There was a strange contrast between the dire material

poverty in which the young men lived and the splendor of their intellectual wealth. They looked upon the

practical problems of existence simply as matter for friendly jokes. The cold weather happened to set in early

that year. Five of d'Arthez's friends appeared one day, each concealing firewood under his cloak; the same

idea had occurred to the five, as it sometimes happens that all the guests at a picnic are inspired with the

All of them were gifted with the moral beauty which reacts upon the physical form, and, no less than work

and vigils, overlays a youthful face with a shade of divine gold; purity of life and the fire of thought had

brought refinement and regularity into features somewhat pinched and rugged. The poet's amplitude of brow

was a striking characteristic common to them all; the bright, sparkling eyes told of cleanliness of life. The

hardships of penury, when they were felt at all, were born so gaily and embraced with such enthusiasm, that

they had left no trace to mar the serenity peculiar to the faces of the young who have no grave errors laid to

their charge as yet, who have not stooped to any of the base compromises wrung from impatience of poverty

by the strong desire to succeed. The temptation to use any means to this end is the greater since that men of

There is an element in friendship which doubles its charm and renders it indissolublea sense of certainty

which is lacking in love. These young men were sure of themselves and of each other; the enemy of one was

the enemy of all; the most urgent personal considerations would have been shattered if they had clashed with

the sacred solidarity of their fellowship. All alike incapable of disloyalty, they could oppose a formidable No

to any accusation brought against the absent and defend them with perfect confidence. With a like nobility of

nature and strength of feeling, it was possible to think and speak freely on all matters of intellectual or

scientific interest; hence the honesty of their friendships, the gaiety of their talk, and with this intellectual

freedom of the community there was no fear of being misunderstood; they stood upon no ceremony with each

other; they shared their troubles and joys, and gave thought and sympathy from full hearts. The charming

delicacy of feeling which makes the tale of Deux Amis a treasury for great souls, was the rule of their daily

life. It may be imagined, therefore, that their standard of requirements was not an easy one; they were too

conscious of their worth, too well aware of their happiness, to care to trouble their life with the admixture of a

This federation of interests and affection lasted for twenty years without a collision or disappointment. Death

alone could thin the numbers of the noble Pleiades, taking first Louis Lambert, later Meyraux and Michel

When Michel Chrestien fell in 1832 his friends went, in spite of the perils of the step, to find his body at

SaintMerri; and Horace Bianchon, Daniel d'Arthez, Leon Giraud, Joseph Bridau, and Fulgence Ridal

performed the last duties to the dead, between two political fires. By night they buried their beloved in the

cemetery of Pere Lachaise; Horace Bianchon, undaunted by the difficulties, cleared them away one after

anotherit was he indeed who besought the authorities for permission to bury the fallen insurgent and

confessed to his old friendship with the dead Federalist. The little group of friends present at the funeral with

As you walk in the trim cemetery you will see a grave purchased in perpetuity, a grasscovered mound with a

dark wooden cross above it, and the name in large red lettersMICHEL CHRESTIEN. There is no other

monument like it. The friends thought to pay a tribute to the sternly simple nature of the man by the

So, in that chilly garret, the fairest dreams of friendship were realized. These men were brothers leading lives

of intellectual effort, loyally helping each other, making no reservations, not even of their worst thoughts;

men of vast acquirements, natures tried in the crucible of poverty. Once admitted as an equal among such

elect souls, Lucien represented beauty and poetry. They admired the sonnets which he read to them; they

would ask him for a sonnet as he would ask Michel Chrestien for a song. And, in the desert of Paris, Lucien

At the beginning of October, Lucien had spent the last of his money on a little firewood; he was halfway

through the task of recasting his work, the most strenuous of all toil, and he was penniless. As for Daniel

d'Arthez, burning blocks of spent tan, and facing poverty like a hero, not a word of complaint came from him;

he was as sober as any elderly spinster, and methodical as a miser. This courage called out Lucien's courage;

he had only newly come into the circle, and shrank with invincible repugnance from speaking of his straits.

One morning he went out, manuscript in hand, and reached the Rue du Coq; he would sell The Archer of

Charles IX. to Doguereau; but Doguereau was out. Lucien little knew how indulgent great natures can be to

the weaknesses of others. Every one of the friends had thought of the peculiar troubles besetting the poetic

temperament, of the prostration which follows upon the struggle, when the soul has been overwrought by the

contemplation of that nature which it is the task of art to reproduce. And strong as they were to endure their

own ills, they felt keenly for Lucien's distress; they guessed that his stock of money was failing; and after all

the pleasant evenings spent in friendly talk and deep meditations, after the poetry, the confidences, the bold

flights over the fields of thought or into the far future of the nations, yet another trait was to prove how little

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

"You showed a want of confidence in us," said Michel Chrestien; "we shall chalk that up over the chimney,

"We have all of us found a bit of extra work," said Bianchon; "for my own part, I have been looking after a

rich patient for Desplein; d'Arthez has written an article for the Revue Encyclopedique; Chrestien thought of

going out to sing in the Champs Elysees of an evening with a pockethandkerchief and four candles, but he

found a pamphlet to write instead for a man who has a mind to go into politics, and gave his employer six

hundred francs worth of Machiavelli; Leon Giraud borrowed fifty francs of his publisher, Joseph sold one or

two sketches; and Fulgence's piece was given on Sunday, and there was a full house."

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

Lucien, meanwhile, had written to the home circle. His letter was a masterpiece of sensibility and goodwill,

as well as a sharp cry wrung from him by distress. The answers which he received the next day will give

some idea of the delight that Lucien took in this living encyclopedia of angelic spirits, each of whom bore the

"My DEAR LUCIEN,Enclosed herewith is a bill at ninety days, payable to your order, for two hundred

francs. You can draw on M. Metivier, paper merchant, our Paris correspondent in the Rue Serpente. My good

Lucien, we have absolutely nothing. Eve has undertaken the charge of the printinghouse, and works at her

task with such devotion, patience, and industry, that I bless heaven for giving me such an angel for a wife.

She herself says that it is impossible to send you the least help. But I think, my friend now that you are started

in so promising a way, with such great and noble hearts for your companions, that you can hardly fail to

reach the greatness to which you were born, aided as you are by intelligence almost divine in Daniel d'Arthez

and Michel Chrestien and Leon Giraud, and counseled by Meyraux and Bianchon and Ridal, whom we have

come to know through your dear letter. So I have drawn this bill without Eve's knowledge, and I will contrive

somehow to meet it when the time comes. Keep on your way, Lucien; it is rough, but it will be glorious. I can

bear anything but the thought of you sinking into the sloughs of Paris, of which I saw so much. Have

sufficient strength of mind to do as you are doing, and keep out of scrapes and bad company, wild young

fellows and men of letters of a certain stamp, whom I learned to take at their just valuation when I lived in

Paris. Be a worthy compeer of the divine spirits whom we have learned to love through you. Your life will

soon meet with its reward. Farewell, dearest brother; you have sent transports of joy to my heart. I did not

"DEAR,your letter made all of us cry. As for the noble hearts to whom your good angel surely led you, tell

them that a mother and a poor young wife will pray for them night and morning; and if the most fervent

prayers can reach the Throne of God, surely they will bring blessings upon you all. Their names are engraved

upon my heart. Ah! some day I shall see your friends; I will go to Paris, if I have to walk the whole way, to

thank them for their friendship for you, for to me the thought has been like balm to smarting wounds. We are

working like day laborers here, dear. This husband of mine, the unknown great man whom I love more and

more every day, as I discover moment by moment the wealth of his nature, leaves the printinghouse more

and more to me. Why, I guess. Our poverty, yours, and ours, and our mother's, is heartbreaking to him. Our

adored David is a Prometheus gnawed by a vulture, a haggard, sharpbeaked regret. As for himself, noble

fellow, he scarcely thinks of himself; he is hoping to make a fortune for US. He spends his whole time in

experiments in paper making; he begged me to take his place and look after the business, and gives me as

much help as his preoccupation allows. Alas! I shall be a mother soon. That should have been a crowning joy;

but as things are, it saddens me. Poor mother! she has grown young again; she has found strength to go back

to her tiring nursing. We should be happy if it were not for these money cares. Old Father Sechard will not

give his son a farthing. David went over to see if he could borrow a little for you, for we were in despair over

your letter. 'I know Lucien,' David said; 'he will lose his head and do something rash.'I gave him a good

scolding. 'My brother disappoint us in any way!' I told him, 'Lucien knows that I should die of

sorrow.'Mother and I have pawned a few things; David does not know about it, mother will redeem them

as soon as she has made a little money. In this way we have managed to put together a hundred francs, which

I am sending you by the coach. If I did not answer your last letter, do not remember it against me, dear; we

were working all night just then. I have been working like a man. Oh, I had no idea that I was so strong!

"Mme. de Bargeton is a heartless woman; she has no soul; even if she cared for you no longer, she owed it to

herself to use her influence for you and to help you when she had torn you from us to plunge you into that

dreadful sea of Paris. Only by the special blessing of Heaven could you have met with true friends there

among those crowds of men and innumerable interests. She is not worth a regret. I used to wish that there

might be some devoted woman always with you, a second myself; but now I know that your friends will take

my place, and I am happy. Spread your wings, my dear great genius, you will be our pride as well as our

"My darling," the mother wrote, "I can only add my blessing to all that your sister says, and assure you that

you are more in my thoughts and in my prayers (alas!) than those whom I see daily; for some hearts, the

So two days after the loan was offered so graciously, Lucien repaid it. Perhaps life had never seemed so

bright to him as at that moment; but the touch of selflove in his joy did not escape the delicate sensibility

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

"Oh! the pleasure that he takes in returning the money is a very serious symptom to my mind," said Michel

Chrestien. "It confirms some observations of my own. There is a spice of vanity in Lucien."

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

"There is a diabolical spirit in you that will seek to justify courses which are utterly contrary to our principles.

"Ah! I am afraid of that," said d'Arthez. "You will carry on admirable debates in your own mind, Lucien, and

take up a lofty position in theory, and end by blameworthy actions. You will never be at one with yourself."

"Thy vanity, dear poet, is so great that it intrudes itself even into thy friendships!" cried Fulgence. "All vanity

"If you loved us as we love you, would you have been in such a hurry to return the money which we had such

"Don't think us unkind, dear boy," said Michel Chrestien; "we are looking forward. We are afraid lest some

day you may prefer a petty revenge to the joys of pure friendship. Read Goethe's Tasso, the great master's

greatest work, and you will see how the poethero loved gorgeous stuffs and banquets and triumph and

applause. Very well, be Tasso without his folly. Perhaps the world and its pleasures tempt you? Stay with us.

Carry all the cravings of vanity into the world of imagination. Transpose folly. Keep virtue for daily wear,

and let imagination run riot, instead of doing, as d'Arthez says, thinking high thoughts and living beneath

"I confess that you are stronger than I," he said, with a charming glance at them. "My back and shoulders are

not made to bear the burden of Paris life; I cannot struggle bravely. We are born with different temperaments

and faculties, and you know better than I that faults and virtues have their reverse side. I am tired already, I

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

"The help that I have just received is precarious, and every one of us is just as poor as another; want will soon

overtake me again. Chrestien, at the service of the first that hires him, can do nothing with the publishers;

Bianchon is quite out of it; d'Arthez's booksellers only deal in scientific and technical booksthey have no

connection with publishers of new literature; and as for Horace and Fulgence Ridal and Bridau, their work

lies miles away from the booksellers. There is no help for it; I must make up my mind one way or another."

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

"Before the cock crows thrice," smiled Leon Giraud, "this man will betray the cause of work for an idle life

"When you start out from Paris for Italy, you don't find Rome half way," said Joseph Bridau. "You want

The conversation ended in a joke, and they changed the subject. Lucien's friends, with their perspicacity and

delicacy of heart, tried to efface the memory of the little quarrel; but Lucien knew thenceforward that it was

no easy matter to deceive them. He soon fell into despair, which he was careful to hide from such stern

mentors as he imagined them to be; and the Southern temper that runs so easily through the whole gamut of

Again and again he talked of making the plunge into journalism; and time after time did his friends reply with

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

"You would not hold out for long between the two extremes of toil and pleasure which make up a journalist's

life, and resistance is the very foundation of virtue. You would be so delighted to exercise your power of life

and death over the offspring of the brain, that you would be an outandout journalist in two months' time.

To be a journalist that is to turn Herod in the republic of letters. The man who will say anything will end

"Not by that time," said Fulgence. "If you were a journalist, you would no more think of us than the Opera

girl in all her glory, with her adorers and her silklined carriage, thinks of the village at home and her cows

and her sabots. You could never resist the temptation to pen a witticism, though it should bring tears to a

friend's eyes. I come across journalists in theatre lobbies; it makes me shudder to see them. Journalism is an

inferno, a bottomless pit of iniquity and treachery and lies; no one can traverse it undefiled, unless, like

But the more the set of friends opposed the idea of journalism, the more Lucien's desire to know its perils

grew and tempted him. He began to debate within his own mind; was it not ridiculous to allow want to find

him a second time defenceless? He bethought him of the failure of his attempts to dispose of his first novel,

and felt but little tempted to begin a second. How, besides, was he to live while he was writing another

romance? One month of privation had exhausted his stock of patience. Why should he not do nobly that

which journalists did ignobly and without principle? His friends insulted him with their doubts; he would

convince them of his strength of mind. Some day, perhaps, he would be of use to them; he would be the

"And what sort of a friendship is it which recoils from complicity?" demanded he one evening of Michel

"We shrink from nothing," Michel Chrestien made reply. "If you were so unlucky as to kill your mistress, I

would help you to hide your crime, and could still respect you; but if you were to turn spy, I should shun you

with abhorrence, for a spy is systematically shameless and base. There you have journalism summed up in a

sentence. Friendship can pardon error and the hasty impulse of passion; it is bound to be inexorable when a

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

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

"Oh!" cried Michel, grasping Leon's hand, "you have done it, Leon. Lucien," he continued, "you have

three hundred francs in hand; you can live comfortably for three months; very well, then, work hard and write

another romance. D'Arthez and Fulgence will help you with the plot; you will improve, you will be a

novelist. And I, meanwhile, will enter one of those lupanars of thought; for three months I will be a

journalist. I will sell your books to some bookseller or other by attacking his publications; I will write the

articles myself; I will get others for you. We will organize a success; you shall be a great man, and still

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

When Lucien's intellect had been stimulated by the evenings spent in d'Arthez's garret, he had made some

study of the jokes and articles in the smaller newspapers. He was at least the equal, he felt, of the wittiest

contributors; in private he tried some mental gymnastics of the kind, and went out one morning with the

triumphant idea of finding some colonel of such light skirmishers of the press and enlisting in their ranks. He

dressed in his best and crossed the bridges, thinking as he went that authors, journalists, and men of letters,

his future comrades, in short, would show him rather more kindness and disinterestedness than the two

species of booksellers who had so dashed his hopes. He should meet with fellowfeeling, and something of

the kindly and grateful affection which he found in the cenacle of the Rue des QuatreVents. Tormented by

emotion, consequent upon the presentiments to which men of imagination cling so fondly, half believing, half

battling with their belief in them, he arrived in the Rue SaintFiacre off the Boulevard Montmartre. Before a

house, occupied by the offices of a small newspaper, he stopped, and at the sight of it his heart began to throb

Nevertheless, upstairs he went, and found the offices in the low entresol between the ground floor and the

first story. The first room was divided down the middle by a partition, the lower half of solid wood, the upper

lattice work to the ceiling. In this apartment Lucien discovered a onearmed pensioner supporting several

reams of paper on his head with his remaining hand, while between his teeth he held the passbook which the

Inland Revenue Department requires every newspaper to produce with each issue. This illfavored

individual, owner of a yellow countenance covered with red excrescences, to which he owed his nickname of

"Coloquinte," indicated a personage behind the lattice as the Cerberus of the paper. This was an elderly

officer with a medal on his chest and a silk skullcap on his head; his nose was almost hidden by a pair of

grizzled moustaches, and his person was hidden as completely in an ample blue overcoat as the body of the

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

"I did not come about a subscription," returned Lucien. Looking about him, he saw a placard fastened on a

door, corresponding to the one by which he had entered, and read the wordsEDITOR'S OFFICE, and

"A complaint, I expect?" replied the veteran. "Ah! yes; we have been hard on Mariette. What would you

have? I don't know the why and wherefore of it yet.But if you want satisfaction, I am ready for you," he

added, glancing at a collection of small arms and foils stacked in a corner, the armory of the modern warrior.

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

"Look you here, Giroudeau, old chap," remarked a voice, "I make it eleven columns; eleven columns at five

francs apiece is fiftyfive francs, and I have only been paid forty; so you owe me another fifteen francs, as I

These words proceeded from a little weaselface, pallid and semi transparent as the halfboiled white of an

egg; two slits of eyes looked out of it, mild blue in tint, but appallingly malignant in expression; and the

owner, an insignificant young man, was completely hidden by the veteran's opaque person. It was a

bloodcurdling voice, a sound between the mewing of a cat and the wheezy chokings of a hyena.

"Yes, yes, my little militiaman," retorted he of the medal, "but you are counting the headings and white lines.

I have Finot's instructions to add up the totals of the lines, and to divide them by the proper number for each

column; and after I performed that concentrating operation on your copy, there were three columns less."

"He doesn't pay for the blanks, the Jew! He reckons them in though when he sends up the total of his work to

his partner, and he gets paid for them too. I will go and see Etienne Lousteau, Vernou"

"I cannot go beyond my orders, my boy," said the veteran. "What! do you cry out against your fostermother

for a matter of fifteen francs? you that turn out an article as easily as I smoke a cigar. Fifteen francs! why,

you will give a bowl of punch to your friends, or win an extra game of billiards, and there's an end of it!"

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

"Now, would not anybody think that he was Rousseau and Voltaire rolled in one?" the cashier remarked to

While the argument proceeded, Lucien had been looking about him. He saw upon the walls the portraits of

Benjamin Constant, General Foy, and the seventeen illustrious orators of the Left, interspersed with

caricatures at the expense of the Government; but he looked more particularly at the door of the sanctuary

where, no doubt, the paper was elaborated, the witty paper that amused him daily, and enjoyed the privilege

of ridiculing kings and the most portentous events, of calling anything and everything in question with a jest.

Then he sauntered along the boulevards. It was an entirely novel amusement; and so agreeable did he find it,

that, looking at the turret clocks, he saw the hour hands were pointing to four, and only then remembered that

He went at once in the direction of the Rue SaintFiacre, climbed the stair, and opened the door.

The veteran officer was absent; but the old pensioner, sitting on a pile of stamped papers, was munching a

crust and acting as sentinel resignedly. Coloquinte was as much accustomed to his work in the office as to the

fatigue duty of former days, understanding as much or as little about it as the why and wherefore of forced

marches made by the Emperor's orders. Lucien was inspired with the bold idea of deceiving that formidable

functionary. He settled his hat on his head, and walked into the editor's office as if he were quite at home.

Looking eagerly about him, he beheld a round table covered with a green cloth, and halfadozen

cherrywood chairs, newly reseated with straw. The colored brick floor had not been waxed, but it was clean;

so clean that the public, evidently, seldom entered the room. There was a mirror above the chimneypiece,

and on the ledge below, amid a sprinkling of visitingcards, stood a shopkeeper's clock, smothered with dust,

and a couple of candlesticks with tallow dips thrust into their sockets. A few antique newspapers lay on the

table beside an inkstand containing some black lacquerlike substance, and a collection of quill pens twisted

into stars. Sundry dirty scraps of paper, covered with almost undecipherable hieroglyphs, proved to be

manuscript articles torn across the top by the compositor to check off the sheets as they were set up. He

admired a few rather clever caricatures, sketched on bits of brown paper by somebody who evidently had

Other works of art were pinned in the cheap seagreen wallpaper. These consisted of nine penandink

illustrations for Le Solitaire. The work had attained to such an unheardof European popularity, that

journalists evidently were tired of it."The Solitary makes his first appearance in the provinces; sensation

among the women.The Solitary perused at a chateau.Effect of the Solitary on domestic animals. The

Solitary explained to savage tribes, with the most brilliant results.The Solitary translated into Chinese and

presented by the author to the Emperor at Pekin.The Mont Sauvage, Rape of Elodie." (Lucien though

this caricature very shocking, but he could not help laughing at it.)"The Solitary under a canopy conducted

in triumphal procession by the newspapers.The Solitary breaks the press to splinters, and wounds the

printers.Read backwards, the superior beauties of the Solitary produce a sensation at the Academie."On

a newspaperwrapper Lucien noticed a sketch of a contributor holding out his hat, and beneath it the words,

Between the window and the chimneypiece stood a writingtable, a mahogany armchair, and a wastepaper

basket on a strip of hearthrug; the dust lay thick on all these objects. There were short curtains in the

windows. About a score of new books lay on the writingtable, deposited there apparently during the day,

together with prints, music, snuffboxes of the "Charter" pattern, a copy of the ninth edition of Le Solitaire

Lucien had taken stock of this strange furniture, and made reflections of the most exhaustive kind upon it,

when, the clock striking five, he returned to question the pensioner. Coloquinte had finished his crust, and

was waiting with the patience of a commissionaire, for the man of medals, who perhaps was taking an airing

At this conjuncture the rustle of a dress sounded on the stair, and the light unmistakable footstep of a woman

on the threshold. The newcomer was passably pretty. She addressed herself to Lucien.

"Sir," she said, "I know why you cry up Mlle. Virginie's hats so much; and I have come to put down my name

The fair milliner and the retired military man were soon deep in converse; and when Lucien, beginning to

lose patience, came back to the first room, he heard the conclusion of the matter.

"Why, I shall be delighted, quite delighted, sir. Mlle. Florentine can come to my shop and choose anything

she likes. Ribbons are in my department. So it is all quite settled. You will say no more about Virginie, a

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

"I have been waiting here for an hour, sir," Lucien began, looking not a little annoyed.

"And 'they' have not come yet!" exclaimed Napoleon's veteran, civilly feigning concern. "I am not surprised

at that. It is some time since I have seen 'them' here. It is the middle of the month, you see. Those fine fellows

"He is in the Rue Feydeau, that's where he lives. Coloquinte, old chap, just take him everything that has come

"The newspaper?" repeated the officer, as he received the rest of the stamp money from Coloquinte, "the

newspaper?broum! broum!(Mind you are round at the printers' by six o'clock tomorrow, old chap, to

send off the porters.)The newspaper, sir, is written in the street, at the writers' houses, in the

printingoffice between eleven and twelve o'clock at night. In the Emperor's time, sir, these shops for spoiled

paper were not known. Oh! he would have cleared them out with four men and a corporal; they would not

have come over HIM with their talk. But that is enough of prattling. If my nephew finds it worth his while,

and so long as they write for the son of the Other (broum! broum!) after all, there is no harm in that.

Ah! by the way, subscribers don't seem to me to be advancing in serried columns; I shall leave my post."

"From a business point of view, broum! broum!" coughed the soldier, clearing his throat. "From three to five

francs per column, according to ability.Fifty lines to a column, forty letters to a line; no blanks; there you

are! As for the staff, they are queer fish, little youngsters whom I wouldn't take on for the commissariat; and

because they make fly tracks on sheets of white paper, they look down, forsooth, on an old Captain of

Dragoons of the Guard, that retired with a major's rank after entering every European capital with Napoleon."

The soldier of Napoleon brushed his coat, and made as if he would go out, but Lucien, swept to the door, had

"I came to be a contributor of the paper," he said. "I am full of respect, I vow and declare, for a captain of the

"Well said, my little civilian, there are several kinds of contributors; which kind do you wish to be?" replied

the trooper, bearing down on Lucien, and descending the stairs. At the foot of the flight he stopped, but it was

"If any subscribers come, you see them and take note of them, Mother Chollet.Simply subscribers, never

know anything but subscribers," he added, seeing that Lucien followed him. "Finot is my nephew; he is the

only one of my family that has done anything to relieve me in my position. So when anybody comes to pick a

quarrel with Finot, he finds old Giroudeau, Captain of the Dragoons of the Guard, that set out as a private in a

cavalry regiment in the army of the SambreetMeuse, and was fencingmaster for five years to the First

Hussars, army of Italy! One, two, and the man that had any complaints to make would be turned off into the

dark," he added, making a lunge. "Now writers, my boy, are in different corps; there is the writer who writes

and draws his pay; there is the writer who writes and gets nothing (a volunteer we call him); and, lastly, there

is the writer who writes nothing, and he is by no means the stupidest, for he makes no mistakes; he gives

himself out for a literary man, he is on the paper, he treats us to dinners, he loafs about the theatres, he keeps

"You are like the recruits. They all want to be marshals of France. Take old Giroudeau's word for it, and turn

right about, in double quick time, and go and pick up nails in the gutter like that good fellow yonder; you

can tell by the look of him that he has been in the army.Isn't it a shame that an old soldier who has walked

into the jaws of death hundreds of times should be picking up old iron in the streets of Paris? Ah! God

A'mighty! 'twas a shabby trick to desert the Emperor.Well, my boy, the individual you saw this morning

has made his forty francs a month. Are you going to do better? And, according to Finot, he is the cleverest

"Very well. Go and see my nephew Finot, a good fellow, as good a fellow as you will find, if you can find

him, that is, for he is like a fish, always on the move. In his way of business, there is no writing, you see, it is

setting others to write. That sort like gallivanting about with actresses better than scribbling on sheets of

paper, it seems. Oh! they are queer customers, they are. Hope I may have the honor of seeing you again."

With that the cashier raised his formidable loaded cane, one of the defenders of Germainicus, and walked off,

leaving Lucien in the street, as much bewildered by this picture of the newspaper world as he had formerly

been by the practical aspects of literature at Messrs. Vidal and Porchon's establishment.

Ten several times did Lucien repair to the Rue Feydeau in search of Andoche Finot, and ten times he failed to

find that gentleman. He went first thing in the morning; Finot had not come in. At noon, Finot had gone out;

he was breakfasting at such and such a cafe. At the cafe, in answer to inquiries of the waitress, made after

surmounting unspeakable repugnance, Lucien heard that Finot had just left the place. Lucien, at length tired

out, began to regard Finot as a mythical and fabulous character; it appeared simpler to waylay Etienne

Lousteau at Flicoteaux's. That youthful journalist would, doubtless, explain the mysteries that enveloped the

Since the day, a hundred times blessed, when Lucien made the acquaintance of Daniel d'Arthez, he had taken

another seat at Flicoteaux's. The two friends dined side by side, talking in lowered voices of the higher

literature, of suggested subjects, and ways of presenting, opening up, and developing them. At the present

time Daniel d'Arthez was correcting the manuscript of The Archer of Charles IX. He reconstructed whole

chapters, and wrote the fine passages found therein, as well as the magnificent preface, which is, perhaps, the

best thing in the book, and throws so much light on the work of the young school of literature. One day it so

happened that Daniel had been waiting for Lucien, who now sat with his friend's hand in his own, when he

saw Etienne Lousteau turn the doorhandle. Lucien instantly dropped Daniel's hand, and told the waiter that

he would dine at his old place by the counter. D'Arthez gave Lucien a glance of divine kindness, in which

reproach was wrapped in forgiveness. The glance cut the poet to the quick; he took Daniel's hand and grasped

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

Lucien was in his old place by the time that Lousteau reached the table; as the first comer, he greeted his

acquaintance; they soon struck up a conversation, which grew so lively that Lucien went off in search of the

manuscript of the Marguerites, while Lousteau finished his dinner. He had obtained leave to lay his sonnets

before the journalist, and mistook the civility of the latter for willingness to find him a publisher, or a place

on the paper. When Lucien came hurrying back again, he saw d'Arthez resting an elbow on the table in a

corner of the restaurant, and knew that his friend was watching him with melancholy eyes, but he would not

see d'Arthez just then; he felt the sharp pangs of poverty, the goadings of ambition, and followed Lousteau.

In the late afternoon the journalist and the neophyte went to the Luxembourg, and sat down under the trees in

that part of the gardens which lies between the broad Avenue de l'Observatoire and the Rue de l'Ouest. The

Rue de l'Ouest at that time was a long morass, bounded by planks and marketgardens; the houses were all at

the end nearest the Rue de Vaugirard; and the walk through the gardens was so little frequented, that at the

hour when Paris dines, two lovers might fall out and exchange the earnest of reconciliation without fear of

intruders. The only possible spoilsport was the pensioner on duty at the little iron gate on the Rue de l'Ouest,

if that grayheaded veteran should take it into his head to lengthen his monotonous beat. There, on a bench

beneath the limetrees, Etienne Lousteau sat and listened to samplesonnets from the Marguerites.

Etienne Lousteau, after a twoyears' apprenticeship, was on the staff of a newspaper; he had his foot in the

stirrup; he reckoned some of the celebrities of the day among his friends; altogether, he was an imposing

personage in Lucien's eyes. Wherefore, while Lucien untied the string about the Marguerites, he judged it

"The sonnet, monsieur," said he, "is one of the most difficult forms of poetry. It has fallen almost entirely into

disuse. No Frenchman can hope to rival Petrarch; for the language in which the Italian wrote, being so

infinitely more pliant than French, lends itself to play of thought which our positivism (pardon the use of the

expression) rejects. So it seemed to me that a volume of sonnets would be something quite new. Victor Hugo

has appropriated the old, Canalis writes lighter verse, Beranger has monopolized songs, Casimir Delavigne

Lucien's astonishment betrayed such complete ignorance of the state of affairs in the republic of letters, that

"You have come up in the middle of a pitched battle, my dear fellow; you must make your decision at once.

Literature is divided, in the first place, into several zones, but our great men are ranged in two hostile camps.

The Royalists are 'Romantics,' the Liberals are 'Classics.' The divergence of taste in matters literary and

divergence of political opinion coincide; and the result is a war with weapons of every sort, doubleedged

witticisms, subtle calumnies and nicknames a outrance, between the rising and the waning glory, and ink is

shed in torrents. The odd part of it is that the RoyalistRomantics are all for liberty in literature, and for

repealing laws and conventions; while the LiberalClassics are for maintaining the unities, the Alexandrine,

and the classical theme. So opinions in politics on either side are directly at variance with literary taste. If you

"The Liberal newspapers have far more subscribers than the Royalist and Ministerial journals; still, though

Canalis is for Church and King, and patronized by the Court and the clergy, he reaches other

readers.Pshaw! sonnets date back to an epoch before Boileau's time," said Etienne, seeing Lucien's dismay

at the prospect of choosing between two banners. "Be a Romantic. The Romantics are young men, and the

The word "pedant" was the latest epithet taken up by Romantic journalism to heap confusion on the Classical

The daisies in the meadows, not in vain, In red and white and gold before our eyes, Have written an idyll for

Gold stamens set in silver filigrane Reveal the treasures which we idolize; And all the cost of struggle for the

Was it because your petals once uncurled When Jesus rose upon a fairer world, And from wings shaken for a

heav'nward flight Shed grace, that still as autumn reappears You bloom again to tell of dead delight, To bring

Lucien felt piqued by Lousteau's complete indifference during the reading of the sonnet; he was unfamiliar as

yet with the disconcerting impassibility of the professional critic, wearied by much reading of poetry, prose,

and plays. Lucien was accustomed to applause. He choked down his disappointment and read another, a

favorite with Mme. de Bargeton and with some of his friends in the Rue des QuatreVents.

I am the Marguerite, fair and tall I grew In velvet meadows, 'mid the flowers a star. They sought me for my

beauty near and far; My dawn, I thought, should be for ever new. But now an all unwishedfor gift I rue, A

fatal ray of knowledge shed to mar My radiant starcrown grown oracular, For I must speak and give an

answer true. An end of silence and of quiet days, The Lover with two words my counsel prays; And when my

secret from my heart is reft, When all my silver petals scattered lie, I am the only flower neglected left, Cast

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

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

Lucien proceeded to read the following sonnet, but his heart was dead within him; Lousteau's inscrutable

composure froze his utterance. If he had come a little further upon the road, he would have known that

between writer and writer silence or abrupt speech, under such circumstances, is a betrayal of jealousy, and

outspoken admiration means a sense of relief over the discovery that the work is not above the average after

In Nature's book, if rightly understood, The rose means love, and red for beauty glows; A pure, sweet spirit in

But this strange bloom, by sun and wind unwooed, Seems to expand and blossom 'mid the snows, A lily

Yet at the opera house the petals trace For modesty a fitting aureole; An alabaster wreath to lay, methought,

In dusky hair o'er some fair woman's face Which kindles ev'n such love within the soul As sculptured marble

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

"I am young enough to like the truth, and so anxious to succeed that I can hear it without taking offence, but

"Well, my dear fellow, the first sonnet, from its involved style, was evidently written at Angouleme; it gave

you so much trouble, no doubt, that you cannot give it up. The second and third smack of Paris already; but

read us one more sonnet," he added, with a gesture that seemed charming to the provincial.

Encouraged by the request, Lucien read with more confidence, choosing a sonnet which d'Arthez and Bridau

I am the Tulip from Batavia's shore; The thrifty Fleming for my beauty rare Pays a king's ransom, when that I

And, like some Yolande of the days of yore, My long and amply folded skirts I wear, O'erpainted with the

The fingers of the Gardener divine Have woven for me my vesture fair and fine, Of threads of sunlight and of

purple stain; No flower so glorious in the garden bed, But Nature, woe is me, no fragrance shed Within my

"My dear fellow," Etienne said, gravely surveying the tips of Lucien's boots (he had brought the pair from

Angouleme, and was wearing them out). "My dear fellow, I strongly recommend you to put your ink on your

boots to save blacking, and to take your pens for toothpicks, so that when you come away from Flicoteaux's

you can swagger along this picturesque alley looking as if you had dined. Get a situation of any sort or

description. Run errands for a bailiff if you have the heart, be a shopman if your back is strong enough, enlist

if you happen to have a taste for military music. You have the stuff of three poets in you; but before you can

reach your public, you will have time to die of starvation six times over, if you intend to live on the proceeds

of your poetry, that is. And from your too unsophisticated discourse, it would seem to be your intention to

"I say nothing as to your verses; they are a good deal better than all the poetical wares that are cumbering the

ground in booksellers' backshops just now. Elegant 'nightingales' of that sort cost a little more than the others,

because they are printed on handmade paper, but they nearly all of them come down at last to the banks of

the Seine. You may study their range of notes there any day if you care to make an instructive pilgrimage

along the Quais from old Jerome's stall by the Pont Notre Dame to the Pont Royal. You will find them all

there all the Essays in Verse, the Inspirations, the lofty flights, the hymns, and songs, and ballads, and

odes; all the nestfuls hatched during the last seven years, in fact. There lie their muses, thick with dust,

bespattered by every passing cab, at the mercy of every profane hand that turns them over to look at the

"You know nobody; you have access to no newspaper, so your Marguerites will remain demurely folded as

you hold them now. They will never open out to the sun of publicity in fair fields with broad margins

enameled with the florets which Dauriat the illustrious, the king of the Wooden Galleries, scatters with a

lavish hand for poets known to fame. I came to Paris as you came, poor boy, with a plentiful stock of

illusions, impelled by irrepressible longings for gloryand I found the realities of the craft, the practical

difficulties of the trade, the hard facts of poverty. In my enthusiasm (it is kept well under control now), my

first ebullition of youthful spirits, I did not see the social machinery at work; so I had to learn to see it by

bumping against the wheels and bruising myself against the shafts, and chains. Now you are about to learn, as

I learned, that between you and all these fair dreamedof things lies the strife of men, and passions, and

"Willynilly, you must take part in a terrible battle; book against book, man against man, party against party;

make war you must, and that systematically, or you will be abandoned by your own party. And they are mean

contests; struggles which leave you disenchanted, and wearied, and depraved, and all in pure waste; for it

often happens that you put forth all your strength to win laurels for a man whom you despise, and maintain,

"There is a world behind the scenes in the theatre of literature. The public in front sees unexpected or

welldeserved success, and applauds; the public does NOT see the preparations, ugly as they always are, the

painted supers, the claqueurs hired to applaud, the stage carpenters, and all that lies behind the scenes. You

are still among the audience. Abdicate, there is still time, before you set your foot on the lowest step of the

throne for which so many ambitious spirits are contending, and do not sell your honor, as I do, for a

"Do you know how I make a living?" he continued passionately. "The little stock of money they gave me at

home was soon eaten up. A piece of mine was accepted at the TheatreFrancais just as I came to an end of it.

At the TheatreFrancais the influence of a first gentleman of the bedchamber, or of a prince of the blood,

would not be enough to secure a turn of favor; the actors only make concessions to those who threaten their

selflove. If it is in your power to spread a report that the jeune premier has the asthma, the leading lady a

fistula where you please, and the soubrette has foul breath, then your piece would be played tomorrow. I do

not know whether in two years' time, I who speak to you now, shall be in a position to exercise such power.

You need so many to back you. And where and how am I to gain my bread meanwhile?

"I tried lots of things; I wrote a novel, anonymously; old Doguereau gave me two hundred francs for it, and

he did not make very much out of it himself. Then it grew plain to me that journalism alone could give me a

living. The next thing was to find my way into those shops. I will not tell you all the advances I made, nor

how often I begged in vain. I will say nothing of the six months I spent as extra hand on a paper, and was told

that I scared subscribers away, when as a fact I attracted them. Pass over the insults I put up with. At this

moment I am doing the plays at the Boulevard theatres, almost gratis, for a paper belonging to Finot, that

stout young fellow who breakfasts two or three times a month, even now, at the Cafe Voltaire (but you don't

go there). I live by selling tickets that managers give me to bribe a good word in the paper, and reviewers'

copies of books. In short, Finot once satisfied, I am allowed to write for and against various commercial

articles, and I traffic in tribute paid in kind by various tradesmen. A facetious notice of a Carminative Toilet

Lotion, Pate des Sultanes, Cephalic Oil, or Brazilian Mixture brings me in twenty or thirty francs.

"I am obliged to dun the publishers when they don't send in a sufficient number of reviewers' copies; Finot, as

editor, appropriates two and sells them, and I must have two to sell. If a book of capital importance comes

out, and the publisher is stingy with copies, his life is made a burden to him. The craft is vile, but I live by it,

and so do scores of others. Do not imagine that things are any better in public life. There is corruption

everywhere in both regions; every man is corrupt or corrupts others. If there is any publishing enterprise

somewhat larger than usual afoot, the trade will pay me something to buy neutrality. The amount of my

income varies, therefore, directly with the prospectuses. When prospectuses break out like a rash, money

pours into my pockets; I stand treat all round. When trade is dull, I dine at Flicoteaux's.

"Actresses will pay you likewise for praise, but the wiser among them pay for criticism. To be passed over in

silence is what they dread the most; and the very best thing of all, from their point of view, is criticism which

draws down a reply; it is far more effectual than bald praise, forgotten as soon as read, and it costs more in

consequence. Celebrity, my dear fellow, is based upon controversy. I am a hired bravo; I ply my trade among

ideas and reputations, commercial, literary, and dramatic; I make some fifty crowns a month; I can sell a

novel for five hundred francs; and I am beginning to be looked upon as a man to be feared. Some day, instead

of living with Florine at the expense of a druggist who gives himself the airs of a lord, I shall be in a house of

my own; I shall be on the staff of a leading newspaper, I shall have a feuilleton; and on that day, my dear

fellow, Florine will become a great actress. As for me, I am not sure what I shall be when that time comes, a

He raised his humiliated head, and looked out at the green leaves, with an expression of despairing

"And I had a great tragedy accepted!" he went on. "And among my papers there is a poem, which will die.

