Lucien squeezed Finot’s hand in transports of joy which no words can express.

“Don’t let any one see that anything has passed between us,” said Finot in his ear, and he flung open a door of a room in the roof at the end of a long passage on the fifth floor.

A table covered with a green cloth was drawn up to a blazing fire, and seated in various chairs and lounges Lucien discovered Lousteau, Felicien Vernou, Hector Merlin, and two others unknown to him, all laughing or smoking.  A real inkstand, full of ink this time, stood on the table among a great litter of papers; while a collection of pens, the worse for wear, but still serviceable for journalists, told the new contributor very plainly that the mighty enterprise was carried on in this apartment.

“Gentlemen,” said Finot, “the object of this gathering is the installation of our friend Lousteau in my place as editor of the newspaper which I am compelled to relinquish.  But although my opinions will necessarily undergo a transformation when I accept the editorship of a review of which the politics are known to you, my convictions remain the same, and we shall be friends as before.  I am quite at your service, and you likewise will be ready to do anything for me.  Circumstances change; principles are fixed.  Principles are the pivot on which the hands of the political barometer turn.”

There was an instant shout of laughter.

“Who put that into your mouth?” asked Lousteau.

“Blondet!” said Finot.

“Windy, showery, stormy, settled fair,” said Merlin; “we will all row in the same boat.”

“In short,” continued Finot, “not to muddle our wits with metaphors, any one who has an article or two for me will always find Finot.—­This gentleman,” turning to Lucien, “will be one of you.—­I have arranged with him, Lousteau.”

Every one congratulated Finot on his advance and new prospects.

“So there you are, mounted on our shoulders,” said a contributor whom Lucien did not know.  “You will be the Janus of Journal——­”

“So long as he isn’t the Janot,” put in Vernou.

“Are you going to allow us to make attacks on our betes noires?”

“Any one you like.”

“Ah, yes!” said Lousteau; “but the paper must keep on its lines.  M. Chatelet is very wroth; we shall not let him off for a week yet.”

“What has happened?” asked Lucien.

“He came here to ask for an explanation,” said Vernou.  “The Imperial buck found old Giroudeau at home; and old Giroudeau told him, with all the coolness in the world, that Philippe Bridau wrote the article.  Philippe asked the Baron to mention the time and the weapons, and there it ended.  We are engaged at this moment in offering excuses to the Baron in to-morrow’s issue.  Every phrase is a stab for him.”

“Keep your teeth in him and he will come round to me,” said Finot; “and it will look as if I were obliging him by appeasing you.  He can say a word to the Ministry, and we can get something or other out of him—­an assistant schoolmaster’s place, or a tobacconist’s license.  It is a lucky thing for us that we flicked him on the raw.  Does anybody here care to take a serious article on Nathan for my new paper?”