Lost Illusions

“Keep a tight hold of my arm, unless you have a mind to fall through a trap-door, or bring down a forest on your head; you will pull down a palace, or carry off a cottage, if you are not careful,” said Etienne.  —­“Is Florine in her dressing-room, my pet?” he added, addressing an actress who stood waiting for her cue.

“Yes, love.  Thank you for the things you said about me.  You are so much nicer since Florine has come here.”

“Come, don’t spoil your entry, little one.  Quick with you, look sharp, and say, ‘Stop, wretched man!’ nicely, for there are two thousand francs of takings.”

Lucien was struck with amazement when the girl’s whole face suddenly changed, and she shrieked, “Stop, wretched man!” a cry that froze the blood in your veins.  She was no longer the same creature.

“So this is the stage,” he said to Lousteau.

“It is like the bookseller’s shop in the Wooden Galleries, or a literary paper,” said Etienne Lousteau; “it is a kitchen, neither more nor less.”

Nathan appeared at this moment.

“What brings you here?” inquired Lousteau.

“Why, I am doing the minor theatres for the Gazette until something better turns up.”

“Oh! come to supper with us this evening; speak well of Florine, and I will do as much for you.”

“Very much at your service,” returned Nathan.

“You know; she is living in the Rue du Bondy now.”

“Lousteau, dear boy, who is the handsome young man that you have brought with you?” asked the actress, now returned to the wings.

“A great poet, dear, that will have a famous name one of these days.  —­M.  Nathan, I must introduce M. Lucien de Rubempre to you, as you are to meet again at supper.”

“You have a good name, monsieur,” said Nathan.

“Lucien, M. Raoul Nathan,” continued Etienne.

“I read your book two days ago; and, upon my word, I cannot understand how you, who have written such a book, and such poetry, can be so humble to a journalist.”

“Wait till your first book comes out,” said Nathan, and a shrewd smile flitted over his face.

“I say!  I say! here are Ultras and Liberals actually shaking hands!” cried Vernou, spying the trio.

“In the morning I hold the views of my paper,” said Nathan, “in the evening I think as I please; all journalists see double at night.”

Felicien Vernou turned to Lousteau.

“Finot is looking for you, Etienne; he came with me, and—­here he is!”

“Ah, by the by, there is not a place in the house, is there?” asked Finot.

“You will always find a place in our hearts,” said the actress, with the sweetest smile imaginable.

“I say, my little Florville, are you cured already of your fancy?  They told me that a Russian prince had carried you off.”

“Who carries off women in these days” said Florville (she who had cried, “Stop, wretched man!”).  “We stayed at Saint-Mande for ten days, and my prince got off with paying the forfeit money to the management.  The manager will go down on his knees to pray for some more Russian princes,” Florville continued, laughing; “the forfeit money was so much clear gain.”

“And as for you, child,” said Finot, turning to a pretty girl in a peasant’s costume, “where did you steal these diamond ear-drops?  Have you hooked an Indian prince?”

“No, a blacking manufacturer, an Englishman, who has gone off already.  It is not everybody who can find millionaire shopkeepers, tired of domestic life, whenever they like, as Florine does and Coralie.  Aren’t they just lucky?”

“Florville, you will make a bad entry,” said Lousteau; “the blacking has gone to your head!”

“If you want a success,” said Nathan, “instead of screaming, ’He is saved!’ like a Fury, walk on quite quietly, go to the staircase, and say, ‘He is saved,’ in a chest voice, like Pasta’s ‘O patria,’ in Tancreda.—­There, go along!” and he pushed her towards the stage.

“It is too late,” said Vernou, “the effect has hung fire.”

“What did she do? the house is applauding like mad,” asked Lousteau.

“Went down on her knees and showed her bosom; that is her great resource,” said the blacking-maker’s widow.

“The manager is giving up the stage box to us; you will find me there when you come,” said Finot, as Lousteau walked off with Lucien.

At the back of the stage, through a labyrinth of scenery and corridors, the pair climbed several flights of stairs and reached a little room on a third floor, Nathan and Felicien Vernou following them.