And I was a good fellow, and my heart was clean! I used to dream lofty dreams of love for great ladies,

queens in the great world; andmy mistress is an actress at the PanoramaDramatique. And lastly, if a

bookseller declines to send a copy of a book to my paper, I will run down work which is good, as I know."

Lucien was moved to tears, and he grasped Etienne's hand in his. The journalist rose to his feet, and the pair

went up and down the broad Avenue de l'Observatoire, as if their lungs craved ampler breathing space.

"Outside the world of letters," Etienne Lousteau continued, "not a single creature suspects that every one who

succeeds in that world who has a certain vogue, that is to say, or comes into fashion, or gains reputation, or

renown, or fame, or favor with the public (for by these names we know the rungs of the ladder by which we

climb to the higher heights above and beyond them),every one who comes even thus far is the hero of a

dreadful Odyssey. Brilliant portents rise above the mental horizon through a combination of a thousand

accidents; conditions change so swiftly that no two men have been known to reach success by the same road.

Canalis and Nathan are two dissimilar cases; things never fall out in the same way twice. There is d'Arthez,

who knocks himself to pieces with workhe will make a famous name by some other chance.

"This so much desired reputation is nearly always crowned prostitution. Yes; the poorest kind of literature is

the hapless creature freezing at the street corner; secondrate literature is the keptmistress picked out of the

brothels of journalism, and I am her bully; lastly, there is lucky literature, the flaunting, insolent courtesan

who has a house of her own and pays taxes, who receives great lords, treating or illtreating them as she

pleases, who has liveried servants and a carriage, and can afford to keep greedy creditors waiting. Ah! and for

yet others, for me not so very long ago, for you todayshe is a whiterobed angel with manycolored

wings, bearing a green palm branch in the one hand, and in the other a flaming sword. An angel, something

akin to the mythological abstraction which lives at the bottom of a well, and to the poor and honest girl who

lives a life of exile in the outskirts of the great city, earning every penny with a noble fortitude and in the full

light of virtue, returning to heaven inviolate of body and soul; unless, indeed, she comes to lie at the last,

soiled, despoiled, polluted, and forgotten, on a pauper's bier. As for the men whose brains are encompassed

with bronze, whose hearts are still warm under the snows of experience, they are found but seldom in the

country that lies at our feet," he added, pointing to the great city seething in the late afternoon light.

A vision of d'Arthez and his friends flashed upon Lucien's sight, and made appeal to him for a moment; but

"They are very few and far between in that great fermenting vat; rare as love in lovemaking, rare as fortunes

honestly made in business, rare as the journalist whose hands are clean. The experience of the first man who

told me all that I am telling you was thrown away upon me, and mine no doubt will be wasted upon you. It is

always the same old story year after year; the same eager rush to Paris from the provinces; the same, not to

say a growing, number of beardless, ambitious boys, who advance, head erect, and the heart that Princess

Tourandocte of the Mille et un Jourseach one of them fain to be her Prince Calaf. But never a one of them

reads the riddle. One by one they drop, some into the trench where failures lie, some into the mire of

"They pick up a living, these beggars, what with biographical notices, pennyalining, and scraps of news

for the papers. They become booksellers' hacks for the clearheaded dealers in printed paper, who would

sooner take the rubbish that goes off in a fortnight than a masterpiece which requires time to sell. The life is

crushed out of the grubs before they reach the butterfly stage. They live by shame and dishonor. They are

ready to write down a rising genius or to praise him to the skies at a word from the pasha of the

Constitutionnel, the Quotidienne, or the Debats, at a sign from a publisher, at the request of a jealous

comrade, or (as not seldom happens) simply for a dinner. Some surmount the obstacles, and these forget the

misery of their early days. I, who am telling you this, have been putting the best that is in me into newspaper

articles for six months past for a blackguard who gives them out as his own and has secured a feuilleton in

another paper on the strength of them. He has not taken me on as his collaborator, he has not give me so

much as a fivefranc piece, but I hold out a hand to grasp his when we meet; I cannot help myself."

"I may want to put a dozen lines into his feuilleton some day," Lousteau answered coolly. "In short, my dear

fellow, in literature you will not make money by hard work, that is not the secret of success; the point is to

exploit the work of somebody else. A newspaper proprietor is a contractor, we are the bricklayers. The more

mediocre the man, the better his chance of getting on among mediocrities; he can play the toadeater, put up

with any treatment, and flatter all the little base passions of the sultans of literature. There is Hector Merlin,

who came from Limoges a short time ago; he is writing political articles already for a Right Centre daily, and

he is at work on our little paper as well. I have seen an editor drop his hat and Merlin pick it up. The fellow

was careful never to give offence, and slipped into the thick of the fight between rival ambitions. I am sorry

for you. It is as if I saw in you the self that I used to be, and sure am I that in one or two years' time you will

be what I am now.You will think that there is some lurking jealousy or personal motive in this bitter

counsel, but it is prompted by the despair of a damned soul that can never leave hell.No one ventures to

utter such things as these. You hear the groans of anguish from a man wounded to the heart, crying like a

"Then, be sure of this," returned Lousteau, "if you have anything in you, the war will know no truce, the best

chance of success lies in an empty head. The austerity of your conscience, clear as yet, will relax when you

see that a man holds your future in his two hands, when a word from such a man means life to you, and he

will not say that word. For, believe me, the most brutal bookseller in the trade is not so insolent, so

hardhearted to a newcomer as the celebrity of the day. The bookseller sees a possible loss of money, while

the writer of books dreads a possible rival; the first shows you the door, the second crushes the life out of

you. To do really good work, my boy, means that you will draw out the energy, sap, and tenderness of your

nature at every dip of the pen in the ink, to set it forth for the world in passion and sentiment and phrases.

Yes; instead of acting, you will write; you will sing songs instead of fighting; you will love and hate and live

in your books; and then, after all, when you shall have reserved your riches for your style, your gold and

purple for your characters, and you yourself are walking the streets of Paris in rags, rejoicing in that, rivaling

the State Register, you have authorized the existence of beings styled Adolphe, Corinne or Clarissa, Rene or

Manon; when you shall have spoiled your life and your digestion to give life to that creation, then you shall

see it slandered, betrayed, sold, swept away into the back waters of oblivion by journalists, and buried out of

sight by your best friends. How can you afford to wait until the day when your creation shall rise again,

raised from the deadhow? when? and by whom? Take a magnificent book, the pianto of unbelief;

Obermann is a solitary wanderer in the desert places of booksellers' warehouses, he has been a 'nightingale,'

ironically so called, from the very beginning: when will his Easter come? Who knows? Try, to begin with, to

find somebody bold enough to print the Marguerites; not to pay for them, but simply to print them; and you

The fierce tirade, delivered in every tone of the passionate feeling which it expressed, fell upon Lucien's spirit

like an avalanche, and left a sense of glacial cold. For one moment he stood silent; then, as he felt the terrible

stimulating charm of difficulty beginning to work upon him, his courage blazed up. He grasped Lousteau's

"Good!" said the other, "one more Christian given over to the wild beasts in the arena.There is a firstnight

performance at the PanoramaDramatique, my dear fellow; it doesn't begin till eight, so you can change your

coat, come properly dressed in fact, and call for me. I am living on the fourth floor above the Cafe Servel,

Rue de la Harpe. We will go to Dauriat's first of all. You still mean to go on, do you not? Very well, I will

introduce you to one of the kings of the trade tonight, and to one or two journalists. We will sup with my

mistress and several friends after the play, for you cannot count that dinner as a meal. Finot will be there,

editor and proprietor of my paper. As Minette says in the Vaudeville (do you remember?), 'Time is a great

lean creature.' Well, for the like of us, Chance is a great lean creature, and must be tempted."

"Bring your manuscript with you, and be careful of your dress, not on Florine's account, but for the

The comrade's goodnature, following upon the poet's passionate outcry, as he described the war of letters,

moved Lucien quite as deeply as d'Arthez's grave and earnest words on a former occasion. The prospect of

entering at once upon the strife with men warmed him. In his youth and inexperience he had no suspicion

how real were the moral evils denounced by the journalist. Nor did he know that he was standing at the

parting of two distinct ways, between two systems, represented by the brotherhood upon one hand, and

journalism upon the other. The first way was long, honorable, and sure; the second beset with hidden dangers,

a perilous path, among muddy channels where conscience is inevitably bespattered. The bent of Lucien's

character determined for the shorter way, and the apparently pleasanter way, and to snatch at the quickest and

promptest means. At this moment he saw no difference between d'Arthez's noble friendship and Lousteau's

easy comaraderie; his inconstant mind discerned a new weapon in journalism; he felt that he could wield it,

He was dazzled by the offers of this new friend, who had struck a hand in his in an easy way, which charmed

Lucien. How should he know that while every man in the army of the press needs friends, every leader needs

men. Lousteau, seeing that Lucien was resolute, enlisted him as a recruit, and hoped to attach him to himself.

The relative positions of the two were similarone hoped to become a corporal, the other to enter the ranks.

Lucien went back gaily to his lodgings. He was as careful over his toilet as on that former unlucky occasion

when he occupied the Marquise d'Espard's box; but he had learned by this time how to wear his clothes with a

better grace. They looked as though they belonged to him. He wore his best tightlyfitting, lightcolored

trousers, and a dresscoat. His boots, a very elegant pair adorned with tassels, had cost him forty francs. His

thick, fine, golden hair was scented and crimped into bright, rippling curls. Selfconfidence and belief in his

future lighted up his forehead. He paid careful attention to his almost feminine hands, the filbert nails were a

spotless pink, and the white contours of his chin were dazzling by contrast with a black satin stock. Never did

Glorious as a Greek god, Lucien took a cab, and reached the Cafe Servel at a quarter to seven. There the

portress gave him some tolerably complicated directions for the ascent of four pairs of stairs. Provided with

these instructions, he discovered, not without difficulty, an open door at the end of a long, dark passage, and

in another moment made the acquaintance of the traditional room of the Latin Quarter.

A young man's poverty follows him wherever he goesinto the Rue de la Harpe as into the Rue de Cluny,

into d'Arthez's room, into Chrestien's lodging; yet everywhere no less the poverty has its own peculiar

characteristics, due to the idiosyncrasies of the sufferer. Poverty in this case wore a sinister look.

A shabby, cheap carpet lay in wrinkles at the foot of a curtainless walnutwood bedstead; dingy curtains,

begrimed with cigar smoke and fumes from a smoky chimney, hung in the windows; a Carcel lamp, Florine's

gift, on the chimneypiece, had so far escaped the pawnbroker. Add a forlornlooking chest of drawers, and

a table littered with papers and disheveled quill pens, and the list of furniture was almost complete. All the

books had evidently arrived in the course of the last twentyfour hours; and there was not a single object of

any value in the room. In one corner you beheld a collection of crushed and flattened cigars, coiled

pockethandkerchiefs, shirts which had been turned to do double duty, and cravats that had reached a third

edition; while a sordid array of old boots stood gaping in another angle of the room among aged socks worn

The room, in short, was a journalist's bivouac, filled with odds and ends of no value, and the most curiously

bare apartment imaginable. A scarlet tinderbox glowed among a pile of books on the nightstand. A brace of

pistols, a box of cigars, and a stray razor lay upon the mantelshelf; a pair of foils, crossed under a wire

mask, hung against a panel. Three chairs and a couple of armchairs, scarcely fit for the shabbiest

The dirty, cheerless room told a tale of a restless life and a want of selfrespect; some one came hither to

sleep and work at high pressure, staying no longer than he could help, longing, while he remained, to be out

and away. What a difference between this cynical disorder and d'Arthez's neat and selfrespecting poverty! A

warning came with the thought of d'Arthez; but Lucien would not heed it, for Etienne made a joking remark

"This is my kennel; I appear in state in the Rue de Bondy, in the new apartments which our druggist has taken

Etienne Lousteau wore black trousers and beautifullyvarnished boots; his coat was buttoned up to his chin;

he probably meant to change his linen at Florine's house, for his shirt collar was hidden by a velvet stock. He

"Not yet. I am waiting for a bookseller to bring me some money; I have not a farthing; there will be play,

"There he is," said Lousteau. "Now you will see, my dear fellow, the shape that Providence takes when he

manifests himself to poets. You are going to behold Dauriat, the fashionable bookseller of the Quai des

Augustins, the pawnbroker, the marine store dealer of the trade, the Norman exgreengrocer.Come along,

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

"There are two copies of Travels in Egypt here, a marvel, so they say, swarming with woodcuts, sure to sell.

Finot has been paid for two reviews that I am to write for him. ITEM two works, just out, by Victor Ducange,

a novelist highly thought of in the Marais. ITEM a couple of copies of a second work by Paul de Kock, a

beginner in the same style. ITEM two copies of Yseult of Dole, a charming provincial work. Total, one

"Oh! they are in perfect condition," cried Lousteau. "The Travels are uncut, so is the Paul de Kock, so is the

Ducange, so is that other thing on the chimneypiece, Considerations on Symbolism. I will throw that in;

myths weary me to that degree that I will let you have the thing to spare myself the sight of the swarms of

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

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

"No, Barbetno. He is a poet, a great poet; he is going to cut out Canalis, and Beranger, and Delavigne. He

will go a long way if he does not throw himself into the river, and even so he will get as far as the dragnets

"If I had any advice to give the gentleman," remarked Barbet, "it would be to give up poetry and take to

Barbet's shabby overcoat was fastened by a single button; his collar was greasy; he kept his hat on his head as

he spoke; he wore low shoes, an open waistcoat gave glimpses of a homely shirt of coarse linen.

Goodnature was not wanting in the round countenance, with its two slits of covetous eyes; but there was

likewise the vague uneasiness habitual to those who have money to spend and hear constant applications for

it. Yet, to all appearance, he was plaindealing and easynatured, his business shrewdness was so well

wadded round with fat. He had been an assistant until he took a wretched little shop on the Quai des

Augustins two years since, and issued thence on his rounds among journalists, authors, and printers, buying

up free copies cheaply, making in such ways some ten or twenty francs daily. Now, he had money saved; he

knew instinctively where every man was pressed; he had a keen eye for business. If an author was in

difficulties, he would discount a bill given by a publisher at fifteen or twenty per cent; then the next day he

would go to the publisher, haggle over the price of some work in demand, and pay him with his own bills

instead of cash. Barbet was something of a scholar; he had had just enough education to make him careful to

steer clear of modern poetry and modern romances. He had a liking for small speculations, for books of a

popular kind which might be bought outright for a thousand francs and exploited at pleasure, such as the

Child's History of France, Bookkeeping in Twenty Lessons, and Botany for Young Ladies. Two or three

times already he had allowed a good book to slip through his fingers; the authors had come and gone a score

of times while he hesitated, and could not make up his mind to buy the manuscript. When reproached for his

pusillanimity, he was wont to produce the account of a notorious trial taken from the newspapers; it cost him

Barbet was the type of bookseller that goes in fear and trembling; lives on bread and walnuts; rarely puts his

name to a bill; filches little profits on invoices; makes deductions, and hawks his books about himself; heaven

only knows where they go, but he sells them somehow, and gets paid for them. Barbet was the terror of

printers, who could not tell what to make of him; he paid cash and took off the discount; he nibbled at their

invoices whenever he though they were pressed for money; and when he had fleeced a man once, he never

"Eh! my boy," returned Barbet in a familiar tone; "I have six thousand volumes of stock on hand at my place,

"If you went into his shop, my dear Lucien," said Etienne, turning to his friend, "you would see an oak

counter from some bankrupt wine merchant's sale, and a tallow dip, never snuffed for fear it should burn too

quickly, making darkness visible. By that anomalous light you descry rows of empty shelves with some

difficulty. An urchin in a blue blouse mounts guard over the emptiness, and blows his fingers, and shuffles

his feet, and slaps his chest, like a cabman on the box. Just look about you! there are no more books there

"Here is a bill at three months for a hundred francs," said Barbet, and he could not help smiling as he drew it

out of his pocket; "I will take your old books off your hands. I can't pay cash any longer, you see; sales are

too slow. I thought that you would be wanting me; I had not a penny, and I made a bill simply to oblige you,

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

"But I want gloves, and the perfumers will be base enough to decline your paper," said Lousteau. "Stop, there

is a superb engraving in the top drawer of the chest there, worth eighty francs, proof before letters and after

letterpress, for I have written a pretty droll article upon it. There was something to lay hold of in Hippocrates

refusing the Presents of Artaxerxes. A fine engraving, eh? Just the thing to suit all the doctors, who are

refusing the extravagant gifts of Parisian satraps. You will find two or three dozen novels underneath it.

"FORTY FRANCS!" exclaimed the bookseller, emitting a cry like the squall of a frightened fowl. "Twenty at

"My word, I don't know that I have them," said Barbet, fumbling in his pockets. "Here they are. You are

"Come, let us be off," said Lousteau, and taking up Lucien's manuscript, he drew a line upon it in ink under

"Nothing, you young Shylock. I am going to put you in the way of a bit of very good business," Etienne

continued ("in which you shall lose a thousand crowns, to teach you to rob me in this fashion"), he added for

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

"Pooh! you do not know how reviews are knocked off. As for the Travels in Egypt, I looked into the book

here and there (without cutting the pages), and I found eleven slips in grammar. I shall say that the writer may

have mastered the dickybird language on the flints that they call 'obelisks' out there in Egypt, but he cannot

write in his own, as I will prove to him in a column and a half. I shall say that instead of giving us the natural

history and archaeology, he ought to have interested himself in the future of Egypt, in the progress of

civilization, and the best method of strengthening the bond between Egypt and France. France has won and

lost Egypt, but she may yet attach the country to her interests by gaining a moral ascendency over it. Then

some patriotic pennyalining, interlarded with diatribes on Marseilles, the Levant and our trade."

"Oh well, I should say that instead of boring us with politics, he should have written about art, and described

the picturesque aspects of the country and the local color. Then the critic bewails himself. Politics are

intruded everywhere; we are weary of politicspolitics on all sides. I should regret those charming books of

travel that dwelt upon the difficulties of navigation, the fascination of steering between two rocks, the

delights of crossing the line, and all the things that those who never will travel ought to know. Mingle this

approval with scoffing at the travelers who hail the appearance of a bird or a flyingfish as a great event, who

dilate upon fishing, and make transcripts from the log. Where, you ask, is that perfectly unintelligible

scientific information, fascinating, like all that is profound, mysterious, and incomprehensible. The reader

laughs, that is all that he wants. As for novels, Florine is the greatest novel reader alive; she gives me a

synopsis, and I take her opinion and put a review together. When a novelist bores her with 'author's stuff,' as

she calls it, I treat the work respectfully, and ask the publisher for another copy, which he sends forthwith,

"Goodness! and what of criticism, the critic's sacred office?" cried Lucien, remembering the ideas instilled

"My dear fellow," said Lousteau, "criticism is a kind of brush which must not be used upon flimsy stuff, or it

carries it all away with it. That is enough of the craft, now listen! Do you see that mark?" he continued,

pointing to the manuscript of the Marguerites. "I have put ink on the string and paper. If Dauriat reads your

manuscript, he certainly could not tie the string and leave it just as it was before. So your book is sealed, so to

speak. This is not useless to you for the experiment that you propose to make. And another thing: please to

observe that you are not arriving quite alone and without a sponsor in the place, like the youngsters who

make the round of halfascore of publishers before they find one that will offer them a chair."

Lucien's experience confirmed the truth of this particular. Lousteau paid the cabman, giving him three

francsa piece of prodigality following upon such impecuniosity astonishing Lucien more than a little. Then

the two friends entered the Wooden Galleries, where fashionable literature, as it is called, used to reign in

The Wooden Galleries of the Palais Royal used to be one of the most famous sights of Paris. Some

description of the squalid bazar will not be out of place; for there are few men of forty who will not take an

interest in recollections of a state of things which will seem incredible to a younger generation.

The great dreary, spacious Galerie d'Orleans, that flowerless hothouse, as yet was not; the space upon which

it now stands was covered with booths; or, to be more precise, with small, wooden dens, pervious to the

weather, and dimly illuminated on the side of the court and the garden by borrowed lights styled windows by

courtesy, but more like the filthiest arrangements for obscuring daylight to be found in little wineshops in the

The Galleries, parallel passages about twelve feet in height, were formed by a triple row of shops. The centre

row, giving back and front upon the Galleries, was filled with the fetid atmosphere of the place, and derived a

dubious daylight through the invariably dirty windows of the roof; but so thronged were these hives, that

rents were excessively high, and as much as a thousand crowns was paid for a space scarce six feet by eight.

The outer rows gave respectively upon the garden and the court, and were covered on that side by a slight

trelliswork painted green, to protect the crazy plastered walls from continual friction with the passersby. In

a few square feet of earth at the back of the shops, strange freaks of vegetable life unknown to science grew

amid the products of various no less flourishing industries. You beheld a rosebush capped with printed paper

in such a sort that the flowers of rhetoric were perfumed by the cankered blossoms of that illkept,

illsmelling garden. Handbills and ribbon streamers of every hue flaunted gaily among the leaves; natural

flowers competed unsuccessfully for an existence with odds and ends of millinery. You discovered a knot of

ribbon adorning a green tuft; the dahlia admired afar proved on a nearer view to be a satin rosette.

The Palais seen from the court or from the garden was a fantastic sight, a grotesque combination of walls of

plaster patchwork which had once been whitewashed, of blistered paint, heterogeneous placards, and all the

most unaccountable freaks of Parisian squalor; the green trellises were prodigiously the dingier for constant

contact with a Parisian public. So, upon either side, the fetid, disreputable approaches might have been there

for the express purpose of warning away fastidious people; but fastidious folk no more recoiled before these

horrors than the prince in the fairy stories turns tail at sight of the dragon or of the other obstacles put

There was a passage through the centre of the Galleries then as now; and, as at the present day, you entered

them through the two peristyles begun before the Revolution, and left unfinished for lack of funds; but in

place of the handsome modern arcade leading to the TheatreFrancais, you passed along a narrow,

disproportionately lofty passage, so illroofed that the rain came through on wet days. All the roofs of the

hovels indeed were in very bad repair, and covered here and again with a double thickness of tarpaulin. A

famous silk mercer once brought an action against the Orleans family for damages done in the course of a

night to his stock of shawls and stuffs, and gained the day and a considerable sum. It was in this lastnamed

passage, called "The Glass Gallery" to distinguish it from the Wooden Galleries, that Chevet laid the

Here, in the Palais, you trod the natural soil of Paris, augmented by importations brought in upon the boots of

foot passengers; here, at all seasons, you stumbled among hills and hollows of dried mud swept daily by the

shopman's besom, and only after some practice could you walk at your ease. The treacherous mudheaps, the

windowpanes incrusted with deposits of dust and rain, the meanlooking hovels covered with ragged

placards, the grimy unfinished walls, the general air of a compromise between a gypsy camp, the booths of a

country fair, and the temporary structures that we in Paris build round about public monuments that remain

unbuilt; the grotesque aspect of the mart as a whole was in keeping with the seething traffic of various kinds

carried on within it; for here in this shameless, unblushing haunt, amid wild mirth and a babel of talk, an

immense amount of business was transacted between the Revolution of 1789 and the Revolution of 1830.

For twenty years the Bourse stood just opposite, on the ground floor of the Palais. Public opinion was

manufactured, and reputations made and ruined here, just as political and financial jobs were arranged.

People made appointments to meet in the Galleries before or after 'Change; on showery days the Palais Royal

was often crowded with weatherbound capitalists and men of business. The structure which had grown up,

no one knew how, about this point was strangely resonant, laughter was multiplied; if two men quarreled, the

whole place rang from one end to the other with the dispute. In the daytime milliners and booksellers enjoyed

a monopoly of the place; towards nightfall it was filled with women of the town. Here dwelt poetry, politics,

and prose, new books and classics, the glories of ancient and modern literature side by side with political

intrigue and the tricks of the bookseller's trade. Here all the very latest and newest literature were sold to a

public which resolutely decline to buy elsewhere. Sometimes several thousand copies of such and such a

pamphlet by Paul Louis Courier would be sold in a single evening; and people crowded thither to buy Les

aventures de la fille d'un Roithat first shot fired by the Orleanists at The Charter promulgated by Louis

When Lucien made his first appearance in the Wooden Galleries, some few of the shops boasted proper

fronts and handsome windows, but these in every case looked upon the court or the garden. As for the centre

row, until the day when the whole strange colony perished under the hammer of Fontaine the architect, every

shop was open back and front like a booth in a country fair, so that from within you could look out upon

either side through gaps among the goods displayed or through the glass doors. As it was obviously

impossible to kindle a fire, the tradesmen were fain to use charcoal chafingdishes, and formed a sort of

brigade for the prevention of fires among themselves; and, indeed, a little carelessness might have set the

whole quarter blazing in fifteen minutes, for the plankbuilt republic, dried by the heat of the sun, and

haunted by too inflammable human material, was bedizened with muslin and paper and gauze, and ventilated

The milliners' windows were full of impossible hats and bonnets, displayed apparently for advertisement

rather than for sale, each on a separate iron spit with a knob at the top. The galleries were decked out in all

the colors of the rainbow. On what heads would those dusty bonnets end their careers?for a score of years

the problem had puzzled frequenters of the Palais. Saleswomen, usually plainfeatured, but vivacious,

waylaid the feminine foot passenger with cunning importunities, after the fashion of marketwomen, and

using much the same language; a shopgirl, who made free use of her eyes and tongue, sat outside on a stool

and harangued the public with "Buy a pretty bonnet, madame?Do let me sell you something!"varying a

rich and picturesque vocabulary with inflections of the voice, with glances, and remarks upon the passersby.

But it was in the passage known by the pompous title of the "Glass Gallery" that the oddest trades were

carried on. Here were ventriloquists and charlatans of every sort, and sights of every description, from the

kind where there is nothing to see to panoramas of the globe. One man who has since made seven or eight

hundred thousand francs by traveling from fair to fair began here by hanging out a signboard, a revolving sun

in a blackboard, and the inscription in red letters: "Here Man may see what God can never see. Admittance,

two sous." The showman at the door never admitted one person alone, nor more than two at a time. Once

inside, you confronted a great lookingglass; and a voice, which might have terrified Hoffmann of Berlin,

suddenly spoke as if some spring had been touched, "You see here, gentlemen, something that God can never

see through all eternity, that is to say, your like. God has not His like." And out you went, too shamefaced to

Voices issued from every narrow doorway, crying up the merits of Cosmoramas, views of Constantinople,

marionettes, automatic chess players, and performing dogs who would pick you out the prettiest woman in

the company. The ventriloquist FritzJames flourished here in the Cafe Borel before he went to fight and fall

at Montmartre with the young lads from the Ecole polytechnique. Here, too, there were fruit and flower

shops, and a famous tailor whose goldlaced uniforms shone like the sun when the shops were lighted at

Of a morning the galleries were empty, dark, and deserted; the shopkeepers chatted among themselves.

Towards two o'clock in the afternoon the Palais began to fill; at three, men came in from the Bourse, and

Paris, generally speaking, crowded the place. Impecunious youth, hungering after literature, took the

opportunity of turning over the pages of the books exposed for sale on the stalls outside the booksellers'

shops; the men in charge charitably allowed a poor student to pursue his course of free studies; and in this

way a duodecimo volume of some two hundred pages, such as Smarra or Pierre Schlemihl, or Jean Sbogar or

Jocko, might be devoured in a couple of afternoons. There was something very French in this alms given to

the young, hungry, starved intellect. Circulating libraries were not as yet; if you wished to read a book, you

were obliged to buy it, for which reason novels of the early part of the century were sold in numbers which

But the poetry of this terrible mart appeared in all its splendor at the close of the day. Women of the town,

flocking in and out from the neighboring streets, were allowed to make a promenade of the Wooden

Galleries. Thither came prostitutes from every quarter of Paris to "do the Palais." The Stone Galleries

belonged to privileged houses, which paid for the right of exposing women dressed like princesses under such

and such an arch, or in the corresponding space of garden; but the Wooden Galleries were the common

ground of women of the streets. This was THE Palais, a word which used to signify the temple of

prostitution. A woman might come and go, taking away her prey whithersoever seemed good to her. So great

was the crowd attracted thither at night by the women, that it was impossible to move except at a slow pace,

as in a procession or at a masked ball. Nobody objected to the slowness; it facilitated examination. The

women dressed in a way that is never seen nowadays. The bodices cut extremely low both back and front; the

fantastical headdresses, designed to attract notice; here a cap from the Pays de Caux, and there a Spanish

mantilla; the hair crimped and curled like a poodle's, or smoothed down in bandeaux over the forehead; the

closefitting white stockings and limbs, revealed it would not be easy to say how, but always at the right

momentall this poetry of vice has fled. The license of question and reply, the public cynicism in keeping

with the haunt, is now unknown even at masquerades or the famous public balls. It was an appalling, gay

scene. The dazzling white flesh of the women's necks and shoulders stood out in magnificent contrast against

the men's almost invariably sombre costumes. The murmur of voices, the hum of the crowd, could be heard

even in the middle of the garden as a sort of droning bass, interspersed with fioriture of shrill laughter or

clamor of some rare dispute. You saw gentlemen and celebrities cheek by jowl with gallowsbirds. There

was something indescribably piquant about the anomalous assemblage; the most insensible of men felt its

charm, so much so, that, until the very last moment, Paris came hither to walk up and down on the wooden

planks laid over the cellars where men were at work on the new buildings; and when the squalid wooden

Ladvocat the bookseller had opened a shop but a few days since in the angle formed by the central passage

which crossed the galleries; and immediately opposite another bookseller, now forgotten, Dauriat, a bold and

youthful pioneer, who opened up the paths in which his rival was to shine. Dauriat's shop stood in the row

which gave upon the garden; Ladvocat's, on the opposite side, looked out upon the court. Dauriat's

establishment was divided into two parts; his shop was simply a great trade warehouse, and the second room

Lucien, on this first visit to the Wooden Galleries, was bewildered by a sight which no novice can resist. He

"If you were as goodlooking as yonder young fellow, I would give you your money's worth," a woman said,

Lucien slunk through the crowd like a blind man's dog, following the stream in a state of stupefaction and

excitement difficult to describe. Importuned by glances and whiterounded contours, dazzled by the

audacious display of bared throat and bosom, he gripped his roll of manuscript tightly lest somebody should

"Well, what is it, sir!" he exclaimed, thinking, when some one caught him by the arm, that his poetry had

proved too great a temptation to some author's honesty, and turning, he recognized Lousteau.

The poet was standing in the doorway of a shop crowded with persons waiting for an audience with the sultan

of the publishing trade. Printers, paperdealers, and designers were catechizing Dauriat's assistants as to

Lousteau drew Lucien into the shop. "There! that is Finot who edits my paper," he said; "he is talking with

Felicien Vernou, who has abilities, but the little wretch is as dangerous as a hidden disease."

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

"Well, and if I did, what then? You will get a seat. What do you want with Dauriat? Oh, it is agreed that we

are to push Paul de Kock, Dauriat has taken two hundred copies, and Victor Ducange is refusing to give him

his next. Dauriat wants to set up another man in the same line, he says. You must rate Paul de Kock above

"Very well, tell him that I wrote the article. It can be supposed that I wrote a slashing review, and you toned it

"Couldn't you get Dauriat's cashier to discount this bit of a bill for a hundred francs?" asked Etienne

Lousteau. "We are celebrating Florine's housewarming with a supper tonight, you know."

"Ah! yes, you are treating us all," said Finot, with an apparent effort of memory. "Here, Gabusson," he added,

handing Barbet's bill to the cashier, "let me have ninety francs for this individual.Fill in your name, old

Lousteau signed his name while the cashier counted out the money; and Lucien, all eyes and ears, lost not a

"That is not all, my friend," Etienne continued; "I don't thank you, we have sworn an eternal friendship. I

have taken it upon myself to introduce this gentleman to Dauriat, and you must incline his ear to listen to us."

"Your acquaintance cannot have had much to do with publishers, or he would have hidden his manuscript in

the loneliest spot in his dwelling," remarked Vernou, looking at Lucien as he spoke.

Just at that moment a goodlooking young man came into the shop, gave a hand to Finot and Lousteau, and

nodded slightly to Vernou. The newcomer was Emile Blondet, who had made his first appearance in the

Journal des Debats, with articles revealing capacities of the very highest order.

"Oh, Florine and Matifat the druggist," said Lousteau, "and du Bruel, the author who gave Florine the part in

which she is to make her first appearance, a little old fogy named Cardot, and his soninlaw Camusot, and

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

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

"That's right," said Lousteau, addressing his protege. "That young fellow is hardly any older than you are, and

he is on the Debats! He is one of the princes of criticism. They are afraid of him, Dauriat will fawn upon him,

and then we can put in a word about our business with the pasha of vignettes and type. Otherwise we might

have waited till eleven o'clock, and our turn would not have come. The crowd of people waiting to speak with

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

"What is he doing?" asked Blondet of the headclerk, who rose to bid him goodevening.

"He is buying a weekly newspaper. He wants to put new life into it, and set up a rival to the Minerve and the

Conservateur; Eymery has rather too much of his own way in the Minerve, and the Conservateur is too

Just as he spoke another young man entered; this was the writer of a magnificent novel which had sold very

rapidly and met with the greatest possible success. Dauriat was bringing out a second edition. The appearance

of this odd and extraordinary looking being, so unmistakably an artist, made a deep impression on Lucien's

Nathan, then in the prime of his youth, came up to the group of journalists, hat in hand; and in spite of his

look of fierce pride he was almost humble to Blondet, whom as yet he only knew by sight. Blondet did not

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

"to give expression to my gratitude for the splendid review which you were so good as to give me in the

"No, my dear fellow, no," said Blondet, with an air of patronage scarcely masked by goodnature. "You have

"Now that your review has appeared, I shall not seem to be courting power; we can feel at ease. Will you do

me the honor and the pleasure of dining with me tomorrow? Finot is coming.Lousteau, old man, you will

not refuse me, will you?" added Nathan, shaking Etienne by the hand."Ah, you are on the way to a great

future, monsieur," he added, turning again to Blondet; "you will carry on the line of Dussaults, Fievees, and

Geoffrois! Hoffmann was talking about you to a friend of mine, Claude Vignon, his pupil; he said that he

could die in peace, the Journal des Debats would live forever. They ought to pay you tremendously well."

"A hundred francs a column," said Blondet. "Poor pay when one is obliged to read the books, and read a

hundred before you find one worth interesting yourself in, like yours. Your work gave me pleasure, upon my

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

Lucien felt like an embryo among these men; he had admired Nathan's book, he had reverenced the author as

an immortal; Nathan's abject attitude before this critic, whose name and importance were both unknown to

"How if I should come to behave as he does?" he thought. "Is a man obliged to part with his

selfrespect?Pray put on your hat again, Nathan; you have written a great book, and the critic has only

These thoughts set the blood tingling in his veins. Scarce a minute passed but some young author,

povertystricken and shy, came in, asked to speak with Dauriat, looked round the crowded shop despairingly,

and went out saying, "I will come back again." Two or three politicians were chatting over the convocation of

the Chambers and public business with a group of wellknown public men. The weekly newspaper for which

Dauriat was in treaty was licensed to treat of matters political, and the number of newspapers suffered to exist

was growing smaller and smaller, till a paper was a piece of property as much in demand as a theatre. One of

the largest shareholders in the Constitutionnel was standing in the midst of the knot of political celebrities.

Lousteau performed the part of cicerone to admiration; with every sentence he uttered Dauriat rose higher in

Lucien's opinion. Politics and literature seemed to converge in Dauriat's shop. He had seen a great poet

prostituting his muse to journalism, humiliating Art, as woman was humiliated and prostituted in those

shameless galleries without, and the provincial took a terrible lesson to heart. Money! That was the key to

every enigma. Lucien realized the fact that he was unknown and alone, and that the fragile clue of an

uncertain friendship was his sole guide to success and fortune. He blamed the kind and loyal little circle for

painting the world for him in false colors, for preventing him from plunging into the arena, pen in hand. "I

Only a little while ago they had sat looking out over Paris from the Gardens of the Luxembourg, and

Lousteau had uttered the cry of a wounded eagle; then Lousteau had been a great man in Lucien's eyes, and

now he had shrunk to scarce visible proportions. The really important man for him at this moment was the

fashionable bookseller, by whom all these men lived; and the poet, manuscript in hand, felt a nervous tremor

that was almost like fear. He noticed a group of busts mounted on wooden pedestals, painted to resemble

marble; Byron stood there, and Goethe and M. de Canalis. Dauriat was hoping to publish a volume by the

lastnamed poet, who might see, on his entrance into the shop, the estimation in which he was held by the

trade. Unconsciously Lucien's own selfesteem began to shrink, and his courage ebbed. He began to see how

large a part this Dauriat would play in his destinies, and waited impatiently for him to appear.

"Well, children," said a voice, and a short, stout man appeared, with a puffy face that suggested a Roman

proconsul's visage, mellowed by an air of goodnature which deceived superficial observers. "Well,

children, here am I, the proprietor of the only weekly paper in the market, a paper with two thousand

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

"Twelve thousand, on my sacred word of honorI said two thousand for the benefit of the printers and

paperdealers yonder," he added, lowering his voice, then raising it again. "I thought you had more tact, my

"It's a bargain, if you will take Emile Blondet here on the staff, and Claude Vignon, Scribe, Theodore

"Why not the people out there in the street?" asked Dauriat, scowling at the author of the Marguerites."To

"One moment, Dauriat," said Lousteau. "I have brought this gentleman to you. Listen to me, while Finot is

Lucien watched this Dauriat, who addressed Finot with the familiar tu, which even Finot did not permit

himself to use in reply; who called the redoubtable Blondet "my boy," and extended a hand royally to Nathan

with a friendly nod. The provincial poet felt his shirt wet with perspiration when the formidable sultan looked

"Another piece of business, my boy!" exclaimed Dauriat. "Why, I have eleven hundred manuscripts on hand,

as you know! Yes, gentlemen, I have eleven hundred manuscripts submitted to me at this moment; ask

Gabusson. I shall soon be obliged to start a department to keep account of the stock of manuscripts, and a

special office for reading them, and a committee to vote on their merits, with numbered counters for those

who attend, and a permanent secretary to draw up the minutes for me. It will be a kind of local branch of the

Academie, and the Academicians will be better paid in the Wooden Galleries than at the Institut."

"A bad idea," returned Dauriat. "It is not my business to take stock of the lucubrations of those among you

who take to literature because they cannot be capitalists, and there is no opening for them as bootmakers, nor

corporals, nor domestic servants, nor officials, nor bailiffs. Nobody comes here until he has made a name for

himself! Make a name for yourself, and you will find gold in torrents. I have made three great men in the last

two years; and lo and behold three examples of ingratitude! Here is Nathan talking of six thousand francs for

the second edition of his book, which cost me three thousand francs in reviews, and has not brought in a

thousand yet. I paid a thousand francs for Blondet's two articles, besides a dinner, which cost me five

"But if all booksellers talked as you do, sir, how could a man publish his first book at all?" asked Lucien.

