Lucien hurried to the Rue Saint-Fiacre after the play to write his article.  It was a piece of savage and bitter criticism, written in pure wantonness; he was amusing himself by trying his power.  The melodrama, as a matter of fact, was a better piece than the Alcalde; but Lucien wished to see whether he could damn a good play and send everybody to see a bad one, as his associates had said.

He unfolded the sheet at breakfast next morning, telling Coralie as he did so that he had cut up the Ambigu-Comique; and not a little astonished was he to find below his paper on Mme. de Bargeton and Chatelet a notice of the Ambigu, so mellowed and softened in the course of the night, that although the witty analysis was still preserved, the judgment was favorable.  The article was more likely to fill the house than to empty it.  No words can describe his wrath.  He determined to have a word or two with Lousteau.  He had already begun to think himself an indespensable man, and he vowed that he would not submit to be tyrannized over and treated like a fool.  To establish his power beyond cavil, he wrote the article for Dauriat’s review, summing up and weighing all the various opinions concerning Nathan’s book; and while he was in the humor, he hit off another of his short sketches for Lousteau’s newspaper.  Inexperienced journalists, in the first effervescence of youth, make a labor of love of ephemeral work, and lavish their best thought unthriftily thereon.

The manager of the Panorama-Dramatique gave a first performance of a vaudeville that night, so that Florine and Coralie might be free for the evening.  There were to be cards before supper.  Lousteau came for the short notice of the vaudeville; it had been written beforehand after the general rehearsal, for Etienne wished to have the paper off his mind.  Lucien read over one of the charming sketches of Parisian whimsicalities which made the fortune of the paper, and Lousteau kissed him on both eyelids, and called him the providence of journalism.

“Then why do you amuse yourself by turning my article inside out?” asked Lucien.  He had written his brilliant sketch simply and solely to give emphasis to his grievance.

“I?” exclaimed Lousteau.

“Well, who else can have altered my article?”

“You do not know all the ins and outs yet, dear fellow.  The Ambigu pays for thirty copies, and only takes nine for the manager and box office-keeper and their mistresses, and for the three lessees of the theatre.  Every one of the Boulevard theatres pays eight hundred francs in this way to the paper; and there is quite as much again in boxes and orders for Finot, to say nothing of the contributions of the company.  And if the minor theatres do this, you may imagine what the big ones do!  Now you understand?  We are bound to show a good deal of indulgence.”

“I understand this, that I am not at liberty to write as I think——­”