“Good-day or good-night, gentlemen,” said Florine.  Then, turning to a short, stout man standing in a corner, “These gentlemen are the rulers of my destiny,” she said, my future is in their hands; but they will be under our table to-morrow morning, I hope, if M. Lousteau has forgotten nothing——­”

“Forgotten!  You are going to have Blondet of the Debats,” said Etienne, “the genuine Blondet, the very Blondet—­Blondet himself, in short.”

“Oh!  Lousteau, you dear boy! stop, I must give you a kiss,” and she flung her arms about the journalist’s neck.  Matifat, the stout person in the corner, looked serious at this.

Florine was thin; her beauty, like a bud, gave promise of the flower to come; the girl of sixteen could only delight the eyes of artists who prefer the sketch to the picture.  All the quick subtlety of her character was visible in the features of the charming actress, who at that time might have sat for Goethe’s Mignon.  Matifat, a wealthy druggist of the Rue des Lombards, had imagined that a little Boulevard actress would have no very expensive tastes, but in eleven months Florine had cost him sixty thousand francs.  Nothing seemed more extraordinary to Lucien than the sight of an honest and worthy merchant standing like a statue of the god Terminus in the actress’ narrow dressing-room, a tiny place some ten feet square, hung with a pretty wall-paper, and adorned with a full-length mirror, a sofa, and two chairs.  There was a fireplace in the dressing-closet, a carpet on the floor, and cupboards all round the room.  A dresser was putting the finishing touches to a Spanish costume; for Florine was to take the part of a countess in an imbroglio.

“That girl will be the handsomest actress in Paris in five years’ time,” said Nathan, turning to Felicien Vernou.

“By the by, darlings, you will take care of me to-morrow, won’t you?” said Florine, turning to the three journalists.  “I have engaged cabs for to-night, for I am going to send you home as tipsy as Shrove Tuesday.  Matifat has sent in wines—­oh! wines worthy of Louis XVIII., and engaged the Prussian ambassador’s cook.”

“We expect something enormous from the look of the gentleman,” remarked Nathan.

“And he is quite aware that he is treating the most dangerous men in Paris,” added Florine.

Matifat was looking uneasily at Lucien; he felt jealous of the young man’s good looks.

“But here is some one that I do not know,” Florine continued, confronting Lucien.  “Which of you has imported the Apollo Belvedere from Florence?  He is as charming as one of Girodet’s figures.”

“He is a poet, mademoiselle, from the provinces.  I forgot to present him to you; you are so beautiful to-night that you put the Complete Guide to Etiquette out of a man’s head——­”

“Is he so rich that he can afford to write poetry?” asked Florine.

“Poor as Job,” said Lucien.

“It is a great temptation for some of us,” said the actress.

Just then the author of the play suddenly entered, and Lucien beheld M. du Bruel, a short, attenuated young man in an overcoat, a composite human blend of the jack-in-office, the owner of house-property, and the stockbroker.

“Florine, child,” said this personage, “are you sure of your part, eh?  No slips of memory, you know.  And mind that scene in the second act, make the irony tell, bring out that subtle touch; say, ’I do not love you,’ just as we agreed.”

“Why do you take parts in which you have to say such things?” asked Matifat.

The druggist’s remark was received with a general shout of laughter.

“What does it matter to you,” said Florine, “so long as I don’t say such things to you, great stupid?—­Oh! his stupidity is the pleasure of my life,” she continued, glancing at the journalist.  “Upon my word, I would pay him so much for every blunder, if it would not be the ruin of me.”

“Yes, but you will look at me when you say it, as you do when you are rehearsing, and it gives me a turn,” remonstrated the druggist.

“Very well, then, I will look at my friend Lousteau here.”

A bell rang outside in the passage.

“Go out, all of you!” cried Florine; “let me read my part over again and try to understand it.”

Lucien and Lousteau were the last to go.  Lousteau set a kiss on Florine’s shoulder, and Lucien heard her say, “Not to-night.  Impossible.  That stupid old animal told his wife that he was going out into the country.”

“Isn’t she charming?” said Etienne, as they came away.

