“What an article you are making out of him!”
“That particular kind, my boy, must be spoken, and never written.”
“You are turning editor,” said Lucien.
“Where shall I put you down?”
“At Coralie’s.”
“Ah! we are infatuated,” said Lousteau. “What a mistake! Do as I do with Florine, let Coralie be your housekeeper, and take your fling.”
“You would send a saint to perdition,” laughed Lucien.
“Well, there is no damning a devil,” retorted Lousteau.
The flippant tone, the brilliant talk of this new friend, his views of life, his paradoxes, the axioms of Parisian Machiavelism—all these things impressed Lucien unawares. Theoretically the poet knew that such thoughts were perilous; but he believed them practically useful.
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 life which the actress led.
He found Coralie and Camusot intoxicated with joy. The Gymnase offered Coralie an engagement after Easter on terms for which she had never dared to hope.
“And this great success is owing to you,” said Camusot.
“Yes, surely. The Alcalde would have fallen flat but for him,” cried Coralie; “if there had been no article, I should have been in for another six years of the Boulevard theatres.”
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 de la Michodière,” printed in black letters on the soft white kid lining.
“You have a handsome pair of boots, sir,” he said.
“Like everything else about him,” said Coralie.
“I should be very glad of your bootmaker’s address.”
“Oh, how like the Rue des Bourdonnais to ask for a tradesman’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; they are the kind for a steady-going man with a wife and family and a mistress.”
“Indeed, if you would take off one of your boots, sir, I should be very much obliged,” persisted Camusot.
“I could not get it on again without a buttonhook,” said Lucien, flushing up.
“Bérénice will fetch you one; we can do with some here,” jeered 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 dressing-room 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 it to please myself.”
She sat down. There was no anger in her face, no embarrassment; she looked from Camusot to Lucien. The two men avoided each other’s eyes.
“I will believe nothing that you do not wish me to believe,” said Camusot. “Don’t play with me, Coralie; I was wrong—”
“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 take me as I am,” she said, with a queenly gesture that crushed Camusot.
“Is it really true?” he asked, seeing from their faces that this was no jest, yet begging to be deceived.
“I love mademoiselle,” Lucien faltered out.
At that word, Coralie sprang to her poet and held him tightly to her; then, with her arms still about him, she turned to the silk-mercer, 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 with you.”
Camusot sank into a low chair, hid his face in his hands, and said not a word.
“Would you like us to go away?” she asked. There was a note of ferocity in her voice which no words can describe.
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
