“These are the last proof sheets.”
“All the anonymous articles against that young d’Arthez in the Ministerialist and Ultra papers are set down to you. The Réveil is poking fun at the set in the Rue des Quatre-Vents, and the hits are the more telling because they are funny. There is a whole serious political coterie at the back of Léon Giraud’s paper; they will come into power too, sooner or later.”
“I have not written a line in the Réveil this week past.”
“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 papers.
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 admit—the 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 ready for suicide. Coralie lay in bed, looking white and ill.
“She must have a part, or she will die,” said Bérénice, 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 Mme. d’Espard and Mme. de Bargeton.
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 Rubempré of his days of splendor, he would not seem to need help from anyone. 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 zeal.
“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 know. Where are you living?”
“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 Rubempré, 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 Rubempré, 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 Navarreins replied.”
Lucien’s expansion of feeling would have softened the heart of any woman less deeply wounded than Louise d’Espard de Nègrepelisse; but her thirst for vengeance was only increased by