Blondet had gone down tremendously in his opinion since he had heard the amount given by Dauriat for the

"That is not my affair," said Dauriat, looking daggers at this handsome young fellow, who was smiling

pleasantly at him. "I do not publish books for amusement, nor risk two thousand francs for the sake of seeing

my money back again. I speculate in literature, and publish forty volumes of ten thousand copies each, just as

Panckouke does and the Baudoins. With my influence and the articles which I secure, I can push a business

of a hundred thousand crowns, instead of a single volume involving a couple of thousand francs. It is just as

much trouble to bring out a new name and to induce the public to take up an author and his book, as to make

a success with the Theatres etrangers, Victoires et Conquetes, or Memoires sur la Revolution, books that

bring in a fortune. I am not here as a steppingstone to future fame, but to make money, and to find it for men

with distinguished names. The manuscripts for which I give a hundred thousand francs pay me better than

work by an unknown author who asks six hundred. If I am not exactly a Maecenas, I deserve the gratitude of

literature; I have doubled the prices of manuscripts. I am giving you this explanation because you are a friend

of Lousteau's my boy," added Dauriat, clapping Lucien on the shoulder with odious familiarity. "If I were to

talk to all the authors who have a mind that I should be their publisher, I should have to shut up shop; I

should pass my time very agreeably no doubt, but the conversations would cost too much. I am not rich

enough yet to listen to all the monologues of selfconceit. Nobody does, except in classical tragedies on the

The terrible Dauriat's gorgeous raiment seemed in the provincial poet's eyes to add force to the man's

"Gabusson, my friend," he said, "from this day forward, when anybody begins to talk of works in manuscript

hereDo you hear that, all of you?" he broke in upon himself; and three assistants at once emerged from

among the piles of books at the sound of their employer's wrathful voice. "If anybody comes here with

manuscripts," he continued, looking at the fingernails of a wellkept hand, "ask him whether it is poetry or

prose; and if he says poetry, show him the door at once. Verses mean reverses in the booktrade."

"It is true!" cried the bookseller, striding about his shop with Lucien's manuscript in his hand. "You have no

idea, gentlemen, of the amount of harm that Byron, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Casimir Delavigne, Canalis, and

Beranger have done by their success. The fame of them has brought down an invasion of barbarians upon us.

I know THIS: there are a thousand volumes of manuscript poetry going the round of the publishers at this

moment, things that nobody can make head nor tail of, stories in verse that begin in the middle, like The

Corsair and Lara. They set up to be original, forsooth, and indulge in stanzas that nobody can understand, and

descriptive poetry after the pattern of the younger men who discovered Delille, and imagine that they are

doing something new. Poets have been swarming like cockchafers for two years past. I have lost twenty

thousand francs through poetry in the last twelvemonth. You ask Gabusson! There may be immortal poets

somewhere in the world; I know of some that are blooming and rosy, and have no beards on their chins as

yet," he continued, looking at Lucien; "but in the trade, young man, there are only four poets Beranger,

Casimir Delavigne, Lamartine, and Victor Hugo; as for Canalishe is a poet made by sheer force of writing

Lucien felt that he lacked the courage to hold up his head and show his spirit before all these influential

persons, who were laughing with all their might. He knew very well that he should look hopelessly

ridiculous, and yet he felt consumed by a fierce desire to catch the bookseller by the throat, to ruffle the

insolent composure of his cravat, to break the gold chain that glittered on the man's chest, trample his watch

under his feet, and tear him in pieces. Mortified vanity opened the door to thoughts of vengeance, and

"Poetry is like the sun," said Blondet, "giving life alike to primeval forests and to ants and gnats and

mosquitoes. There is no virtue but has a vice to match, and literature breeds the publisher."

"Just what I say," answered Lousteau, seeing the knowing smile that went round the group. Lucien could not

"Very well, I will read them," said Dauriat, with a regal gesture that marked the full extent of the concession.

"If these sonnets of yours are up to the level of the nineteenth century, I will make a great poet of you, my

"If he has brains to equal his good looks, you will run no great risks," remarked one of the greatest public

speakers of the day, a deputy who was chatting with the editor of the Minerve, and a writer for the

"Fame means twelve thousand francs in reviews, and a thousand more for dinners, General," said Dauriat. "If

M. Benjamin de Constant means to write a paper on this young poet, it will not be long before I make a

At the title of General, and the distinguished name of Benjamin Constant, the bookseller's shop took the

"Lousteau, I want a word with you," said Finot; "but I shall see you again later, at the theatre.Dauriat, I

"Come in, my boy," answered Dauriat, allowing Finot to pass before him. Then, intimating to some ten

persons still waiting for him that he was engaged, he likewise was about to disappear when Lucien

Lousteau hurried Lucien away; he had not time to take leave of Vernou and Blondet and Raoul Nathan, nor to

salute General Foy nor Benjamin Constant, whose book on the Hundred Days was just about to appear.

Lucien scarcely caught a glimpse of fair hair, a refined ovalshaped face, keen eyes, and the

pleasantlooking mouth belonging to the man who had played the part of a Potemkin to Mme. de Stael for

twenty years, and now was at war with the Bourbons, as he had been at war with Napoleon. He was destined

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

"To the PanoramaDramatique; look sharp, and you shall have thirty sous," Etienne Lousteau called to the

cabman."Dauriat is a rascal who sells books to the amount of fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand francs

every year. He is a kind of Minister of Literature," Lousteau continued. His selfconceit had been pleasantly

tickled, and he was showing off before Lucien. "Dauriat is just as grasping as Barbet, but it is on a wholesale

scale. Dauriat can be civil, and he is generous, but he has a great opinion of himself; as for his wit, it consists

in a faculty for picking up all that he hears, and his shop is a capital place to frequent. You meet all the best

men at Dauriat's. A young fellow learns more there in an hour than by poring over books for halfascore of

years. People talk about articles and concoct subjects; you make the acquaintance of great or influential

people who may be useful to you. You must know people if you mean to get on nowadays.It is all luck,

you see. And as for sitting by yourself in a corner alone with your intellect, it is the most dangerous thing of

"Pshaw! we all of us laugh at Dauriat," said Etienne. "If you are in need of him, he tramples upon you; if he

has need of the Journal des Debats, Emile Blondet sets him spinning like a top. Oh, if you take to literature,

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

"Why do you choose to suffer? You find your subject, you wear out your wits over it with toiling at night,

you throw your very life into it: and after all your journeyings in the fields of thought, the monument reared

with your lifeblood is simply a good or a bad speculation for a publisher. Your work will sell or it will not

sell; and therein, for them, lies the whole question. A book means so much capital to risk, and the better the

book, the less likely it is to sell. A man of talent rises above the level of ordinary heads; his success varies in

direct ratio with the time required for his work to be appreciated. And no publisher wants to wait. Today's

book must be sold by tomorrow. Acting on this system, publishers and booksellers do not care to take real

"Do you know d'Arthez?" asked Lousteau. "I know of no more dangerous company than solitary spirits like

that fellow yonder, who fancy that they can draw the world after them. All of us begin by thinking that we are

capable of great things; and when once a youthful imagination is heated by this superstition, the candidate for

posthumous honors makes no attempt to move the world while such moving of the world is both possible and

profitable; he lets the time go by. I am for Mahomet's systemif the mountain does not come to me, I am for

The commonsense so trenchantly put in this sally left Lucien halting between the resignation preached by

the brotherhood and Lousteau's militant doctrine. He said not a word till they reached the Boulevard du

The PanoramaDramatique no longer exists. A dwellinghouse stands on the site of the once charming

theatre in the Boulevard du Temple, where two successive managements collapsed without making a single

hit; and yet Vignol, who has since fallen heir to some of Potier's popularity, made his debut there; and

Florine, five years later a celebrated actress, made her first appearance in the theatre opposite the Rue

Charlot. Playhouses, like men, have their vicissitudes. The PanoramaDramatique suffered from

competition. The machinations of its rivals, the Ambigu, the Gaite, the Porte SaintMartin, and the

Vaudeville, together with a plethora of restrictions and a scarcity of good plays, combined to bring about the

downfall of the house. No dramatic author cared to quarrel with a prosperous theatre for the sake of the

PanoramaDramatique, whose existence was, to say the least, problematical. The management at this

moment, however, was counting on the success of a new melodramatic comedy by M. du Bruel, a young

author who, after working in collaboration with divers celebrities, had now produced a piece professedly

entirely his own. It had been specially composed for the leading lady, a young actress who began her stage

career as a supernumerary at the Gaite, and had been promoted to small parts for the last twelvemonth. But

though Mlle. Florine's acting had attracted some attention, she obtained no engagement, and the Panorama

accordingly had carried her off. Coralie, another actress, was to make her debut at the same time.

Lucien was amazed at the power wielded by the press. "This gentleman is with me," said Etienne Lousteau,

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

A certain amount of time was wasted in controversies with the box keepers in the lobbies, when Etienne

said, "Let us go behind the scenes; we will speak to the manager, he will take us into the stage box; and

At a sign from Etienne Lousteau, the doorkeeper of the orchestra took out a little key and unlocked a door in

the thickness of the wall. Lucien, following his friend, went suddenly out of the lighted corridor into the

black darkness of the passage between the house and the wings. A short flight of damp steps surmounted, one

of the strangest of all spectacles opened out before the provincial poet's eyes. The height of the roof, the

slenderness of the props, the ladders hung with Argand lamps, the atrocious ugliness of scenery beheld at

close quarters, the thick paint on the actors' faces, and their outlandish costumes, made of such coarse

materials, the stage carpenters in greasy jackets, the firemen, the stage manager strutting about with his hat on

his head, the supernumeraries sitting among the hanging backscenes, the ropes and pulleys, the

heterogeneous collection of absurdities, shabby, dirty, hideous, and gaudy, was something so altogether

different from the stage seen over the footlights, that Lucien's astonishment knew no bounds. The curtain was

just about to fall on a good oldfashioned melodrama entitled Bertram, a play adapted from a tragedy by

Maturin which Charles Nodier, together with Byron and Sir Walter Scott, held in the highest esteem, though

"Keep a tight hold of my arm, unless you have a mind to fall through a trapdoor, or bring down a forest on

your head; you will pull down a palace, or carry off a cottage, if you are not careful," said Etienne. "Is

Florine in her dressingroom, my pet?" he added, addressing an actress who stood waiting for her cue.

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

"Come, don't spoil your entry, little one. Quick with you, look sharp, and say, 'Stop, wretched man!' nicely,

Lucien was struck with amazement when the girl's whole face suddenly changed, and she shrieked, "Stop,

wretched man!" a cry that froze the blood in your veins. She was no longer the same creature.

"It is like the bookseller's shop in the Wooden Galleries, or a literary paper," said Etienne Lousteau; "it is a

"Why, I am doing the minor theatres for the Gazette until something better turns up."

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

"Lousteau, dear boy, who is the handsome young man that you have brought with you?" asked the actress,

"A great poet, dear, that will have a famous name one of these days. M. Nathan, I must introduce M.

"I read your book two days ago; and, upon my word, I cannot understand how you, who have written such a

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

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

"In the morning I hold the views of my paper," said Nathan, "in the evening I think as I please; all journalists

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

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

"Who carries off women in these days" said Florville (she who had cried, "Stop, wretched man!"). "We

stayed at SaintMande for ten days, and my prince got off with paying the forfeit money to the management.

The manager will go down on his knees to pray for some more Russian princes," Florville continued,

"And as for you, child," said Finot, turning to a pretty girl in a peasant's costume, "where did you steal these

"No, a blacking manufacturer, an Englishman, who has gone off already. It is not everybody who can find

millionaire shopkeepers, tired of domestic life, whenever they like, as Florine does and Coralie. Aren't they

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

"If you want a success," said Nathan, "instead of screaming, 'He is saved!' like a Fury, walk on quite quietly,

go to the staircase, and say, 'He is saved,' in a chest voice, like Pasta's 'O patria,' in Tancreda.There, go

"Went down on her knees and showed her bosom; that is her great resource," said the blackingmaker's

"The manager is giving up the stage box to us; you will find me there when you come," said Finot, as

At the back of the stage, through a labyrinth of scenery and corridors, the pair climbed several flights of stairs

and reached a little room on a third floor, Nathan and Felicien Vernou following them.

"Goodday or goodnight, gentlemen," said Florine. Then, turning to a short, stout man standing in a corner,

"These gentlemen are the rulers of my destiny," she said, my future is in their hands; but they will be under

"Forgotten! You are going to have Blondet of the Debats," said Etienne, "the genuine Blondet, the very

"Oh! Lousteau, you dear boy! stop, I must give you a kiss," and she flung her arms about the journalist's

Florine was thin; her beauty, like a bud, gave promise of the flower to come; the girl of sixteen could only

delight the eyes of artists who prefer the sketch to the picture. All the quick subtlety of her character was

visible in the features of the charming actress, who at that time might have sat for Goethe's Mignon. Matifat,

a wealthy druggist of the Rue des Lombards, had imagined that a little Boulevard actress would have no very

expensive tastes, but in eleven months Florine had cost him sixty thousand francs. Nothing seemed more

extraordinary to Lucien than the sight of an honest and worthy merchant standing like a statue of the god

Terminus in the actress' narrow dressingroom, a tiny place some ten feet square, hung with a pretty

wallpaper, and adorned with a fulllength mirror, a sofa, and two chairs. There was a fireplace in the

dressingcloset, a carpet on the floor, and cupboards all round the room. A dresser was putting the finishing

touches to a Spanish costume; for Florine was to take the part of a countess in an imbroglio.

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

"By the by, darlings, you will take care of me tomorrow, won't you?" said Florine, turning to the three

journalists. "I have engaged cabs for tonight, for I am going to send you home as tipsy as Shrove Tuesday.

Matifat has sent in winesoh! wines worthy of Louis XVIII., and engaged the Prussian ambassador's cook."

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

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

"But here is some one that I do not know," Florine continued, confronting Lucien. "Which of you has

imported the Apollo Belvedere from Florence? He is as charming as one of Girodet's figures."

"He is a poet, mademoiselle, from the provinces. I forgot to present him to you; you are so beautiful tonight

Just then the author of the play suddenly entered, and Lucien beheld M. du Bruel, a short, attenuated young

man in an overcoat, a composite human blend of the jackinoffice, the owner of houseproperty, and the

"Florine, child," said this personage, "are you sure of your part, eh? No slips of memory, you know. And

mind that scene in the second act, make the irony tell, bring out that subtle touch; say, 'I do not love you,' just

"What does it matter to you," said Florine, "so long as I don't say such things to you, great stupid?Oh! his

stupidity is the pleasure of my life," she continued, glancing at the journalist. "Upon my word, I would pay

"Yes, but you will look at me when you say it, as you do when you are rehearsing, and it gives me a turn,"

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

Lucien and Lousteau were the last to go. Lousteau set a kiss on Florine's shoulder, and Lucien heard her say,

"Not tonight. Impossible. That stupid old animal told his wife that he was going out into the country."

"Oh! you know nothing of Parisian life, my boy. Some things cannot be helped. Suppose that you fell in love

with a married woman, it comes to the same thing. It all depends on the way that you look at it."

Etienne and Lucien entered the stagebox, and found the manager there with Finot. Matifat was in the

groundfloor box exactly opposite with a friend of his, a silkmercer named Camusot (Coralie's protector),

and a worthy little old soul, his fatherinlaw. All three of these city men were polishing their operaglasses,

and anxiously scanning the house; certain symptoms in the pit appeared to disturb them. The usual

heterogeneous firstnight elements filled the boxesjournalists and their mistresses, lorettes and their

lovers, a sprinkling of the determined playgoers who never miss a first night if they can help it, and a very

few people of fashion who care for this sort of sensation. The first box was occupied by the head of a

department, to whom du Bruel, maker of vaudevilles, owed a snug little sinecure in the Treasury.

Lucien had gone from surprise to surprise since the dinner at Flicoteaux's. For two months Literature had

meant a life of poverty and want; in Lousteau's room he had seen it at its cynical worst; in the Wooden

Galleries he had met Literature abject and Literature insolent. The sharp contrasts of heights and depths; of

compromise with conscience; of supreme power and want of principle; of treachery and pleasure; of mental

elevation and bondageall this made his head swim, he seemed to be watching some strange unheardof

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

"Du Bruel has tried to do something in Beaumarchais' style. Boulevard audiences don't care for that kind of

thing; they like harrowing sensations; wit is not much appreciated here. Everything depends on Florine and

Coralie tonight; they are bewitchingly pretty and graceful, wear very short skirts, and dance a Spanish

dance, and possibly they may carry off the piece with the public. The whole affair is a gambling speculation.

A few clever notices in the papers, and I may make a hundred thousand crowns, if the play takes."

"Three of the theatres have got up a plot," continued the manager; "they will even hiss the piece, but I have

made arrangements to defeat their kind intentions. I have squared the men in their pay; they will make a

muddle of it. A couple of city men yonder have taken a hundred tickets apiece to secure a triumph for Florine

and Coralie, and given them to acquaintances able and ready to act as chuckers out. The fellows, having been

paid twice, will go quietly, and a scene of that sort always makes a good impression on the house."

"Yes. With two more actresses as handsomely kept as Florine and Coralie, I should make something out of

For the past two hours the word money had been sounding in Lucien's ears as the solution of every difficulty.

In the theatre as in the publishing trade, and in the publishing trade as in the newspaper officeit was

everywhere the same; there was not a word of art or of glory. The steady beat of the great pendulum, Money,

seemed to fall like hammerstrokes on his heart and brain. And yet while the orchestra played the overture,

while the pit was full of noisy tumult of applause and hisses, unconsciously he drew a comparison between

this scene and others that came up in his mind. Visions arose before him of David and the printingoffice, of

the poetry that he came to know in that atmosphere of pure peace, when together they beheld the wonders of

Art, the high successes of genius, and visions of glory borne on stainless wings. He thought of the evenings

"Is there nothing for it but to cringe and submit to thickheads like Matifat and Camusot, as actresses bow

"My boy, do you see that dullbrained fellow?" said Etienne, lowering his voice, and glancing at Finot. "He

has neither genius nor cleverness, but he is covetous; he means to make a fortune at all costs, and he is a keen

man of business. Didn't you see how he made forty per cent out of me at Dauriat's, and talked as if he were

doing me a favor?Well, he gets letters from not a few unknown men of genius who go down on their knees

The words recalled the penandink sketch that lay on the table in the editor's office and the words, "Finot,

The curtain rose, and the stagemanager went off to the wings to give orders. Finot turned to Etienne.

"My dear fellow, Dauriat has passed his word; I am proprietor of one third of his weekly paper. I have

agreed to give thirty thousand francs in cash, on condition that I am to be editor and director. 'Tis a splendid

thing. Blondet told me that the Government intends to take restrictive measures against the press; there will

be no new papers allowed; in six months' time it will cost a million francs to start a new journal, so I struck a

bargain though I have only ten thousand francs in hand. Listen to me. If you can sell onehalf of my share,

that is onesixth of the paper, to Matifat for thirty thousand francs, you shall be editor of my little paper with

a salary of two hundred and fifty francs per month. I want in any case to have the control of my old paper,

and to keep my hold upon it; but nobody need know that, and your name will appear as editor. You will be

paid at the rate of five francs per column; you need not pay contributors more than three francs, and you keep

the difference. That means another four hundred and fifty francs per month. But, at the same time, I reserve

the right to use the paper to attack or defend men or causes, as I please; and you may indulge your own likes

and dislikes so long as you do not interfere with my schemes. Perhaps I may be a Ministerialist, perhaps

Ultra, I do not know yet; but I mean to keep up my connections with the Liberal party (below the surface). I

can speak out with you; you are a good fellow. I might, perhaps, give you the Chambers to do for another

paper on which I work; I am afraid I can scarcely keep on with it now. So let Florine do this bit of jockeying;

tell her to put the screw on her druggist. If I can't find the money within fortyeight hours, I must cry off my

bargain. Dauriat sold another third to his printer and paperdealer for thirty thousand francs; so he has his

own third gratis, and ten thousand francs to the good, for he only gave fifty thousand for the whole affair.

And in another year's time the magazine will be worth two hundred thousand francs, if the Court buys it up; if

"If you had gone through all that I have endured, you would not say that of me. I had my fill of misery in

those days, you see, and there was no help for it. My father is a hatter; he still keeps a shop in the Rue du

Coq. Nothing but millions of money or a social cataclysm can open out the way to my goal; and of the two

alternatives, I don't know now that the revolution is not the easier. If I bore your friend's name, I should have

a chance to get on. Hush, here comes the manager. Goodbye," and Finot rose to his feet, "I am going to the

Opera. I shall very likely have a duel on my hands tomorrow, for I have put my initials to a terrific attack on

a couple of dancers under the protection of two Generals. I am giving it them hot and strong at the Opera."

"Yes. They are stingy with me," returned Finot, "now cutting off a box, and now declining to take fifty

subscriptions. I have sent in my ultimatum; I mean to have a hundred subscriptions out of them and a box

four times a month. If they take my terms, I shall have eight hundred readers and a thousand paying

"YOU are not much hurt with your ten subscriptions. I had two good notices put into the Constitutionnel."

"Goodbye till tomorrow evening, Lousteau," said Finot. "You can give me your answer at the Francais;

there is a new piece on there; and as I shall not be able to write the notice, you can take my box. I will give

you preference; you have worked yourself to death for me, and I am grateful. Felicien Vernou offered twenty

thousand francs for a third share of my little paper, and to work without a salary for a twelvemonth; but I

"He is a gallowsbird that will get on in the world," said Etienne, careless whether the wily schemer

"HE!" said the manager. "He will be a millionaire; he will enjoy the respect of all who know him; he may

"Good heavens! what a den!" said Lucien. "And are you going to drag that excellent creature into such a

business?" he continued, looking at Florine, who gave them side glances from the stage.

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

"They redeem their failings and expiate all their sins by boundless love, when they love," said the manager.

"A great love is all the grander in an actress by reason of its violent contrast with her surroundings."

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

"But Coralie is not attending to her part," remarked the manager. "Coralie is smitten with our friend here, all

unsuspicious of his conquest, and Coralie will make a fiasco; she is missing her cues, this is the second time

she had not heard the prompter. Pray, go into the corner, monsieur," he continued. "If Coralie is smitten with

"No! no!" cried Lousteau; "tell Coralie that this gentleman is coming to supper, and that she can do as she

The manager went, and Lucien turned to Etienne. "What! do you mean to say that you will ask that druggist,

through Mlle. Florine, to pay thirty thousand francs for onehalf a share, when Finot gave no more for the

Lousteau interrupted Lucien before he had time to finish his expostulation. "My dear boy, what country can

you come from? The druggist is not a man; he is a strong box delivered into our hands by his fancy for an

"Conscience, my dear fellow, is a stick which every one takes up to beat his neighbor and not for application

to his own back. Come, now! who the devil are you angry with? In one day chance has worked a miracle for

you, a miracle for which I have been waiting these two years, and you must needs amuse yourself by finding

fault with the means? What! you appear to me to possess intelligence; you seem to be in a fair way to reach

that freedom from prejudice which is a first necessity to intellectual adventurers in the world we live in; and

are you wallowing in scruples worthy of a nun who accuses herself of eating an egg with concupiscence? . . .

If Florine succeeds, I shall be editor of a newspaper with a fixed salary of two hundred and fifty francs per

month; I shall take the important plays and leave the vaudevilles to Vernou, and you can take my place and

do the Boulevard theatres, and so get a foot in the stirrup. You will make three francs per column and write a

column a daythirty columns a month means ninety francs; you will have some sixty francs worth of books

to sell to Barbet; and lastly, you can demand ten tickets a month of each of your theatresthat is, forty

tickets in alland sell them for forty francs to a Barbet who deals in them (I will introduce you to the man),

so you will have two hundred francs coming in every month. Then if you make yourself useful to Finot, you

might get a hundred francs for an article in this new weekly review of his, in which case you would show

uncommon talent, for all the articles are signed, and you cannot put in slipshod work as you can on a small

paper. In that case you would be making a hundred crowns a month. Now, my dear boy, there are men of

ability, like that poor d'Arthez, who dines at Flicoteaux's every day, who may wait for ten years before they

will make a hundred crowns; and you will be making four thousand francs a year by your pen, to say nothing

"Now, a subprefect's salary only amounts to a thousand crowns, and there he stops in his arrondissement,

wearing away time like the rung of a chair. I say nothing of the pleasure of going to the theatre without

paying for your seat, for that is a delight which quickly palls; but you can go behind the scenes in four

theatres. Be hard and sarcastic for a month or two, and you will be simply overwhelmed with invitations from

actresses, and their adorers will pay court to you; you will only dine at Flicoteaux's when you happen to have

less than thirty sous in your pocket and no dinner engagement. At the Luxembourg, at five o'clock, you did

not know which way to turn; now, you are on the eve of entering a privileged class, you will be one of the

hundred persons who tell France what to think. In three days' time, if all goes well, you can, if you choose,

make a man's life a curse to him by putting thirty jokes at his expense in print at the rate of three a day; you

can, if you choose, draw a revenue of pleasure from the actresses at your theatres; you can wreck a good play

and send all Paris running after a bad one. If Dauriat declines to pay you for your Marguerites, you can make

him come to you, and meekly and humbly implore you to take two thousand francs for them. If you have the

ability, and knock off two or three articles that threaten to spoil some of Dauriat's speculations, or to ruin a

book on which he counts, you will see him come climbing up your stairs like a clematis, and always at the

door of your dwelling. As for your novel, the booksellers who would show you more or less politely to the

door at this moment will be standing outside your attic in a string, and the value of the manuscript, which old

Doguereau valued at four hundred francs will rise to four thousand. These are the advantages of the

journalist's profession. So let us do our best to keep all newcomers out of it. It needs an immense amount of

brains to make your way, and a still greater amount of luck. And here are you quibbling over your good

fortune! If we had not met today, you see, at Flicoteaux's, you might have danced attendance on the

booksellers for another three years, or starved like d'Arthez in a garret. By the time that d'Arthez is as learned

as Bayle and as great a writer of prose as Rousseau, we shall have made our fortunes, you and I, and we shall

hold his in our handswealth and fame to give or to hold. Finot will be a deputy and proprietor of a great

newspaper, and we shall be whatever we meant to bepeers of France, or prisoner for debt in

"So Finot will sell his paper to the highest bidder among the Ministers, just as he sells favorable notices to

Mme. Bastienne and runs down Mlle. Virginie, saying that Mme. Bastienne's bonnets are superior to the

millinery which they praised at first!" said Lucien, recollecting that scene in the office.

"My dear fellow, you are a simpleton," Lousteau remarked drily. "Three years ago Finot was walking on the

uppers of his boots, dining for eighteen sous at Tabar's, and knocking off a tradesman's prospectus (when he

could get it) for ten francs. His clothes hung together by some miracle as mysterious as the Immaculate

Conception. NOW, Finot has a paper of his own, worth about a hundred thousand francs. What with

subscribers who pay and take no copies, genuine subscriptions, and indirect taxes levied by his uncle, he is

making twenty thousand francs a year. He dines most sumptuously every day; he has set up a cabriolet within

the last month; and now, at last, behold him the editor of a weekly review with a sixth share, for which he

will not pay a penny, a salary of five hundred francs per month, and another thousand francs for supplying

matter which costs him nothing, and for which the firm pays. You yourself, to begin with, if Finot consents to

pay you fifty francs per sheet, will be only too glad to let him have two or three articles for nothing. When

you are in his position, you can judge Finot; a man can only be tried by his peers. And for you, is there not an

immense future opening out before you, if you will blindly minister to his enmity, attack at Finot's bidding,

and praise when he gives the word? Suppose that you yourself wish to be revenged upon somebody, you can

break a foe or friend on the wheel. You have only to say to me, 'Lousteau, let us put an end to Soandso,'

and we will kill him by a phrase put in the paper morning by morning; and afterwards you can slay the slain

with a solemn article in Finot's weekly. Indeed, if it is a matter of capital importance to you, Finot would

allow you to bludgeon your man in a big paper with ten or twelve thousand subscribers, IF you make yourself

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

"Quite sure. Now comes the interval, I will go and tell her everything at once in a word or two; it will be

settled tonight. If Florine once has her lesson by heart, she will have all my wit and her own besides."

"And there sits that honest tradesman, gaping with openmouthed admiration at Florine, little suspecting that

"More twaddle! Anybody might think that the man was going to be robbed!" cried Lousteau. "Why, my dear

boy, if the minister buys the newspaper, the druggist may make twenty thousand francs in six months on an

investment of thirty thousand. Matifat is not looking at the newspaper, but at Florine's prospects. As soon as

it is known that Matifat and Camusot(for they will go shares)that Matifat and Camusot are proprietors

of a review, the newspapers will be full of friendly notices of Florine and Coralie. Florine's name will be

made; she will perhaps obtain an engagement in another theatre with a salary of twelve thousand francs. In

fact, Matifat will save a thousand francs every month in dinners and presents to journalists. You know

"And he will be sawn in two with arguments until Florine sees Finot's receipt for a sixth share of the paper.

And tomorrow I shall be editor of Finot's paper, and making a thousand francs a month. The end of my

Lousteau went out, and Lucien sat like one bewildered, lost in the infinite of thought, soaring above this

everyday world. In the Wooden Galleries he had seen the wires by which the trade in books is moved; he has

seen something of the kitchen where great reputations are made; he had been behind the scenes; he had seen

the seamy side of life, the consciences of men involved in the machinery of Paris, the mechanism of it all. As

he watched Florine on the stage he almost envied Lousteau his good fortune; already, for a few moments he

had forgotten Matifat in the background. He was not left alone for long, perhaps for not more than five

Thoughts rose within him that set his soul on fire, as the spectacle on the stage had heated his senses. He

looked at the women with their wanton eyes, all the brighter for the red paint on their cheeks, at the gleaming

bare necks, the luxuriant forms outlined by the lascivious folds of the basquina, the very short skirts, that

displayed as much as possible of limbs encased in scarlet stockings with green clocks to thema disquieting

A double process of corruption was working within him in parallel lines, like two channels that will spread

sooner or later in flood time and make one. That corruption was eating into Lucien's soul, as he leaned back

in his corner, staring vacantly at the curtain, one arm resting on the crimson velvet cushion, and his hand

drooping over the edge. He felt the fascination of the life that was offered to him, of the gleams of light

among its clouds; and this so much the more keenly because it shone out like a blaze of fireworks against the

Suddenly his listless eyes became aware of a burning glance that reached him through a rent in the curtain,

and roused him from his lethargy. Those were Coralie's eyes that glowed upon him. He lowered his head and

That amateur was a worthy silkmercer of the Rue des Bourdonnais, stout and substantial, a judge in the

commercial court, a father of four children, and the husband of a second wife. At the age of fifty six, with a

cap of gray hair on his head, he had the smug appearance of a man who has his eighty thousand francs of

income; and having been forced to put up with a good deal that he did not like in the way of business, has

fully made up his mind to enjoy the rest of his life, and not to quit this earth until he has had his share of

cakes and ale. A brow the color of fresh butter and florid cheeks like a monk's jowl seemed scarcely big

enough to contain his exuberant jubilation. Camusot had left his wife at home, and they were applauding

Coralie to the skies. All the rich man's citizen vanity was summed up and gratified in Coralie; in Coralie's

lodging he gave himself the airs of a great lord of a bygone day; now, at this moment, he felt that half of her

success was his; the knowledge that he had paid for it confirmed him in this idea. Camusot's conduct was

sanctioned by the presence of his fatherinlaw, a little old fogy with powdered hair and leering eyes, highly

Again Lucien felt disgust rising within him. He thought of the year when he loved Mme. de Bargeton with an

exalted and disinterested love; and at that thought love, as a poet understands it, spread its white wings about

him; countless memories drew a circle of distant blue horizon about the great man of Angouleme, and again

"He is thinking about as much of you as of the Grand Turk, my dear girl," Florine said in an aside while

Lucien could not help laughing. He looked at Coralie. She was one of the most charming and captivating

actresses in Paris, rivaling Mme. Perrin and Mlle. Fleuriet, and destined likewise to share their fate. Coralie

was a woman of a type that exerts at will a power of fascination over men. With an oval face of deep ivory

tint, a mouth red as a pomegranate, and a chin subtly delicate in its contour as the edge of a porcelain cup,

Coralie was a Jewess of the sublime type. The jet black eyes behind their curving lashes seemed to scorch her

eyelids; you could guess how soft they might grow, or how sparks of the heat of the desert might flash from

them in response to a summons from within. The circles of olive shadow about them were bounded by thick

arching lines of eyebrow. Magnificent mental power, wellnigh amounting to genius, seemed to dwell in the

swarthy forehead beneath the double curve of ebony hair that lay upon it like a crown, and gleamed in the

light like a varnished surface; but like many another actress, Coralie had little wit in spite of her aptness at

greenroom repartee, and scarcely any education in spite of her boudoir experience. Her brain was prompted

by her senses, her kindness was the impulsive warmheartedness of girls of her class. But who could trouble

over Coralie's psychology when his eyes were dazzled by those smooth, round arms of hers, the

spindleshaped fingers, the fair white shoulders, and breast celebrated in the Song of Songs, the flexible

curving lines of throat, the graciously moulded outlines beneath the scarlet silk stockings? And this beauty,

worthy of an Eastern poet, was brought into relief by the conventional Spanish costume of the stage. Coralie

was the delight of the pit; all eyes dwelt on the outlines moulded by the clinging folds of her bodice, and

lingered over the Andalusian contour of the hips from which her skirt hung, fluttering wantonly with every

movement. To Lucien, watching this creature, who played for him alone, caring no more for Camusot than a

streetboy in the gallery cares for an appleparing, there came a moment when he set desire above love, and

"I know nothing of the love that wallows in luxury and wine and sensual pleasure," he said within himself. "I

have lived more with ideas than with realities. You must pass through all experience if you mean to render all

experience. This will be my first great supper, my first orgy in a new and strange world; why should I not

know, for once, the delights which the great lords of the eighteenth century sought so eagerly of wantons of

the Opera? Must one not first learn of courtesans and actresses the delights, the perfections, the transports, the

resources, the subtleties of love, if only to translate them afterwards into the regions of a higher love than

this? And what is all this, after all, but the poetry of the senses? Two months ago these women seemed to me

to be goddesses guarded by dragons that no one dared approach; I was envying Lousteau just now, but here is

another handsomer than Florine; why should I not profit by her fancy, when the greatest nobles buy a night

with such women with their richest treasures? When ambassadors set foot in these depths, they fling aside all

thought of yesterday or tomorrow. I should be a fool to be more squeamish than princes, especially as I love

Lucien had quite forgotten Camusot. To Lousteau he had expressed the utmost disgust for this most hateful of

all partitions, and now he himself had sunk to the same level, and, carried away by the casuistry of his

"Coralie is raving about you," said Lousteau as he came in. "Your countenance, worthy of the greatest Greek

sculptors, has worked unutterable havoc behind the scenes. You are in luck my dear boy. Coralie is eighteen

years old, and in a few days' time she may be making sixty thousand francs a year by her beauty. She is an

honest girl still. Since her mother sold her three years ago for sixty thousand francs, she has tried to find

happiness, and found nothing but annoyance. She took to the stage in a desperate mood; she has a horror of

her first purchaser, de Marsay; and when she came out of the galleys, for the king of dandies soon dropped

her, she picked up old Camusot. She does not care much about him, but he is like a father to her, and she

endures him and his love. Several times already she has refused the handsomest proposals; she is faithful to

Camusot, who lets her live in peace. So you are her first love. The first sight of you went to her heart like a

pistolshot, Florine has gone to her dressingroom to bring the girl to reason. She is crying over your cruelty;

she has forgotten her part, the play will go to pieces, and goodday to the engagement at the Gymnase which

"Pooh! . . . Poor thing!" said Lucien. Every instinct of vanity was tickled by the words; he felt his heart swell

high with selfconceit. "More adventures have befallen me in this one evening, my dear fellow, than in all

the first eighteen years of my life." And Lucien related the history of his love affairs with Mme. de Bargeton,

"Stay though! the newspaper wants a bete noire; we will take him up. The Baron is a buck of the Empire and

a Ministerialist; he is the man for us; I have seen him many a time at the Opera. I can see your great lady as I

sit here; she is often in the Marquise d'Espard's box. The Baron is paying court to your lady love, a cuttlefish

bone that she is. Wait! Finot has just sent a special messenger round to say that they are short of copy at the

office. Young Hector Merlin has left them in the lurch because they did not pay for white lines. Finot, in

despair, is knocking off an article against the Opera. Well now, my dear fellow, you can do this play; listen to

it and think it over, and I will go to the manager's office and think out three columns about your man and

"It is always like this," answered Lousteau. "These ten months that I have been a journalist, they have always

Manuscript sent to the printer is spoken of as "copy," doubtless because the writers are supposed to send in a

fair copy of their work; or possibly the word is ironically derived from the Latin word copia, for copy is

"We always mean to have a few numbers ready in advance, a grand idea that will never be realized,"

continued Lousteau. "It is ten o'clock, you see, and not a line has been written. I shall ask Vernou and Nathan

for a score of epigrams on deputies, or on 'Chancellor Cruzoe,' or on the Ministry, or on friends of ours if it

needs must be. A man in this pass would slaughter his parent, just as a privateer will load his guns with silver

pieces taken out of the booty sooner than perish. Write a brilliant article, and you will make brilliant progress

in Finot's estimation; for Finot has a lively sense of benefits to come, and that sort of gratitude is better than

any kind of pledge, pawntickets always excepted, for they invariably represent something solid."

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

"Just exactly as a lamp begins to burn when you apply a matchso long as there is any oil in it."

"Permit me, monsieur, to take a message to Coralie; allow me to tell her that you will go home with her after

supper, or my play will be ruined. The wretched girl does not know what she is doing or saying; she will cry

when she ought to laugh and laugh when she ought to cry. She has been hissed once already. You can still

"Pray don't tell her that!" cried the manager. "Coralie is just the girl to fling Camusot overboard and ruin

herself in good earnest. The proprietor of the Golden Cocoon, worthy man, allows her two thousand francs a

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

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

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

The author vanished with a signal to Coralie, who began to act forthwith in a marvelous way. Vignol, who

played the part of the alcalde, and revealed for the first time his genius as an actor of old men, came forward

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

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

"CORALIE! CORALIE!" shouted the enraptured house. "Florine, too!" roared a voice of thunder from the

The curtain rose, Vignol reappeared between the two actresses; Matifat and Camusot flung wreaths on the

For him those two hours spent in the theatre seemed to be a dream. The spell that held him had begun to work

when he went behind the scenes; and, in spite of its horrors, the atmosphere of the place, its sensuality and

dissolute morals had affected the poet's still untainted nature. A sort of malaria that infects the soul seems to

lurk among those dark, filthy passages filled with machinery, and lit with smoky, greasy lamps. The

solemnity and reality of life disappear, the most sacred things are matter for a jest, the most impossible things

seem to be true. Lucien felt as if he had taken some narcotic, and Coralie had completed the work. He

The lights in the great chandelier were extinguished; there was no one left in the house except the

boxkeepers, busy taking away footstools and shutting doors, the noises echoing strangely through the empty

theatre. The footlights, blown out as one candle, sent up a fetid reek of smoke. The curtain rose again, a

lantern was lowered from the ceiling, and firemen and stage carpenters departed on their rounds. The fairy

scenes of the stage, the rows of fair faces in the boxes, the dazzling lights, the magical illusion of new scenery

and costume had all disappeared, and dismal darkness, emptiness, and cold reigned in their stead. It was

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

Lucien sprang over. He scarcely recognized Florine and Coralie in their ordinary quilted paletots and cloaks,

with their faces hidden by hats and thick black veils. Two butterflies returned to the chrysalis stage could not

"With pleasure," said Lucien. He could feel the beating of her heart throbbing against his like some snared

bird as she nestled closely to his side, with something of the delight of a cat that rubs herself against her

The party of four found two cabs waiting for them at the door in the Rue des FossesduTemple. Coralie

drew Lucien to one of the two, in which Camusot and his fatherinlaw old Cardot were seated already. She

offered du Bruel a fifth place, and the manager drove off with Florine, Matifat, and Lousteau.

