“It is not the signatures that trouble me,” returned Lucien, “but I cannot see anything to be said in favor of the book.”

“Then did you really think as you wrote?” asked Hector.

“Yes.”

“Oh!  I thought you were cleverer than that, youngster,” said Blondet.  “No.  Upon my word, as I looked at that forehead of yours, I credited you with the omnipotence of the great mind—­the power of seeing both sides of everything.  In literature, my boy, every idea is reversible, and no man can take upon himself to decide which is the right or wrong side.  Everything is bi-lateral in the domain of thought.  Ideas are binary.  Janus is a fable signifying criticism and the symbol of Genius.  The Almighty alone is triform.  What raises Moliere and Corneille above the rest of us but the faculty of saying one thing with an Alceste or an Octave, and another with a Philinte or a Cinna?  Rousseau wrote a letter against dueling in the Nouvelle Heloise, and another in favor of it.  Which of the two represented his own opinion? will you venture to take it upon yourself to decide?  Which of us could give judgement for Clarissa or Lovelace, Hector or Achilles?  Who was Homer’s hero?  What did Richardson himself think?  It is the function of criticism to look at a man’s work in all its aspects.  We draw up our case, in short.”

“Do you really stick to your written opinions?” asked Vernou, with a satirical expression.  “Why, we are retailers of phrases; that is how we make a livelihood.  When you try to do a good piece of work—­to write a book, in short—­you can put your thoughts, yourself into it, and cling to it, and fight for it; but as for newspaper articles, read to-day and forgotten to-morrow, they are worth nothing in my eyes but the money that is paid for them.  If you attach any importance to such drivel, you might as well make the sign of the Cross and invoke heaven when you sit down to write a tradesman’s circular.”

Every one apparently was astonished at Lucien’s scruples.  The last rags of the boyish conscience were torn away, and he was invested with the toga virilis of journalism.

“Do you know what Nathan said by way of comforting himself after your criticism?” asked Lousteau.

“How should I know?”

“Nathan exclaimed, ‘Paragraphs pass away; but a great work lives!’ He will be here to supper in two days, and he will be sure to fall flat at your feet, and kiss your claws, and swear that you are a great man.”

“That would be a funny thing,” was Lucien’s comment.

“Funny” repeated Blondet.  “He can’t help himself.”

“I am quite willing, my friends,” said Lucien, on whom the wine had begun to take effect.  “But what am I to say?”