"That,my boy,is a woman who all unconsciously will work great havoc in contemporary literature,"said Etienne,when they came away."Poor Vernou cannot forgive us for his wife.He ought to be relieved of her in the interests of the public;and a deluge of blood-thirsty reviews and stinging sarcasms against successful men of every sort would be averted.What is to become of a man with such a wife and that pair of abominable brats?Have you seen Rigaudin in Picard's La Maison en Loterie?You have?Well,like Rigaudin,Vernou will not fight himself,but he will set others fighting;he would give an eye to put out both eyes in the head of the best friend he has.You will see him using the bodies of the slain for a stepping-stone,rejoicing over every one's misfortunes,attacking princes,dukes,marquises,and nobles,because he himself is a commoner;reviling the work of unmarried men because he forsooth has a wife;and everlastingly preaching morality,the joys of domestic life,and the duties of the citizen.In short,this very moral critic will spare no one,not even infants of tender age.He lives in the Rue Mandar with a wife who might be the Mamamouchi of the Bourgeois gentilhomme and a couple of little Vernous as ugly as sin.
He tries to sneer at the Faubourg Saint-Germain,where he will never set foot,and makes his duchesses talk like his wife.That is the sort of man to raise a howl at the Jesuits,insult the Court,and credit the Court party with the design of restoring feudal rights and the right of primogeniture--just the one to preach a crusade for Equality,he that thinks himself the equal of no one.If he were a bachelor,he would go into society;if he were in a fair way to be a Royalist poet with a pension and the Cross of the Legion of Honor,he would be an optimist,and journalism offers starting-points by the hundred.
Journalism is the giant catapult set in motion by pigmy hatreds.Have you any wish to marry after this?Vernou has none of the milk of human kindness in him,it is all turned to gall;and he is emphatically the Journalist,a tiger with two hands that tears everything to pieces,as if his pen had the hydrophobia.""It is a case of gunophobia,"said Lucien."Has he ability?""He is witty,he is a writer of articles.He incubates articles;he does that all his life and nothing else.The most dogged industry would fail to graft a book on his prose.Felicien is incapable of conceiving a work on a large scale,of broad effects,of fitting characters harmoniously in a plot which develops till it reaches a climax.He has ideas,but he has no knowledge of facts;his heroes are utopian creatures,philosophical or Liberal notions masquerading.He is at pains to write an original style,but his inflated periods would collapse at a pin-prick from a critic;and therefore he goes in terror of reviews,like every one else who can only keep his head above water with the bladders of newspaper puffs.""What an article you are making out of him!""That particular kind,my boy,must be spoken,and never written.""You are turning editor,"said Lucien.
"Where shall I put you down?"
"At Coralie's."
"Ah!we are infatuated,"said Lousteau."What a mistake!Do as I do with Florine,let Coralie be your housekeeper,and take your fling.""You would send a saint to perdition,"laughed Lucien.
"Well,there is no damning a devil,"retorted Lousteau.
The flippant tone,the brilliant talk of this new friend,his views of life,his paradoxes,the axioms of Parisian Machiavelism,--all these things impressed Lucien unawares.Theoretically the poet knew that such thoughts were perilous;but he believed them practically useful.
Arrived in the Boulevard du Temple,the friends agreed to meet at the office between four and five o'clock.Hector Merlin would doubtless be there.Lousteau was right.The infatuation of desire was upon Lucien;for the courtesan who loves knows how to grapple her lover to her by every weakness in his nature,fashioning herself with incredible flexibility to his every wish,encouraging the soft,effeminate habits which strengthen her hold.Lucien was thirsting already for enjoyment;he was in love with the easy,luxurious,and expensive life which the actress led.
He found Coralie and Camusot intoxicated with joy.The Gymnase offered Coralie an engagement after Easter on terms for which she had never dared to hope.
"And this great success is owing to you,"said Camusot.
"Yes,surely.The Alcalde would have fallen flat but for him,"cried Coralie;"if there had been no article,I should have been in for another six years of the Boulevard theatres."She danced up to Lucien and flung her arms round him,putting an indescribable silken softness and sweetness into her enthusiasm.Love had come to Coralie.And Camusot?his eyes fell.Looking down after the wont of mankind in moments of sharp pain,he saw the seam of Lucien's boots,a deep yellow thread used by the best bootmakers of that time,in strong contrast with the glistening leather.The color of that seam had tinged his thoughts during a previous conversation with himself,as he sought to explain the presence of a mysterious pair of hessians in Coralie's fender.He remembered now that he had seen the name of "Gay,Rue de la Michodiere,"printed in black letters on the soft white kid lining.
"You have a handsome pair of boots,sir,"he said.
"Like everything else about him,"said Coralie.
"I should be very glad of your bootmaker's address.""Oh,how like the Rue des Bourdonnais to ask for a tradesman's address,"cried Coralie."Do YOU intend to patronize a young man's bootmaker?A nice young man you would make!Do keep to your own top-boots;they are the kind for a steady-going man with a wife and family and a mistress.""Indeed,if you would take off one of your boots,sir,I should be very much obliged,"persisted Camusot.
"I could not get it on again without a button-hook,"said Lucien,flushing up.
"Berenice will fetch you one;we can do with some here,"jeered Camusot.