"WHY?" she asked pettishly. "I do not like to tell you before M. Cardot's face; for he trained his soninlaw,

no doubt. Would you believe it, little and old as he is, M. Cardot only gives Florine five hundred francs a

month, just about enough to pay for her rent and her grub and her clothes. The old Marquis de Rochegude

offered me a brougham two months ago, and he has six hundred thousand francs a year, but I am an artist and

"You shall have a carriage the day after tomorrow, miss," said Camusot benignly; "you never asked me for

"As if one ASKED for such a thing as that? What! you love a woman and let her paddle about in the mud at

the risk of breaking her legs? Nobody but a knight of the yardstick likes to see a draggled skirt hem."

As she uttered the sharp words that cut Camusot to the quick, she groped for Lucien's knee, and pressed it

against her own, and clasped her fingers upon his hand. She was silent. All her power to feel seemed to be

concentrated upon the ineffable joy of a moment which brings compensation for the whole wretched past of a

life such as these poor creatures lead, and develops within their souls a poetry of which other women, happily

"Yes," said Camusot, "something put her out at the beginning; but from the middle of the second act to the

very end, she was enough to drive you wild with admiration. Half of the success of your play was due to her."

"This is all much ado about nothing," said Coralie in an unfamiliar voice. And, seizing an opportunity in the

darkness, she carried Lucien's hand to her lips and kissed it and drenched it with tears. Lucien felt thrilled

through and through by that touch, for in the humility of the courtesan's love there is a magnificence which

"Are you writing the dramatic criticism, monsieur?" said du Bruel, addressing Lucien; "you can write a

"Oh! do us that little service!" pleaded Camusot, down on his knees, metaphorically speaking, before the

"Do leave him his independence," Coralie exclaimed angrily; "he will write what he pleases. Papa Camusot,

"You shall have them on very easy terms," Lucien answered politely. "I have never written for newspapers

before, so I am not accustomed to their ways, my maiden pen is at your disposal"

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

"If you are giving me the first fruits of your pen, the first love that has sprung up in my heart shall be yours,"

whispered Coralie in the brief instant that they remained alone together in the cab; then she went up to

Lucien had no idea how lavishly a prosperous merchant will spend money upon an actress or a mistress when

he means to enjoy a life of pleasure. Matifat was not nearly so rich a man as his friend Camusot, and he had

done his part rather shabbily, yet the sight of the dining room took Lucien by surprise. The walls were hung

with green cloth with a border of gilded nails, the whole room was artistically decorated, lighted by

handsome lamps, stands full of flowers stood in every direction. The drawingroom was resplendent with the

furniture in fashion in those daysa Thomire chandelier, a carpet of Eastern design, and yellow silken

hangings relieved by a brown border. The candlesticks, fireirons, and clock were all in good taste; for

Matifat had left everything to Grindot, a rising architect, who was building a house for him, and the young

man had taken great pains with the rooms when he knew that Florine was to occupy them.

Matifat, a tradesman to the backbone, went about carefully, afraid to touch the new furniture; he seemed to

have the totals of the bills always before his eyes, and to look upon the splendors about him as so much

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

Lucien at once began to understand Lousteau's indifference to the state of his garret. Etienne was the real

king of these festivals; Etienne enjoyed the use of all these fine things. He was standing just now on the

hearthrug with his back to the fire, as if he were the master of the house, chatting with the manager, who was

"Copy, copy!" called Finot, coming into the room. "There is nothing in the box; the printers are setting up my

"We will manage," said Etienne. "There is a fire burning in Florine's boudoir; there is a table there; and if M.

Matifat will find us paper and ink, we will knock off the newspaper while Florine and Coralie are dressing."

Cardot, Camusot, and Matifat disappeared in search of quills, penknives, and everything necessary. Suddenly

the door was flung open, and Tullia, one of the prettiest operadancers of the day, dashed into the room.

"They agree to take the hundred copies, dear boy!" she cried, addressing Finot; "they won't cost the

management anything, for the chorus and the orchestra and the corps de ballet are to take them whether they

like it or not; but your paper is so clever that nobody will grumble. And you are going to have your boxes.

Here is the subscription for the first quarter," she continued, holding out a couple of banknotes; "so don't cut

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

"What a happy inspiration, divine Lais!" exclaimed Blondet, who had followed the lady upstairs and brought

Nathan, Vernou and Claude Vignon with him. "Stop to supper, there is a dear, or I will crush thee, butterfly

as thou art. There will be no professional jealousies, as you are a dancer; and as to beauty, you have all of you

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

"Very well; Nathan, Vernou, and du Bruel will make the jokes at the end; and Blondet, good fellow, surely

will vouchsafe a couple of short columns for the first sheet. I will run round to the printer. It is lucky that you

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

"A German? They are the ones to drink, and they listen too; he shall hear some astonishing things to send

"Is there any sufficiently serious personage to go down to speak to him?" asked Finot. "Here, du Bruel, you

are an official; bring up the Duc de Rhetore and the Minister, and give your arm to Tullia. Dear me! Tullia,

"No, fourteen," said a voice in the doorway, and Florentine appeared. "I have come to look after 'milord

"I brought him here to drink," returned Blondet, taking up an inkstand. "Look here, all of you, you must use

all your wit before those fiftysix bottles of wine drive it out. And, of all things, stir up du Bruel; he is a

vaudevillist, he is capable of making bad jokes if you get him to concert pitch."

And Lucien wrote his first newspaper article at the round table in Florine's boudoir, by the light of the pink

candles lighted by Matifat; before such a remarkable audience he was eager to show what he could do.

First performance of the Alcalde in a Fix, an imbroglio in three acts.First appearance of Mademoiselle

People are coming and going, walking and talking, everybody is looking for something, nobody finds

anything. General hubbub. The Alcalde has lost his daughter and found his cap, but the cap does not fit; it

must belong to some thief. Where is the thief? People walk and talk, and come and go more than ever. Finally

the Alcalde finds a man without his daughter, and his daughter without the man, which is satisfactory for the

magistrate, but not for the audience. Quiet being resorted, the Alcalde tries to examine the man. Behold a

venerable Alcalde, sitting in an Alcalde's great armchair, arranging the sleeves of his Alcalde's gown. Only in

Spain do Alcaldes cling to their enormous sleeves and wear plaited lawn ruffles about the magisterial throat,

a good half of an Alcalde's business on the stage in Paris. This particular Alcalde, wheezing and waddling

about like an asthmatic old man, is Vignol, on whom Potier's mantle has fallen; a young actor who personates

old age so admirably that the oldest men in the audience cannot help laughing. With that quavering voice of

his, that bald forehead, and those spindle shanks trembling under the weight of a senile frame, he may look

forward to a long career of decrepitude. There is something alarming about the young actor's old age; he is so

very old; you feel nervous lest senility should be infectious. And what an admirable Alcalde he makes! What

a delightful, uneasy smile! what pompous stupidity! what wooden dignity! what judicial hesitation! How well

the man knows that black may be white, or white black! How eminently well he is fitted to be Minister to a

constitutional monarch! The stranger answers every one of his inquiries by a question; Vignol retorts in such

a fashion, that the person under examination elicits all the truth from the Alcalde. This piece of pure comedy,

with a breath of Moliere throughout, puts the house in good humor. The people on the stage all seemed to

understand what they were about, but I am quite unable to clear up the mystery, or to say wherein it lay; for

the Alcalde's daughter was there, personified by a living, breathing Andalusian, a Spaniard with a Spaniard's

eyes, a Spaniard's complexion, a Spaniard's gait and figure, a Spaniard from top to toe, with her poniard in

her garter, love in her heart, and a cross on the ribbon about her neck. When the act was over, and somebody

asked me how the piece was going, I answered, "She wears scarlet stockings with green clocks to them; she

has a little foot, no larger than THAT, in her patent leather shoes, and the prettiest pair of ankles in

Andalusia!" Oh! that Alcalde's daughter brings your heart into your mouth; she tantalizes you so horribly,

that you long to spring upon the stage and offer her your thatched hovel and your heart, or thirty thousand

livres per annum and your pen. The Andalusian is the loveliest actress in Paris. Coralie, for she must be

called by her real name, can be a countess or a grisette, and in which part she would be more charming one

cannot tell. She can be anything that she chooses; she is born to achieve all possibilities; can more be said of

With the second act, a Parisian Spaniard appeared upon the scene, with her features cut like a cameo and her

dangerous eyes. "Where does she come from?" I asked in my turn, and was told that she came from the

greenroom, and that she was Mademoiselle Florine; but, upon my word, I could not believe a syllable of it,

such spirit was there in her gestures, such frenzy in her love. She is the rival of the Alcalde's daughter, and

married to a grandee cut out to wear an Almaviva's cloak, with stuff sufficient in it for a hundred boulevard

noblemen. Mlle. Florine wore neither scarlet stockings with green clocks, nor patent leather shoes, but she

appeared in a mantilla, a veil which she put to admirable uses, like the great lady that she is! She showed to

admiration that the tigress can be a cat. I began to understand, from the sparkling talk between the two, that

some drama of jealousy was going on; and just as everything was put right, the Alcalde's stupidity embroiled

everybody again. Torchbearers, rich men, footmen, Figaros, grandees, alcaldes, dames, and damselsthe

whole company on the stage began to eddy about, and come and go, and look for one another. The plot

thickened, again I left it to thicken; for Florine the jealous and the happy Coralie had entangled me once more

in the folds of mantilla and basquina, and their little feet were twinkling in my eyes.

I managed, however, to reach the third act without any mishap. The commissary of police was not compelled

to interfere, and I did nothing to scandalize the house, wherefore I begin to believe in the influence of that

"public and religious morality," about which the Chamber of Deputies is so anxious, that any one might think

there was no morality left in France. I even contrived to gather that a man was in love with two women who

failed to return his affection, or else that two women were in love with a man who loved neither of them; the

man did not love the Alcalde, or the Alcalde had no love for the man, who was nevertheless a gallant

gentleman, and in love with somebody, with himself, perhaps, or with heaven, if the worst came to the worst,

for he becomes a monk. And if you want to know any more, you can go to the PanoramaDramatique. You

are hereby given fair warningyou must go once to accustom yourself to those irresistible scarlet stockings

with the green clocks, to little feet full of promises, to eyes with a ray of sunlight shining through them, to the

subtle charm of a Parisienne disguised as an Andalusian girl, and of an Andalusian masquerading as a

Parisienne. You must go a second time to enjoy the play, to shed tears over the lovedistracted grandee, and

die of laughing at the old Alcalde. The play is twice a success. The author, who writes it, it is said, in

collaboration with one of the great poets of the day, was called before the curtain, and appeared with a

lovedistraught damsel on each arm, and fairly brought down the excited house. The two dancers seemed to

have more wit in their legs than the author himself; but when once the fair rivals left the stage, the dialogue

seemed witty at once, a triumphant proof of the excellence of the piece. The applause and calls for the author

caused the architect some anxiety; but M. de Cursy, the author, being accustomed to volcanic eruptions of the

reeling Vesuvius beneath the chandelier, felt no tremor. As for the actresses, they danced the famous bolero

of Seville, which once found favor in the sight of a council of reverend fathers, and escaped ecclesiastical

censure in spite of its wanton dangerous grace. The bolero in itself would be enough to attract old age while

there is any lingering heat of youth in the veins, and out of charity I warn these persons to keep the lenses of

While Lucien was writing a column which was to set a new fashion in journalism and reveal a fresh and

original gift, Lousteau indited an article of the kind described as moeursa sketch of contemporary manners,

"The buck of the Empire," he wrote, "is invariably long, slender, and well preserved. He wears a corset and

the Cross of the Legion of Honor. His name was originally Potelet, or something very like it; but to stand

well with the Court, he conferred a du upon himself, and du Potelet he is until another revolution. A baron of

the Empire, a man of two ends, as his name (Potelet, a post) implies, he is paying his court to the Faubourg

SaintGermain, after a youth gloriously and usefully spent as the agreeable trainbearer of a sister of the man

whom decency forbids me to mention by name. Du Potelet has forgotten that he was once in waiting upon

Her Imperial Highness; but he still sings the songs composed for the benefactress who took such a tender

interest in his career," and so forth and so forth. It was a tissue of personalities, silly enough for the most part,

such as they used to write in those days. Other papers, and notably the Figaro, have brought the art to a

curious perfection since. Lousteau compared the Baron to a heron, and introduced Mme. de Bargeton, to

whom he was paying his court, as a cuttlefish bone, a burlesque absurdity which amused readers who knew

neither of the personages. A tale of the loves of the Heron, who tried in vain to swallow the Cuttlefish bone,

which broke into three pieces when he dropped it, was irresistibly ludicrous. Everybody remembers the

sensation which the pleasantry made in the Faubourg SaintGermain; it was the first of a series of similar

articles, and was one of the thousand and one causes which provoked the rigorous press legislation of Charles

An hour later, Blondet, Lousteau, and Lucien came back to the drawing room, where the other guests were

chatting. The Duke was there and the Minister, the four women, the three merchants, the manager, and Finot.

A printer's devil, with a paper cap on his head, was waiting even then for copy.

"If I give them the money, sir, they would take to tippleography, and goodnight to the newspaper."

"That boy's commonsense is appalling to me," remarked Finot; and the Minister was in the middle of a

prediction of a brilliant future for the urchin, when the three came in. Blondet read aloud an extremely clever

article against the Romantics; Lousteau's paragraph drew laughter, and by the Duc de Rhetore's advice an

indirect eulogium of Mme. d'Espard was slipped in, lest the whole Faubourg SaintGermain should take

And Lucien read, quaking for fear, but the room rang with applause when he finished; the actresses embraced

the neophyte; and the two merchants, following suit, half choked the breath out of him. There were tears in

du Bruel's eyes as he grasped his critic's hand, and the manager invited him to dinner.

"There are no children nowadays," said Blondet. "Since M. de Chateaubriand called Victor Hugo a 'sublime

child,' I can only tell you quite simply that you have spirit and taste, and write like a gentleman."

"He is on the newspaper," said Finot, as he thanked Etienne, and gave him a shrewd glance.

*** "Now, that M. le Vicomte d'A is attracting so much attention, they will perhaps let ME alone," M.

*** An Ultra, condemning M. Pasquier's speech, said his programme was only a continuation of Decaze's

policy. "Yes," said a lady, "but he stands on a Monarchical basis, he has just the kind of leg for a Court suit."

"With such a beginning, I don't ask more of you," said Finot; "it will be all right.Run round with this," he

added, turning to the boy; "the paper is not exactly a genuine article, but it is our best number yet," and he

turned to the group of writers. Already Lucien's colleagues were privately taking his measure.

The Duke gave his arm to Florine, Coralie went across to Lucien, and Tullia went in to supper between Emile

"I cannot understand why you are making an onslaught on Mme. de Bargeton and the Baron du Chatelet; they

say that he is prefect designate of the Charente, and will be Master of Requests some day."

"Mme. de Bargeton showed Lucien the door as if he had been an imposter," said Lousteau.

Supper, served with new plate, Sevres porcelain, and white damask, was redolent of opulence. The dishes

were from Chevet, the wines from a celebrated merchant on the Quai SaintBernard, a personal friend of

Matifat's. For the first time Lucien beheld the luxury of Paris displayed; he went from surprise to surprise, but

he kept his astonishment to himself, like a man who had spirit and taste and wrote like a gentleman, as

As they crossed the drawingroom, Coralie bent to Florine, "Make Camusot so drunk that he will be

"So you have hooked your journalist, have you?" returned Florine, using the idiom of women of her class.

"No, dear; I love him," said Coralie, with an adorable little shrug of the shoulders.

Those words rang in Lucien's ears, borne to them by the fifth deadly sin. Coralie was perfectly dressed. Every

woman possesses some personal charm in perfection, and Coralie's toilette brought her characteristic beauty

into prominence. Her dress, moreover, like Florine's, was of some exquisite stuff, unknown as yet to the

public, a mousseline de soie, with which Camusot had been supplied a few days before the rest of the world;

for, as owner of the Golden Cocoon, he was a kind of Providence in Paris to the Lyons silkweavers.

Love and toilet are like color and perfume for a woman, and Coralie in her happiness looked lovelier than

ever. A lookedfor delight which cannot elude the grasp possesses an immense charm for youth; perhaps in

their eyes the secret of the attraction of a house of pleasure lies in the certainty of gratification; perhaps many

a long fidelity is attributable to the same cause. Love for love's sake, first love indeed, had blent with one of

the strange violent fancies which sometimes possess these poor creatures; and love and admiration of

What a saying for a poet! Camusot utterly vanished, Lucien had forgotten his existence, he saw Coralie, and

had eyes for nothing else. How should he draw backthis creature, all sensation, all enjoyment of life, tired

of the monotony of existence in a country town, weary of poverty, harassed by enforced continence,

impatient of the claustral life of the Rue de Cluny, of toiling without reward? The fascination of the under

world of Paris was upon him; how should he rise and leave this brilliant gathering? Lucien stood with one

foot in Coralie's chamber and the other in the quicksands of Journalism. After so much vain search, and

climbing of so many stairs, after standing about and waiting in the Rue de Sentier, he had found Journalism a

jolly boon companion, joyous over the wine. His wrongs had just been avenged. There were two for whom he

had vainly striven to fill the cup of humiliation and pain which he had been made to drink to the dregs, and

now tomorrow they should receive a stab in their very hearts. "Here is a real friend!" he thought, as he

looked at Lousteau. It never crossed his mind that Lousteau already regarded him as a dangerous rival. He

had made a blunder; he had done his very best when a colorless article would have served him admirably

well. Blondet's remark to Finot that it would be better to come to terms with a man of that calibre, had

counteracted Lousteau's gnawing jealousy. He reflected that it would be prudent to keep on good terms with

Lucien, and, at the same time, to arrange with Finot to exploit this formidable newcomerhe must be kept in

poverty. The decision was made in a moment, and the bargain made in a few whispered words.

"A supper among French journalists always fills me with dread," said the German diplomatist, with serene

urbanity; he looked as he spoke at Blondet, whom he had met at the Comtesse de Montcornet's. "It is laid

"When Blucher and Sacken arrived on the heights of Montmartre in 1814 (pardon me, gentlemen, for

recalling a day unfortunate for France), Sacken (a rough brute), remarked, 'Now we will set Paris alight!'

'Take very good care that you don't,' said Blucher. 'France will die of THAT, nothing else can kill her,' and he

waved his hand over the glowing, seething city, that lay like a huge canker in the valley of the Seine.There

are no journalists in our country, thank Heaven!" continued the Minister after a pause. "I have not yet

recovered from the fright that the little fellow gave me, a boy of ten, in a paper cap, with the sense of an old

diplomatist. And tonight I feel as if I were supping with lions and panthers, who graciously sheathe their

"It is clear," said Blondet, "that we are at liberty to inform Europe that a serpent dropped from your

Excellency's lips this evening, and that the venomous creature failed to inoculate Mlle. Tullia, the prettiest

dancer in Paris; and to follow up the story with a commentary on Eve, and the Scriptures, and the first and

"We would begin with a scientific treatise on all the serpents found in the human heart and human body, and

"And we could exhibit one in spirits, in a bottle of brandied cherries," said Vernou.

"Till you yourself would end by believing in the story," added Vignon, looking at the diplomatist.

"The influence and power of the press is only dawning," said Finot. "Journalism is in its infancy; it will grow.

In ten years' time, everything will be brought into publicity. The light of thought will be turned on all

"And therefore," said Blondet, "if the press did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it forthwith. But

"You will die of it," returned the German diplomatist. "Can you not see that if you enlighten the masses, and

raise them in the political scale, you make it all the harder for the individual to rise above their level? Can

you not see that if you sow the seeds of reasoning among the workingclasses, you will reap revolt, and be

"The streetlamps!" said Nathan; "but we are too modest to fear for ourselves, we only run the risk of

"As a nation, you have too much mental activity to allow any government to run its course without

interference. But for that, you would make the conquest of Europe a second time, and win with the pen all

"Journalism is an evil," said Claude Vignon. "The evil may have its uses, but the present Government is

resolved to put it down. There will be a battle over it. Who will give way? That is the question."

"The Government will give way," said Blondet. "I keep telling people that with all my might! Intellectual

power is THE great power in France; and the press has more wit than all men of intellect put together, and the

"Blondet! Blondet! you are going too far!" called Finot. "Subscribers are present."

"You are the proprietor of one of those poison shops; you have reason to be afraid; but I can laugh at the

"Blondet is right," said Claude Vignon. "Journalism, so far from being in the hands of a priesthood, came to

be first a party weapon, and then a commercial speculation, carried on without conscience or scruple, like

other commercial speculations. Every newspaper, as Blondet says, is a shop to which people come for

opinions of the right shade. If there were a paper for hunchbacks, it would set forth plainly, morning and

evening, in its columns, the beauty, the utility, and necessity of deformity. A newspaper is not supposed to

enlighten its readers, but to supply them with congenial opinions. Give any newspaper time enough, and it

will be base, hypocritical, shameless, and treacherous; the periodical press will be the death of ideas, systems,

and individuals; nay, it will flourish upon their decay. It will take the credit of all creations of the brain; the

harm that it does is done anonymously. We, for instanceI, Claude Vignon; you, Blondet; you, Lousteau;

and you, Finotwe are all Platos, Aristides, and Catos, Plutarch's men, in short; we are all immaculate; we

may wash our hands of all iniquity. Napoleon's sublime aphorism, suggested by his study of the Convention,

'No one individual is responsible for a crime committed collectively,' sums up the whole significance of a

phenomenon, moral or immoral, whichever you please. However shamefully a newspaper may behave, the

"The authorities will resort to repressive legislation," interposed du Bruel. "A law is going to be passed, in

"Pooh!" retorted Nathan. "What is the law in France against the spirit in which it is received, the most subtle

"Ideas and opinions can only be counteracted by opinions and ideas," Vignon continued. "By sheer terror and

despotism, and by no other means, can you extinguish the genius of the French nation; for the language lends

itself admirably to allusion and ambiguity. Epigram breaks out the more for repressive legislation; it is like

steam in an engine without a safetyvalve.The King, for example, does right; if a newspaper is against

him, the Minister gets all the credit of the measure, and vice versa. A newspaper invents a scandalous

libelit has been misinformed. If the victim complains, the paper gets off with an apology for taking so

great a freedom. If the case is taken into court, the editor complains that nobody asked him to rectify the

mistake; but ask for redress, and he will laugh in your face and treat his offence as a mere trifle. The paper

scoffs if the victim gains the day; and if heavy damages are awarded, the plaintiff is held up as an unpatriotic

obscurantist and a menace to the liberties of the country. In the course of an article purporting to explain that

Monsieur So andso is as honest a man as you will find in the kingdom, you are informed that he is not

better than a common thief. The sins of the press? Pooh! mere trifles; the curtailers of its liberties are

monsters; and give him time enough, the constant reader is persuaded to believe anything you please.

Everything which does not suit the newspaper will be unpatriotic, and the press will be infallible. One

religion will be played off against another, and the Charter against the King. The press will hold up the

magistracy to scorn for meting out rigorous justice to the press, and applaud its action when it serves the

cause of party hatred. The most sensational fictions will be invented to increase the circulation; Journalism

will descend to mountebanks' tricks worthy of Bobeche; Journalism would serve up its father with the Attic

salt of its own wit sooner than fail to interest or amuse the public; Journalism will outdo the actor who put his

son's ashes into the urn to draw real tears from his eyes, or the mistress who sacrifices everything to her

"The people with hypocrisy added and generosity lacking," said Vignon. "All real ability will be driven out

from the ranks of Journalism, as Aristides was driven into exile by the Athenians. We shall see newspapers

started in the first instance by men of honor, falling sooner or later into the hands of men of abilities even

lower than the average, but endowed with the resistance of flexibility of india rubber, qualities denied to

noble genius; nay, perhaps the future newspaper proprietor will be the tradesman with capital sufficient to

buy venal pens. We see such things already indeed, but in ten years' time every little youngster that has left

school will take himself for a great man, slash his predecessors from the lofty height of a newspaper column,

"Napoleon did wisely when he muzzled the press. I would wager that the Opposition papers would batter

down a government of their own setting up, just as they are battering the present government, if any demand

was refused. The more they have, the more they will want in the way of concessions. The parvenu journalist

will be succeeded by the starveling hack. There is no salve for this sore. It is a kind of corruption which

grows more and more obtrusive and malignant; the wider it spreads, the more patiently it will be endured,

until the day comes when newspapers shall so increase and multiply in the earth that confusion will be the

resulta second Babel. We, all of us, such as we are, have reason to know that crowned kings are less

ungrateful than kings of our profession; that the most sordid man of business is not so mercenary nor so keen

in speculation; that our brains are consumed to furnish their daily supply of poisonous trash. And yet we, all

of us, shall continue to write, like men who work in quicksilver mines, knowing that they are doomed to die

"Look there," he continued, "at that young man sitting beside Coralie what is his name? Lucien! He has a

beautiful face; he is a poet; and what is more, he is wittyso much the better for him. Well, he will cross the

threshold of one of those dens where a man's intellect is prostituted; he will put all his best and finest thought

into his work; he will blunt his intellect and sully his soul; he will be guilty of anonymous meannesses which

take the place of stratagem, pillage, and ratting to the enemy in the warfare of condottieri. And when, like

hundreds more, he has squandered his genius in the service of others who find the capital and do no work,

those dealers in poisons will leave him to starve if he is thirsty, and to die of thirst if he is starving."

"But, dear me," continued Claude Vignon, "_I_ knew all this, yet here am I in the galleys, and the arrival of

another convict gives me pleasure. We are cleverer, Blondet and I, than Messieurs This and That, who

speculate in our abilities, yet nevertheless we are always exploited by them. We have a heart somewhere

beneath the intellect; we have NOT the grim qualities of the man who makes others work for him. We are

indolent, we like to look on at the game, we are meditative, and we are fastidious; they will sweat our brains

"Florine is right," said Blondet; "let us leave the cure of public evils to those quacks the statesmen. As

"Do you know what Vignon puts me in mind of?" said Lousteau. "Of one of those fat women in the Rue du

A burst of laughter followed the sally, but it pleased Coralie. The merchants meanwhile ate and drank and

"What a nation this is! You see so much good in it and so much evil," said the Minister, addressing the Duc

And so, by the blessing of chance, Lucien, standing on the brink of the precipice over which he was destined

to fall, heard warnings on all sides. D'Arthez had set him on the right road, had shown him the noble method

of work, and aroused in him the spirit before which all obstacles disappear. Lousteau himself (partly from

selfish motives) had tried to warn him away by describing Journalism and Literature in their practical aspects.

Lucien had refused to believe that there could be so much hidden corruption; but now he had heard the

journalists themselves crying woe for their hurt, he had seen them at their work, had watched them tearing

That evening he had seen things as they are. He beheld the very heart's core of corruption of that Paris which

Blucher so aptly described; and so far from shuddering at the sight, he was intoxicated with enjoyment of the

These extraordinary men, clad in armor damascened by their vices, these intellects environed by cold and

brilliant analysis, seemed so far greater in his eyes than the grave and earnest members of the brotherhood.

And besides all this, he was reveling in his first taste of luxury; he had fallen under the spell. His capricious

instincts awoke; for the first time in his life he drank exquisite wines, this was his first experience of cookery

carried to the pitch of a fine art. A minister, a duke, and an operadancer had joined the party of journalists,

and wondered at their sinister power. Lucien felt a horrible craving to reign over these kings, and he thought

that he had power to win his kingdom. Finally, there was this Coralie, made happy by a few words of his. By

the bright light of the waxcandles, through the steam of the dishes and the fumes of wine, she looked

sublimely beautiful to his eyes, so fair had she grown with love. She was the loveliest, the most beautiful

actress in Paris. The brotherhood, the heaven of noble thoughts, faded away before a temptation that appealed

to every fibre of his nature. How could it have been otherwise? Lucien's author's vanity had just been

gratified by the praises of those who know; by the appreciation of his future rivals; the success of his articles

During the discussion, moreover, every one at table had made a remarkably good supper, and such wines are

not met with every day. Lousteau, sitting beside Camusot, furtively poured cherrybrandy several times into

his neighbor's wineglass, and challenged him to drink. And Camusot drank, all unsuspicious, for he thought

himself, in his own way, a match for a journalist. The jokes became more personal when dessert appeared and

the wine began to circulate. The German Minister, a keenwitted man of the world, made a sign to the Duke

and Tullia, and the three disappeared with the first symptoms of vociferous nonsense which precede the

grotesque scenes of an orgy in its final stage. Coralie and Lucien had been behaving like children all the

evening; as soon as the wine was uppermost in Camusot's head, they made good their escape down the

staircase and sprang into a cab. Camusot subsided under the table; Matifat, looking round for him, thought

that he had gone home with Coralie, left his guests to smoke, laugh, and argue, and followed Florine to her

room. Daylight surprised the party, or more accurately, the first dawn of light discovered one man still able to

speak, and Blondet, that intrepid champion, was proposing to the assembled sleepers a health to Aurora the

Lucien was unaccustomed to orgies of this kind. His head was very tolerably clear as he came down the

staircase, but the fresh air was too much for him; he was horribly drunk. When they reached the handsome

house in the Rue de Vendome, where the actress lived, Coralie and her waitingwoman were obliged to assist

the poet to climb to the first floor. Lucien was ignominiously sick, and very nearly fainted on the staircase.

"It is nothing; it is the air," Lucien got out, "and I have never taken so much before in my life."

"Poor boy! He is as innocent as a lamb," said Berenice, a stalwart Norman peasant woman as ugly as Coralie

was pretty. Lucien, half unconscious, was laid at last in bed. Coralie, with Berenice's assistance, undressed

"It is nothing," he murmured again and again. "It is the air. Thank you, mamma."

"What happiness to love such an angel, mademoiselle! Where did you pick him up? I did not think a man

could be as beautiful as you are," said Berenice, when Lucien lay in bed. He was very drowsy; he knew

nothing and saw nothing; Coralie made him swallow several cups of tea, and left him to sleep.

Ten hours later Lucien awoke to meet Coralie's eyes. She had watched by him as he slept; he knew it, poet

that he was. It was almost noon, but she still wore the delicate dress, abominably stained, which she meant to

lay up as a relic. Lucien understood all the selfsacrifice and delicacy of love, fain of its reward. He looked

into Coralie's eyes. In a moment she had flung off her clothing and slipped like a serpent to Lucien's side.

At five o'clock in the afternoon Lucien was still sleeping, cradled in this voluptuous paradise. He had caught

glimpses of Coralie's chamber, an exquisite creation of luxury, a world of rosecolor and white. He had

Coralie had already risen; for if she was to play her part as the Andalusian, she must be at the theatre by

seven o'clock. Yet she had returned to gaze at the unconscious poet, lulled to sleep in bliss; she could not

drink too deeply of this love that rose to rapture, drawing close the bond between the heart and the senses, to

steep both in ecstasy. For in that apotheosis of human passion, which of those that were twain on earth that

they might know bliss to the full creates one soul to rise to love in heaven, lay Coralie's justification. Who,

moreover, would not have found excuse in Lucien's more than human beauty? To the actress kneeling by the

bedside, happy in love within her, it seemed that she had received love's consecration. Berenice broke in upon

Lucien sprang up at once. Innate generosity suggested that he was doing Coralie an injury. Berenice drew

aside a curtain, and he fled into a dainty dressingroom, whither Coralie and the maid brought his clothes

Camusot appeared, and only then did Coralie's eyes alight on Lucien's boots, warming in the fender. Berenice

had privately varnished them, and put them before the fire to dry; and both mistress and maid alike forgot that

telltale witness. Berenice left the room with a scared glance at Coralie. Coralie flung herself into the depths

of a settee, and bade Camusot seat himself in the gondole, a roundbacked chair that stood opposite. But

Coralie's adorer, honest soul, dared not look his mistress in the face; he could not take his eyes off the pair of

"Ought I to make a scene and leave Coralie?" he pondered. "Is it worth while to make a fuss about a trifle?

There is a pair of boots wherever you go. These would be more in place in a shop window or taking a walk

on the boulevard on somebody's feet; here, however, without a pair of feet in them, they tell a pretty plain

tale. I am fifty years old, and that is the truth; I ought to be as blind as Cupid himself."

There was no excuse for this meanspirited monologue. The boots were not the highlows at present in

vogue, which an unobservant man may be allowed to disregard up to a certain point. They were the

unmistakable, uncompromising hessians then prescribed by fashion, a pair of extremely elegant betasseled

boots, which shone in glistening contrast against tightfitting trousers invariably of some light color, and

reflected their surroundings like a mirror. The boots stared the honest silkmercer out of countenance, and, it

"Ring the bell," said Coralie, smiling to herself at Camusot's want of spirit."Berenice," she said, when the

Norman handmaid appeared, "just bring me a buttonhook, for I must put on these confounded boots again.

"And whose should they be?" she demanded haughtily. "Were you beginning to believe?great stupid! Oh!

and he would believe it too," she went on, addressing Berenice."I have a man's part in What'shis name's

piece, and I have never worn a man's clothes in my life before. The bootmaker for the theatre brought me

these things to try if I could walk in them, until a pair can be made to measure. He put them on, but they hurt

"Don't put them on again if they are uncomfortable," said Camusot. (The boots had made him feel so very

"Mademoiselle would do better to have a pair made of very thin morocco, sir, instead of torturing herself as

she did just now; but the management is so stingy. She was crying, sir; if I was a man and loved a woman, I

"Just this moment; I only came in at six o'clock after looking for you everywhere. I was obliged to keep the

cab for seven hours. So much for your care of me; you forget me for a winebottle. I ought to take care of

myself now when I am to play every night so long as the Alcalde draws. I don't want to fall off after that

"Do you think so? I don't admire men of that sort; they are too much like women; and they do not understand

how to love like you stupid old business men. You are so bored with your own society."

"You were nicely screwed yesterday. Ah! Papa Camusot, I don't like men who drink, I tell you at once"

"Oh! yes. I would rather do that than pay as Florine does. There, go away with you, goodfornothing that

"You shall go in your own carriage tomorrow to your manager's dinner at the Rocher de Cancale. The new

"Come, I am just going to dine," said Coralie, hurrying Camusot out of the room.

An hour later Berenice came to release Lucien. Berenice, Coralie's companion since her childhood, had a

"Stay here," she said. "Coralie is coming back alone; she even talked of getting rid of Camusot if he is in your

way; but you are too much of an angel to ruin her, her heart's darling as you are. She wants to clear out of

this, she says; to leave this paradise and go and live in your garret. Oh! there are those that are jealous and

envious of you, and they have told her that you haven't a brass farthing, and live in the Latin Quarter; and I

should go, too, you see, to do the house work.But I have just been comforting her, poor child! I have

been telling her that you were too clever to do anything so silly. I was right, wasn't I, sir? Oh! you will see

that you are her darling, her love, the god to whom she gives her soul; yonder old fool has nothing but the

body.If you only knew how nice she is when I hear her say her part over! My Coralie, my little pet, she is!

She deserved that God in heaven should send her one of His angels. She was sick of the life.She was so

unhappy with her mother that used to beat her, and sold her. Yes, sir, sold her own child! If I had a daughter,

I would wait on her hand and foot as I wait on Coralie; she is like my own child to me.These are the first

good times she has seen since I have been with her; the first time that she has been really applauded. You

have written something, it seems, and they have got up a famous claque for the second performance. Braulard

"Who? Braulard?" asked Lucien; it seemed to him that he had heard the name before.

"He is the head of the claqueurs, and she was arranging with him the places where she wished him to look

after her. Florine might try to play her some shabby trick, and take all for herself, for all she calls herself her

friend. There is such a talk about your article on the Boulevards.Isn't it a bed fit for a prince," she said,

She lighted the waxcandles, and to Lucien's bewildered fancy, the house seemed to be some palace in the

Cabinet des Fees. Camusot had chosen the richest stuffs from the Golden Cocoon for the hangings and

windowcurtains. A carpet fit for a king's palace was spread upon the floor. The carving of the rosewood

furniture caught and imprisoned the light that rippled over its surface. Priceless trifles gleamed from the white

marble chimneypiece. The rug beside the bed was of swan's skins bordered with sable. A pair of little, black

velvet slippers lined with purple silk told of happiness awaiting the poet of The Marguerites. A dainty lamp

hung from the ceiling draped with silk. The room was full of flowering plants, delicate white heaths and

scentless camellias, in stands marvelously wrought. Everything called up associations of innocence. How was

it possible in these rooms to see the life that Coralie led in its true colors? Berenice noticed Lucien's

"Isn't it nice?" she said coaxingly. "You would be more comfortable here, wouldn't you, than in a

garret?You won't let her do anything rash?" she continued, setting a costly stand before him, covered with

dishes abstracted from her mistress' dinnertable, lest the cook should suspect that her mistress had a lover in

Lucien made a good dinner. Berenice waiting on him, the dishes were of wrought silver, the painted porcelain

plates had cost a louis d'or apiece. The luxury was producing exactly the same effect upon him that the sight

of a girl walking the pavement, with her bare flaunting throat and neat ankles, produces upon a schoolboy.

"Lucky?" repeated Berenice. "He would willingly give all that he is worth to be in your place; he would be

She gave Lucien the richest wine that Bordeaux keeps for the wealthiest English purchaser, and persuaded

Lucien to go to bed to take a preliminary nap; and Lucien, in truth, was quite willing to sleep on the couch

that he had been admiring. Berenice had read his wish, and felt glad for her mistress.

At halfpast ten that night Lucien awoke to look into eyes brimming over with love. There stood Coralie in

most luxurious night attire. Lucien had been sleeping; Lucien was intoxicated with love, and not with wine.

"At eleven o'clock. We will have breakfast in bed. I am not at home to anybody before two o'clock."

At two o'clock in the afternoon Coralie and her lover were sitting together. The poet to all appearance had

come to pay a call. Lucien had been bathed and combed and dressed. Coralie had sent to Colliau's for a dozen

fine shirts, a dozen cravats and a dozen pocket handkerchiefs for him, as well as twelve pairs of gloves in a

cedar wood box. When a carriage stopped at the door, they both rushed to the window, and watched

"I am too poor to allow you to ruin yourself for me," he replied. And thus Lucien passed under the Caudine

"Poor pet," said Coralie, holding him tightly to her, "do you love me so much?I persuaded this gentleman

to call on me this morning," she continued, indicating Lucien to Camusot, who entered the room. "I thought

"Go without me," said Camusot in a melancholy voice; "I shall not dine with you. It is my wife's birthday, I

"Poor Musot, how badly bored you will be!" she said, putting her arms about his neck.

She was wild with joy at the thought that she and Lucien would handsel this gift together; she would drive

with him in the new carriage; and in her happiness, she seemed to love Camusot, she lavished caresses upon

"Now, sir, it is two o'clock," she said, turning to Lucien, who stood in distress and confusion, but she

Down the stairs she went, several steps at a time, drawing Lucien after her; the elderly merchant following in

Lucien enjoyed the most intoxicating of pleasures; happiness had increased Coralie's loveliness to the highest

possible degree; she appeared before all eyes an exquisite vision in her dainty toilette. All Paris in the

In an avenue of the Bois de Boulogne they met a caleche; Mme. d'Espard and Mme. de Bargeton looked in

surprise at Lucien, and met a scornful glance from the poet. He saw glimpses of a great future before him,

and was about to make his power felt. He could fling them back in a glance some of the revengeful thoughts

which had gnawed his heart ever since they planted them there. That moment was one of the sweetest in his

life, and perhaps decided his fate. Once again the Furies seized on Lucien at the bidding of Pride. He would

reappear in the world of Paris; he would take a signal revenge; all the social pettiness hitherto trodden under

foot by the worker, the member of the brotherhood, sprang up again afresh in his soul.

