“Well, dear love, would you have seen many of these bits of paper if you had stopped in your hole in the Rue de Cluny, prowling about among the musty old books in the Bibliotheque de Sainte-Genevieve?” asked Coralie, for she knew the whole story of Lucien’s life by this time.  “Those little friends of yours in the Rue des Quatre-Vents are great ninnies, it seems to me.”

His brothers of the cenacle!  And Lucien could hear the verdict and laugh.

He had seen himself in print; he had just experienced the ineffable joy of the author, that first pleasurable thrill of gratified vanity which comes but once.  The full import and bearing of his article became apparent to him as he read and re-read it.  The garb of print is to manuscript as the stage is to women; it brings beauties and defects to light, killing and giving life; the fine thoughts and the faults alike stare you in the face.

Lucien, in his excitement and rapture, gave not another thought to Nathan.  Nathan was a stepping-stone for him—­that was all; and he (Lucien) was happy exceedingly—­he thought himself rich.  The money brought by Dauriat was a very Potosi for the lad who used to go about unnoticed through the streets of Angouleme and down the steep path into L’Houmeau to Postel’s garret, where his whole family had lived upon an income of twelve hundred francs.  The pleasures of his life in Paris must inevitably dim the memories of those days; but so keen were they, that, as yet, he seemed to be back again in the Place du Murier.  He thought of Eve, his beautiful, noble sister, of David his friend, and of his poor mother, and he sent Berenice out to change one of the notes.  While she went he wrote a few lines to his family, and on the maid’s return he sent her to the coach-office with a packet of five hundred francs addressed to his mother.  He could not trust himself; he wanted to sent the money at once; later he might not be able to do it.  Both Lucien and Coralie looked upon this restitution as a meritorious action.  Coralie put her arms about her lover and kissed him, and thought him a model son and brother; she could not make enough of him, for generosity is a trait of character which delights these kindly creatures, who always carry their hearts in their hands.

“We have a dinner now every day for a week,” she said; “we will make a little carnival; you have worked quite hard enough.”

Coralie, fain to delight in the beauty of a man whom all other women should envy her, took Lucien back to Staub.  He was not dressed finely enough for her.  Thence the lovers went to drive in the Bois de Boulogne, and came back to dine at Mme. du Val-Noble’s.  Rastignac, Bixiou, des Lupeaulx, Finot, Blondet, Vignon, the Baron de Nucingen, Beaudenord, Philippe Bridau, Conti, the great musician, all the artists and speculators, all the men who seek for violent sensations as a relief from immense labors, gave Lucien a welcome among them.  And Lucien had gained confidence; he gave himself out in talk as though he had not to live by his wit, and was pronounced to be a “clever fellow” in the slang of the coterie of semi-comrades.