end for a reply.  He felt, moreover, how very far removed he was from these divinities of Angouleme when he heard himself addressed sometimes as M. Chardon, sometimes as M. de Rubempre, while they addressed each other as Lolotte, Adrien, Astolphe, Lili and Fifine.  His confusion rose to a height when, taking Lili for a man’s surname, he addressed the coarse M. de Senonches as M. Lili; that Nimrod broke in upon him with a “MONSIEUR LULU?” and Mme. de Bargeton flushed red to the eyes.

“A woman must be blind indeed to bring this little fellow among us!” muttered Senonches.

Zephirine turned to speak to the Marquise de Pimentel—­“Do you not see a strong likeness between M. Chardon and M. de Cante-Croix, madame?” she asked in a low but quite audible voice.

“The likeness is ideal,” smiled Mme. de Pimentel.

“Glory has a power of attraction to which we can confess,” said Mme. de Bargeton, addressing the Marquise.  “Some women are as much attracted by greatness as others by littleness,” she added, looking at Francis.

The was beyond Zephirine’s comprehension; she thought her consul a very great man; but the Marquise laughed, and her laughter ranged her on Nais’ side.

“You are very fortunate, monsieur,” said the Marquis de Pimentel, addressing Lucien for the purpose of calling him M. de Rubempre, and not M. Chardon, as before; “you should never find time heavy on your hands.”

“Do you work quickly?” asked Lolotte, much in the way that she would have asked a joiner “if it took long to make a box.”

The bludgeon stroke stunned Lucien, but he raised his head at Mme. de Bargeton’s reply—­

“My dear, poetry does not grow in M. de Rubempre’s head like grass in our courtyards.”

“Madame, we cannot feel too reverently towards the noble spirits in whom God has set some ray of this light,” said the Bishop, addressing Lolotte.  “Yes, poetry is something holy.  Poetry implies suffering.  How many silent nights those verses that you admire have cost!  We should bow in love and reverence before the poet; his life here is almost always a life of sorrow; but God doubtless reserves a place in heaven for him among His prophets.  This young man is a poet,” he added laying a hand on Lucien’s head; “do you not see the sign of Fate set on that high forehead of his?”

Glad to be so generously championed, Lucien made his acknowledgments in a grateful look, not knowing that the worthy prelate was to deal his deathblow.

Mme. de Bargeton’s eyes traveled round the hostile circle.  Her glances went like arrows to the depths of her rivals’ hearts, and left them twice as furious as before.