Now he understood all that Lousteau's attack had meant. Lousteau had served his passions; while the

brotherhood, that collective mentor, had seemed to mortify them in the interests of tiresome virtues and work

which began to look useless and hopeless in Lucien's eyes. Work! What is it but death to an eager

pleasureloving nature? And how easy it is for the man of letters to slide into a far niente existence of

selfindulgence, into the luxurious ways of actresses and women of easy virtues! Lucien felt an

The dinner at the Rocher de Cancale was exquisite. All Florine's supper guests were there except the

Minister, the Duke, and the dancer; Camusot, too, was absent; but these gaps were filled by two famous

actors and Hector Merlin and his mistress. This charming woman, who chose to be known as Mme. du

ValNoble, was the handsomest and most fashionable of the class of women now euphemistically styled

Lucien had spent the fortyeight hours since the success of his article in paradise. He was feted and envied;

he gained self possession; his talk sparkled; he was the brilliant Lucien de Rubempre who shone for a few

months in the world of letters and art. Finot, with his infallible instinct for discovering ability, scenting it afar

as an ogre might scent human flesh, cajoled Lucien, and did his best to secure a recruit for the squadron under

his command. And Coralie watched the manoeuvres of this purveyor of brains, saw that Lucien was nibbling

"Don't make any engagement, dear boy; wait. They want to exploit you; we will talk of it tonight."

"Pshaw!" said Lucien. "I am sure I am quite as sharp and shrewd as they can be."

Finot and Hector Merlin evidently had not fallen out over that affair of the white lines and spaces in the

columns, for it was Finot who introduced Lucien to the journalist. Coralie and Mme. du ValNoble were

overwhelmingly amiable and polite to each other, and Mme. du Val Noble asked Lucien and Coralie to dine

Hector Merlin, short and thin, with lips always tightly compressed, was the most dangerous journalist

present. Unbounded ambition and jealousy smouldered within him; he took pleasure in the pain of others, and

fomented strife to turn it to his own account. His abilities were but slender, and he had little force of

character, but the natural instinct which draws the upstart towards money and power served him as well as

fixity of purpose. Lucien and Merlin at once took a dislike to one another, for reasons not far to seek. Merlin,

unfortunately, proclaimed aloud the thoughts that Lucien kept to himself. By the time the dessert was put on

the table, the most touching friendship appeared to prevail among the men, each one of whom in his heart

thought himself a cleverer fellow than the rest; and Lucien as the newcomer was made much of by them all.

They chatted frankly and unrestrainedly. Hector Merlin, alone, did not join in the laughter. Lucien asked the

"You are just entering the world of letters, I can see," he said. "You are a journalist with all your illusions

left. You believe in friendship. Here we are friends or foes, as it happens; we strike down a friend with the

weapon which by rights should only be turned against an enemy. You will find out, before very long, that

fine sentiments will do nothing for you. If you are naturally kindly, learn to be ill natured, to be consistently

spiteful. If you have never heard this golden rule before, I give it you now in confidence, and it is no small

secret. If you have a mind to be loved, never leave your mistress until you have made her shed a tear or two;

and if you mean to make your way in literature, let other people continually feel your teeth; make no

exception even of your friends; wound their susceptibilities, and everybody will fawn upon you."

Hector Merlin watched Lucien as he spoke, saw that his words went to the neophyte's heart like a stab, and

Hector Merlin was glad. Play followed, Lucien lost all his money, and Coralie brought him away; and he

forgot for a while, in the delights of love, the fierce excitement of the gambler, which was to gain so strong a

When he left Coralie in the morning and returned to the Latin Quarter, he took out his purse and found the

money he had lost. At first he felt miserable over the discovery, and thought of going back at once to return a

gift which humiliated him; buthe had already come as far as the Rue de la Harpe; he would not return now

that he had almost reached the Hotel de Cluny. He pondered over Coralie's forethought as he went, till he saw

in it a proof of the maternal love which is blended with passion in women of her stamp. For Coralie and her

like, passion includes every human affection. Lucien went from thought to thought, and argued himself into

accepting the gift. "I love her," he said; "we shall live together as husband and wife; I will never forsake her!"

What mortal, short of a Diogenes, could fail to understand Lucien's feelings as he climbed the dirty, fetid

staircase to his lodging, turned the key that grated in the lock, and entered and looked round at the unswept

brick floor, at the cheerless grate, at the ugly poverty and bareness of the room.

A package of manuscript was lying on the table. It was his novel; a note from Daniel d'Arthez lay beside

"Our friends are almost satisfied with your work, dear poet," d'Arthez wrote. "You will be able to present it

with more confidence now, they say, to friends and enemies. We saw your charming article on the

PanoramaDramatique; you are sure to excite as much jealousy in the profession as regret among your

"Regrets! What does he mean?" exclaimed Lucien. The polite tone of the note astonished him. Was he to be

henceforth a stranger to the brotherhood? He had learned to set a higher value on the good opinion and the

friendship of the circle in the Rue des QuatreVents since he had tasted of the delicious fruits offered to him

by the Eve of the theatrical underworld. For some moments he stood in deep thought; he saw his present in

the garret, and foresaw his future in Coralie's rooms. Honorable resolution struggled with temptation and

swayed him now this way, now that. He sat down and began to look through his manuscript, to see in what

condition his friends had returned it to him. What was his amazement, as he read chapter after chapter, to find

his poverty transmuted into riches by the cunning of the pen, and the devotion of the unknown great men, his

friends of the brotherhood. Dialogue, closely packed, nervous, pregnant, terse, and full of the spirit of the age,

replaced his conversations, which seemed poor and pointless prattle in comparison. His characters, a little

uncertain in the drawing, now stood out in vigorous contrast of color and relief; physiological observations,

due no doubt to Horace Bianchon, supplied links of interpretations between human character and the curious

phenomena of human lifesubtle touches which made his men and women live. His wordy passages of

description were condensed and vivid. The misshapen, illclad child of his brain had returned to him as a

lovely maiden, with white robes and rosyhued girdle and scarfan entrancing creation. Night fell and took

him by surprise, reading through rising tears, stricken to earth by such greatness of soul, feeling the worth of

such a lesson, admiring the alternations, which taught him more of literature and art than all his four years'

apprenticeship of study and reading and comparison. A master's correction of a line made upon the study

"What friends are these! What hearts! How fortunate I am!" he cried, grasping his manuscript tightly.

With the quick impulsiveness of a poetic and mobile temperament, he rushed off to Daniel's lodging. As he

climbed the stairs, and thought of these friends, who refused to leave the path of honor, he felt conscious that

he was less worthy of them than before. A voice spoke within him, telling him that if d'Arthez had loved

Coralie, he would have had her break with Camusot. And, besides this, he knew that the brotherhood held

journalism in utter abhorrence, and that he himself was already, to some small extent, a journalist. All of

them, except Meyraux, who had just gone out, were in d'Arthez's room when he entered it, and saw that all

"We have just heard news of a dreadful catastrophe; the greatest thinker of the age, our most loved friend,

"He will die, his soul wandering in the skies, his body unconscious on earth," said Michel Chrestien

"Love fell like a firebrand in the vast empire of his brain and burned him away," said Leon Giraud.

"Yes," said Joseph Bridau, "he has reached a height that we cannot so much as see."

"From what Meyraux has been telling us, recovery seems impossible," answered Bianchon. "Medicine has no

"Is there no way of offering another head to the spirit of evil? I would give mine to save him!" cried Michel

"Ah! true," replied Michel Chrestien. "Our duty to Humanity comes first; to one man afterwards."

"I came here with a heart full of gratitude to you all," said Lucien. "You have changed my alloy into golden

"Well, so you are a journalist, are you?" asked Leon Giraud. "The fame of your first appearance has reached

"I told you so!" said d'Arthez. "Lucien knows the value of a clean conscience. When you can say to yourself

as you lay your head on the pillow at night, 'I have not sat in judgment on another man's work; I have given

pain to no one; I have not used the edge of my wit to deal a stab to some harmless soul; I have sacrificed no

one's success to a jest; I have not even troubled the happiness of imbecility; I have not added to the burdens

of genius; I have scorned the easy triumphs of epigram; in short, I have not acted against my convictions,' is

"But one can say all this, surely, and yet work on a newspaper," said Lucien. "If I had absolutely no other

"Oh! oh! oh!" cried Fulgence, his voice rising a note each time; "we are capitulating, are we?"

"He will turn journalist," Leon Giraud said gravely. "Oh, Lucien, if you would only stay and work with us!

We are about to bring out a periodical in which justice and truth shall never be violated; we will spread

"You will not have a single subscriber," Lucien broke in with Machiavellian wisdom.

"There will be five hundred of them," asserted Michel Chrestien, "but they will be worth five hundred

"Anybody might take him for a perfumer's assistant," burst out Michel Chrestien, looking at Lucien's head,

and sniffing comically. "You were seen driving about in a very smart turnout with a pair of thoroughbreds,

"You would not say that if you thought that there was no harm in it," said Bianchon.

"I could have wished Lucien a Beatrice," said d'Arthez, "a noble woman, who would have been a help to him

"Ah!" said the republican member, "on that one point I am an aristocrat. I could not bring myself to love a

woman who must rub shoulders with all sorts of people in the greenroom; whom an actor kisses on stage;

she must lower herself before the public, smile on every one, lift her skirts as she dances, and dress like a

man, that all the world may see what none should see save I alone. Or if I loved such a woman, she should

"I should die of mortification, jealousy, and all sorts of pain. You cannot pluck love out of your heart as you

"When they find out that I am tolerating Camusot, how they will despise me," he thought.

"Look here," said the fierce republican, with humorous fierceness, "you can be a great writer, but a little

"Hard and salutary, like the dentist's pincers," said Bianchon. "Michel foresees your future; perhaps in the

D'Arthez was kind, and talked comfortingly, and tried to cheer Lucien. The poet spent an hour with his

friends, then he went, but his conscience treated him hardly, crying to him, "You will be a journalista

Out in the street, he looked up at d'Arthez's windows, and saw a faint light shining in them, and his heart

sank. A dim foreboding told him that he had bidden his friends goodbye for the last time.

As he turned out of the Place de la Sorbonne into the Rue de Cluny, he saw a carriage at the door of his

lodging. Coralie had driven all the way from the Boulevard du Temple for the sake of a moment with her

lover and a "goodnight." Lucien found her sobbing in his garret. She would be as wretchedly poor as her

poet, she wept, as she arranged his shirts and gloves and handkerchiefs in the crazy chest of drawers. Her

distress was so real and so great, that Lucien, but even now chidden for his connection with an actress, saw

Coralie as a saint ready to assume the hairshirt of poverty. The adorable girl's excuse for her visit was an

announcement that the firm of Camusot, Coralie, and Lucien meant to invite Matifat, Florine, and Lousteau

(the second trio) to supper; had Lucien any invitations to issue to people who might be useful to him? Lucien

A few moments were spent together, and Coralie hurried away. She spared Lucien the knowledge that

Next morning, at eight o'clock, Lucien went to Etienne Lousteau's room, found it empty, and hurried away to

Florine. Lousteau and Florine, settled into possession of their new quarters like a married couple, received

their friend in the pretty bedroom, and all three breakfasted sumptuously together.

"Why, I should advise you, my boy, to come with me to see Felicien Vernou," said Lousteau, when they sat

at table, and Lucien had mentioned Coralie's projected supper; "ask him to be of the party, and keep well with

him, if you can keep well with such a rascal. Felicien Vernou does a feuilleton for a political paper; he might

perhaps introduce you, and you could blossom out into leaders in it at your ease. It is a Liberal paper, like

ours; you will be a Liberal, that is the popular party; and besides, if you mean to go over to the

Ministerialists, you would do better for yourself if they had reason to be afraid of you. Then there is Hector

Merlin and his Mme. du Val Noble; you meet great people at their housedukes and dandies and

"Yes," replied Lucien; "you are going too, and so is Florine." Lucien and Etienne were now on familiar terms

"Very well, Merlin is on the paper; we shall come across him pretty often; he is the chap to follow close on

Finot's heels. You would do well to pay him attention; ask him and Mme. du ValNoble to supper. He may

be useful to you before long; for rancorous people are always in need of others, and he may do you a good

"Your beginning has made enough sensation to smooth your way," said Florine; "take advantage of it at once,

"The bargain, the great business, is concluded," Lousteau continued. "That Finot, without a spark of talent in

him, is to be editor of Dauriat's weekly paper, with a salary of six hundred francs per month, and owner of a

sixth share, for which he has not paid one penny. And I, my dear fellow, am now editor of our little paper.

Everything went off as I expected; Florine managed superbly, she could give points to Tallyrand himself."

"We have a hold on men through their pleasures," said Florine, "while a diplomatist only works on their

selflove. A diplomatist sees a man made up for the occasion; we know him in his moments of folly, so our

"And when the thing was settled, Matifat made the first and last joke of his whole druggist's career," put in

Lousteau. "He said, 'This affair is quite in my line; I am supplying drugs to the public.' "

"And by these means, my little dear, your foot is in the stirrup," continued Lousteau.

"You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth," remarked Florine. "What lots of young fellows wait for

years, wait till they are sick of waiting, for a chance to get an article into a paper! You will do like Emile

Blondet. In six months' time you will be giving yourself high and mighty airs," she added, with a mocking

"Haven't I been in Paris for three years?" said Lousteau, "and only yesterday Finot began to pay me a fixed

monthly salary of three hundred francs, and a hundred francs per sheet for his paper."

"Well; you are saying nothing!" exclaimed Florine, with her eyes turned on Lucien.

"My dear boy, if you had been my brother, I could not have done more for you," retorted Lousteau, somewhat

nettled, "but I won't answer for Finot. Scores of sharp fellows will besiege Finot for the next two days with

offers to work for low pay. I have promised for you, but you can draw back if you like.You little know

how lucky you are," he added after a pause. "All those in our set combine to attack an enemy in various

"Let us go in the first place to Felicien Vernou," said Lucien. He was eager to conclude an alliance with such

Lousteau sent for a cab, and the pair of friends drove to Vernou's house on the second floor up an alley in the

Rue Mandar. To Lucien's great astonishment, the harsh, fastidious, and severe critic's surroundings were

vulgar to the last degree. A marbled paper, cheap and shabby, with a meaningless pattern repeated at regular

intervals, covered the walls, and a series of aqua tints in gilt frames decorated the apartment, where Vernou

sat at table with a woman so plain that she could only be the legitimate mistress of the house, and two very

small children perched on high chairs with a bar in front to prevent the infants from tumbling out. Felicien

Vernou, in a cotton dressing gown contrived out of the remains of one of his wife's dresses, was not over

Lucien could not take his eyes off Mme. Vernou. She looked like a stout, homely cook, with a tolerably fair

complexion, but commonplace to the last degree. The lady wore a bandana tied over her nightcap, the

strings of the latter article of dress being tied so tightly under the chin that her puffy cheeks stood out on

either side. A shapeless, beltless garment, fastened by a single button at the throat, enveloped her from head

to foot in such a fashion that a comparison to a milestone at once suggested itself. Her health left no room for

hope; her cheeks were almost purple; her fingers looked like sausages. In a moment it dawned upon Lucien

how it was that Vernou was always so ill at ease in society; here was the living explanation of his

misanthropy. Sick of his marriage, unable to bring himself to abandon his wife and family, he had yet

sufficient of the artistic temper to suffer continually from their presence; Vernou was an actor by nature

bound never to pardon the success of another, condemned to chronic discontent because he was never content

with himself. Lucien began to understand the sour look which seemed to add to the bleak expression of envy

on Vernou's face; the acerbity of the epigrams with which his conversation was sown, the journalist's pungent

"Let us go into my study," Vernou said, rising from the table; "you have come on business, no doubt."

"I have brought a message from Coralie," said Lucien (Mme. Vernou looked up at once at the name), "to ask

you to supper tonight at her house to meet the same company as before at Florine's, and a few more

besidesHector Merlin and Mme. du ValNoble and some others. There will be play afterwards."

"She will take offence if we don't go; and you are very glad of her when you have a bill to discount."

"This wife of mine, my dear boy, can never be made to understand that a supper engagement for twelve

o'clock does not prevent you from going to an evening party that comes to an end at eleven. She is always

"You have so much imagination!" said Lucien, and thereby made a mortal enemy of Vernou.

"Well," continued Lousteau, "you are coming; but that is not all. M. de Rubempre is about to be one of us, so

you must push him in your paper. Give him out for a chap that will make a name for himself in literature, so

"Yes, if he means to be one of us, and will attack our enemies, as we will attack his, I will say a word for him

"Very wellgoodbye till tomorrow, my boy," said Lousteau, shaking hands with every sign of cordiality.

"We will get up a success," said Lousteau, and he rose with a bow to his colleague's wife.

The abrupt departure was necessary indeed; for the two infants, engaged in a noisy quarrel, were fighting

"That, my boy, is a woman who all unconsciously will work great havoc in contemporary literature," said

Etienne, when they came away. "Poor Vernou cannot forgive us for his wife. He ought to be relieved of her

in the interests of the public; and a deluge of bloodthirsty reviews and stinging sarcasms against successful

men of every sort would be averted. What is to become of a man with such a wife and that pair of abominable

brats? Have you seen Rigaudin in Picard's La Maison en Loterie? You have? Well, like Rigaudin, Vernou

will not fight himself, but he will set others fighting; he would give an eye to put out both eyes in the head of

the best friend he has. You will see him using the bodies of the slain for a steppingstone, rejoicing over

every one's misfortunes, attacking princes, dukes, marquises, and nobles, because he himself is a commoner;

reviling the work of unmarried men because he forsooth has a wife; and everlastingly preaching morality, the

joys of domestic life, and the duties of the citizen. In short, this very moral critic will spare no one, not even

infants of tender age. He lives in the Rue Mandar with a wife who might be the Mamamouchi of the

Bourgeois gentilhomme and a couple of little Vernous as ugly as sin. He tries to sneer at the Faubourg

SaintGermain, where he will never set foot, and makes his duchesses talk like his wife. That is the sort of

man to raise a howl at the Jesuits, insult the Court, and credit the Court party with the design of restoring

feudal rights and the right of primogeniturejust the one to preach a crusade for Equality, he that thinks

himself the equal of no one. If he were a bachelor, he would go into society; if he were in a fair way to be a

Royalist poet with a pension and the Cross of the Legion of Honor, he would be an optimist, and journalism

offers startingpoints by the hundred. Journalism is the giant catapult set in motion by pigmy hatreds. Have

you any wish to marry after this? Vernou has none of the milk of human kindness in him, it is all turned to

gall; and he is emphatically the Journalist, a tiger with two hands that tears everything to pieces, as if his pen

"He is witty, he is a writer of articles. He incubates articles; he does that all his life and nothing else. The

most dogged industry would fail to graft a book on his prose. Felicien is incapable of conceiving a work on a

large scale, of broad effects, of fitting characters harmoniously in a plot which develops till it reaches a

climax. He has ideas, but he has no knowledge of facts; his heroes are utopian creatures, philosophical or

Liberal notions masquerading. He is at pains to write an original style, but his inflated periods would collapse

at a pinprick from a critic; and therefore he goes in terror of reviews, like every one else who can only keep

"Ah! we are infatuated," said Lousteau. "What a mistake! Do as I do with Florine, let Coralie be your

The flippant tone, the brilliant talk of this new friend, his views of life, his paradoxes, the axioms of Parisian

Machiavelism,all these things impressed Lucien unawares. Theoretically the poet knew that such thoughts

Arrived in the Boulevard du Temple, the friends agreed to meet at the office between four and five o'clock.

Hector Merlin would doubtless be there. Lousteau was right. The infatuation of desire was upon Lucien; for

the courtesan who loves knows how to grapple her lover to her by every weakness in his nature, fashioning

herself with incredible flexibility to his every wish, encouraging the soft, effeminate habits which strengthen

her hold. Lucien was thirsting already for enjoyment; he was in love with the easy, luxurious, and expensive

He found Coralie and Camusot intoxicated with joy. The Gymnase offered Coralie an engagement after

"Yes, surely. The Alcalde would have fallen flat but for him," cried Coralie; "if there had been no article, I

She danced up to Lucien and flung her arms round him, putting an indescribable silken softness and

sweetness into her enthusiasm. Love had come to Coralie. And Camusot? his eyes fell. Looking down after

the wont of mankind in moments of sharp pain, he saw the seam of Lucien's boots, a deep yellow thread used

by the best bootmakers of that time, in strong contrast with the glistening leather. The color of that seam had

tinged his thoughts during a previous conversation with himself, as he sought to explain the presence of a

mysterious pair of hessians in Coralie's fender. He remembered now that he had seen the name of "Gay, Rue

"Oh, how like the Rue des Bourdonnais to ask for a tradesman's address," cried Coralie. "Do YOU intend to

patronize a young man's bootmaker? A nice young man you would make! Do keep to your own top boots;

"Indeed, if you would take off one of your boots, sir, I should be very much obliged," persisted Camusot.

"Papa Camusot!" said Coralie, looking at him with cruel scorn, "have the courage of your pitiful baseness.

Come, speak out! You think that this gentleman's boots are very like mine, do you not?I forbid you to take

off your boots," she added, turning to Lucien."Yes, M. Camusot. Yes, you saw some boots lying about in

the fender here the other day, and that is the identical pair, and this gentleman was hiding in my

dressingroom at the time, waiting for them; and he had passed the night here. That was what you were

thinking, hein? Think so; I would rather you did. It is the simple truth. I am deceiving you. And if I am? I do

She sat down. There was no anger in her face, no embarrassment; she looked from Camusot to Lucien. The

"I will believe nothing that you do not wish me to believe," said Camusot. "Don't play with me, Coralie; I

"I am either a shameless baggage that has taken a sudden fancy; or a poor, unhappy girl who feels what love

really is for the first time, the love that all women long for. And whichever way it is, you must leave me or

"Is it really true?" he asked, seeing from their faces that this was no jest, yet begging to be deceived.

At that word, Coralie sprang to her poet and held him tightly to her; then, with her arms still about him, she

turned to the silkmercer, as if to bid him see the beautiful picture made by two young lovers.

"Poor Musot, take all that you gave to me back again; I do not want to keep anything of yours; for I love this

boy here madly, not for his intellect, but for his beauty. I would rather starve with him than have millions

"Would you like us to go away?" she asked. There was a note of ferocity in her voice which no words can

Cold chills ran down Lucien's spine; he beheld himself burdened with a woman, an actress, and a household.

"Stay here, Coralie; keep it all," the old tradesman said at last, in a faint, unsteady voice that came from his

heart; "I don't want anything back. There is the worth of sixty thousand francs here in the furniture; but I

could not bear to think of my Coralie in want. And yet, it will not be long before you come to want. However

great this gentleman's talent may be, he can't afford to keep you. We old fellows must expect this sort of

thing. Coralie, let me come and see you sometimes; I may be of use to you. AndI confess it; I cannot live

The poor man's gentleness, stripped as he was of his happiness just as happiness had reached its height,

"Come as often as you wish, poor Musot," she said; "I shall like you all the better when I don't pretend to love

Camusot seemed to be resigned to his fate so long as he was not driven out of the earthly paradise, in which

his life could not have been all joy; he trusted to the chances of life in Paris and to the temptations that would

beset Lucien's path; he would wait a while, and all that had been his should be his again. Sooner or later,

thought the wily tradesman, this handsome young fellow would be unfaithful; he would keep a watch on him;

and the better to do this and use his opportunity with Coralie, he would be their friend. The persistent passion

that could consent to such humiliation terrified Lucien. Camusot's proposal of a dinner at Very's in the Palais

"What joy!" cried Coralie, as soon as Camusot had departed. "You will not go back now to your garret in the

Latin Quarter; you will live here. We shall always be together. You can take a room in the Rue Charlot for

She began to dance her Spanish dance, with an excited eagerness that revealed the strength of the passion in

"And I shall make as much again at the theatre, without counting extras. Camusot will pay for my dresses as

before. He is fond of me! We can live like Croesus on fifteen hundred francs a month."

"There!" said Coralie, "I will dress and take you to your office. I will wait outside in the boulevard for you

Lucien sat down on the sofa and made some very sober reflections as he watched Coralie at her toilet. It

would have been wiser to leave Coralie free than to start all at once with such an establishment; but Coralie

was there before his eyes, and Coralie was so lovely, so graceful, so bewitching, that the more picturesque

Berenice was ordered to superintend Lucien's removal and installation; and Coralie, triumphant, radiant, and

happy, carried off her love, her poet, and must needs go all over Paris on the way to the Rue Saint Fiacre.

Lucien sprang lightly up the staircase, and entered the office with an air of being quite at home. Coloquinte

was there with the stamped paper still on his head; and old Giroudeau told him again, hypocritically enough,

"But the editor and contributors MUST meet somewhere or other to arrange about the journal," said Lucien.

"Very likely; but I have nothing to do with the writing of the paper," said the Emperor's captain, resuming his

Was it lucky or unlucky? Finot chanced to come in at that very moment to announce his sham abdication and

"No shillyshally with this gentleman; he is on the staff," Finot added for his uncle's benefit, as he grasped

"Oh! is he on the paper?" exclaimed Giroudeau, much surprised at this friendliness. "Well, sir, you came on

"I want to make things snug for you here, lest Etienne should bamboozle you," continued Finot, looking

knowingly at Lucien. "This gentleman will be paid three francs per column all round, including theatres."

"You have never taken any one on such terms before," said Giroudeau, opening his eyes.

"And he will take the four Boulevard theatres. See that nobody sneaks his boxes, and that he gets his share of

tickets.I should advise you, nevertheless, to have them sent to your address," he added, turning to

Lucien."And he agrees to write besides ten miscellaneous articles of two columns each, for fifty francs per

"Who is the gentleman?" inquired Giroudeau, rising and taking off his black silk skullcap.

"Young man, you have a gold mine THERE," said the old soldier, tapping Lucien on the forehead. "I am not

literary myself, but I read that article of yours, and I liked it. That is the kind of thing! There's gaiety for you!

'That will bring us new subscribers,' says I to myself. And so it did. We sold fifty more numbers."

"Is my agreement with Lousteau made out in duplicate and ready to sign?" asked Finot, speaking aside.

"Then antedate this gentleman's agreement by one day, so that Lousteau will be bound by the previous

Finot took his new contributor's arm with a friendliness that charmed Lucien, and drew him out on the

"Your position is made for you. I will introduce you to MY staff myself, and tonight Lousteau will go round

with you to the theatres. You can make a hundred and fifty francs per month on this little paper of ours with

Lousteau as its editor, so try to keep well with him. The rogue bears a grudge against me as it is, for tying his

hands so far as you are concerned; but you have ability, and I don't choose that you shall be subjected to the

whims of the editor. You might let me have a couple of sheets every month for my review, and I will pay you

two hundred francs. This is between ourselves, don't mention it to anybody else; I should be laid open to the

spite of every one whose vanity is mortified by your good fortune. Write four articles, fill your two sheets,

sign two with your own name, and two with a pseudonym, so that you may not seem to be taking the bread

out of anybody else's mouth. You owe your position to Blondet and Vignon; they think that you have a future

before you. So keep out of scrapes, and, above all things, be on your guard against your friends. As for me,

we shall always get on well together, you and I. Help me, and I will help you. You have forty francs' worth of

boxes and tickets to sell, and sixty francs' worth of books to convert into cash. With that and your work on

the paper, you will be making four hundred and fifty francs every month. If you use your wits, you will find

ways of making another two hundred francs at least among the publishers; they will pay you for reviews and

"Don't let any one see that anything has passed between us," said Finot in his ear, and he flung open a door of

A table covered with a green cloth was drawn up to a blazing fire, and seated in various chairs and lounges

Lucien discovered Lousteau, Felicien Vernou, Hector Merlin, and two others unknown to him, all laughing or

smoking. A real inkstand, full of ink this time, stood on the table among a great litter of papers; while a

collection of pens, the worse for wear, but still serviceable for journalists, told the new contributor very

"Gentlemen," said Finot, "the object of this gathering is the installation of our friend Lousteau in my place as

editor of the newspaper which I am compelled to relinquish. But although my opinions will necessarily

undergo a transformation when I accept the editorship of a review of which the politics are known to you, my

CONVICTIONS remain the same, and we shall be friends as before. I am quite at your service, and you

likewise will be ready to do anything for me. Circumstances change; principles are fixed. Principles are the

"Windy, showery, stormy, settled fair," said Merlin; "we will all row in the same boat."

"In short," continued Finot, "not to muddle our wits with metaphors, any one who has an article or two for me

will always find Finot.This gentleman," turning to Lucien, "will be one of you.I have arranged with

"So there you are, mounted on our shoulders," said a contributor whom Lucien did not know. "You will be

"Ah, yes!" said Lousteau; "but the paper must keep on its lines. M. Chatelet is very wroth; we shall not let

"He came here to ask for an explanation," said Vernou. "The Imperial buck found old Giroudeau at home;

and old Giroudeau told him, with all the coolness in the world, that Philippe Bridau wrote the article. Philippe

asked the Baron to mention the time and the weapons, and there it ended. We are engaged at this moment in

offering excuses to the Baron in tomorrow's issue. Every phrase is a stab for him."

"Keep your teeth in him and he will come round to me," said Finot; "and it will look as if I were obliging him

by appeasing you. He can say a word to the Ministry, and we can get something or other out of himan

assistant schoolmaster's place, or a tobacconist's license. It is a lucky thing for us that we flicked him on the

raw. Does anybody here care to take a serious article on Nathan for my new paper?"

"Give it to Lucien," said Lousteau. "Hector and Vernou will write articles in their papers at the same time."

"Goodday, gentlemen; we shall meet each other face to face at Barbin's," said Finot, laughing.

Lucien received some congratulations on his admission to the mighty army of journalists, and Lousteau

explained that they could be sure of him. "Lucien wants you all to sup in a body at the house of the fair

"Very well, gentlemen; it is understood that we push Coralie, eh? Put a few lines about her new engagement

in your papers, and say something about her talent. Credit the management of the Gymnase with tack and

"Oh! Well, then, the manager of the Gymnase is the most perspicacious and farsighted of men of business,"

"Look here! don't write your articles on Nathan until we have come to an understanding; you shall hear why,"

said Etienne Lousteau. "We ought to do something for our new comrade. Lucien here has two books to bring

outa volume of sonnets and a novel. The power of the paragraph should make him a great poet due in three

months; and we will make use of his sonnets (Marguerites is the title) to run down odes, ballads, and reveries,

"It would be a droll thing if the sonnets were no good after all," said Vernou."What do you yourself think

"Yes, what do you think of them?" asked one of the two whom Lucien did not know.

"Very well, that will do for me," said Vernou; "I will heave your book at the poets of the sacristy; I am tired

"If Dauriat declines to take the Marguerites this evening, we will attack him by pitching into Nathan."

"Oh! he will be delighted," said Vernou. "You will see how we manage these things."

"Yes, yes, Frederic; no tricks.We are all working for you, Lucien, you see; you must stand by us when

your turn comes. We are all friends of Nathan's, and we are attacking him. Now, let us divide Alexander's

"If these gentlemen are willing," returned the person addressed as Frederic. The others nodded assent, but

"Oh well, Hector can let you have the Varietes, and Lucien can spare you the Porte SaintMartin.Let him

have the Porte SaintMartin, Lucien, he is wild about Fanny Beaupre; and you can take the Cirque

Olympique in exchange. I shall have Bobino and the Funambules and Madame Saqui. Now, what have we for

"Gentlemen, be brilliant for my first number. The Baron du Chatelet and his cuttlefish bone will not last for a

"And 'SosthenesDemosthenes' is stale too," said Vernou; "everybody has taken it up."

"Suppose that we take the virtuous representatives of the Right?" suggested Lousteau. "We might say that M.

"Let us begin a series of sketches of Ministerialist orators," suggested Hector Merlin.

"You do that, youngster; you know them; they are your own party," said Lousteau; "you could indulge any

little private grudges of your own. Pitch into Beugnot and Syrieys de Mayrinhac and the rest. You might have

"How if we invented one or two cases of refusal of burial with aggravating circumstances?" asked Hector.

"Do not follow in the tracks of the big Constitutional papers; they have pigeonholes full of ecclesiastical

"That is our word for a scrap of fiction told for true, put in to enliven the column of morning news when it is

flat. We owe the discovery to Benjamin Franklin, the inventor of the lightning conductor and the republic.

That journalist completely deceived the Encyclopaedists by his transatlantic canards. Raynal gives two of

"One was a tale about an Englishman and a negress who helped him to escape; he sold the woman for a slave

after getting her with child himself to enhance her value. The other was the eloquent defence of a young

woman brought before the authorities for bearing a child out of wedlock. Franklin owned to the fraud in

Necker's house when he came to Paris, much to the confusion of French philosophism. Behold how the New

"In journalism," said Lousteau, "everything that is probable is true. That is an axiom."

"Very well, we meet here at nine o'clock," and with that they rose, and the sitting broke up with the most

"What have you done to Finot, Lucien, that he should make a special arrangement with you? You are the only

one that he has bound to himself," said Etienne Lousteau, as they came downstairs.

"As a matter of fact, if you should make your own terms with him, I should be delighted; we should, both of

On the ground floor they found Finot. He stepped across to Lousteau and asked him into the socalled private

"Sign your agreement," he said, "and the new editor will think the whole thing was arranged yesterday."

Lucien, reading the document, overheard fragments of a tolerably warm dispute within as to the line of

conduct and profits of the paper. Etienne Lousteau wanted his share of the blackmail levied by Giroudeau;

and, in all probability, the matter was compromised, for the pair came out perfectly good friends.

"We will meet at Dauriat's, Lucien, in the Wooden Galleries at eight o'clock," said Etienne Lousteau.

A young man appeared, meanwhile, in search of employment, wearing the same nervous shy look with which

Lucien himself had come to the office so short a while ago; and in his secret soul Lucien felt amused as he

watched Giroudeau playing off the same tactics with which the old campaigner had previously foiled him.

Selfinterest opened his eyes to the necessity of the manoeuvres which raised wellnigh insurmountable

barriers between beginners and the upper room where the elect were gathered together.

"If there were more of you, there would be so much less," retorted the captain. "So there!"

The old campaigner swung his loaded cane, and went down coughing as usual. Out in the street he was

"Upon my word," said Lucien, as he drove away with Coralie, "these young writers seem to me to be the best

fellows alive. Here am I a journalist, sure of making six hundred francs a month if I work like a horse. But I

shall find a publisher for my two books, and I will write others; for my friends will insure a success. And so,

"You will make your way, dear boy; but you must not be as goodnatured as you are goodlooking; it would

Coralie and Lucien drove in the Bois de Boulogne, and again they met the Marquise d'Espard, Mme. de

Bargeton and the Baron du Chatelet. Mme. de Bargeton gave Lucien a languishing glance which might be

taken as a greeting. Camusot had ordered the best possible dinner; and Coralie, feeling that she was rid of her

adorer, was more charming to the poor silkmercer than she had ever been in the fourteen months during

which their connection lasted; he had never seen her so kindly, so enchantingly lovely.

In consequence, Camusot made secret overtures. He promised Coralie an income of six thousand livres; he

would transfer the stock in the funds into her name (his wife knew nothing about the investment) if only she

"And betray such an angel? . . . Why, just look at him, you old fossil, and look at yourself!" and her eyes

turned to her poet. Camusot had pressed Lucien to drink till the poet's head was rather cloudy.

There was no help for it; Camusot made up his mind to wait till sheer want should give him this woman a

Lucien went from Coralie and Camusot to the Wooden Galleries. What a change had been wrought in his

mind by his initiation into Journalism! He mixed fearlessly now with the crowd which surged to and fro in

the buildings; he even swaggered a little because he had a mistress; and he walked into Dauriat's shop in an

He found himself among distinguished men; gave a hand to Blondet and Nathan and Finot, and to all the

coterie with whom he had been fraternizing for a week. He was a personage, he thought, and he flattered

himself that he surpassed his comrades. That little flick of the wine did him admirable service; he was witty,

And yet, the tacit approval, the praises spoken and unspoken on which he had counted, were not forthcoming.

He noticed the first stirrings of jealousy among a group, less curious, perhaps, than anxious to know the place

which this newcomer might take, and the exact portion of the sumtotal of profits which he would probably

secure and swallow. Lucien only saw smiles on two facesFinot, who regarded him as a mine to be

exploited, and Lousteau, who considered that he had proprietary rights in the poet, looked glad to see him.

Lousteau had begun already to assume the airs of an editor; he tapped sharply on the windowpanes of

"One moment, my friend," cried a voice within as the publisher's face appeared above the green curtains.

The moment lasted an hour, and finally Lucien and Etienne were admitted into the sanctum.

"Well, have you thought over our friend's proposal?" asked Etienne Lousteau, now an editor.

"To be sure," said Dauriat, lolling like a sultan in his chair. "I have read the volume. And I submitted it to a

man of taste, a good judge; for I don't pretend to understand these things myself. I myself, my friend, buy

reputations readymade, as the Englishman bought his love affairs.You are as great as a poet as you are

handsome as a man, my boy," pronounced Dauriat. "Upon my word and honor (I don't tell you that as a

publisher, mind), your sonnets are magnificent; no sign of effort about them, as is natural when a man writes

with inspiration and verve. You know your craft, in fact, one of the good points of the new school. Your

volume of Marguerites is a fine book, but there is no business in it, and it is not worth my while to meddle

with anything but a very big affair. In conscience, I won't take your sonnets. It would be impossible to push

them; there is not enough in the thing to pay the expenses of a big success. You will not keep to poetry

besides; this book of yours will be your first and last attempt of the kind. You are young; you bring me the

everlasting volume of early verse which every man of letters writes when he leaves school, he thinks a lot of

it at the time, and laughs at it later on. Lousteau, your friend, has a poem put away somewhere among his old

socks, I'll warrant. Haven't you a poem that you thought a good deal of once, Lousteau?" inquired Dauriat,

"There, you see! He has never said a word to me about it, for our friend understands business and the trade,"

continued Dauriat. "For me the question is not whether you are a great poet, I know that," he added, stroking

down Lucien's pride; "you have a great deal, a very great deal of merit; if I were only just starting in business,

I should make the mistake of publishing your book. But in the first place, my sleeping partners and those at

the back of me are cutting off my supplies; I dropped twenty thousand francs over poetry last year, and that is

enough for them; they will not hear of any more just now, and they are my masters. Nevertheless, that is not

the question. I admit that you may be a great poet, but will you be a prolific writer? Will you hatch sonnets

regularly? Will you run into ten volumes? Is there business in it? Of course not. You will be a delightful

prose writer; you have too much sense to spoil your style with tagging rhymes together. You have a chance to

make thirty thousand francs per annum by writing for the papers, and you will not exchange that chance for

three thousand francs made with difficulty by your hemistiches and strophes and tomfoolery"

"Yes," Dauriat answered. "Yes, I saw his article, and in his own interests I decline the Marguerites. Yes, sir,

in six months' time I shall have paid you more money for the articles that I shall ask you to write than for

"Fame means ten years of sticking to work, and a hundred thousand francs lost or made in the publishing

trade. If you find anybody mad enough to print your poetry for you, you will feel some respect for me in

another twelvemonth, when you have had time to see the outcome of the transaction"

"Here it is, my friend," said Dauriat. The publisher's manner towards Lucien had sweetened singularly.

Lucien took up the roll without looking at the string, so sure he felt that Dauriat had read his Marguerites. He

went out with Lousteau, seemingly neither disconcerted nor dissatisfied. Dauriat went with them into the

shop, talking of his newspaper and Lousteau's daily, while Lucien played with the manuscript of the

"Do you suppose that Dauriat has read your sonnets or sent them to any one else?" Etienne Lousteau snatched

"Look at the string." Lucien looked down at the blot of ink, and saw that the mark on the string still

"Which of the sonnets was it that you particularly liked?" he asked, turning to the publisher.

