“For what day?” asked Lucien.
“Sunday next.”
“That is quite out of the question,” said Lucien. “I cannot accept an invitation for the next ten days, but then I will gladly—”
“Very well,” said Petit-Claud, “so be it then, in ten days’ time.”
Lucien behaved charmingly to his old schoolfellows, and they regarded him with almost respectful admiration. He talked away very wittily for half an hour; he had been set upon a pedestal, and wished to justify the opinion of his fellow-townsmen; so he stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, and held forth from the height to which he had been raised. He was modest and good-natured, as befitted genius in dressing-gown and slippers; he was the athlete, wearied by a wrestling bout with Paris, and disenchanted above all things; he congratulated the comrades who had never left the dear old province, and so forth, and so forth. They were delighted with him. He took Petit-Claud aside, and asked him for the real truth about David’s affairs, reproaching him for allowing his brother-in-law to go into hiding, and tried to match his wits against the little lawyer. Petit-Claud made an effort over himself, and gave his acquaintance to understand that he (Petit-Claud) was only an insignificant little country attorney, with no sort of craft nor subtlety.
The whole machinery of modern society is so infinitely more complex than in ancient times, that the subdivision of human faculty is the result. The great men of the days of old were perforce universal geniuses, appearing at rare intervals like lighted torches in an antique world. In the course of ages the intellect began to work on special lines, but the great man still could “take all knowledge for his province.” A man “full cautelous,” as was said of Louis XI, for instance, could apply that special faculty in every direction, but today the single quality is subdivided, and every profession has its special craft. A peasant or a pettifogging solicitor might very easily overreach an astute diplomat over a bargain in some remote country village; and the wiliest journalist may prove the veriest simpleton in a piece of business. Lucien could but be a puppet in the hands of Petit-Claud.
That guileful practitioner, as might have been expected, had written the article himself; Angoulême and L’Houmeau, thus put on their mettle, thought it incumbent upon them to pay honor to Lucien. His fellow-citizens, assembled in the Place du Mûrier, were Cointets’ workpeople from the paper mills and printing-house, with a sprinkling of Lucien’s old schoolfellows and the clerks in the employ of Messieurs Petit-Claud and Cachan. As for the attorney himself, he was once more Lucien’s chum of old days; and he thought, not without reason, that before very long he should learn David’s whereabouts in some unguarded moment. And if David came to grief through Lucien’s fault, the poet would find Angoulême too hot to hold him. Petit-Claud meant to secure his hold; he posed, therefore, as Lucien’s inferior.
“What better could I have done?” he said accordingly. “My old chum’s sister was involved, it is true, but there are some positions that simply cannot be maintained in a court of law. David asked me on the first of June to ensure him a quiet life for three months; he had a quiet life until September, and even so I have kept his property out of his creditors’ power, for I shall gain my case in the Court-Royal; I contend that the wife is a privileged creditor, and her claim is absolute, unless there is evidence of intent to defraud. As for you, you have come back in misfortune, but you are a genius.”—(Lucien turned about as if the incense were burned too close to his face.)—“Yes, my dear fellow, a genius. I have read your Archer of Charles IX; it is more than a romance, it is literature. Only two living men could have written the preface—Chateaubriand and Lucien.”
Lucien accepted the eulogies, and did not think it necessary to mention that d’Arthez had written the preface. Ninety-nine writers out of a hundred would have done the same.
“Well, nobody here seemed to have heard of you!” Petit-Claud continued, with apparent indignation. “When I saw the general indifference, I made up my mind to change all that. I wrote that article in the paper—”
“What? Did you write it?” exclaimed Lucien.
“I myself. Angoulême and L’Houmeau were stirred to rivalry; I arranged for a meeting of your old schoolfellows, and got up yesterday’s serenade; and when once the enthusiasm began to grow, we started a committee for the dinner. ‘If David is in hiding,’ said I to myself, ‘Lucien shall be crowned at any rate.’ And I have done even better than that,” continued Petit-Claud; “I have seen the Comtesse du Châtelet and made her understand that she owes it to herself to extricate David from his position; she can do it, and she ought to do it. If David has really discovered the secret of which he spoke to me, the Government ought to lend him a hand, it would not ruin the Government; and think what a fine thing for a prefect to have half the credit of the great invention for the well-timed help. It would set people talking about him as an enlightened administrator.—Your sister has taken fright at our musketry practice; she was scared of the smoke. A battle in the law-courts costs quite as much as a battle on the field; but David has held his ground, he has his secret. They cannot stop him, and they will not pull him up now.”
“Thanks, my dear fellow; I see that I can take you into my confidence; you shall help me to carry out my plan.”
Petit-Claud looked at Lucien, and his gimlet face was a point of interrogation.
“I intend to rescue Séchard,” Lucien said, with a certain importance. “I brought