“But—­but that Matifat, my dear fellow——­”

“Oh! you know nothing of Parisian life, my boy.  Some things cannot be helped.  Suppose that you fell in love with a married woman, it comes to the same thing.  It all depends on the way that you look at it.”

Etienne and Lucien entered the stage-box, and found the manager there with Finot.  Matifat was in the ground-floor box exactly opposite with a friend of his, a silk-mercer named Camusot (Coralie’s protector), and a worthy little old soul, his father-in-law.  All three of these city men were polishing their opera-glasses, and anxiously scanning the house; certain symptoms in the pit appeared to disturb them.  The usual heterogeneous first-night elements filled the boxes—­journalists and their mistresses, lorettes and their lovers, a sprinkling of the determined playgoers who never miss a first night if they can help it, and a very few people of fashion who care for this sort of sensation.  The first box was occupied by the head of a department, to whom du Bruel, maker of vaudevilles, owed a snug little sinecure in the Treasury.

Lucien had gone from surprise to surprise since the dinner at Flicoteaux’s.  For two months Literature had meant a life of poverty and want; in Lousteau’s room he had seen it at its cynical worst; in the Wooden Galleries he had met Literature abject and Literature insolent.  The sharp contrasts of heights and depths; of compromise with conscience; of supreme power and want of principle; of treachery and pleasure; of mental elevation and bondage—­all this made his head swim, he seemed to be watching some strange unheard-of drama.

Finot was talking with the manager.  “Do you think du Bruel’s piece will pay?” he asked.

“Du Bruel has tried to do something in Beaumarchais’ style.  Boulevard audiences don’t care for that kind of thing; they like harrowing sensations; wit is not much appreciated here.  Everything depends on Florine and Coralie to-night; they are bewitchingly pretty and graceful, wear very short skirts, and dance a Spanish dance, and possibly they may carry off the piece with the public.  The whole affair is a gambling speculation.  A few clever notices in the papers, and I may make a hundred thousand crowns, if the play takes.”

“Oh! come, it will only be a moderate success, I can see,” said Finot.

“Three of the theatres have got up a plot,” continued the manager; “they will even hiss the piece, but I have made arrangements to defeat their kind intentions.  I have squared the men in their pay; they will make a muddle of it.  A couple of city men yonder have taken a hundred tickets apiece to secure a triumph for Florine and Coralie, and given them to acquaintances able and ready to act as chuckers out.  The fellows, having been paid twice, will go quietly, and a scene of that sort always makes a good impression on the house.”

“Two hundred tickets!  What invaluable men!” exclaimed Finot.

“Yes.  With two more actresses as handsomely kept as Florine and Coralie, I should make something out of the business.”

For the past two hours the word money had been sounding in Lucien’s ears as the solution of every difficulty.  In the theatre as in the publishing trade, and in the publishing trade as in the newspaper-office—­it was everywhere the same; there was not a word of art or of glory.  The steady beat of the great pendulum, Money, seemed to fall like hammer-strokes on his heart and brain.  And yet while the orchestra played the overture, while the pit was full of noisy tumult of applause and hisses, unconsciously he drew a comparison between this scene and others that came up in his mind.  Visions arose before him of David and the printing-office, of the poetry that he came to know in that atmosphere of pure peace, when together they beheld the wonders of Art, the high successes of genius, and visions of glory borne on stainless wings.  He thought of the evenings spent with d’Arthez and his friends, and tears glittered in his eyes.

“What is the matter with you?” asked Etienne Lousteau.

“I see poetry fallen into the mire.”

“Ah! you have still some illusions left, my dear fellow.”

“Is there nothing for it but to cringe and submit to thickheads like Matifat and Camusot, as actresses bow down to journalists, and we ourselves to the booksellers?”

“My boy, do you see that dull-brained fellow?” said Etienne, lowering his voice, and glancing at Finot.  “He has neither genius nor cleverness, but he is covetous; he means to make a fortune at all costs, and he is a keen man of business.  Didn’t you see how he made forty per cent out of me at Dauriat’s, and talked as if he were doing me a favor?—­Well, he gets letters from not a few unknown men of genius who go down on their knees to him for a hundred francs.”