"They are all of them remarkable, my friend; but the sonnet on the Marguerite is delightful, the closing

thought is fine, and exquisitely expressed. I felt sure from that sonnet that your prose work would command a

success, and I spoke to Finot about you at once. Write articles for us, and we will pay you well for them.

Fame is a very fine thing, you see, but don't forget the practical and solid, and take every chance that turns

The poet dashed out of the shop to avoid an explosion. He was furious. Lousteau followed.

"Well, my boy, pray keep cool. Take men as they arefor means to an end. Do you wish for revenge?"

"Here is a copy of Nathan's book. Dauriat has just given it to me. The second edition is coming out

tomorrow; read the book again, and knock off an article demolishing it. Felicien Vernou cannot endure

Nathan, for he thinks that Nathan's success will injure his own forthcoming book. It is a craze with these little

minds to fancy that there is not room for two successes under the sun; so he will see that your article finds a

"Oh, I say! you must learn your trade," said Lousteau, laughing. "Given that the book was a masterpiece,

under the stroke of your pen it must turn to dull trash, dangerous and unwholesome stuff."

"My dear boy, a journalist is a juggler; a man must make up his mind to the drawbacks of the calling. Look

here! I am not a bad fellow; this is the way _I_ should set to work myself. Attention! You might begin by

praising the book, and amuse yourself a while by saying what you really think. 'Good,' says the reader, 'this

critic is not jealous; he will be impartial, no doubt,' and from that point your public will think that your

criticism is a piece of conscientious work. Then, when you have won your reader's confidence, you will

regret that you must blame the tendency and influence of such work upon French literature. 'Does not France,'

you will say, 'sway the whole intellectual world? French writers have kept Europe in the path of analysis and

philosophical criticism from age to age by their powerful style and the original turn given by them to ideas.'

Here, for the benefit of the philistine, insert a panegyric on Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, Montesquieu, and

Buffon. Hold forth upon the inexorable French language; show how it spreads a varnish, as it were, over

thought. Let fall a few aphorisms, such as'A great writer in France is invariably a great man; he writes in a

language which compels him to think; it is otherwise in other countries'and so on, and so on. Then, to

prove your case, draw a comparison between Rabener, the German satirical moralist, and La Bruyere.

Nothing gives a critic such an air as an apparent familiarity with foreign literature. Kant is Cousin's pedestal.

"Once on that ground you bring out a word which sums up the French men of genius of the eighteenth

century for the benefit of simpletonsyou call that literature the 'literature of ideas.' Armed with this

expression, you fling all the mighty dead at the heads of the illustrious living. You explain that in the present

day a new form of literature has sprung up; that dialogue (the easiest form of writing) is overdone, and

description dispenses with any need for thinking on the part of the author or reader. You bring up the fiction

of Voltaire, Diderot, Sterne, and Le Sage, so trenchant, so compact of the stuff of life; and turn from them to

the modern novel, composed of scenery and wordpictures and metaphor and the dramatic situations, of

which Scott is full. Invention may be displayed in such work, but there is no room for anything else. 'The

romance after the manner of Scott is a mere passing fashion in literature,' you will say, and fulminate against

the fatal way in which ideas are diluted and beaten thin; cry out against a style within the reach of any

intellect, for any one can commence author at small expense in a way of literature, which you can nickname

"Then you fall upon Nathan with your argument, and establish it beyound cavil that he is a mere imitator with

an appearance of genius. The concise grand style of the eighteenth century is lacking; you show that the

author substitutes events for sentiments. Action and stir is not life; he gives you pictures, but no ideas.

"Come out with such phrases, and people will take them up.In spite of the merits of the work, it seems to

you to be a dangerous, nay, a fatal precedent. It throws open the gates of the temple of Fame to the crowd;

and in the distance you descry a legion of petty authors hastening to imitate this novel and easy style of

"Here you launch out into resounding lamentations over the decadence and decline of taste, and slip in

eulogies of Messieurs Etienne Jouy, Tissot, Gosse, Duval, Jay, Benjamin Constant, Aignan, BaourLormian,

Villemain, and the whole LiberalBonapartist chorus who patronize Vernou's paper. Next you draw a picture

of that glorious phalanx of writers repelling the invasion of the Romantics; these are the upholders of ideas

and style as against metaphor and balderdash; the modern representatives of the school of Voltaire as

opposed to the English and German schools, even as the seventeen heroic deputies of the Left fought the

"And then, under cover of names respected by the immense majority of Frenchmen (who will always be

against the Government), you can crush Nathan; for although his work is far above the average, it confirms

the bourgeois taste for literature without ideas. And after that, you understand, it is no longer a question of

Nathan and his book, but of France and the glory of France. It is the duty of all honest and courageous pens to

make strenuous opposition to these foreign importations. And with that you flatter your readers. Shrewd

French motherwit is not easily caught napping. If publishers, by ways which you do not choose to specify,

have stolen a success, the reading public very soon judges for itself, and corrects the mistakes made by some

"Say that the publisher who sold a first edition of the book is audacious indeed to issue a second, and express

regret that so clever a man does not know the taste of the country better. There is the gist of it. Just a sprinkle

of the salt of wit and a dash of vinegar to bring out the flavor, and Dauriat will be done to a turn. But mind

that you end with seeming to pity Nathan for a mistake, and speak of him as of a man from whom

Lucien was amazed at this talk from Lousteau. As the journalist spoke, the scales fell from his eyes; he

"If it were not, how could you make it tell against Nathan's book?" asked Lousteau. "That is the first manner

of demolishing a book, 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. Soandso'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

Etienne Lousteau's cruel lesson opened up possibilities for Lucien's imagination. He understood this craft to

"Let us go to the office," said Lousteau; "we shall find our friends there, and we will agree among ourselves

Arrived in the Rue SaintFiacre, 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

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

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

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

"He has taken your article straight to the printer," said Hector Merlin. " 'Tis a masterpiece; not a line to add,

"I should like to see Nathan's face when he reads this tomorrow," said another contributor, beaming with

"Here is a short article which I have knocked together for you," began Lucien; "if it takes, I could write you a

"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

"You are a born journalist," said Lousteau. "It shall go in tomorrow. Do as much of this sort of thing as you

"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

"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

Cuttlefishbone's lament.' Mme. de Bargeton is called the Cuttlefishbone now, and no mistake, and Chatelet

Lucien took up the paper, and could not help laughing at Vernou's extremely clever skit.

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

"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

Arminarm, 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 PanoramaDramatique 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 PanoramaDramatique; 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 tomorrow, 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."

"Then there is no harm done," Nathan rejoined. "Hector Merlin in the greenroom of the Vaudeville was

"Let him talk, and wait," cried Lucien, and took refuge in Coralie's dressingroom. Coralie, in her alluring

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

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 quickwitted 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 readingrooms 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

fairytale 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

At first the placard was confined to the shopwindows 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

Newspaper advertising, the offspring of heavy stamp duties, a high rate of postage, and the heavy deposits of

cautionmoney 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 printingroom 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 printingoffice to

make sure that their contributions were not omitted; sometimes putting in a long article, obtained heaven

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

lifelong success, were reduced to such shifts, and stooped to depths of bribery and corruption as seem

fabulous today. Every kind of persuasion was brought to bear on journalistsdinners, flattery, and presents.

The following story will throw more light on the close connection between the critic and the publisher than

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 wellknown

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 headclerk 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. Tomorrow we shall have at least three columns in the Debats."

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

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,

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 selfsufficiency and easy good humor.

"Don't disturb yourselves, my little dears! How nice they look, just like a pair of turtledoves! 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

"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

"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!"

"You are too clever not to know what has brought me here," said Dauriat, fixing his eyes on Lucien.

"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

"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

"Then the Marguerites are mine," continued Dauriat; "but you will undertake not to attack my publications,

"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

"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; today your position has

"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

"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

"Not yet," said Lucien, "though this is the first long piece of prose which I have published; but Hector will

Dauriat was unwontedly courtierlike 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

"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 SainteGenevieve?" asked

Coralie, for she knew the whole story of Lucien's life by this time. "Those little friends of yours in the Rue

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 reread 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 steppingstone for

himthat was all; and he (Lucien) was happy exceedinglyhe 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

coachoffice 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

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

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 ValNoble'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 semicomrades.

"Oh! we must wait and see what he has in him," said Theodore Gaillard, a poet patronized by the Court, who

After dinner, Merlin and Lucien, Coralie and Mme. du ValNoble, 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

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 operaglasses 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

"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

"If Lucien is nice, he will not go to see your Countess," put in Coralie. "What call is there for him to show his

"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

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

Cuttlefishbone.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

"Tomorrow," 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);

"And if he should climb so high that he can reach a sceptre by treading over a corpse, he shall have Coralie's

"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

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 diningroom when Berenice

announced that the meal was ready. In the middle of the repast, when the champagne had gone to all heads,

"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

"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

"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 mindthe 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 bilateral 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

"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 workto write a

book, in shortyou can put your thoughts, yourself into it, and cling to it, and fight for it; but as for

newspaper articles, read today and forgotten tomorrow, 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

Every one apparently was astonished at Lucien's scruples. The last rags of the boyish conscience were torn

"Do you know what Nathan said by way of comforting himself after your criticism?" asked Lousteau.

"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."

"I am quite willing, my friends," said Lucien, on whom the wine had begun to take effect. "But what am I to

"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 tomorrow 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

"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, characterdrawing 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 cutanddried logicchopping, 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 realitiesrealities

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 entelechiesinforming 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

"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 agethe 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 yearsthe 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;

"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

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 PalaisRoyal;

"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

"Write criticism," said Coralie, "have a good time! Look at me, I am an Andalusian girl tonight, tomorrow

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

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

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

"One hundred francs, Coralie!" cried he, holding up eight sheets of paper covered with writing while she

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 evilspeaking. 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

"We will take the article on Nathan to Hector. Journalism is really very much like Achilles' lance, it salves

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 thereit was this thought that turned

"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 AjudaPinto or Maxime de Trailles or Vandenesse of them all. Remember that

Two days afterwards, on the eve of the supperparty 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 PanoramaDramatique, 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 dressingroom, and strolled about like a sultan behind the scenes; the actresses gave him

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

"What a dunce you are!" said the leading lady, addressing the box office keeper, "that is Coralie's adorer."

The boxoffice 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 operadancer were in the stagebox, and

"You have driven two people to distraction," remarked the young Duke, mentioning the names of the Baron

"Distraction? What will it be tomorrow?" said Lucien. "So far, my friends have been mere skirmishers, but I

have given them redhot shot tonight. Tomorrow 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

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

"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

everythingintellect, 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 supperparty) 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 mindWas 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

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

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 supperparty; 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 SaintFiacre 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

He unfolded the sheet at breakfast next morning, telling Coralie as he did so that he had cut up the

AmbiguComique; 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

The manager of the PanoramaDramatique 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

"Then why do you amuse yourself by turning my article inside out?" asked Lucien. He had written his

"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 officekeeper 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

"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?"

"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 tomorrow, 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 halfprice. 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

"But, my dear fellow, it is a scandalous thing that Finot should levy blackmail in matters intellectual. Sooner

"Really!" cried Lousteau, "where do you come from? For what do you take Finot? Beneath his pretence of

goodnature, 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."

"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 twentyfive 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 fortyeight thousand francs per annum. Allow twenty thousand francs for loss, for he cannot always place

"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

"Paris is a queer place," said Lucien; it seemed to him that he saw selfinterest squatting in every corner.

A smart maidservant 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 selfmade man, Lucien thoughta vulgar looking face with a pair of

exceedingly cunning gray eyes, hands made for hired applause, a complexion over which hard living had

"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

"That is not an offer to be refused, my dear Braulard, but we have come about the press orders for the

"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

PetitMere, and Mlle. Millot, my mistress. We shall have good fun and better liquor."

"I have lent him ten thousand francs; if Calas succeeds, it will repay the loan, so I have been organizing a

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 welldressed 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."

"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 ticketsthat will be

something like seventyfive francs a month. Perhaps you will be wanting an advance?" added Braulard,

"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 diningroom seemed to be the best ordered room, he

"But Braulard is an epicure," said Lousteau; "his dinners are famous in dramatic literature, and they are what

"I have good wine," Braulard replied modestly."Ah! here are my lamplighters," he added, as a sound of

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 gallowsbirds 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

"Behold the Romans!" laughed Lousteau; "behold fame incarnate for actresses and dramatic authors. It is no

"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 ordereven 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 PanoramaDramatique, Matifat and Florine, Camusot, Lousteau,

Finot, Nathan, Hector Merlin and Mme. du ValNoble, Felicien Vernou, Blondet, Vignon, Philippe Bridau,

Mariette, Giroudeau, Cardot and Florentine, and Bixiou. He had also asked all his friends of the Rue des

QuatreVents. 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

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

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

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

Coralie had taken Lucien's hand and given him a glimpse of the transformation scene in the diningroom, of

the splendidly appointed table, of chandeliers, each fitted with forty waxlights, 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."

"Very well, then, that smile of yours pays for everything," she said, and with a serpentine movement she

When they went back to the others, Florine, Lousteau, Matifat, and Camusot were setting out the cardtables.

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

"Well, my dear fellows," said Lucien, assuming a slightly patronizing tone, "the 'comical fellow' may become

"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;

"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."

Just at that moment Raoul Nathan flew upon Lucien, and grasped both his hands and shook them in a sudden

"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

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

"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

"When d'Arthez's book comes out," he said, turning to the three, "I am in a position to be useful to him. That

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 hallmark, as it were, upon it. "Any man who can stand that test has

"Besides," cried Merlin, "when a great man receives ovations, there ought to be a chorus in insults to balance,

"Oho!" put in Lucien; "then every one held up to ridicule in print will fancy that he has made a success."

"And how about our sonnets," said Michel Chrestien; "is that the way they will win us the fame of a second

"Laura already counts for something in his fame," said Dauriat, a pun [Laure (l'or)] received with

"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

"Success is the ruin of a man in France," said Finot. "We are so jealous of one another that we try to forget,

"In art as in nature, there are two principles everywhere at strife," exclaimed Fulgence; "and victory for either

"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 tomorrow'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."

"To Bossuet the Second!" cried Claude Vignon, raising his glass with an ironical bow.

"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

"Gentlemen," said Lousteau, "we have been eyewitnesses of a strange, portentous, unheardof, and truly

surprising phenomenon. Admire the rapidity with which our friend here has been transformed from a

"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

"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 dressingroom 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 Cautionmoney, and the Fine, I baptize thee, Journalist. May thy articles sit lightly

Just at that moment Lucien caught sight of three melancholy faces. Michel Chrestien, Joseph Bridau, and

"Fulgence used to be a good fellow," added Lousteau, "before they perverted his morals."

"Some very serious young men," said Blondet, "who meet at a philosophicoreligious symposium in the Rue

"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

"Men might meet to invent more dangerous nonsense than that!" exclaimed Lucien, making a faint attempt to

"You take theories of that sort for idle words," said Felicien Vernou; "but a time comes when the arguments

"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, SaintSimon, and Fourier. I am much afraid that they

"Bianchon, my old schoolfellow, gives me the cold shoulder now," said Lousteau; "it is all their doing"

"Isn't d'Arthez their visible head?" asked Nathan, "a little youngster that is going to swallow all of us up."

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

"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

"Your party will complain that you are compromising them," said Finot. "Felicien, you must undertake it;

"It is simply the Chabot affair carried into the region of abstract ideas," said Finot. "Fasten intentions on the

"How a Government can leave the control of ideas to such a pack of scamps as we are, is matter for perpetual

"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

"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

They went back to the cardtables; and before long the light of the candles grew feeble in the dawn.

"Lucien, your friends from the Rue des QuatreVents looked as dismal as criminals going to be hanged," said

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

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

scarfrings, 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, AjudaPinto, 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

"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 callI

am still waiting to receive it. I saw you at the Opera the other day, and you would not deign to come to see

"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 itselfespecially in

marriage. I might love you to madnesswhich is to say, sufficiently to marry youand 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 usefulOh!" she broke off, "I owe not a little

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.

"But, madame," he objected, for her words aroused a lively curiosity, "is not the Heron under your

"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 serviceup 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

"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 youMlle. 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,

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

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

"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 carefullymade schemes. Can you recollect

yourself as you were then? You must admit that if you could see your double today, 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

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 PanoramaDramatique, 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

"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 goodlooking 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

"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."

"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

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 invitedMme. de Bargeton would be there in spite of her mourning; Lucien would be pleased, she was

"Mme. la Marquise says that all the wrong is on my side," said Lucien; "so surely it rests with her cousin,

"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

"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

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 SaintGermain, 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

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 fellowcountryman 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 two were standing near the Marquis de Ronquerolles, the Duc de Rhetore, de Marsay, and General

"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

"Yes, but she adores intellect," said Rastignac, "and my illustrious fellowcountryman has wit enough to

"He will soon find out that he is not doing well for himself," Blondet put in briskly. "He will come over; he

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

Lucien burst out laughing; he thought of his talk with Lousteau that evening in the Luxembourg Gardens.

"He has taken on a bearleader," continued Blondet, "one Etienne Lousteau, a newspaper hack who sees a

fivefranc 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 secretarygeneral."

The Minister now asked Lucien to take a hand at whist; but, to the great astonishment of those present, he

"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

Des Lupeaulx was announced. He remembered Lucien, whom he had met at Mme. du ValNoble'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.

"He will be rotten before he is ripe," de Marsay added, smiling. "You must have private reasons of your own,

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

"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 ValNoble; 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

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 driedup, haughty, cruel Louise. He could not make up his mind to

sacrifice the actress to the great lady; and Mme. de Bargetonall the old feeling reviving in her at the sight

of Lucien, Lucien's beauty, Lucien's clevernesswas 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

"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

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 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

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

"If she should like me as much as I like her, we might abridge the romance," said Lucien, addressing de

"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

"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

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

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?"

"Very well," returned Mme. d'Espard. "I will speak to my father and uncle; they are in waiting, they will

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 righthand man an order for the Opera, so Lucien wasted many an

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 selfconfident, to discern certain

shades and distinctions in conduct; and how should an actress, a goodhearted 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 shortsightedness of an allabsorbing 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 safeguard against rivals. A great love has much in common with childhooda

In those days there lived and flourished a set of young men, some of them rich, some poor, and all of them

idle, called "freelivers" (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

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 "freelivers" 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

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

socalled 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

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

"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

So Lucien never lost sight of his principal idea; and though tomorrow, following close upon the heels of

today 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 parvenue 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

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 fellowcountryman, 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

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

tenderhearted 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 purchasemoney 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

Debts are becoming to a young man, but after the age of fiveand 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 socalled 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 lastIf a man has nothing, his affairs cannot be embarrassedWe have nothing to lose but the fortune

that we seekSwim with the stream; it will take you somewhereA clever man with a footing in society

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 ValNoble's house. Mme. du

valNoble 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 sayto 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 righthand 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 transformationscene, 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

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 somuch 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

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 supperparty 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

"Why, the one pledge of which a great man can be sure, is given him by his friend the pawnbroker," cried

"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

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

"The Matifat took alarm," said Lousteau. "We have lost him; but if Florine chooses, she can make him pay

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

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

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 handLa 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

"I understand, and I resume. Show a publisher one manuscript volume and he will believe in all the rest. A

publisher asks to see your manuscript, and gives you to understand that he is going to read it. Why disturb his

harmless vanity? They never read a manuscript; they would not publish so many if they did. Well, Hector and

I allowed it to leak out that you might consider an offer of five thousand francs for three thousand copies, in

two editions. Let me have your Archer; the day after tomorrow we are to breakfast with the publishers, and

"Two partners named Fendant and Cavalier; they are two good fellows, pretty straightforward in business.

One of them used to be with Vidal and Porchon, the other is the cleverest hand on the Quai des Augustins.

They only started in business last year, and have lost a little on translations of English novels; so now my

gentlemen have a mind to exploit the native product. There is a rumor current that those dealers in spoiled

white paper are trading on other people's capital; but I don't think it matters very much to you who finds the

Two days later, the pair went to a breakfast in the Rue Serpente, in Lucien's old quarter of Paris. Lousteau

still kept his room in the Rue de la Harpe; and it was in the same state as before, but this time Lucien felt no

surprise; he had been initiated into the life of journalism; he knew all its ups and downs. Since that evening of

his introduction to the Wooden Galleries, he had been paid for many an article, and gambled away the money

along with the desire to write. He had filled columns, not once but many times, in the ingenious ways

described by Lousteau on that memorable evening as they went to the Palais Royal. He was dependent upon

Barbet and Braulard; he trafficked in books and theatretickets; he shrank no longer from any attack, from

writing any panegyric; and at this moment he was in some sort rejoicing to make all he could out of Lousteau

before turning his back on the Liberals. His intimate knowledge of the party would stand him in good stead in

future. And Lousteau, on his side, was privately receiving five hundred francs of purchasemoney, under the

name of commission, from Fendant and Cavalier for introducing the future Sir Walter Scott to two

The firm of Fendant and Cavalier had started in business without any capital whatsoever. A great many

publishing houses were established at that time in the same way, and are likely to be established so long as

papermakers and printers will give credit for the time required to play some seven or eight of the games of

chance called "new publications." At that time, as at present, the author's copyright was paid for in bills at six,

nine, and twelve monthsa method of payment determined by the custom of the trade, for booksellers settle

accounts between themselves by bills at even longer dates. Papermakers and printers are paid in the same

way, so that in practice the publisher bookseller has a dozen or a score of works on sale for a twelvemonth

before he pays for them. Even if only two or three of these hit the public taste, the profitable speculations pay

for the bad, and the publisher pays his way by grafting, as it were, one book upon another. But if all of them

turn out badly; or if, for his misfortune, the publisherbookseller happens to bring out some really good

literature which stays on hand until the right public discovers and appreciates it; or if it costs too much to

discount the paper that he receives, then, resignedly, he files his schedule, and becomes a bankrupt with an

untroubled mind. He was prepared all along for something of the kind. So, all the chances being in favor of

the publishers, they staked other people's money, not their own upon the gamingtable of business

This was the case with Fendant and Cavalier. Cavalier brought his experience, Fendant his industry; the

capital was a jointstock affair, and very accurately described by that word, for it consisted in a few thousand

francs scraped together with difficulty by the mistresses of the pair. Out of this fund they allowed each other

a fairly handsome salary, and scrupulously spent it all in dinners to journalists and authors, or at the theatre,

where their business was transacted, as they said. This questionably honest couple were both supposed to be

clever men of business, but Fendant was more slippery than Cavalier. Cavalier, true to his name, traveled

about, Fendant looked after business in Paris. A partnership between two publishers is always more or less of

They had brought out plenty of romances already, such as the Tour du Nord, Le Marchand de Benares, La

Fontaine du Sepulcre, and Tekeli, translations of the works of Galt, an English novelist who never attained

much popularity in France. The success of translations of Scott had called the attention of the trade to English

novels. The race of publishers, all agog for a second Norman conquest, were seeking industriously for a

second Scott, just as at a rather later day every one must needs look for asphalt in stony soil, or bitumen in

marshes, and speculate in projected railways. The stupidity of the Paris commercial world is conspicuous in

these attempts to do the same thing twice, for success lies in contraries; and in Paris, of all places in the

world, success spoils success. So beneath the title of Strelitz, or Russia a Hundred Years Ago, Fendant and

Fendant and Cavalier were in great need of a success. A single good book might float their sunken bales, they

thought; and there was the alluring prospect besides of articles in the newspapers, the great way of promoting

sales in those days. A book is very seldom bought and sold for its just value, and purchases are determined by

considerations quite other than the merits of the work. So Fendant and Cavalier thought of Lucien as a

journalist, and of his book as a salable article, which would help them to tide over their monthly settlement.

The partners occupied the ground floor of one of the great old fashioned houses in the Rue Serpente; their

private office had been contrived at the further end of a suite of large drawingrooms, now converted into

warehouses for books. Lucien and Etienne found the publishers in their office, the agreement drawn up, and

Fendant was short and thin, and by no means reassuring of aspect. With his low, narrow forehead, sunken

nose, and hard mouth, he looked like a Kalmuck Tartar; a pair of small, wideawake black eyes, the crabbed

irregular outline of his countenance, a voice like a cracked bellthe man's whole appearance, in fact,

combined to give the impression that this was a consummate rascal. A honeyed tongue compensated for these

disadvantages, and he gained his ends by talk. Cavalier, a stout, thickset young fellow, looked more like the

driver of a mail coach than a publisher; he had hair of a sandy color, a fiery red countenance, and the heavy

"There is no need to discuss this affair," said Fendant, addressing Lucien and Lousteau. "I have read the

work, it is very literary, and so exactly the kind of thing we want, that I have sent it off as it is to the printer.

The agreement is drawn on the lines laid down, and besides, we always make the same stipulations in all

cases. The bills fall due in six, nine, and twelve months respectively; you will meet with no difficulty in

discounting them, and we will refund you the discount. We have reserved the right of giving a new title to the

book. We don't care for The Archer of Charles IX.; it doesn't tickle the reader's curiosity sufficiently; there

were several kings of that name, you see, and there were so many archers in the Middle Ages. If you had only

called it the Soldier of Napoleon, now! But The Archer of Charles IX.!why, Cavalier would have to give a

course of history lessons before he could place a copy anywhere in the provinces."

"If you but knew the class of people that we have to do with!" exclaimed Cavalier.

"Catherine de' Medici, or France under Charles IX., would sound more like one of Scott's novels," added

The agreement was read over, signed in duplicate, and each of the contracting parties took their copy. Lucien

put the bills in his pocket with unequaled satisfaction, and the four repaired to Fendant's abode, where they

breakfasted on beefsteaks and oysters, kidneys in champagne, and Brie cheese; but if the fare was something

of the homeliest, the wines were exquisite; Cavalier had an acquaintance a traveler in the wine trade. Just as

they sat down to table the printer appeared, to Lucien's surprise, with the first two proofsheets.

"We want to get on with it," Fendant said; "we are counting on your book; we want a success confoundedly

"Where shall we get cash for these things?" asked Lucien as they came away, somewhat heated and flushed

"We might try Barbet," suggested Etienne, and they turned down to the Quai des Augustins.

"Coralie is astonished to the highest degree over Florine's loss. Florine only told her about it yesterday; she

seemed to lay the blame of it on you, and was so vexed, that she was ready to throw you over."

"That's true," said Lousteau. Wine had got the better of prudence, and he unbosomed himself to Lucien,

ending up with: "My friendfor you are my friend, Lucien; you lent me a thousand francs, and you have

only once asked me for the moneyshun play! If I had never touched a card, I should be a happy man. I owe

money all round. At this moment I have the bailiffs at my heels; indeed, when I go to the Palais Royal, I have

In the language of the fast set, doubling a cape meant dodging a creditor, or keeping out of his way. Lucien

had not heard the expression before, but he was familiar with the practice by this time.

"A mere trifle," said Lousteau. "A thousand crowns would pull me through. I have resolved to turn steady

"It is an English invention recently imported. A 'chanteur' is a man who can manage to put a paragraph in the

papersnever an editor nor a responsible man, for they are not supposed to know anything about it, and

there is always a Giroudeau or a Philippe Bridau to be found. A bravo of this stamp finds up somebody who

has his own reasons for not wanting to be talked about. Plenty of people have a few peccadilloes, or some

more or less original sin, upon their consciences; there are plenty of fortunes made in ways that would not

bear looking into; sometimes a man has kept the letter of the law, and sometimes he has not; and in either

case, there is a tidbit of tattle for the inquirer, as, for instance, that tale of Fouche's police surrounding the

spies of the Prefect of Police, who, not being in the secret of the fabrication of forged English banknotes,

were just about to pounce on the clandestine printers employed by the Minister, or there is the story of Prince

Galathionne's diamonds, the Maubreuile affair, or the Pombreton will case. The 'chanteur' gets possession of

some compromising letter, asks for an interview; and if the man that made the money does not buy silence,

the 'chanteur' draws a picture of the press ready to take the matter up and unravel his private affairs. The rich

"You are committed to some risky venture, which might easily be written down in a series of articles; a

'chanteur' waits upon you, and offers to withdraw the articlesfor a consideration. 'Chanteurs' are sent to

men in office, who will bargain that their acts and not their private characters are to be attacked, or they are

heedless of their characters, and anxious only to shield the woman they love. One of your acquaintance, that

charming Master of Requests des Lupeaulx, is a kind of agent for affairs of this sort. The rascal has made a

position for himself in the most marvelous way in the very centre of power; he is the middleman of the press

and the ambassador of the Ministers; he works upon a man's selflove; he bribes newspapers to pass over a

loan in silence, or to make no comment on a contract which was never put up for public tender, and the

jackals of Liberal bankers get a share out of it. That was a bit of 'chantage' that you did with Dauriat; he gave

you a thousand crowns to let Nathan alone. In the eighteenth century, when journalism was still in its infancy,

this kind of blackmail was levied by pamphleteers in the pay of favorites and great lords. The original

inventor was Pietro Aretino, a great Italian. Kings went in fear of him, as stageplayers go in fear of a

"I attacked Florine in half a dozen papers. Florine complained to Matifat. Matifat went to Braulard to find out

what the attacks meant. I did my 'chantage' for Finot's benefit, and Finot put Braulard on the wrong scent;

Braulard told the man of drugs that YOU were demolishing Florine in Coralie's interest. Then Giroudeau

went round to Matifat and told him (in confidence) that the whole business could be accommodated if he

(Matifat) would consent to sell his sixth share in Finot's review for ten thousand francs. Finot was to give me

a thousand crowns if the dodge succeeded. Well, Matifat was only too glad to get back ten thousand francs

out of the thirty thousand invested in a risky speculation, as he thought, for Florine had been telling him for

several days past that Finot's review was doing badly; and, instead of paying a dividend, something was said

of calling up more capital. So Matifat was just about to close with the offer, when the manager of the

PanoramaDramatique comes to him with some accommodation bills that he wanted to negotiate before

filing his schedule. To induce Matifat to take them of him, he let out a word of Finot's trick. Matifat, being a

shrewd man of business, took the hint, held tight to his sixth, and is laughing in his sleeve at us. Finot and I

are howling with despair. We have been so misguided as to attack a man who has no affection for his

mistress, a heartless, soulless wretch. Unluckily, too, for us, Matifat's business is not amenable to the

jurisdiction of the press, and he cannot be made to smart for it through his interests. A druggist is not like a

hatter or a milliner, or a theatre or a work of art; he is above criticism; you can't run down his opium and

dyewoods, nor cocoa beans, paint, and pepper. Florine is at her wits' end; the Panorama closes tomorrow,

"Coralie's engagement at the Gymnase begins in a few days," said Lucien; "she might do something for

"Not she!" said Lousteau. "Coralie is not clever, but she is not quite simple enough to help herself to a rival.

We are in a mess with a vengeance. And Finot is in such a hurry to buy back his sixth"

"It is a capital bit of business, my dear fellow. There is a chance of selling the paper for three hundred

thousand francs; Finot would have onethird, and his partners besides are going to pay him a commission,

which he will share with des Lupeaulx. So I propose to do another turn of 'chantage.' "

"It is better than that," said Lousteau; "it is your money or your character. A short time ago the proprietor of a

minor newspaper was refused credit. The day before yesterday it was announced in his columns that a gold

repeater set with diamonds belonging to a certain notability had found its way in a curious fashion into the

hands of a private soldier in the Guards; the story promised to the readers might have come from the Arabian

Nights. The notability lost no time in asking that editor to dine with him; the editor was distinctly a gainer by

the transaction, and contemporary history has lost an anecdote. Whenever the press makes vehement

onslaughts upon some one in power, you may be sure that there is some refusal to do a service behind it.

Blackmailing with regard to private life is the terror of the richest Englishman, and a great source of wealth to

the press in England, which is infinitely more corrupt than ours. We are children in comparison! In England

they will pay five or six thousand francs for a compromising letter to sell again."

"My dear boy, that low tradesman wrote the queerest letters to Florine; the spelling, style, and matter of them

is ludicrous to the last degree. We can strike him in the very midst of his Lares and Penates, where he feels

himself safest, without so much as mentioning his name; and he cannot complain, for he lives in fear and

terror of his wife. Imagine his wrath when he sees the first number of a little serial entitled the Amours of a

Druggist, and is given fair warning that his loveletters have fallen into the hands of certain journalists. He

talks about the 'little god Cupid,' he tells Florine that she enables him to cross the desert of life (which looks

as if he took her for a camel), and spells 'never' with two v's. There is enough in that immensely funny

correspondence to bring an influx of subscribers for a fortnight. He will shake in his shoes lest an anonymous

letter should supply his wife with the key to the riddle. The question is whether Florine will consent to appear

to persecute Matifat. She has some principles, which is to say, some hopes, still left. Perhaps she means to

keep the letters and make something for herself out of them. She is cunning, as befits my pupil. But as soon

as she finds out that a bailiff is no laughing matter, or Finot gives her a suitable present or hopes of an

engagement, she will give me the letters, and I will sell them to Finot. Finot will put the correspondence in

These confidences sobered Lucien. His first thought was that he had some extremely dangerous friends; his

second, that it would be impolitic to break with them; for if Mme. d'Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Chatelet

should fail to keep their word with him, he might need their terrible power yet. By this time Etienne and

Lucien had reached Barbet's miserable bookshop on the Quai. Etienne addressed Barbet:

"We have five thousand francs' worth of bills at six, nine, and twelve months, given by Fendant and Cavalier.

"I will give you three thousand francs for them," said Barbet with imperturbable coolness.

"Nobody else will give you as much," rejoined the bookseller. "The firm will go bankrupt before three

months are out; but I happen to know that they have some good books that are hanging on hand; they cannot

afford to wait, so I shall buy their stock for cash and pay them with their own bills, and get the books at a

"You won't find any one that will take their paper," said Barbet. "Your book is their last stake, sir. The printer

will not trust them; they are obliged to leave the copies in pawn with him. If they make a hit now, it will only

stave off bankruptcy for another six months, sooner or later they will have to go. They are cleverer at tippling

than at bookselling. In my own case, their bills mean business; and that being so, I can afford to give more

than a professional discounter who simply looks at the signatures. It is a bill discounter's business to know

whether the three names on a bill are each good for thirty per cent in case of bankruptcy. And here at the

The two journalists exchanged glances in surprise. Here was a little scrub of a bookseller putting the essence

"That will do, Barbet," said Lousteau. "Can you tell us of a bill broker that will look at us?"

"There is Daddy Chaboisseau, on the Quai SaintMichel, you know. He tided Fendant over his last monthly

settlement. If you won't listen to my offer, you might go and see what he says to you; but you would only

come back to me, and then I shall offer you two thousand francs instead of three."

Etienne and Lucien betook themselves to the Quai SaintMichel, and found Chaboisseau in a little house

with a passage entry. Chaboisseau, a billdiscounter, whose dealings were principally with the book trade,

lived in a secondfloor lodging furnished in the most eccentric manner. A brevetrank banker and millionaire

to boot, he had a taste for the classical style. The cornice was in the classical style; the bedstead, in the purest

classical taste, dated from the time of the Empire, when such things were in fashion; the purple hangings fell

over the wall like the classic draperies in the background of one of David's pictures. Chairs and tables, lamps

and sconces, and every least detail had evidently been sought with patient care in furniture warehouses. There

was the elegance of antiquity about the classic revival as well as its fragile and somewhat arid grace. The man

himself, like his manner of life, was in grotesque contrast with the airy mythological look of his rooms; and it

may be remarked that the most eccentric characters are found among men who give their whole energies to

Men of this stamp are, in a certain sense, intellectual libertines. Everything is within their reach, consequently

their fancy is jaded, and they will make immense efforts to shake off their indifference. The student of human

nature can always discover some hobby, some accessible weakness and sensitive spot in their heart.

Chaboisseau might have entrenched himself in antiquity as in an impregnable camp.

Chaboisseau, a little old person with powdered hair, wore a greenish coat and snuffbrown waistcoat; he was

tricked out besides in black smallclothes, ribbed stockings, and shoes that creaked as he came forward to

take the bills. After a short scrutiny, he returned them to Lucien with a serious countenance.

"MM Fendant and Cavalier are delightful young fellows; they have plenty of intelligence; but, I have no

"My friend here would be willing to meet you in the matter of discount" Etienne began.

"I would not take the bills on any consideration," returned the little broker. The words slid down upon

The two friends withdrew; but as Chaboisseau went prudently out with them across the antechamber,

Lucien noticed a pile of secondhand books. Chaboisseau had been in the trade, and this was a recent

purchase. Shining conspicuous among them, he noticed a copy of a work by the architect Ducereau, which

gives exceedingly accurate plans of various royal palaces and chateaux in France.

"It is dear, but I want it. And I can only pay you with one of the bills which you refuse to take."

"You have a bill there for five hundred francs at six months; I will take that one of you," said Chaboisseau.

Apparently at the last statement of accounts, there had been a balance of five hundred francs in favor of

They went back to the classical department. Chaboisseau made out a little memorandum, interest so much

and commission so much, total deduction thirty francs, then he subtracted fifty francs for Ducerceau's book;

"Look here, though, M. Chaboisseau, the bills are either all of them good, or all bad alike; why don't you take

Etienne and Lucien were still laughing at Chaboisseau, without understanding him, when they reached

Dauriat's shop, and Etienne asked Gabusson to give them the name of a billbroker. Gabusson thus appealed

to gave them a letter of introduction to a broker in the Boulevard Poissonniere, telling them at the same time

that this was the "oddest and queerest party" (to use his own expression) that he, Gabusson, had come across.

"If Samanon won't take your bills," Gabusson had said, "nobody else will look at them."

A secondhand bookseller on the ground floor, a secondhand clothes dealer on the first story, and a seller

of indecent prints on the second, Samanon carried on a fourth businesshe was a moneylender into the

bargain. No character in Hoffmann's romances, no sinister brooding miser of Scott's, can compare with this

freak of human and Parisian nature (always admitting that Samanon was human). In spite of himself, Lucien

shuddered at the sight of the driedup little old creature, whose bones seemed to be cutting a leather skin,

spotted with all sorts of little green and yellow patches, like a portrait by Titian or Veronese when you look at

it closely. One of Samanon's eyes was fixed and glassy, the other lively and bright; he seemed to keep that

dead eye for the billdiscounting part of his profession, and the other for the trade in the pornographic

curiosities upstairs. A few stray white hairs escaping from under a small, sleek, rusty black wig, stood erect

above a sallow forehead with a suggestion of menace about it; a hollow trench in either cheek defined the

outline of the jaws; while a set of projecting teeth, still white, seemed to stretch the skin of the lips with the

effect of an equine yawn. The contrast between the illassorted eyes and grinning mouth gave Samanon a

passably ferocious air; and the very bristles on the man's chin looked stiff and sharp as pins.

Nor was there the slightest sign about him of any desire to redeem a sinister appearance by attention to the

toilet; his threadbare jacket was all but dropping to pieces; a cravat, which had once been black, was frayed

by contact with a stubble chin, and left on exhibition a throat as wrinkled as a turkeygobbler's.

