Lucien had no suspicion of the art with which polite society puts forward a “Yes” on the way to a “No,” and a “No” that leads to a “Yes.”  He took this note for a victory.  David should go to Mme. de Bargeton’s house!  David would shine there in all the majesty of his genius!  He raised his head so proudly in the intoxication of a victory which increased his belief in himself and his ascendency over others, his face was so radiant with the brightness of many hopes, that his sister could not help telling him that he looked handsome.

“If that woman has any sense, she must love you!  And if so, to-night she will be vexed, for all the ladies will try all sorts of coquetries on you.  How handsome you will look when you read your Saint John in Patmos!  If only I were a mouse, and could just slip in and see it!  Come, I have put your clothes out in mother’s room.”

The mother’s room bore witness to self-respecting poverty.  There were white curtains to the walnut wood bedstead, and a strip of cheap green carpet at the foot.  A chest of drawers with a wooden top, a looking-glass, and a few walnut wood chairs completed the furniture.  The clock on the chimney-piece told of the old vanished days of prosperity.  White curtains hung in the windows, a gray flowered paper covered the walls, and the tiled floor, colored and waxed by Eve herself, shone with cleanliness.  On the little round table in the middle of the room stood a red tray with a pattern of gilt roses, and three cups and a sugar-basin of Limoges porcelain.  Eve slept in the little adjoining closet, where there was just room for a narrow bed, an old-fashioned low chair, and a work-table by the window; there was about as much space as there is in a ship’s cabin, and the door always stood open for the sake of air.  But if all these things spoke of great poverty, the atmosphere was sedate and studious; and for those who knew the mother and children, there was something touchingly appropriate in their surroundings.

Lucien was tying his cravat when David’s step sounded outside in the little yard, and in another moment the young printer appeared.  From his manner and looks he seemed to have come down in a hurry.

“Well, David!” cried the ambitious poet, “we have gained the day!  She loves me!  You shall come too.”

“No,” David said with some confusion, “I came down to thank you for this proof of friendship, but I have been thinking things over seriously.  My own life is cut out for me, Lucien.  I am David Sechard, printer to His Majesty in Angouleme, with my name at the bottom of the bills posted on every wall.  For people of that class, I am an artisan, or I am in business, if you like it better, but I am a craftsman who lives over a shop in the Rue de Beaulieu at the corner of the Place du Murier.  I have not the wealth of a Keller just yet, nor the name of a Desplein, two sorts of power that the nobles still try to ignore, and —­I am so far agreed