The poor man’s gentleness, stripped as he was of his happiness just as happiness had reached its height, touched Lucien deeply. Coralie was quite unsoftened by it.
“Come as often as you wish, poor Musot,” she said; “I shall like you all the better when I don’t pretend to love you.”
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 Véry’s in the Palais Royal was accepted.
“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 the sake of appearances, and vogue le galère!”
She began to dance her Spanish dance, with an excited eagerness that revealed the strength of the passion in her heart.
“If I work hard I may make five hundred francs a month,” Lucien said.
“And I shall make as much again at the theatre, without 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.”
“And the horses? and the coachman? and the footman?” inquired Bérénice.
“I will get into debt,” said Coralie. And she began to dance with Lucien.
“I must close with Finot after this,” Lucien exclaimed.
“There!” said Coralie, “I will dress and take you to your office. I will wait outside in the boulevard for you with the carriage.”
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 aspects of bohemia were in evidence; and he flung down the gauntlet to fortune.
Bérénice 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, that no one had yet come in.
“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 occupation of checking off wrappers with his eternal broum! broum!
Was it lucky or unlucky? Finot chanced to come in at that very moment to announce his sham abdication and to bid Giroudeau watch over his interests.
“No shilly-shally with this gentleman; he is on the staff,” Finot added for his uncle’s benefit, as he grasped Lucien by the hand.
“Oh! is he on the paper?” exclaimed Giroudeau, much surprised at this friendliness. “Well, sir, you came on without much difficulty.”
“I want to make things snug for you here, lest Étienne 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 anyone 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 month, for one year. Does that suit you?”
“Yes,” said Lucien. Circumstances had forced his hand.
“Draw up the agreement, uncle, and we will sign it when we come downstairs.”
“Who is the gentleman?” inquired Giroudeau, rising and taking off his black silk skullcap.
“M. Lucien de Rubempré, who wrote the article on The Alcalde.”
“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.
“Yes.”
“Then antedate this gentleman’s agreement by one day, so that Lousteau will be bound by the previous contract.”
Finot took his new contributor’s arm with a friendliness that charmed Lucien, and drew him out on the landing to say:—
“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
