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 Bérénice; petted, in moments of weariness, by the silent and attentive Coralie; till, at the end of that time, he had made a fair copy of about three columns of criticism, and an astonishingly good piece of work.
It was nine o’clock in the evening when he ran round to the office, found his associates, and read over his work to an attentive audience. Félicien said not a syllable. He took up the manuscript, and made off with it pell-mell down the staircase.
“What has come to him?” cried Lucien.
“He has taken your article straight to the printer,” said Hector Merlin. “ ’Tis a masterpiece; not a line to add, nor a word to take out.”
“There was no need to do more than show you the way,” said Lousteau.
“I should like to see Nathan’s face when he reads this tomorrow,” said another contributor, beaming with gentle satisfaction.
“It is as well to have you for a friend,” remarked Hector Merlin.
“Then it will do?” Lucien asked quickly.
“Blondet and Vignon will feel bad,” said Lousteau.
“Here is a short article which I have knocked together for you,” began Lucien; “if it takes, I could write you a series.”
“Read it over,” said Lousteau, and Lucien read the first of the delightful short papers which made the fortune of the little newspaper; a series of sketches of Paris life, a portrait, a type, an ordinary event, or some of the oddities of the great city. This specimen—“The Man in the Street”—was written in a way that was fresh and original; the thoughts were struck out by the shock of the words, the sounding ring of the adverbs and adjectives caught the reader’s ear. The paper was as different from the serious and profound article on Nathan as the Lettres persanes from the Esprit des lois.
“You are a born journalist,” said Lousteau. “It shall go in tomorrow. Do as much of this sort of thing as you like.”
“Ah, by the by,” said Merlin, “Dauriat is furious about those two bombshells hurled into his magazine. I have just come from him. He was hurling imprecations, and in such a rage with Finot, who told him that he had sold his paper to you. As for me, I took him aside and just said a word in his ear. ‘The Marguerites will cost you dear,’ I told him. ‘A man of talent comes to you, you turn the cold shoulder on him, and send him into the arms of the newspapers.’ ”
“Dauriat will be dumbfounded by the article on Nathan,” said Lousteau. “Do you see now what journalism is, Lucien? Your revenge is beginning to tell. The Baron Châtelet came here this morning for your address. There was a cutting article upon him in this morning’s issue; he is a weakling, that buck of the Empire, and he has lost his head. Have you seen the paper? It is a funny article. Look, ‘Funeral of the Heron, and the Cuttlefish-bone’s lament.’ Mme. de Bargeton is called the Cuttlefish-bone now, and no mistake, and Châtelet is known everywhere as Baron Heron.”
Lucien took up the paper, and could not help laughing at Vernou’s extremely clever skit.
“They will capitulate soon,” said Hector Merlin.
Lucien merrily assisted at the manufacture of epigrams and jokes at the end of the paper; and the associates smoked and chatted over the day’s adventures, over the foibles of some among their number, or some new bit of personal gossip. From their witty, malicious, bantering talk, Lucien gained a knowledge of the inner life of literature, and of the manners and customs of the craft.
“While they are setting up the paper, I will go round with you and introduce you to the managers of your theatres, and take you behind the scenes,” said Lousteau. “And then we will go to the Panorama-Dramatique, and have a frolic in their dressing-rooms.”
Arm-in-arm, they went from theatre to theatre. Lucien was introduced to this one and that, and enthroned as a dramatic critic. Managers complimented him, actresses flung him side glances; for every one of them knew that this was the critic who, by a single article, had gained an engagement at the Gymnase, with twelve thousand francs a year, for Coralie, and another for Florine at the Panorama-Dramatique with eight thousand francs. Lucien was a man of importance. The little ovations raised Lucien in his own eyes, and taught him to know his power. At eleven o’clock the pair arrived at the Panorama-Dramatique; Lucien with a careless air that worked wonders. Nathan was there. Nathan held out a hand, which Lucien squeezed.
“Ah! my masters, so you have a mind to floor me, have you?” said Nathan, looking from one to the other.
“Just you wait till 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.”
Lucien reddened with confusion.
“Is it severe?” inquired Nathan.
“It is serious,” said Lousteau.
“Then there is no harm done,” Nathan rejoined. “Hector Merlin in the greenroom of the Vaudeville was saying that I had been cut up.”
“Let him talk, and wait,” cried Lucien, and took refuge in Coralie’s dressing-room. Coralie, in her alluring costume, had just come off the stage.
Next morning, as Lucien and Coralie sat at breakfast, a carriage drove along the Rue de Vendôme. 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,
