In France, when once the impulse is given, nobody can stop. The colonel of the regiment offered to put his band at the disposal of the committee. The landlord of the Bell (renowned for truffled turkeys, despatched in the most wonderful porcelain jars to the uttermost parts of the earth), the famous innkeeper of L’Houmeau, would supply the repast. At five o’clock some forty persons, all in state and festival array, were assembled in his largest ball, decorated with hangings, crowns of laurel, and bouquets. The effect was superb. A crowd of onlookers, some hundred persons, attracted for the most part by the military band in the yard, represented the citizens of Angoulême.
Petit-Claud went to the window. “All Angoulême is here,” he said, looking out.
“I can make nothing of this,” remarked little Postel to his wife (they had come out to hear the band play). “Why, the prefect and the receiver-general, and the colonel and the superintendent of the powder factory, and our mayor and deputy, and the headmaster of the school, and the manager of the foundry at Ruelle, and the public prosecutor, M. Milaud, and all the authorities, have just gone in!”
The bank struck up as they sat down to table with variations on the air Vive le roy, vive la France, a melody which has never found popular favor. It was then five o’clock in the evening; it was eight o’clock before dessert was served. Conspicuous among the sixty-five dishes appeared an Olympus in confectionery, surmounted by a figure of France modeled in chocolate, to give the signal for toasts and speeches.
“Gentlemen,” called the prefect, rising to his feet, “the King! the rightful ruler of France! To what do we owe the generation of poets and thinkers who maintain the sceptre of letters in the hands of France, if not to the peace which the Bourbons have restored—”
“Long live the King!” cried the assembled guests (ministerialists predominated).
The venerable headmaster rose.
“To the hero of the day,” he said, “to the young poet who combines the gift of the prosateur with the charm and poetic faculty of Petrarch in that sonnet-form which Boileau declares to be so difficult.”
Cheers.
The colonel rose next. “Gentlemen, to the Royalist! for the hero of this evening had the courage to fight for sound principles!”
“Bravo!” cried the prefect, leading the applause.
Then Petit-Claud called upon all Lucien’s schoolfellows there present. “To the pride of the grammar-school of Angoulême! to the venerable headmaster so dear to us all, to whom the acknowledgment for some part of our triumph is due!”
The old headmaster dried his eyes; he had not expected this toast. Lucien rose to his feet, the whole room was suddenly silent, and the poet’s face grew white. In that pause the old headmaster, who sat on his left, crowned him with a laurel wreath. A round of applause followed, and when Lucien spoke it was with tears in his eyes and a sob in his throat.
“He is drunk,” remarked the attorney-general-designate to his neighbor, Petit-Claud.
“My dear fellow-countrymen, my dear comrades,” Lucien said at last, “I could wish that all France might witness this scene; for thus men rise to their full stature, and in such ways as these our land demands great deeds and noble work of us. And when I think of the little that I have done, and of this great honor shown to me today, I can only feel confused and impose upon the future the task of justifying your reception of me. The recollection of this moment will give me renewed strength for efforts to come. Permit me to indicate for your homage my earliest muse and protectress, and to associate her name with that of my birthplace; so—to the Comtesse du Châtelet and the noble town of Angoulême!”
“He came out of that pretty well!” said the public prosecutor, nodding approval; “our speeches were all prepared, and his was improvised.”
At ten o’clock the party began to break up, and little knots of guests went home together. David Séchard heard the unwonted music.
“What is going on in L’Houmeau?” he asked of Basine.
“They are giving a dinner to your brother-in-law, Lucien—”
“I know that he would feel sorry to miss me there,” he said.
At midnight Petit-Claud walked home with Lucien. As they reached the Place du Mûrier, Lucien said, “Come life, come death, we are friends, my dear fellow.”
“My marriage contract,” said the lawyer, “with Mlle. Françoise de la Haye will be signed tomorrow at Mme. de Senonches’ house; do me the pleasure of coming. Mme. de Senonches implored me to bring you, and you will meet Mme. du Châtelet; they are sure to tell her of your speech, and she will feel flattered by it.”
“I knew what I was about,” said Lucien.
“Oh! you will save David.”
“I am sure I shall,” the poet replied.
Just at that moment David appeared as if by magic in the Place du Mûrier. This was how it had come about. He felt that he was in a rather difficult position; his wife insisted that Lucien must neither go to David nor know of his hiding-place; and Lucien all the while was writing the most affectionate letters, saying that in a few days’ time all should be set right; and even as Basine Clerget explained the reason why the band played, she put two letters into his hands. The first was from Eve.
“Dearest,” she wrote, “do as if Lucien were not here; do not trouble yourself in the least; our whole security depends upon the fact that your enemies cannot find you; get that idea firmly into your head. I have more confidence in Kolb and Marion and Basine than in my own brother; such is my misfortune. Alas! poor Lucien is not the ingenuous and tenderhearted poet whom we used to know; and it is simply because he is trying to interfere on your