This was the individual whom Etienne and Lucien discovered in his filthy countinghouse, busily affixing

tickets to the backs of a parcel of books from a recent sale. In a glance, the friends exchanged the

innumerable questions raised by the existence of such a creature; then they presented Gabusson's introduction

and Fendant and Cavalier's bills. Samanon was still reading the note when a third comer entered, the wearer

of a short jacket, which seemed in the dimlylighted shop to be cut out of a piece of zinc roofing, so solid

was it by reason of alloy with all kinds of foreign matter. Oddly attired as he was, the man was an artist of no

small intellectual power, and ten years later he was destined to assist in the inauguration of the great but ill

"I want my coat, my black trousers, and satin waistcoat," said this person, pressing a numbered ticket on

Samanon's attention. Samanon touched the brass button of a bellpull, and a woman came down from some

"Let the gentleman have his clothes," said Samanon, holding out a hand to the newcomer. "It's a pleasure to

do business with you, sir; but that youngster whom one of your friends introduced to me took me in most

"Took HIM in!" chuckled the newcomer, pointing out Samanon to the two journalists with an extremely

comical gesture. The great man dropped thirty sous into the moneylender's yellow, wrinkled hand; like the

Neapolitan lazzaroni, he was taking his best clothes out of pawn for a state occasion. The coins dropped

"What queer business are you up to?" asked Lousteau of the artist, an opiumeater who dwelt among visions

"HE lends you a good deal more than an ordinary pawnbroker on anything you pledge; and, besides, he is so

awfully charitable, he allows you to take your clothes out when you must have something to wear. I am going

to dine with the Kellers and my mistress tonight," he continued; "and to me it is easier to find thirty sous

than two hundred francs, so I keep my wardrobe here. It has brought the charitable usurer a hundred francs in

the last six months. Samanon has devoured my library already, volume by volume" (livre a livre).

Lucien started, as if the billbroker had thrust a redhot skewer through his heart. Samanon was subjecting

"And even then," he added, "I must see Fendant first. He ought to deposit some books with me. You aren't

worth much" (turning to Lucien); "you are living with Coralie, and your furniture has been attached."

Lousteau, watching Lucien, saw him take up his bills, and dash out into the street. "He is the devil himself!"

exclaimed the poet. For several seconds he stood outside gazing at the shop front. The whole place was so

pitiful, that a passerby could not see it without smiling at the sight, and wondering what kind of business a

A very few moments later, the great man, in incognito, came out, very well dressed, smiled at his friends, and

turned to go with them in the direction of the Passage des Panoramas, where he meant to complete his toilet

"If you see Samanon in a bookseller's shop, or calling on a paper merchant or a printer, you may know that

it is all over with that man," said the artist. "Samanon is the undertaker come to take the measurements for a

"If Samanon will not take them, nobody else will; he is the ultima ratio," said the stranger. "He is one of

Gigonnet's lambs, a spy for Palma, Werbrust, Gobseck, and the rest of those crocodiles who swim in the Paris

moneymarket. Every man with a fortune to make, or unmake, is sure to come across one of them sooner or

"If you cannot discount your bills at fifty per cent," remarked Lousteau, "you must exchange them for hard

"Give them to Coralie; Camusot will cash them for her.You are disgusted," added Lousteau, as Lucien cut

him short with a start. "What nonsense! How can you allow such a silly scruple to turn the scale, when your

"Here is more folly!" cried Lousteau. "You will not keep your creditors quiet with four hundred francs when

you must have four thousand. Let us keep a little and get drunk on it, if we lose the rest at rouge et noir."

Those words, spoken not four paces from Frascati's, were magnetic in their effect. The friends dismissed their

At the outset they won three thousand francs, then they lost and fell to five hundred; again they won three

thousand seven hundred francs, and again they lost all but a fivefranc piece. After another turn of luck they

staked two thousand francs on an even number to double the stake at a stroke; an even number had not turned

up for five times in succession, and this was the sixth time. They punted the whole sum, and an odd number

After two hours of allabsorbing, frenzied excitement, the two dashed down the staircase with the hundred

francs kept back for the dinner. Upon the steps, between two pillars which support the little sheet iron

veranda to which so many eyes have been upturned in longing or despair, Lousteau stopped and looked into

And up the stairs again they went. An hour later they owned a thousand crowns. Black had turned up for the

fifth consecutive time; they trusted that their previous luck would not repeat itself, and put the whole sum on

the redblack turned up for the sixth time. They had lost. It was now six o'clock.

The new venture was soon madeand lost. The twentyfive francs went in five stakes. Then Lucien, in a

frenzy, flung down his last twenty five francs on the number of his age, and won. No words can describe

how his hands trembled as he raked in the coins which the bank paid him one by one. He handed ten louis to

Lousteau took the hint and went to order dinner. Lucien, left alone, laid his thirty louis on the red and won.

Emboldened by the inner voice which a gambler always hears, he staked the whole again on the red, and

again he won. He felt as if there were a furnace within him. Without heeding the voice, he laid a hundred and

twenty louis on the black and lost. Then to the torturing excitement of suspense succeeded the delicious

feeling of relief known to the gambler who has nothing left to lose, and must perforce leave the palace of fire

He found Lousteau at Very's, and flung himself upon the cookery (to make use of Lafontaine's expression),

and drowned his cares in wine. By nine o'clock his ideas were so confused that he could not imagine why the

"Mlle. Coralie has gone," said the woman. "She has taken lodgings elsewhere. She left her address with me

Lucien was too far gone to be surprised at anything. He went back to the cab which had brought him, and was

driven to the Rue de la Lune, making puns to himself on the name of the street as he went.

The news of the failure of the PanoramaDramatique had come like a thunderclap. Coralie, taking alarm,

made haste to sell her furniture (with the consent of her creditors) to little old Cardot, who installed

Florentine in the rooms at once. The tradition of the house remained unbroken. Coralie paid her creditors and

satisfied the landlord, proceeding with her "washingday," as she called it, while Berenice bought the

absolutely indispensable necessaries to furnish a fourthfloor lodging in the Rue de la Lune, a few doors

from the Gymnase. Here Coralie was waiting for Lucien's return. She had brought her love unsullied out of

Lucien, more than half intoxicated, poured out his woes to Coralie and Berenice.

"You did quite right, my angel," said Coralie, with her arms about his neck. "Berenice can easily negotiate

The next morning Lucien awoke to an enchanted world of happiness made about him by Coralie. She was

more loving and tender in those days than she had ever been; perhaps she thought that the wealth of love in

her heart should make him amends for the poverty of their lodging. She looked bewitchingly charming, with

the loose hair straying from under the crushed white silk handkerchief about her head; there was soft laughter

in her eyes; her words were as bright as the first rays of sunrise that shone in through the windows, pouring a

Not that the room was squalid. The walls were covered with a seagreen paper, bordered with red; there was

one mirror over the chimneypiece, and a second above the chest of drawers. The bare boards were covered

with a cheap carpet, which Berenice had bought in spite of Coralie's orders, and paid for out of her own little

store. A wardrobe, with a glass door and a chest, held the lovers' clothing, the mahogany chairs were covered

with blue cotton stuff, and Berenice had managed to save a clock and a couple of china vases from the

catastrophe, as well as four spoons and forks and halfadozen little spoons. The bedroom was entered from

the diningroom, which might have belonged to a clerk with an income of twelve hundred francs. The

kitchen was next the landing, and Berenice slept above in an attic. The rent was not more than a hundred

The dismal house boasted a sham carriage entrance, the porter's box being contrived behind one of the useless

leaves of the gate, and lighted by a peephole through which that personage watched the comings and goings

of seventeen families, for this hive was a "goodpaying property," in auctioneer's phrase.

Lucien, looking round the room, discovered a desk, an easychair, paper, pens, and ink. The sight of

Berenice in high spirits (she was building hopes on Coralie's debut at the Gymnase), and of Coralie herself

conning her part with a knot of blue ribbon tied about it, drove all cares and anxieties from the sobered poet's

"So long as nobody in society hears of this sudden comedown, we shall pull through," he said. "After all, we

have four thousand five hundred francs before us. I will turn my new position in Royalist journalism to

account. Tomorrow we shall start the Reveil; I am an old hand now, and I will make something out."

And Coralie, seeing nothing but love in the words, kissed the lips that uttered them. By this time Berenice

had set the table near the fire and served a modest breakfast of scrambled eggs, a couple of cutlets, coffee,

and cream. Just then there came a knock at the door, and Lucien, to his astonishment, beheld three of his

loyal friends of old daysd'Arthez, Leon Giraud, and Michel Chrestien. He was deeply touched, and asked

"No; we have come on more serious business than condolence," said d'Arthez; "we know the whole story, we

have just come from the Rue de Vendome. You know my opinions, Lucien. Under any other circumstances I

should be glad to hear that you had adopted my political convictions; but situated as you are with regard to

the Liberal Press, it is impossible for you to go over to the Ultras. Your life will be sullied, your character

blighted for ever. We have come to entreat you in the name of our friendship, weakened though it may be, not

to soil yourself in this way. You have been prominent in attacking the Romantics, the Right, and the

Government; you cannot now declare for the Government; the Right, and the Romantics."

"My reasons for the change are based on lofty grounds; the end will justify the means," said Lucien.

"Perhaps you do not fully comprehend our position on the side of the Government," said Leon Giraud. "The

Government, the Court, the Bourbons, the Absolutist Party, or to sum up in the general expression, the whole

system opposed to the constitutional system, may be divided upon the question of the best means of

extinguishing the Revolution, but is unanimous as to the advisability of extinguishing the newspapers. The

Reveil, the Foudre, and the Drapeau Blanc have all been founded for the express purpose of replying to the

slander, gibes, and railing of the Liberal press. I cannot approve them, for it is precisely this failure to

recognize the grandeur of our priesthood that has led us to bring out a serious and selfrespecting paper;

which perhaps," he added parenthetically, "may exercise a worthy influence before very long, and win

respect, and carry weight; but this Royalist artillery is destined for a first attempt at reprisals, the Liberals are

"What can come of it Lucien? The majority of newspaper readers incline for the Left; and in the press, as in

warfare, the victory is with the big battalions. You will be blackguards, liars, enemies of the people; the other

side will be defenders of their country, martyrs, men to be held in honor, though they may be even more

hypocritical and slippery than their opponents. In these ways the pernicious influence of the press will be

increased, while the most odious form of journalism will receive sanction. Insult and personalities will

become a recognized privilege of the press; newspapers have taken this tone in the subscribers' interests; and

when both sides have recourse to the same weapons, the standard is set and the general tone of journalism

taken for granted. When the evil is developed to its fullest extent, restrictive laws will be followed by

prohibitions; there will be a return of the censorship of the press imposed after the assassination of the Duc de

Berri, and repealed since the opening of the Chambers. And do you know what the nation will conclude from

the debate? The people will believe the insinuations of the Liberal press; they will think that the Bourbons

mean to attack the rights of property acquired by the Revolution, and some fine day they will rise and shake

off the Bourbons. You are not only soiling your life, Lucien, you are going over to the losing side. You are

too young, too lately a journalist, too little initiated into the secret springs of motive and the tricks of the

craft, you have aroused too much jealousy, not to fall a victim to the general hue and cry that will be raised

against you in the Liberal newspapers. You will be drawn into the fray by party spirit now still at feverheat;

though the fever, which spent itself in violence in 1815 and 1816, now appears in debates in the Chamber and

"I am not quite a featherhead, my friends," said Lucien, "though you may choose to see a poet in me.

Whatever may happen, I shall gain one solid advantage which no Liberal victory can give me. By the time

"I shall have my children by that time," said Lucien; "and if you cut off my head, it will not matter."

The three could make nothing of Lucien. Intercourse with the great world had developed in him the pride of

caste, the vanities of the aristocrat. The poet thought, and not without reason, that there was a fortune in his

good looks and intellect, accompanied by the name and title of Rubempre. Mme. d'Espard and Mme. de

Bargeton held him fast by this clue, as a child holds a cockchafer by a string. Lucien's flight was

circumscribed. The words, "He is one of us, he is sound," accidentally overheard but three days ago in Mlle.

de Touches' salon, had turned his head. The Duc de Lenoncourt, the Duc de Navarreins, the Duc de

Grandlieu, Rastignac, Blondet, the lovely Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, the Comte d'Escrignon, and des

Lupeaulx, all the most influential people at Court in fact, had congratulated him on his conversion, and

"Then there is no more to be said," d'Arthez rejoined. "You, of all men, will find it hard to keep clean hands

and selfrespect. I know you, Lucien; you will feel it acutely when you are despised by the very men to

The three took leave, and not one of them gave him a friendly handshake. Lucien was thoughtful and sad for

"Oh! never mind those ninnies," cried Coralie, springing upon his knee and putting her beautiful arms about

his neck. "They take life seriously, and life is a joke. Besides, you are going to be Count Lucien de

Rubempre. I will wheedle the Chancellerie if there is no other way. I know how to come round that rake of a

des Lupeaulx, who will sign your patent. Did I not tell you, Lucien, that at the last you should have Coralie's

Next day Lucien allowed his name to appear in the list of contributors to the Reveil. His name was

announced in the prospectus with a flourish of trumpets, and the Ministry took care that a hundred thousand

copies should be scattered abroad far and wide. There was a dinner at Robert's, two doors away from

Frascati's, to celebrate the inauguration, and the whole band of Royalist writers for the press were present.

Martainville was there, and Auger and Destains, and a host of others, still living, who "did Monarchy and

religion," to use the familiar expression coined for them. Nathan had also enlisted under the banner, for he

was thinking of starting a theatre, and not unreasonably held that it was better to have the licensing authorities

"Gentlemen," said Nathan, "if we are for war, let us have war in earnest; we must not carry it on with

popguns. Let us fall upon all Classicals and Liberals without distinction of age or sex, and put them all to

"We must act honorably; there must be no bribing with copies of books or presents; no taking money of

"Good!" said Martainville. "Justum et tenacem propositi virum! Let us be implacable and virulent. I will give

"And I will undertake the heroes of the Constitutionnel," added Lucien; "Sergeant Mercier, M. Jouy's

A war of extermination was unanimously resolved upon, and by one o'clock in the morning all shades of

opinion were merged and drowned, together with every glimmer of sense, in a flaming bowl of punch.

"We have had a fine Monarchical and Religious jollification," remarked an illustrious reveler in the doorway

That comment appeared in the next day's issue of the Miroir through the good offices of a publisher among

the guests, and became historic. Lucien was supposed to be the traitor who blabbed. His defection gave the

signal for a terrific hubbub in the Liberal camp; Lucien was the butt of the Opposition newspapers, and

ridiculed unmercifully. The whole history of his sonnets was given to the public. Dauriat was said to prefer a

first loss of a thousand crowns to the risk of publishing the verses; Lucien was called "the Poet sans Sonnets;"

and one morning, in that very paper in which he had so brilliant a beginning, he read the following lines,

*** "If M. Dauriat persistently withholds the Sonnets of the future Petrarch from publication, we will act like

generous foes. We will open our own columns to his poems, which must be piquant indeed, to judge by the

And close upon that ominous preface followed a sonnet entitled "The Thistle" (le Chardon):

A chancecome seedling, springing up one day Among the flowers in a garden fair, Made boast that splendid

So for a while they suffered it to stay; But with such insolence it flourished there, That, out of patience with

It bloomed forthwith; but ne'er was blundering clown Upon the boards more promptly hooted down; The

The owner flung it out. At close of day A solitary jackass came to bray A common Thistle's fitting epitaph.

Vernou touched elsewhere on Lucien's gambling propensities, and spoke of the forthcoming Archer of

Charles IX. as "antinational" in its tendency, the writer siding with Catholic cutthroats against their

Another week found the quarrel embittered. Lucien had counted upon his friend Etienne; Etienne owed him a

thousand francs, and there had been besides a private understanding between them; but Etienne Lousteau

For the past three months Nathan had been smitten with Florine's charms, and much at a loss how to rid

himself of Lousteau his rival, who was in fact dependent upon the actress. And now came Nathan's

opportunity, when Florine was frantic with distress over the failure of the PanoramaDramatique, which left

her without an engagement. He went as Lucien's colleague to beg Coralie to ask for a part for Florine in a

play of his which was about to be produced at the Gymnase. Then Nathan went to Florine and made capital

with her out of the service done by the promise of a conditional engagement. Ambition turned Florine's head;

she did not hesitate. She had had time to gauge Lousteau pretty thoroughly. Lousteau's courses were

weakening his will, and here was Nathan with his ambitions in politics and literature, and energies strong as

his cravings. Florine proposed to reappear on the stage with renewed eclat, so she handed over Matifat's

correspondence to Nathan. Nathan drove a bargain for them with Matifat, and took the sixth share of Finot's

review in exchange for the compromising billets. After this, Florine was installed in sumptuously furnished

apartments in the Rue Hauteville, where she took Nathan for her protector in the face of the theatrical and

Lousteau was terribly overcome. He wept (towards the close of a dinner given by his friends to console him

in his affliction). In the course of that banquet it was decided that Nathan had not acted unfairly; several

writers presentFinot and Vernou, for instance,knew of Florine's fervid admiration for dramatic

literature; but they all agreed that Lucien had behaved very ill when he arranged that business at the

Gymnase; he had indeed broken the most sacred laws of friendship. Partyspirit and zeal to serve his new

"Nathan was carried away by passion," pronounced Bixiou, "while this 'distinguished provincial,' as Blondet

And so it came to pass that deep plots were laid by all parties alike to rid themselves of this little upstart

intruder of a poet who wanted to eat everybody up. Vernou bore Lucien a personal grudge, and undertook to

keep a tight hand on him; and Finot declared that Lucien had betrayed the secret of the combination against

Matifat, and thereby swindled him (Finot) out of fifty thousand francs. Nathan, acting on Florine's advice,

gained Finot's support by selling him the sixth share for fifteen thousand francs, and Lousteau consequently

lost his commission. His thousand crowns had vanished away; he could not forgive Lucien for this

treacherous blow (as he supposed it) dealt to his interests. The wounds of vanity refuse to heal if oxide of

No words, no amount of description, can depict the wrath of an author in a paroxysm of mortified vanity, nor

the energy which he discovers when stung by the poisoned darts of sarcasm; but, on the other hand, the man

that is roused to fightingfury by a personal attack usually subsides very promptly. The more phlegmatic

race, who take these things quietly, lay their account with the oblivion which speedily overtakes the spiteful

article. These are the truly courageous men of letters; and if the weaklings seem at first to be the strong men,

During that first fortnight, while the fury was upon him, Lucien poured a perfect hailstorm of articles into the

Royalist papers, in which he shared the responsibilities of criticism with Hector Merlin. He was always in the

breach, pounding away with all his might in the Reveil, backed up by Martainville, the only one among his

associates who stood by him without an afterthought. Martainville was not in the secret of certain

understandings made and ratified amid afterdinner jokes, or at Dauriat's in the Wooden Galleries, or behind

the scenes at the Vaudeville, when journalists of either side met on neutral ground.

When Lucien went to the greenroom of the Vaudeville, he met with no welcome; the men of his own party

held out a hand to shake, the others cut him; and all the while Hector Merlin and Theodore Gaillard

fraternized unblushingly with Finot, Lousteau, and Vernou, and the rest of the journalists who were known

The greenroom of the Vaudeville in those days was a hotbed of gossip, as well as a neutral ground where men

of every shade of opinion could meet; so much so that the President of a court of law, after reproving a

learned brother in a certain council chamber for "sweeping the greenroom with his gown," met the subject of

his strictures, gown to gown, in the greenroom of the Vaudeville. Lousteau, in time, shook hands again with

Nathan; Finot came thither almost every evening; and Lucien, whenever he could spare the time, went to the

Vaudeville to watch the enemies, who showed no sign of relenting towards the unfortunate boy.

In the time of the Restoration party hatred was far more bitter than in our day. Intensity of feeling is

diminished in our highpressure age. The critic cuts a book to pieces and shakes hands with the author

afterwards, and the victim must keep on good terms with his slaughterer, or run the gantlet of innumerable

jokes at his expense. If he refuses, he is unsociable, eaten up with selflove, he is sulky and rancorous, he

bears malice, he is a bad bedfellow. Today let an author receive a treacherous stab in the back, let him

avoid the snares set for him with base hypocrisy, and endure the most unhandsome treatment, he must still

exchange greetings with his assassin, who, for that matter, claims the esteem and friendship of his victim.

Everything can be excused and justified in an age which has transformed vice into virtue and virtue into vice.

Goodfellowship has come to be the most sacred of our liberties; the representatives of the most opposite

opinions courteously blunt the edge of their words, and fence with buttoned foils. But in those almost

forgotten days the same theatre could scarcely hold certain Royalist and Liberal journalists; the most

malignant provocation was offered, glances were like pistolshots, the least spark produced an explosion of

quarrel. Who has not heard his neighbor's halfsmothered oath on the entrance of some man in the forefront

of the battle on the opposing side? There were but two partiesRoyalists and Liberals, Classics and

Romantics. You found the same hatred masquerading in either form, and no longer wondered at the scaffolds

Lucien had been a Liberal and a hot Voltairean; now he was a rabid Royalist and a Romantic. Martainville,

the only one among his colleagues who really liked him and stood by him loyally, was more hated by the

Liberals than any man on the Royalist side, and this fact drew down all the hate of the Liberals on Lucien's

head. Martainville's staunch friendship injured Lucien. Political parties show scanty gratitude to outpost

sentinels, and leave leaders of forlorn hopes to their fate; 'tis a rule of warfare which holds equally good in

matters political, to keep with the main body of the army if you mean to succeed. The spite of the small

Liberal papers fastened at once on the opportunity of coupling the two names, and flung them into each

other's arms. Their friendship, real or imaginary, brought down upon them both a series of articles written by

pens dipped in gall. Felicien Vernou was furious with jealousy of Lucien's social success; and believed, like

The fiction of Lucien's treason was embellished with every kind of aggravating circumstance; he was called

Judas the Less, Martainville being Judas the Great, for Martainville was supposed (rightly or wrongly) to

have given up the Bridge of Pecq to the foreign invaders. Lucien said jestingly to des Lupeaulx that he

Lucien's luxurious life, hollow though it was, and founded on expectations, had estranged his friends. They

could not forgive him for the carriage which he had put downfor them he was still rolling about in itnor

yet for the splendors of the Rue de Vendome which he had left. All of them felt instinctively that nothing was

beyond the reach of this young and handsome poet, with intellect enough and to spare; they themselves had

trained him in corruption; and, therefore, they left no stone unturned to ruin him.

Some few days before Coralie's first appearance at the Gymnase, Lucien and Hector Merlin went

arminarm to the Vaudeville. Merlin was scolding his friend for giving a helping hand to Nathan in

"You then and there made two mortal enemies of Lousteau and Nathan," he said. "I gave you good advice,

and you took no notice of it. You gave praise, you did them a good turnyou will be well punished for your

kindness. Florine and Coralie will never live in peace on the same stage; both will wish to be first. You can

only defend Coralie in our papers; and Nathan not only has a pull as a dramatic author, he can control the

dramatic criticism in the Liberal newspapers. He has been a journalist a little longer than you!"

The words responded to Lucien's inward misgivings. Neither Nathan nor Gaillard was treating him with the

frankness which he had a right to expect, but so new a convert could hardly complain. Gaillard utterly

confounded Lucien by saying roundly that newcomers must give proofs of their sincerity for some time

before their party could trust them. There was more jealousy than he had imagined in the inner circles of

Royalist and Ministerial journalism. The jealousy of curs fighting for a bone is apt to appear in the human

species when there is a loaf to divide; there is the same growling and showing of teeth, the same

In every possible way these writers of articles tried to injure each other with those in power; they brought

reciprocal accusations of lukewarm zeal; they invented the most treacherous ways of getting rid of a rival.

There had been none of this internecine warfare among the Liberals; they were too far from power, too

hopelessly out of favor; and Lucien, amid the inextricable tangle of ambitions, had neither the courage to

draw sword and cut the knot, or the patience to unravel it. He could not be the Beaumarchais, the Aretino, the

Freron of his epoch; he was not made of such stuff; he thought of nothing but his one desire, the patent of

nobility; for he saw clearly that for him such a restoration meant a wealthy marriage, and, the title once

secured, chance and his good looks would do the rest. This was all his plan, and Etienne Lousteau, who had

confided so much to him, knew his secret, knew how to deal a deathblow to the poet of Angouleme. That

very night, as Lucien and Merlin went to the Vaudeville, Etienne had laid a terrible trap, into which an

"Here is our handsome Lucien," said Finot, drawing des Lupeaulx in the direction of the poet, and shaking

hands with feline amiability. "I cannot think of another example of such rapid success," continued Finot,

looking from des Lupeaulx to Lucien. "There are two sorts of success in Paris: there is a fortune in solid cash,

which any one can amass, and there is the intangible fortune of connections, position, or a footing in certain

circles inaccessible for certain persons, however rich they may be. Now my friend here"

"Our friend," repeated Finot, patting Lucien's hand, "has made a brilliant success from this point of view.

Truth to tell, Lucien has more in him, more gift, more wit than the rest of us that envy him, and he is

enchantingly handsome besides; his old friends cannot forgive him for his successthey call it luck."

"Luck of that sort never comes to fools or incapables," said des Lupeaulx. "Can you call Bonaparte's fortune

luck, eh? There were a score of applicants for the command of the army in Italy, just as there are a hundred

young men at this moment who would like to have an entrance to Mlle. des Touches' house; people are

coupling her name with yours already in society, my dear boy," said des Lupeaulx, clapping Lucien on the

shoulder. "Ah! you are in high favor. Mme. d'Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Mme. de Montcornet are wild

about you. You are going to Mme. Firmiani's party tonight, are you not, and to the Duchesse de Grandlieu's

"Allow me to introduce a young banker to you, a M. du Tillet; you ought to be acquainted, he has contrived

Lucien and du Tillet bowed, and entered into conversation, and the banker asked Lucien to dinner. Finot and

des Lupeaulx, a wellmatched pair, knew each other well enough to keep upon good terms; they turned away

to continue their chat on one of the sofas in the greenroom, and left Lucien with du Tillet, Merlin, and

"By the way, my friend," said Finot, "tell me how things stand. Is there really somebody behind Lucien? For

he is the bete noire of my staff; and before allowing them to plot against him, I thought I should like to know

whether, in your opinion, it would be better to baffle them and keep well with him."

The Master of Requests and Finot looked at each other very closely for a moment or two.

"My dear fellow," said des Lupeaulx, "how can you imagine that the Marquise d'Espard, or Chatelet, or Mme.

de Bargetonwho has procured the Baron's nomination to the prefecture and the title of Count, so as to

return in triumph to Angoulemehow can you suppose that any of them will forgive Lucien for his attacks

on them? They dropped him down in the Royalist ranks to crush him out of existence. At this moment they

are looking round for any excuse for not fulfilling the promises they made to that boy. Help them to some;

you will do the greatest possible service to the two women, and some day or other they will remember it. I am

in their secrets; I was surprised to find how much they hated the little fellow. This Lucien might have rid

himself of his bitterest enemy (Mme. de Bargeton) by desisting from his attacks on terms which a woman

loves to grantdo you take me? He is young and handsome, he should have drowned her hate in torrents of

love, he would be Comte de Rubempre by this time; the Cuttlefishbone would have obtained some sinecure

for him, some post in the Royal Household. Lucien would have made a very pretty reader to Louis XVIII.; he

might have been librarian somewhere or other, Master of Requests for a joke, Master of Revels, what you

please. The young fool has missed his chance. Perhaps that is his unpardonable sin. Instead of imposing his

conditions, he has accepted them. When Lucien was caught with the bait of the patent of nobility, the Baron

Chatelet made a great step. Coralie has been the ruin of that boy. If he had not had the actress for his mistress,

he would have turned again to the Cuttlefishbone; and he would have had her too."

"How?" des Lupeaulx asked carelessly. He saw a way of gaining credit with the Marquise d'Espard for this

"He is under contract to write for Lousteau's paper, and we can the better hold him to his agreement because

he has not a sou. If we tickle up the Keeper of the Seals with a facetious article, and prove that Lucien wrote

it, he will consider that Lucien is unworthy of the King's favor. We have a plot on hand besides. Coralie will

be ruined, and our distinguished provincial will lose his head when his mistress is hissed off the stage and left

without an engagement. When once the patent is suspended, we will laugh at the victim's aristocratic

pretensions, and allude to his mother the nurse and his father the apothecary. Lucien's courage is only

skindeep, he will collapse; we will send him back to his provinces. Nathan made Florine sell me Matifat's

sixth share of the review, I was able to buy; Dauriat and I are the only proprietors now; we might come to an

understanding, you and I, and the review might be taken over for the benefit of the Court. I stipulated for the

restitution of my sixth before I undertook to protect Nathan and Florine; they let me have it, and I must help

"Very well. Then can you arrange a definite engagement for Florine?" asked Finot.

"Yes, but rid us of Lucien, for Rastignac and de Marsay never wish to hear of him again."

"Sleep in peace," returned Finot. "Nathan and Merlin will always have articles ready for Gaillard, who will

promise to take them; Lucien will never get a line into the paper. We will cut off his supplies. There is only

Martainville's paper left him in which to defend himself and Coralie; what can a single paper do against so

"I will let you know the weak points of the Ministry; but get Lucien to write that article and hand over the

manuscript," said des Lupeaulx, who refrained carefully from informing Finot that Lucien's promised patent

When des Lupeaulx had gone, Finot went to Lucien, and taking the good natured tone which deceives so

many victims, he explained that he could not possibly afford to lose his contributor, and at the same time he

shrank from taking proceedings which might ruin him with his friends of the other side. Finot himself liked a

man who was strong enough to change his opinions. They were pretty sure to come across one another, he

and Lucien, and might be mutually helpful in a thousand little ways. Lucien, besides, needed a sure man in

the Liberal party to attack the Ultras and men in office who might refuse to help him.

"Suppose that they play you false, what will you do?" Finot ended. "Suppose that some Minister fancies that

he has you fast by the halter of your apostasy, and turns the cold shoulder on you? You will be glad to set on

a few dogs to snap at his legs, will you not? Very well. But you have made a deadly enemy of Lousteau; he is

thirsting for your blood. You and Felicien are not on speaking terms. I only remain to you. It is a rule of the

craft to keep a good understanding with every man of real ability. In the world which you are about to enter

you can do me services in return for mine with the press. But business first. Let me have purely literary

articles; they will not compromise you, and we shall have executed our agreement."

Lucien saw nothing but goodfellowship and a shrewd eye to business in Finot's offer; Finot and des

Lupeaulx had flattered him, and he was in a good humor. He actually thanked Finot!

Ambitious men, like all those who can only make their way by the help of others and of circumstances, are

bound to lay their plans very carefully and to adhere very closely to the course of conduct on which they

determine; it is a cruel moment in the lives of such aspirants when some unknown power brings the fabric of

their fortunes to some severe test and everything gives way at once; threads are snapped or entangled, and

misfortune appears on every side. Let a man lose his head in the confusion, it is all over with him; but if he

can resist this first revolt of circumstances, if he can stand erect until the tempest passes over, or make a

supreme effort and reach the serene sphere about the stormthen he is really strong. To every man, unless

he is born rich, there comes sooner or later "his fatal week," as it must be called. For Napoleon, for instance,

Social and literary success had come to him too easily; he had had such luck that he was bound to know

The first blow was the heaviest and the most keenly felt, for it touched Lucien where he thought himself

invulnerablein his heart and his love. Coralie might not be clever, but hers was a noble nature, and she

possessed the great actress' faculty of suddenly standing aloof from self. This strange phenomenon is subject,

until it degenerates into a habit with long practice, to the caprices of character, and not seldom to an

admirable delicacy of feeling in actresses who are still young. Coralie, to all appearance bold and wanton, as

the part required, was in reality girlish and timid, and love had wrought in her a revulsion of her woman's

heart against the comedian's mask. Art, the supreme art of feigning passion and feeling, had not yet

triumphed over nature in her; she shrank before a great audience from the utterance that belongs to Love

alone; and Coralie suffered besides from another true woman's weaknessshe needed success, born stage

queen though she was. She could not confront an audience with which she was out of sympathy; she was

nervous when she appeared on the stage, a cold reception paralyzed her. Each new part gave her the terrible

sensations of a first appearance. Applause produced a sort of intoxication which gave her encouragement

without flattering her vanity; at a murmur of dissatisfaction or before a silent house, she flagged; but a great

audience following attentively, admiringly, willing to be pleased, electrified Coralie. She felt at once in

communication with the nobler qualities of all those listeners; she felt that she possessed the power of stirring

their souls and carrying them with her. But if this action and reaction of the audience upon the actress reveals

the nervous organization of genius, it shows no less clearly the poor child's sensitiveness and delicacy. Lucien

had discovered the treasures of her nature; had learned in the past months that this woman who loved him

was still so much of a girl. And Coralie was unskilled in the wiles of an actress she could not fight her own

battles nor protect herself against the machinations of jealousy behind the scenes. Florine was jealous of her,

and Florine was as dangerous and depraved as Coralie was simple and generous. Roles must come to find

Coralie; she was too proud to implore authors or to submit to dishonoring conditions; she would not give

herself to the first journalist who persecuted her with his advances and threatened her with his pen. Genius is

rare enough in the extraordinary art of the stage; but genius is only one condition of success among many,

and is positively hurtful unless it is accompanied by a genius for intrigue in which Coralie was utterly

Lucien knew how much his friend would suffer on her first appearance at the Gymnase, and was anxious at

all costs to obtain a success for her; but all the money remaining from the sale of the furniture and all

Lucien's earnings had been sunk in costumes, in the furniture of a dressingroom, and the expenses of a first

A few days later, Lucien made up his mind to a humiliating step for love's sake. He took Fendant and

Cavalier's bills, and went to the Golden Cocoon in the Rue des Bourdonnais. He would ask Camusot to

discount them. The poet had not fallen so low that he could make this attempt quite coolly. There had been

many a sharp struggle first, and the way to that decision had been paved with many dreadful thoughts.

Nevertheless, he arrived at last in the dark, cheerless little private office that looked out upon a yard, and

found Camusot seated gravely there; this was not Coralie's infatuated adorer, not the easynatured, indolent,

incredulous libertine whom he had known hitherto as Camusot, but a heavy father of a family, a merchant

grown old in shrewd expedients of business and respectable virtues, wearing a magistrate's mask of judicial

prudery; this Camusot was the cool, businesslike head of the firm surrounded by clerks, green cardboard

boxes, pigeonholes, invoices, and samples, and fortified by the presence of a wife and a plainlydressed

daughter. Lucien trembled from head to foot as he approached; for the worthy merchant, like the

"Here are two or three bills, monsieur," he said, standing beside the merchant, who did not rise from his desk.

On this, Lucien explained Coralie's predicament. He spoke in a low voice, bending to murmur his

explanation, so that Camusot could hear the heavy throbbing of the humiliated poet's heart. It was no part of

Camusot's plans that Coralie should suffer a check. He listened, smiling to himself over the signatures on the

bills (for, as a judge at the Tribunal of Commerce, he knew how the booksellers stood), but in the end he gave

Lucien four thousand five hundred francs for them, stipulating that he should add the formula "For value

Lucien went straight to Braulard, and made arrangements for a good reception. Braulard promised to come to

the dressrehearsal, to determine on the points where his "Romans" should work their fleshy clappers to

bring down the house in applause. Lucien gave the rest of the money to Coralie (he did not tell her how he

had come by it), and allayed her anxieties and the fears of Berenice, who was sorely troubled over their daily

Martainville came several times to hear Coralie rehearse, and he knew more of the stage than most men of his

time; several Royalist writers had promised favorable articles; Lucien had not a suspicion of the impending

A fatal event occurred on the evening before Coralie's debut. D'Arthez's book had appeared; and the editor of

Merlin's paper, considering Lucien to be the best qualified man on the staff, gave him the book to review. He

owed his unlucky reputation to those articles on Nathan's work. There were several men in the office at the

time, for all the staff had been summoned; Martainville was explaining that the party warfare with the

Liberals must be waged on certain lines. Nathan, Merlin, all the contributors, in fact, were talking of Leon

Giraud's paper, and remarking that its influence was the more pernicious because the language was guarded,

cool, moderate. People were beginning to speak of the circle in the Rue des QuatreVents as a second

Convention. It had been decided that the Royalist papers were to wage a systematic war of extermination

against these dangerous opponents, who, indeed, at a later day, were destined to sow the doctrines that drove

the Bourbons into exile; but that was only after the most brilliant of Royalist writers had joined them for the

D'Arthez's absolutist opinions were not known; it was taken for granted that he shared the views of his clique,

he fell under the same anathema, and he was to be the first victim. His book was to be honored with "a

slashing article," to use the consecrated formula. Lucien refused to write the article. Great was the commotion

among the leading Royalist writers thus met in conclave. Lucien was told plainly that a renegade could not do

as he pleased; if it did not suit his views to take the side of the Monarchy and Religion, he could go back to

the other camp. Merlin and Martainville took him aside and begged him, as his friends, to remember that he

would simply hand Coralie over to the tender mercies of the Liberal papers, for she would find no champions

on the Royalist and Ministerial side. Her acting was certain to provoke a hot battle, and the kind of discussion

"You don't understand it in the least," said Martainville; "if she plays for three months amid a crossfire of

criticism, she will make thirty thousand francs when she goes on tour in the provinces at the end of the

season; and here are you about to sacrifice Coralie and your own future, and to quarrel with your own bread

and butter, all for a scruple that will always stand in your way, and ought to be got rid of at once."

Lucien was forced to choose between d'Arthez and Coralie. His mistress would be ruined unless he dealt his

friend a deathblow in the Reveil and the great newspaper. Poor poet! He went home with death in his soul;

and by the fireside he sat and read that finest production of modern literature. Tears fell fast over it as the

pages turned. For a long while he hesitated, but at last he took up the pen and wrote a sarcastic article of the

kind that he understood so well, taking the book as children might take some bright bird to strip it of its

plumage and torture it. His sardonic jests were sure to tell. Again he turned to the book, and as he read it over

a second time, his better self awoke. In the dead of night he hurried across Paris, and stood outside d'Arthez's

house. He looked up at the windows and saw the faint pure gleam of light in the panes, as he had so often

seen it, with a feeling of admiration for the noble steadfastness of that truly great nature. For some moments

he stood irresolute on the curbstone; he had not courage to go further; but his good angel urged him on. He

tapped at the door and opened, and found d'Arthez sitting reading in a fireless room.

"What has happened?" asked d'Arthez, for news of some dreadful kind was visible in Lucien's ghastly face.

"Your book is sublime, d'Arthez," said Lucien, with tears in his eyes, "and they have ordered me to write an

"I only ask for one favor, keep my visit a secret and leave me to my hell, to the occupations of the damned.

Perhaps it is impossible to attain to success until the heart is seared and callous in every most sensitive spot."

"Do you think me a base poltroon? No, d'Arthez; no, I am a boy half crazed with love," and he told his story.

"Let us look at the article," said d'Arthez, touched by all that Lucien said of Coralie.

"Oh, what a fatal waste of intellect!" he began. But at the sight of Lucien overcome with grief in the opposite

"Will you leave it with me to correct? I will let you have it again tomorrow," he went on. "Flippancy

depreciates a work; serious and conscientious criticism is sometimes praise in itself. I know a way to make

your article more honorable both for yourself and for me. Besides, I know my faults well enough."

"When you climb a hot, shadowless hillside, you sometimes find fruit to quench your torturing thirst; and I

have found it here and now," said Lucien, as he sprang sobbing to d'Arthez's arms and kissed his friend on the

forehead. "It seems to me that I am leaving my conscience in your keeping; some day I will come to you and

"I look upon a periodical repentance as great hypocrisy," d'Arthez said solemnly; "repentance becomes a sort

of indemnity for wrongdoing. Repentance is virginity of the soul, which we must keep for God; a man who

repents twice is a horrible sycophant. I am afraid that you regard repentance as absolution."