The words recalled the pen-and-ink sketch that lay on the table in the editor’s office and the words, “Finot, my hundred francs!” Lucien’s inmost soul shrank from the man in disgust.

“I would sooner die,” he said.

“Sooner live,” retorted Etienne.

The curtain rose, and the stage-manager went off to the wings to give orders.  Finot turned to Etienne.

“My dear fellow, Dauriat has passed his word; I am proprietor of one-third of his weekly paper.  I have agreed to give thirty thousand francs in cash, on condition that I am to be editor and director.  ’Tis a splendid thing.  Blondet told me that the Government intends to take restrictive measures against the press; there will be no new papers allowed; in six months’ time it will cost a million francs to start a new journal, so I struck a bargain though I have only ten thousand francs in hand.  Listen to me.  If you can sell one-half of my share, that is one-sixth of the paper, to Matifat for thirty thousand francs, you shall be editor of my little paper with a salary of two hundred and fifty francs per month.  I want in any case to have the control of my old paper, and to keep my hold upon it; but nobody need know that, and your name will appear as editor.  You will be paid at the rate of five francs per column; you need not pay contributors more than three francs, and you keep the difference.  That means another four hundred and fifty francs per month.  But, at the same time, I reserve the right to use the paper to attack or defend men or causes, as I please; and you may indulge your own likes and dislikes so long as you do not interfere with my schemes.  Perhaps I may be a Ministerialist, perhaps Ultra, I do not know yet; but I mean to keep up my connections with the Liberal party (below the surface).  I can speak out with you; you are a good fellow.  I might, perhaps, give you the Chambers to do for another paper on which I work; I am afraid I can scarcely keep on with it now.  So let Florine do this bit of jockeying; tell her to put the screw on her druggist.  If I can’t find the money within forty-eight hours, I must cry off my bargain.  Dauriat sold another third to his printer and paper-dealer for thirty thousand francs; so he has his own third gratis, and ten thousand francs to the good, for he only gave fifty thousand for the whole affair.  And in another year’s time the magazine will be worth two hundred thousand francs, if the Court buys it up; if the Court has the good sense to suppress newspapers, as they say.”

“You are lucky,” said Lousteau.

“If you had gone through all that I have endured, you would not say that of me.  I had my fill of misery in those days, you see, and there was no help for it.  My father is a hatter; he still keeps a shop in the Rue du Coq.  Nothing but millions of money or a social cataclysm can open out the way to my goal; and of the two alternatives, I don’t know now that the revolution is not the easier.  If I bore your friend’s name, I should have a chance to get on.  Hush, here comes the manager.  Good-bye,” and Finot rose to his feet, “I am going to the Opera.  I shall very likely have a duel on my hands to-morrow, for I have put my initials to a terrific attack on a couple of dancers under the protection of two Generals.  I am giving it them hot and strong at the Opera.”

“Aha?” said the manager.

“Yes.  They are stingy with me,” returned Finot, “now cutting off a box, and now declining to take fifty subscriptions.  I have sent in my ultimatum; I mean to have a hundred subscriptions out of them and a box four times a month.  If they take my terms, I shall have eight hundred readers and a thousand paying subscribers, so we shall have twelve hundred with the New Year.”

“You will end by ruining us,” said the manager.

“You are not much hurt with your ten subscriptions.  I had two good notices put into the Constitutionnel.”

“Oh!  I am not complaining of you,” cried the manager.

“Good-bye till to-morrow evening, Lousteau,” said Finot.  “You can give me your answer at the Francais; there is a new piece on there; and as I shall not be able to write the notice, you can take my box.  I will give you preference; you have worked yourself to death for me, and I am grateful.  Felicien Vernou offered twenty thousand francs for a third share of my little paper, and to work without a salary for a twelvemonth; but I want to be absolute master.  Good-bye.”

“He is not named Finot” (finaud, slyboots) “for nothing,” said Lucien.

“He is a gallows-bird that will get on in the world,” said Etienne, careless whether the wily schemer overheard the remark or not, as he shut the door of the box.

