(The country newspapers of those days were sown with notes of admiration, as reports of English election speeches are studded with “cheers” in brackets.)
“In spite of his brilliant success in Paris, our young poet has not forgotten the Hôtel de Bargeton, the cradle of his triumphs; nor the Antoumoisin aristocracy, who first applauded his poetry; nor the fact that the wife of M. le Comte du Châtelet, our Prefect, encouraged his early footsteps in the pathway of the Muses. He has come back among us once more! All L’Houmeau was thrown into excitement yesterday by the appearance of our Lucien de Rubempré. The news of his return produced a profound sensation throughout the town. Angoulême certainly will not allow L’Houmeau to be beforehand in doing honor to the poet who in journalism and literature has so gloriously represented our town in Paris. Lucien de Rubempré, a religious and Royalist poet, has braved the fury of parties; he has come home, it is said, for repose after the fatigue of a struggle which would try the strength of an even greater intellectual athlete than a poet and a dreamer.
“There is some talk of restoring our great poet to the title of the illustrious house of de Rubempré, of which his mother, Madame Chardon, is the last survivor, and it is added that Mme. la Comtesse du Châtelet was the first to think of this eminently politic idea. The revival of an ancient and almost extinct family by young talent and newly won fame is another proof that the immortal author of the Charter still cherishes the desire expressed by the words ‘Union and oblivion.’
“Our poet is staying with his sister, Mme. Séchard.”
Under the heading “Angoulême” followed some items of news:—
“Our Prefect, M. le Comte du Châtelet, Gentleman in Ordinary to His Majesty, has just been appointed Extraordinary Councillor of State.
“All the authorities called yesterday on M. le Préfèt.
“Mme. la Comtesse du Châtelet will receive on Thursdays.
“The Mayor of Escarbas, M. de Nègrepelisse, the representative of the younger branch of the d’Espard family, and father of Mme. du Châtelet, recently raised to the rank of a Count and Peer of France and a Commander of the Royal Order of St. Louis, has been nominated for the presidency of the electoral college of Angoulême at the forthcoming elections.”
“There!” said Lucien, taking the paper to his sister. Eve read the article with attention, and returned with the sheet with a thoughtful air.
“What do you say to that?” asked he, surprised at a reserve that seemed so like indifference.
“The Cointets are proprietors of that paper, dear,” she said; “they put in exactly what they please, and it is not at all likely that the prefecture or the palace have forced their hands. Can you imagine that your old rival the prefect would be generous enough to sing your praises? Have you forgotten that the Cointets are suing us under Métivier’s name? and that they are trying to turn David’s discovery to their own advantage? I do not know the source of this paragraph, but it makes me uneasy. You used to rouse nothing but envious feeling and hatred here; a prophet has no honor in his own country, and they slandered you, and now in a moment it is all changed—”
“You do not know the vanity of country towns,” said Lucien. “A whole little town in the south turned out not so long ago to welcome a young man that had won the first prize in some competition; they looked on him as a budding great man.”
“Listen, dear Lucien; I do not want to preach to you, I will say everything in a very few words—you must suspect every little thing here.”
“You are right,” said Lucien, but he was surprised at his sister’s lack of enthusiasm. He himself was full of delight to find his humiliating and shame-stricken return to Angoulême changed into a triumph in this way.
“You have no belief in the little fame that has cost so dear!” he said again after a long silence. Something like a storm had been gathering in his heart during the past hour. For all answer Eve gave him a look, and Lucien felt ashamed of his accusation.
Dinner was scarcely over when a messenger came from the prefecture with a note addressed to M. Chardon. That note appeared to decide the day for the poet’s vanity; the world contending against the family for him had won.
“M. le Comte Sixte du Châtelet and Mme. la Comtesse du Châtelet request the honor of M. Lucien Chardon’s company at dinner on the fifteenth of September. R.S.V.P.”
Enclosed with the invitation there was a card—
Le Comte Sixte du Châtelet,
Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Prefect of the Charente,
Councillor of State.
“You are in favor,” said old Séchard; “they are talking about you in the town as if you were somebody! Angoulême and L’Houmeau are disputing as to which shall twist wreaths for you.”
“Eve, dear,” Lucien whispered to his sister, “I am exactly in the same condition as I was before in L’Houmeau when Mme. de Bargeton sent me the first invitation—I have not a dress suit for the prefect’s dinner-party.”
“Do you really mean to accept the invitation?” Eve asked in alarm, and a dispute sprang up between the brother and sister. Eve’s provincial good sense told her that if you appear in society, it must