Next morning d'Arthez sent back his article, recast throughout, and Lucien sent it in to the review; but from

that day melancholy preyed upon him, and he could not always disguise his mood. That evening, when the

theatre was full, he experienced for the first time the paroxysm of nervous terror caused by a debut; terror

aggravated in his case by all the strength of his love. Vanity of every kind was involved. He looked over the

rows of faces as a criminal eyes the judges and the jury on whom his life depends. A murmur would have set

him quivering; any slight incident upon the stage, Coralie's exits and entrances, the slightest modulation of

The play in which Coralie made her first appearance at the Gymnase was a piece of the kind which

sometimes falls flat at first, and afterwards has immense success. It fell flat that night. Coralie was not

applauded when she came on, and the chilly reception reacted upon her. The only applause came from

Camusot's box, and various persons posted in the balcony and galleries silenced Camusot with repeated cries

of "Hush!" The galleries even silenced the claqueurs when they led off with exaggerated salvos. Martainville

applauded bravely; Nathan, Merlin, and the treacherous Florine followed his example; but it was clear that

the piece was a failure. A crowd gathered in Coralie's dressingroom and consoled her, till she had no

courage left. She went home in despair, less for her own sake than for Lucien's.

Coralie was heartstricken. The next day found her in a high fever, utterly unfit to play, face to face with the

thought that she had been cut short in her career. Lucien hid the papers from her, and looked them over in the

diningroom. The reviewers one and all attributed the failure of the piece to Coralie; she had overestimated

her strength; she might be the delight of a boulevard audience, but she was out of her element at the

Gymnase; she had been inspired by a laudable ambition, but she had not taken her powers into account; she

had chosen a part to which she was quite unequal. Lucien read on through a pile of pennyalining, put

together on the same system as his attack upon Nathan. Milo of Crotona, when he found his hands fast in the

oak which he himself had cleft, was not more furious than Lucien. He grew haggard with rage. His friends

gave Coralie the most treacherous advice, in the language of kindly counsel and friendly interest. She should

play (according to these authorities) all kind of roles, which the treacherous writers of these unblushing

feuilletons knew to be utterly unsuited to her genius. And these were the Royalist papers, led off by Nathan.

As for the Liberal press, all the weapons which Lucien had used were now turned against him.

Coralie heard a sob, followed by another and another. She sprang out of bed to find Lucien, and saw the

papers. Nothing would satisfy her but she must read them all; and when she had read them, she went back to

Florine was in the plot; she had foreseen the outcome; she had studied Coralie's part, and was ready to take

her place. The management, unwilling to give up the piece, was ready to take Florine in Coralie's stead.

When the manager came, he found poor Coralie sobbing and exhausted on her bed; but when he began to say,

in Lucien's presence, that Florine knew the part, and that the play must be given that evening, Coralie sprang

So Florine took the part, and made her reputation in it; for the piece succeeded, the newspapers all sang her

praises, and from that time forth Florine was the great actress whom we all know. Florine's success

"A wretched girl, whom you helped to earn her bread! If the Gymnase prefers to do so, let the management

pay you to cancel your engagement. I shall be the Comte de Rubempre; I will make my fortune, and you shall

"Nonsense!" repeated he. "Very well, wait a few days, and you shall live in a fine house, you shall have a

He took two thousand francs and hurried to Frascati's. For seven hours the unhappy victim of the Furies

watched his varying luck, and outwardly seemed cool and selfcontained. He experienced both extremes of

fortune during that day and part of the night that followed; at one time he possessed as much as thirty

thousand francs, and he came out at last without a sou. In the Rue de la Lune he found Finot waiting for him

with a request for one of his short articles. Lucien so far forgot himself, that he complained.

"Oh, it is not all rosy," returned Finot. "You made your rightabout face in such a way that you were bound

to lose the support of the Liberal press, and the Liberals are far stronger in print than all the Ministerialist and

Royalist papers put together. A man should never leave one camp for another until he has made a comfortable

berth for himself, by way of consolation for the losses that he must expect; and in any case, a prudent

politician will see his friends first, and give them his reasons for going over, and take their opinions. You can

still act together; they sympathize with you, and you agree to give mutual help. Nathan and Merlin did that

before they went over. Hawks don't pike out hawks' eyes. You were as innocent as a lamb; you will be forced

to show your teeth to your new party to make anything out of them. You have been necessarily sacrificed to

Nathan. I cannot conceal from you that your article on d'Arthez has roused a terrific hubbub. Marat is a saint

compared with you. You will be attacked, and your book will be a failure. How far have things gone with

"All the anonymous articles against that young d'Arthez in the Ministerialist and Ultra papers are set down to

you. The Reveil is poking fun at the set in the Rue des QuatreVents, and the hits are the more telling

because they are funny. There is a whole serious political coterie at the back of Leon Giraud's paper; they will

"Very well. Keep my short articles in mind. Write fifty of them straight off, and I will pay you for them in a

lump; but they must be of the same color as the paper." And Finot, with seeming carelessness, gave Lucien an

edifying anecdote of the Keeper of the Seals, a piece of current gossip, he said, for the subject of one of the

Eager to retrieve his losses at play, Lucien shook off his dejection, summoned up his energy and youthful

force, and wrote thirty articles of two columns each. These finished, he went to Dauriat's, partly because he

felt sure of meeting Finot there, and he wished to give the articles to Finot in person; partly because he

wished for an explanation of the nonappearance of the Marguerites. He found the bookseller's shop full of

his enemies. All the talk immediately ceased as he entered. Put under the ban of journalism, his courage rose,

and once more he said to himself, as he had said in the alley at the Luxembourg, "I will triumph."

Dauriat was neither amiable or inclined to patronize; he was sarcastic in tone, and determined not to bate an

inch of his rights. The Marguerites should appear when it suited his purpose; he should wait until Lucien was

in a position to secure the success of the book; it was his, he had bought it outright. When Lucien asserted

that Dauriat was bound to publish the Marguerites by the very nature of the contract, and the relative

positions of the parties to the agreement, Dauriat flatly contradicted him, said that no publisher could be

compelled by law to publish at a loss, and that he himself was the best judge of the expediency of producing

the book. There was, besides, a remedy open to Lucien, as any court of law would admitthe poet was quite

welcome to take his verses to a Royalist publisher upon the repayment of the thousand crowns.

Lucien went away. Dauriat's moderate tone had exasperated him even more than his previous arrogance at

their first interview. So the Marguerites would not appear until Lucien had found a host of formidable

supporters, or grown formidable himself! He walked home slowly, so oppressed and out of heart that he felt

"She must have a part, or she will die," said Berenice, as Lucien dressed for a great evening party at Mlle. des

Touches' house in the Rue du Mont Blanc. Des Lupeaulx and Vignon and Blondet were to be there, as well as

The party was given in honor of Conti, the great composer, owner likewise of one of the most famous voices

off the stage, Cinti, Pasta, Garcia, Levasseur, and two or three celebrated amateurs in society not excepted.

Lucien saw the Marquise, her cousin, and Mme. de Montcornet sitting together, and made one of the party.

The unhappy young fellow to all appearances was lighthearted, happy, and content; he jested, he was the

Lucien de Rubempre of his days of splendor, he would not seem to need help from any one. He dwelt on his

services to the Royalist party, and cited the hue and cry raised after him by the Liberal press as a proof of his

"And you will be well rewarded, my friend," said Mme. de Bargeton, with a gracious smile. "Go to the

Chancellerie the day after tomorrow with 'the Heron' and des Lupeaulx, and you will find your patent signed

by His Majesty. The Keeper of the Seals will take it tomorrow to the Tuileries, but there is to be a meeting

of the Council, and he will not come back till late. Still, if I hear the result tomorrow evening, I will let you

"I will come to you," said Lucien, ashamed to confess that he was living in the Rue de la Lune.

"The Duc de Lenoncourt and the Duc de Navarreins have made mention of you to the King," added the

Marquise; "they praised your absolute and entire devotion, and said that some distinction ought to avenge

your treatment in the Liberal press. The name and title of Rubempre, to which you have a claim through your

mother, would become illustrious through you, they said. The King gave his lordship instructions that

evening to prepare a patent authorizing the Sieur Lucien Chardon to bear the arms and title of the Comtes de

Rubempre, as grandson of the last Count by the mother's side. 'Let us favor the songsters' (chardonnerets) 'of

Pindus,' said his Majesty, after reading your sonnet on the Lily, which my cousin luckily remembered to give

the Duke.'Especially when the King can work miracles, and change the songbird into an eagle,' M. de

Lucien's expansion of feeling would have softened the heart of any woman less deeply wounded than Louise

d'Espard de Negrepelisse; but her thirst for vengeance was only increased by Lucien's graciousness. Des

Lupeaulx was right; Lucien was wanting in tact. It never crossed his mind that this history of the patent was

one of the mystifications at which Mme. d'Espard was an adept. Emboldened with success and the flattering

distinction shown to him by Mlle. des Touches, he stayed till two o'clock in the morning for a word in private

with his hostess. Lucien had learned in Royalist newspaper offices that Mlle. des Touches was the author of a

play in which La petite Fay, the marvel of the moment was about to appear. As the rooms emptied, he drew

Mlle. des Touches to a sofa in the boudoir, and told the story of Coralie's misfortune and his own so

touchingly, that Mlle. des Touches promised to give the heroine's part to his friend.

That promise put new life into Coralie. But the next day, as they breakfasted together, Lucien opened

Lousteau's newspaper, and found that unlucky anecdote of the Keeper of the Seals and his wife. The story

was full of the blackest malice lurking in the most caustic wit. Louis XVIII. was brought into the story in a

masterly fashion, and held up to ridicule in such a way that prosecution was impossible. Here is the substance

of a fiction for which the Liberal party attempted to win credence, though they only succeeded in adding one

The King's passion for pinkscented notes and a correspondence full of madrigals and sparkling wit was

declared to be the last phase of the tender passion; love had reached the Doctrinaire stage; or had passed, in

other words, from the concrete to the abstract. The illustrious lady, so cruelly ridiculed under the name of

Octavie by Beranger, had conceived (so it was said) the gravest fears. The correspondence was languishing.

The more Octavie displayed her wit, the cooler grew the royal lover. At last Octavie discovered the cause of

her decline; her power was threatened by the novelty and piquancy of a correspondence between the august

scribe and the wife of his Keeper of the Seals. That excellent woman was believed to be incapable of writing

a note; she was simply and solely godmother to the efforts of audacious ambition. Who could be hidden

behind her petticoats? Octavie decided, after making observations of her own, that the King was

She laid her plans. With the help of a faithful friend, she arranged that a stormy debate should detain the

Minister at the Chamber; then she contrived to secure a teteatete, and to convince outraged Majesty of the

fraud. Louis XVIII. flew into a royal and truly Bourbon passion, but the tempest broke on Octavie's head. He

would not believe her. Octavie offered immediate proof, begging the King to write a note which must be

answered at once. The unlucky wife of the Keeper of the Seals sent to the Chamber for her husband; but

precautions had been taken, and at that moment the Minister was on his legs addressing the Chamber. The

lady racked her brains and replied to the note with such intellect as she could improvise.

"Your Chancellor will supply the rest," cried Octavie, laughing at the King's chagrin.

There was not a word of truth in the story; but it struck home to three personsthe Keeper of the Seals, his

wife, and the King. It was said that des Lupeaulx had invented the tale, but Finot always kept his counsel.

The article was caustic and clever, the Liberal papers and the Orleanists were delighted with it, and Lucien

He called next day for des Lupeaulx and the Baron du Chatelet. The Baron had just been to thank his

lordship. The Sieur Chatelet, newly appointed Councillor Extraordinary, was now Comte du Chatelet, with a

promise of the prefecture of the Charente so soon as the present prefect should have completed the term of

office necessary to receive the maximum retiring pension. The Comte DU Chatelet (for the DU had been

inserted in the patent) drove with Lucien to the Chancellerie, and treated his companion as an equal. But for

Lucien's articles, he said, his patent would not have been granted so soon; Liberal persecution had been a

steppingstone to advancement. Des Lupeaulx was waiting for them in the SecretaryGeneral's office. That

functionary started with surprise when Lucien appeared and looked at des Lupeaulx.

"What!" he exclaimed, to Lucien's utter bewilderment. "Do you dare to come here, sir? Your patent was made

out, but his lordship has torn it up. Here it is!" (the SecretaryGeneral caught up the first torn sheet that came

to hand). "The Minister wished to discover the author of yesterday's atrocious article, and here is the

manuscript," added the speaker, holding out the sheets of Lucien's article. "You call yourself a Royalist, sir,

and you are on the staff of that detestable paper which turns the Minister's hair gray, harasses the Centre, and

is dragging the country headlong to ruin? You breakfast on the Corsaire, the Miroir, the Constitutionnel, and

the Courier; you dine on the Quotidienne and the Reveil, and then sup with Martainville, the worst enemy of

the Government! Martainville urges the Government on to Absolutist measures; he is more likely to bring on

another Revolution than if he had gone over to the extreme Left. You are a very clever journalist, but you will

never make a politician. The Minister denounced you to the King, and the King was so angry that he scolded

M. le Duc de Navarreins, his First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. Your enemies will be all the more

formidable because they have hitherto been your friends. Conduct that one expects from an enemy is

"Why, really, my dear fellow, are you a child?" said des Lupeaulx. "You have compromised me. Mme.

d'Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Mme. de Montcornet, who were responsible for you, must be furious. The

Duke is sure to have handed on his annoyance to the Marquise, and the Marquise will have scolded her

Lucien went out into the Place Vendome; he was stunned by this bludgeon blow. He walked home along the

Boulevards trying to think over his position. He saw himself a plaything in the hands of envy, treachery, and

greed. What was he in this world of contending ambitions? A child sacrificing everything to the pursuit of

pleasure and the gratification of vanity; a poet whose thoughts never went beyond the moment, a moth flitting

from one bright gleaming object to another. He had no definite aim; he was the slave of circumstance

meaning well, doing ill. Conscience tortured him remorselessly. And to crown it all, he was penniless and

exhausted with work and emotion. His articles could not compare with Merlin's or Nathan's work.

He walked at random, absorbed in these thoughts. As he passed some of the readingrooms which were

already lending books as well as newspapers, a placard caught his eyes. It was an advertisement of a book

with a grotesque title, but beneath the announcement he saw his name in brilliant letters"By Lucien

Chardon de Rubempre." So his book had come out, and he had heard nothing of it! All the newspapers were

silent. He stood motionless before the placard, his arms hanging at his sides. He did not notice a little knot of

acquaintances Rastignac and de Marsay and some other fashionable young men; nor did he see that Michel

"Are you M. Chardon?" It was Michel who spoke, and there was that in the sound of his voice that set

"Take that as your wages for your article against d'Arthez. If everybody would do as I do on his own or his

friend's behalf, the press would be as it ought to bea selfrespecting and respected priesthood."

"Gentlemen," he said, addressing Rastignac and de Marsay, "you will not refuse to act as my seconds. But

He struck Michel a sudden, unexpected blow in the face. The rest rushed in between the Republican and

Royalist, to prevent a street brawl. Rastignac dragged Lucien off to the Rue Taitbout, only a few steps away

from the Boulevard de Gand, where this scene took place. It was the hour of dinner, or a crowd would have

assembled at once. De Marsay came to find Lucien, and the pair insisted that he should dine with them at the

"Then you have luck on your side. You are a formidable antagonist to stand up to; you may kill your man,"

She had played without rehearsal in a oneact play, and taken her revenge. She had met with genuine

applause. Her enemies had not been prepared for this step on her part, and her success had determined the

manager to give her the heroine's part in Camille Maupin's play. He had discovered the cause of her apparent

failure, and was indignant with Florine and Nathan. Coralie should have the protection of the management.

"The name of your street my dear fellow, is particularly appropriate for your lodgings; you are up in the sky,"

he said, by way of greeting. "Let us be first upon the ground on the road to Clignancourt; it is good form, and

"Here is the programme," said de Marsay, as the cab rattled through the Faubourg SaintDenis: "You stand

up at twentyfive paces, coming nearer, till you are only fifteen apart. You have, each of you, five paces to

take and three shots to fireno more. Whatever happens, that must be the end of it. We load for your

antagonist, and his seconds load for you. The weapons were chosen by the four seconds at a gunmaker's. We

helped you to a chance, I will promise you; horse pistols are to be the weapons."

For Lucien, life had become a bad dream. He did not care whether he lived or died. The courage of suicide

helped him in some sort to carry things off with a dash of bravado before the spectators. He stood in his

place; he would not take a step, a piece of recklessness which the others took for deliberate calculation. They

thought the poet an uncommonly cool hand. Michel Chrestien came as far as his limit; both fired twice and at

the same time, for either party was considered to be equally insulted. Michel's first bullet grazed Lucien's

chin; Lucien's passed ten feet above Chrestien's head. The second shot hit Lucien's coat collar, but the

buckram lining fortunately saved its wearer. The third bullet struck him in the chest, and he dropped.

By noon the unhappy boy lay in bed in his own room. With untold pains they had managed to remove him,

but it had taken five hours to bring him to the Rue de la Lune. His condition was not dangerous, but

precautions were necessary lest fever should set in and bring about troublesome complications. Coralie

choked down her grief and anguish. She sat up with him at night through the anxious weeks of his illness,

studying her parts by his bedside. Lucien was in danger for two long months; and often at the theatre Coralie

acted her frivolous role with one thought in her heart, "Perhaps he is dying at this moment."

Lucien owed his life to the skill and devotion of a friend whom he had grievously hurt. Bianchon had come to

tend him after hearing the story of the attack from d'Arthez, who told it in confidence, and excused the

unhappy poet. Bianchon suspected that d'Arthez was generously trying to screen the renegade; but on

questioning Lucien during a lucid interval in the dangerous nervous fever, he learned that his patient was only

Before the first month was out, the firm of Fendant and Cavalier filed their schedule. Bianchon told Coralie

that Lucien must on no account hear the news. The famous Archer of Charles IX., brought out with an absurd

title, had been a complete failure. Fendant, being anxious to realize a little ready money before going into

bankruptcy, had sold the whole edition (without Cavalier's knowledge) to dealers in printed paper. These, in

their turn, had disposed of it at a cheap rate to hawkers, and Lucien's book at that moment was adorning the

bookstalls along the Quays. The booksellers on the Quai des Augustins, who had previously taken a quantity

of copies, now discovered that after this sudden reduction of the price they were like to lose heavily on their

purchases; the four duodecimo volumes, for which they had paid four francs fifty centimes, were being given

away for fifty sous. Great was the outcry in the trade; but the newspapers preserved a profound silence.

Barbet had not foreseen this "clearance;" he had a belief in Lucien's abilities; for once he had broken his rule

and taken two hundred copies. The prospect of a loss drove him frantic; the things he said of Lucien were

fearful to hear. Then Barbet took a heroic resolution. He stocked his copies in a corner of his shop, with the

obstinacy of greed, and left his competitors to sell their wares at a loss. Two years afterwards, when

d'Arthez's fine preface, the merits of the book, and one or two articles by Leon Giraud had raised the value of

Lucien knew nothing of all this, but Berenice and Coralie could not refuse to allow Hector Merlin to see his

dying comrade, and Hector Merlin made him drink, drop by drop, the whole of the bitter draught brewed by

the failure of Fendant and Cavalier, made bankrupts by his first illfated book. Martainville, the one friend

who stood by Lucien through thick and thin, had written a magnificent article on his work; but so great was

the general exasperation against the editor of L'Aristarque, L'Oriflamme, and Le Drapeau Blanc, that his

championship only injured Lucien. In vain did the athlete return the Liberal insults tenfold, not a newspaper

Coralie, Berenice, and Bianchon might shut the door on Lucien's so called friends, who raised a great

outcry, but it was impossible to keep out creditors and writs. After the failure of Fendant and Cavalier, their

bills were taken into bankruptcy according to that provision of the Code of Commerce most inimical to the

Lucien discovered that Camusot was proceeding against him with great energy. When Coralie heard the

name, and for the first time learned the dreadful and humiliating step which her poet had taken for her sake,

the angelic creature loved him ten times more than before, and would not approach Camusot. The bailiff

bringing the warrant of arrest shrank back from the idea of dragging his prisoner out of bed, and went back to

Camusot before applying to the President of the Tribunal of Commerce for an order to remove the debtor to a

private hospital. Camusot hurried at once to the Rue de la Lune, and Coralie went down to him.

When she came up again she held the warrants, in which Lucien was described as a tradesman, in her hand.

How had she obtained those papers from Camusot? What promise had she given? Coralie kept a sad, gloomy

silence, but when she returned she looked as if all the life had gone out of her. She played in Camille

Maupin's play, and contributed not a little to the success of that illustrious literary hermaphrodite; but the

creation of this character was the last flicker of a bright, dying lamp. On the twentieth night, when Lucien had

so far recovered that he had regained his appetite and could walk abroad, and talked of getting to work again,

Coralie broke down; a secret trouble was weighing upon her. Berenice always believed that she had promised

Another mortification followed. Coralie was obliged to see her part given to Florine. Nathan had threatened

the Gymnase with war if the management refused to give the vacant place to Coralie's rival. Coralie had

persisted till she could play no longer, knowing that Florine was waiting to step into her place. She had

overtasked her strength. The Gymnase had advanced sums during Lucien's illness, she had no money to draw;

Lucien, eager to work though he was, was not yet strong enough to write, and he helped besides to nurse

Coralie and to relieve Berenice. From poverty they had come to utter distress; but in Bianchon they found a

skilful and devoted doctor, who obtained credit for them of the druggist. The landlord of the house and the

tradespeople knew by this time how matters stood. The furniture was attached. The tailor and dressmaker no

longer stood in awe of the journalist, and proceeded to extremes; and at last no one, with the exception of the

porkbutcher and the druggist, gave the two unlucky children credit. For a week or more all three of

themLucien, Berenice, and the invalidwere obliged to live on the various ingenious preparations sold by

the porkbutcher; the inflammatory diet was little suited to the sick girl, and Coralie grew worse. Sheer want

compelled Lucien to ask Lousteau for a return of the loan of a thousand francs lost at play by the friend who

had deserted him in his hour of need. Perhaps, amid all his troubles, this step cost him most cruel suffering.

Lousteau was not to be found in the Rue de la Harpe. Hunted down like a hare, he was lodging now with this

friend, now with that. Lucien found him at last at Flicoteaux's; he was sitting at the very table at which

Lucien had found him that evening when, for his misfortune, he forsook d'Arthez for journalism. Lousteau

As they came out of Flicoteaux's with Claude Vignon (who happened to be dining there that day) and the

great man in obscurity, who kept his wardrobe at Samanon's, the four among them could not produce enough

specie to pay for a cup of coffee at the Cafe Voltaire. They lounged about the Luxembourg in the hope of

meeting with a publisher; and, as it fell out, they met with one of the most famous printers of the day.

Lousteau borrowed forty francs of him, and divided the money into four equal parts.

Misery had brought down Lucien's pride and extinguished sentiment; he shed tears as he told the story of his

troubles, but each one of his comrades had a tale as cruel as his own; and when the three versions had been

given, it seemed to the poet that he was the least unfortunate among the four. All of them craved a respite

Lousteau hurried to the Palais Royal to gamble with his remaining nine francs. The great man unknown to

fame, though he had a divine mistress, must needs hie him to a low haunt of vice to wallow in perilous

pleasure. Vignon betook himself to the Rocher de Cancale to drown memory and thought in a couple of

bottles of Bordeaux; Lucien parted company with him on the threshold, declining to share that supper. When

he shook hands with the one journalist who had not been hostile to him, it was with a cruel pang in his heart.

"One must do as one can," the great critic said. "Your book is good, but it excited jealousy, and your struggle

will be hard and long. Genius is a cruel disease. Every writer carries a canker in his heart, a devouring

monster, like the tapeworm in the stomach, which destroys all feeling as it arises in him. Which is the

stronger? The man or the disease? One has need be a great man, truly, to keep the balance between genius

and character. The talent grows, the heart withers. Unless a man is a giant, unless he has the thews of a

Hercules, he must be content either to lose his gift or to live without a heart. You are slender and fragile, you

Lucien returned home, thinking over that terrible verdict. He beheld the life of literature by the light of the

Then he drew three bills of a thousand francs each, due respectively in one, two, and three months, imitating

the handwriting of his brotherinlaw, David Sechard, with admirable skill. He endorsed the bills, and took

them next morning to Metivier, the paperdealer in the Rue Serpente, who made no difficulty about taking

them. Lucien wrote a few lines to give his brotherinlaw notice of this assault upon his cashbox,

promising, as usual in such cases, to be ready to meet the bills as they fell due.

When all debts, his own and Coralie's, were paid, he put the three hundred francs which remained into

Berenice's hands, bidding her to refuse him money if he asked her for it. He was afraid of a return of the

gambler's frenzy. Lucien worked away gloomily in a sort of cold, speechless fury, putting forth all his powers

into witty articles, written by the light of the lamp at Coralie's bedside. Whenever he looked up in search of

ideas, his eyes fell on that beloved face, white as porcelain, fair with the beauty that belongs to the dying, and

he saw a smile on her pale lips, and her eyes, grown bright with a more consuming pain than physical

Lucien sent in his work, but he could not leave the house to worry editors, and his articles did not appear.

When he at last made up his mind to go to the office, he met with a cool reception from Theodore Gaillard,

who had advanced him money, and turned his literary diamonds to good account afterwards.

"Take care, my dear fellow, you are falling off," he said. "You must not let yourself down, your work wants

"That little Lucien has written himself out with his romance and his first articles," cried Felicien Vernou,

Merlin, and the whole chorus of his enemies, whenever his name came up at Dauriat's or the Vaudeville.

"To have written oneself out" (in the slang of journalism), is a verdict very hard to live down. It passed

everywhere from mouth to mouth, ruining Lucien, all unsuspicious as he was. And, indeed, his burdens were

too heavy for his strength. In the midst of a heavy strain of work, he was sued for the bills which he had

drawn in David Sechard's name. He had recourse to Camusot's experience, and Coralie's sometime adorer

was generous enough to assist the man she loved. The intolerable situation lasted for two whole months; the

days being diversified by stamped papers handed over to Desroches, a friend of Bixiou, Blondet, and des

Early in August, Bianchon told them that Coralie's condition was hopelessshe had only a few days to live.

Those days were spent in tears by Berenice and Lucien; they could not hide their grief from the dying girl,

Some strange change was working in Coralie. She would have Lucien bring a priest; she must be reconciled

to the Church and die in peace. Coralie died as a Christian; her repentance was sincere. Her agony and death

took all energy and heart out of Lucien. He sank into a low chair at the foot of the bed, and never took his

eyes off her till Death brought the end of her suffering. It was five o'clock in the morning. Some singingbird

lighting upon a flowerpot on the window sill, twittered a few notes. Berenice, kneeling by the bedside, was

covering a hand fast growing cold with kisses and tears. On the chimneypiece there lay eleven sous.

Lucien went out. Despair made him beg for money to lay Coralie in her grave. He had wild thoughts of

flinging himself at the Marquise d'Espard's feet, of entreating the Comte du Chatelet, Mme. de Bargeton,

Mlle. des Touches, nay, that terrible dandy of a de Marsay. All his pride had gone with his strength. He

would have enlisted as a common soldier at that moment for money. He walked on with a slouching, feverish

gait known to all the unhappy, reached Camille Maupin's house, entered, careless of his disordered dress, and

"Mademoiselle only went to bed at three o'clock this morning," said the servant, "and no one would dare to

Then Lucien wrote one of those harrowing appeals in which the well dressed beggar flings all pride and

selfrespect to the winds. One evening, not so very long ago, when Lousteau had told him of the abject

begging letters which Finot received, Lucien had thought it impossible that any creature would sink so low;

and now, carried away by his pen, he had gone further, it may be, than other unlucky wretches upon the same

road. He did not suspect, in his fever and imbecility, that he had just written a masterpiece of pathos. On his

"Yes; but I am a man of business as well. I have lost a lot of money through you," he concluded, after giving

the history of the failure of Fendant and Cavalier, "will you put me in the way of making some?"

"You are a poet. You ought to understand all kinds of poetry," continued the little publisher. "I want a few

rollicking songs at this moment to put along with some more by different authors, or they will be down upon

me over the copyright. I want to have a good collection to sell on the streets at ten sous. If you care to let me

have ten good drinkingsongs by tomorrow morning, or something spicy,you know the sort of thing,

When Lucien returned home, he found Coralie stretched out straight and stiff on a palletbed; Berenice, with

many tears, had wrapped her in a coarse linen sheet, and put lighted candles at the four corners of the bed.

Coralie's face had taken that strange, delicate beauty of death which so vividly impresses the living with the

idea of absolute calm; she looked like some white girl in a decline; it seemed as if those pale, crimson lips

must open and murmur the name which had blended with the name of God in the last words that she uttered

Lucien told Berenice to order a funeral which should not cost more than two hundred francs, including the

service at the shabby little church of the BonneNouvelle. As soon as she had gone out, he sat down to a

table, and beside the dead body of his love he composed ten rollicking songs to fit popular airs. The effort

cost him untold anguish, but at last the brain began to work at the bidding of Necessity, as if suffering were

not; and already Lucien had learned to put Claude Vignon's terrible maxims in practice, and to raise a barrier

between heart and brain. What a night the poor boy spent over those drinking songs, writing by the light of

Morning broke before the last song was finished. Lucien tried it over to a streetsong of the day, to the

Lads, 'tis tedious waste of time To mingle song and reason; Folly calls for laughing rhyme, Sense is out of

season. Let Apollo be forgot When Bacchus fills the drinkingcup; Any catch is good, I wot, If good fellows

take it up. Let philosophers protest, Let us laugh, And quaff, And a fig for the rest!

As Hippocrates has said, Every jolly fellow, When a century has sped, Still is fit and mellow. No more

following of a lass With the palsy in your legs? While your hand can hold a glass, You can drain it to the

dregs, With an undiminished zest. Let us laugh, And quaff, And a fig for the rest!

Whence we come we know full well. Whiter are we going? Ne'er a one of us can tell, 'Tis a thing past

knowing. Faith! what does it signify, Take the good that Heaven sends; It is certain that we die, Certain that

we live, my friends. Life is nothing but a jest. Let us laugh, And quaff, And a fig for the rest!

He was shouting the reckless refrain when d'Arthez and Bianchon arrived, to find him in a paroxysm of

despair and exhaustion, utterly unable to make a fair copy of his verses. A torrent of tears followed; and

when, amid his sobs, he had told his story, he saw the tears standing in his friends' eyes.

"Happy are they who suffer for their sins in this world," the priest said solemnly.

At the sight of the fair, dead face smiling at Eternity, while Coralie's lover wrote taverncatches to buy a

grave for her, and Barbet paid for the coffinof the four candles lighted about the dead body of her who had

thrilled a great audience as she stood behind the footlights in her Spanish basquina and scarlet greenclocked

stockings; while beyond in the doorway, stood the priest who had reconciled the dying actress with God, now

about to return to the church to say a mass for the soul of her who had "loved much,"all the grandeur and

the sordid aspects of the scene, all that sorrow crushed under by Necessity, froze the blood of the great writer

Just at that moment a servant in livery announced Mlle. des Touches. That beautiful and noble woman

understood everything at once. She stepped quickly across the room to Lucien, and slipped two thousand

The three stayed with Lucien, trying to soothe his despair with comforting words; but every spring seemed to

be broken. At noon all the brotherhood, with the exception of Michel Chrestien (who, however, had learned

the truth as to Lucien's treachery), was assembled in the poor little church of the BonneNouvelle; Mlle. de

Touches was present, and Berenice and Coralie's dresser from the theatre, with a couple of supernumeraries

and the disconsolate Camusot. All the men accompanied the actress to her last restingplace in Pere

Lachaise. Camusot, shedding hot tears, had solemnly promised Lucien to buy the grave in perpetuity, and to

Lucien stayed there, on the sloping ground that looks out over Paris, until the sun had set.

"Who will love me now?" he thought. "My truest friends despise me. Whatever I might have done, she who

lies here would have thought me wholly noble and good. I have no one left to me now but my sister and

Poor distinguished provincial! He went back to the Rue de la Lune; but the sight of the rooms was so acutely

painful, that he could not stay in them, and he took a cheap lodging elsewhere in the same street. Mlle. des

Berenice had two hundred francs left, on which they lived for two months. Lucien was prostrate; he could

neither write nor think; he gave way to morbid grief. Berenice took pity upon him.

"Suppose that you were to go back to your own country, how are you to get there?" she asked one day, by

"But even so, you must live and sleep on the way. Even if you walk twelve leagues a day, you will want

He took his clothes and his best linen, keeping nothing but strict necessaries, and went to Samanon, who

offered fifty francs for his entire wardrobe. In vain he begged the moneylender to let him have enough to

pay his fare by the coach; Samanon was inexorable. In a paroxysm of fury, Lucien rushed to Frascati's, staked

the proceeds of the sale, and lost every farthing. Back once more in the wretched room in the Rue de la Lune,

he asked Berenice for Coralie's shawl. The good girl looked at him, and knew in a moment what he meant to

do. He had confessed to his loss at the gamingtable; and now he was going to hang himself.

"Are you mad, sir? Go out for a walk, and come back again at midnight. I will get the money for you; but

Lucien paced up and down the Boulevards. He was stupid with grief. He watched the passersby and the

stream of traffic, and felt that he was alone, and a very small atom in this seething whirlpool of Paris, churned

by the strife of innumerable interests. His thoughts went back to the banks of his Charente; a craving for

happiness and home awoke in him; and with the craving, came one of the sudden febrile bursts of energy

which halffeminine natures like his mistake for strength. He would not give up until he had poured out his

heart to David Sechard, and taken counsel of the three good angels still left to him on earth.

As he lounged along, he caught sight of BereniceBerenice in her Sunday clothes, speaking to a stranger at

the corner of the Rue de la Lune and the filthy Boulevard BonneNouvelle, where she had taken her stand.

"Here are your twenty francs," said the girl, slipping four fivefranc pieces into the poet's hand. "They may

cost dear yet; but you can go," and she had fled before Lucien could see the way she went; for, in justice to

him, it must be said that the money burned his hand, he wanted to return it, but he was forced to keep it as the

Bianchon, Horace Father Goriot The Atheist's Mass Cesar Birotteau The Commission in Lunacy Lost

Illusions A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Government Clerks Pierrette A Study of

Woman Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Honorine The Seamy Side of History The Magic Skin A Second

Home A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two Brides The Muse of the Department The Imaginary Mistress The

Middle Classes Cousin Betty The Country Parson In addition, M. Bianchon narrated the following: Another

Blondet, Emile Jealousies of a Country Town Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Modeste Mignon Another

Study of Woman The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve The Firm of Nucingen The Peasantry

Blondet, Virginie Jealousies of a Country Town The Secrets of a Princess The Peasantry Another Study of

Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Modeste Mignon Another Study of

Bruel, Jean Francois du A Bachelor's Establishment The Government Clerks A Start in Life A Prince of

Bruel, Claudine Chaffaroux, Madame du A Bachelor's Establishment A Prince of Bohemia Letters of Two

Cabirolle, AgatheFlorentine A Start in Life Lost Illusions A Bachelor's Establishment Camusot A

Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons The Muse of the Department Cesar Birotteau At the Sign of the Cat

Canalis, ConstantCyrMelchior, Baron de Letters of Two Brides Modeste Mignon The Magic Skin Another

Study of Woman A Start in Life Beatrix The Unconscious Humorists The Member for Arcis

Carigliano, Duchesse de At the Sign of the Cat and Racket The Peasantry The Member for Arcis

Chatelet, Sixte, Baron du Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Thirteen

Chatelet, MarieLouiseAnais de Negrepelisse, Baronne du Lost Illusions The Government Clerks

Collin, Jacques Father Goriot Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Member for Arcis

Desroches (son) A Bachelor's Establishment Colonel Chabert A Start in Life A Woman of Thirty The

Commission in Lunacy The Government Clerks Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Firm of Nucingen A

Arthez, Daniel d' Letters of Two Brides The Member for Arcis The Secrets of a Princess

Espard, JeanneClementineAthenais de BlamontChauvry, Marquise d' The Commission in Lunacy Scenes

from a Courtesan's Life Letters of Two Brides Another Study of Woman The Gondreville Mystery The

Finot, Andoche Cesar Birotteau A Bachelor's Establishment Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Government

Gaillard, Theodore Beatrix Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Unconscious Humorists

Gaillard, Madame Theodore Jealousies of a Country Town A Bachelor's Establishment Scenes from a

Galathionne, Prince and Princess (both not in each story) The Secrets of a Princess The Middle Classes

Giraud, Leon A Bachelor's Establishment The Secrets of a Princess The Unconscious Humorists

Grindot Cesar Birotteau Lost Illusions A Start in Life Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Beatrix The Middle

Listomere, Marquise de The Lily of the Valley Lost Illusions A Study of Woman A Daughter of Eve

Lousteau, Etienne A Bachelor's Establishment Scenes from a Courtesan's Life A Daughter of Eve Beatrix

The Muse of the Department Cousin Betty A Prince of Bohemia A Man of Business The Middle Classes The

Lupeaulx, Clement Chardin des The Muse of the Department Eugenie Grandet A Bachelor's Establishment

Manerville, Paul FrancoisJoseph, Comte de The Thirteen The Ball at Sceaux Lost Illusions A Marriage

Marsay, Henri de The Thirteen The Unconscious Humorists Another Study of Woman The Lily of the Valley

Father Goriot Jealousies of a Country Town Ursule Mirouet A Marriage Settlement Lost Illusions Letters of

Two Brides The Ball at Sceaux Modeste Mignon The Secrets of a Princess The Gondreville Mystery A

Matifat (wealthy druggist) Cesar Birotteau A Bachelor's Establishment Lost Illusions The Firm of Nucingen

Montriveau, General Marquis Armand de The Thirteen Father Goriot Lost Illusions Another Study of

Nathan, Raoul Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve

Letters of Two Brides The Seamy Side of History The Muse of the Department A Prince of Bohemia A Man

Nathan, Madame Raoul The Muse of the Department Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The

Government Clerks A Bachelor's Establishment Ursule Mirouet Eugenie Grandet The Imaginary Mistress A

Nucingen, Baron Frederic de The Firm of Nucingen Father Goriot Pierrette Cesar Birotteau Lost Illusions

Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Another Study of Woman The Secrets of a Princess A Man of Business

Nucingen, Baronne Delphine de Father Goriot The Thirteen Eugenie Grandet Cesar Birotteau Melmoth

Reconciled Lost Illusions The Commission in Lunacy Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Modeste Mignon The

Palma (banker) The Firm of Nucingen Cesar Birotteau Gobseck Lost Illusions The Ball at Sceaux

Rastignac, Eugene de Father Goriot Scenes from a Courtesan's Life The Ball at Sceaux The Commission in

Lunacy A Study of Woman Another Study of Woman The Magic Skin The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter

of Eve The Gondreville Mystery The Firm of Nucingen Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis The

Scenes from a Courtesan's Life Letters of Two Brides Albert Savarus The Member for Arcis

Rubempre, LucienChardon de Lost Illusions The Government Clerks Ursule Mirouet Scenes from a

Tillet, Ferdinand du Cesar Birotteau The Firm of Nucingen The Middle Classes A Bachelor's Establishment

Pierrette Melmoth Reconciled The Secrets of a Princess A Daughter of Eve The Member for Arcis Cousin

Touches, Mademoiselle Felicite des Beatrix Lost Illusions A Bachelor's Establishment Another Study of

Vandenesse, Comte Felix de The Lily of the Valley Lost Illusions Cesar Birotteau Letters of Two Brides A

Start in Life The Marriage Settlement The Secrets of a Princess Another Study of Woman The Gondreville

Vernou, Felicien A Bachelor's Establishment Lost Illusions Scenes from a Courtesan's Life A Daughter of

Vignon, Claude A Daughter of Eve Honorine Beatrix Cousin Betty The Unconscious Humorists