“And so,” continued Blondet, “you will have made four hundred francs in a week, to say nothing of the pleasure of now and again saying what you really think.  A discerning public will maintain that either C or L or Rubempre is in the right of it, or mayhap all the three.  Mythology, beyond doubt one of the grandest inventions of the human brain, places Truth at the bottom of a well; and what are we to do without buckets?  You will have supplied the public with three for one.  There you are, my boy, Go ahead!”

Lucien’s head was swimming with bewilderment.  Blondet kissed him on both cheeks.

“I am going to my shop,” said he.  And every man likewise departed to his shop.  For these “hommes forts,” a newspaper office was nothing but a shop.

They were to meet again in the evening at the Wooden Galleries, and Lucien would sign his treaty of peace with Dauriat.  Florine and Lousteau, Lucien and Coralie, Blondet and Finot, were to dine at the Palais-Royal; du Bruel was giving the manager of the Panorama-Dramatique a dinner.

“They are right,” exclaimed Lucien, when he was alone with Coralie.  “Men are made to be tools in the hands of stronger spirits.  Four hundred francs for three articles!  Doguereau would scarcely give me as much for a book which cost me two years of work.”

“Write criticism,” said Coralie, “have a good time!  Look at me, I am an Andalusian girl to-night, to-morrow I may be a gypsy, and a man the night after.  Do as I do, give them grimaces for their money, and let us live happily.”

Lucien, smitten with love of Paradox, set himself to mount and ride that unruly hybrid product of Pegasus and Balaam’s ass; started out at a gallop over the fields of thought while he took a turn in the Bois, and discovered new possibilities in Blondet’s outline.

He dined as happy people dine, and signed away all his rights in the Marguerites.  It never occurred to him that any trouble might arise from that transaction in the future.  He took a turn of work at the office, wrote off a couple of columns, and came back to the Rue de Vendome.  Next morning he found the germs of yesterday’s ideas had sprung up and developed in his brain, as ideas develop while the intellect is yet unjaded and the sap is rising; and thoroughly did he enjoy the projection of this new article.  He threw himself into it with enthusiasm.  At the summons of the spirit of contradiction, new charms met beneath his pen.  He was witty and satirical, he rose to yet new views of sentiment, of ideas and imagery in literature.  With subtle ingenuity, he went back to his own first impressions of Nathan’s work, when he read it in the newsroom of the Cour du Commerce; and the ruthless, bloodthirsty critic, the lively mocker, became a poet in the final phrases which rose and fell with majestic rhythm like the swaying censer before the altar.

“One hundred francs, Coralie!” cried he, holding up eight sheets of paper covered with writing while she dressed.