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.

“Papa Camusot!” said Coralie, looking at him with cruel scorn, “have the courage of your pitiful baseness.  Come, speak out!  You think that this gentleman’s boots are very like mine, do you not?—­I forbid you to take off your boots,” she added, turning to Lucien.—­“Yes, M. Camusot.  Yes, you saw some boots lying about in the fender here the other day, and that is the identical pair, and this gentleman was hiding in my dressing-room at the time, waiting for them; and he had passed the night here.  That was what you were thinking, hein?  Think so; I would rather you did.  It is the simple truth.  I am deceiving you.  And if I am?  I do it to please myself.”