“He!” said the manager.  “He will be a millionaire; he will enjoy the respect of all who know him; he may perhaps have friends some day——­”

“Good heavens! what a den!” said Lucien.  “And are you going to drag that excellent creature into such a business?” he continued, looking at Florine, who gave them side glances from the stage.

“She will carry it through too.  You do not know the devotion and the wiles of these beloved beings,” said Lousteau.

“They redeem their failings and expiate all their sins by boundless love, when they love,” said the manager.  “A great love is all the grander in an actress by reason of its violent contrast with her surroundings.”

“And he who finds it, finds a diamond worthy of the proudest crown lying in the mud,” returned Lousteau.

“But Coralie is not attending to her part,” remarked the manager.  “Coralie is smitten with our friend here, all unsuspicious of his conquest, and Coralie will make a fiasco; she is missing her cues, this is the second time she had not heard the prompter.  Pray, go into the corner, monsieur,” he continued.  “If Coralie is smitten with you, I will go and tell her that you have left the house.”

“No! no!” cried Lousteau; “tell Coralie that this gentleman is coming to supper, and that she can do as she likes with him, and she will play like Mlle. Mars.”

The manager went, and Lucien turned to Etienne.  “What! do you mean to say that you will ask that druggist, through Mlle. Florine, to pay thirty thousand francs for one-half a share, when Finot gave no more for the whole of it?  And ask without the slightest scruple?——­”

Lousteau interrupted Lucien before he had time to finish his expostulation.  “My dear boy, what country can you come from?  The druggist is not a man; he is a strong box delivered into our hands by his fancy for an actress.”

“How about your conscience?”

“Conscience, my dear fellow, is a stick which every one takes up to beat his neighbor and not for application to his own back.  Come, now! who the devil are you angry with?  In one day chance has worked a miracle for you, a miracle for which I have been waiting these two years, and you must needs amuse yourself by finding fault with the means?  What! you appear to me to possess intelligence; you seem to be in a fair way to reach that freedom from prejudice which is a first necessity to intellectual adventurers in the world we live in; and are you wallowing in scruples worthy of a nun who accuses herself of eating an egg with concupiscence? . . .  If Florine succeeds, I shall be editor of a newspaper with a fixed salary of two hundred and fifty francs per month; I shall take the important plays and leave the vaudevilles to Vernou, and you can take my place and do the Boulevard theatres, and so get a foot in the stirrup.  You will make three francs per column and write a column a day—­thirty columns a month means ninety francs; you will have some sixty francs worth of books to sell to Barbet; and lastly, you can demand ten tickets a month of each of your theatres—­that is, forty tickets in all—­and sell them for forty francs to a Barbet who deals in them (I will introduce you to the man), so you will have two hundred francs coming in every month.  Then if you make yourself useful to Finot, you might get a hundred francs for an article in this new weekly review of his, in which case you would show uncommon talent, for all the articles are signed, and you cannot put in slip-shod work as you can on a small paper.  In that case you would be making a hundred crowns a month.  Now, my dear boy, there are men of ability, like that poor d’Arthez, who dines at Flicoteaux’s every day, who may wait for ten years before they will make a hundred crowns; and you will be making four thousand francs a year by your pen, to say nothing of the books you will write for the trade, if you do work of that kind.

“Now, a sub-prefect’s salary only amounts to a thousand crowns, and there he stops in his arrondissement, wearing away time like the rung of a chair.  I say nothing of the pleasure of going to the theatre without paying for your seat, for that is a delight which quickly palls; but you can go behind the scenes in four theatres.  Be hard and sarcastic for a month or two, and you will be simply overwhelmed with invitations from actresses, and their adorers will pay court to you; you will only dine at Flicoteaux’s when you happen to have less than thirty sous in your pocket and no dinner engagement.  At the Luxembourg, at five o’clock, you did not know which way to turn; now, you are on the eve of entering a privileged class, you will be one of the hundred persons who tell France what to think.  In three days’ time, if all goes well, you can, if you choose, make a man’s life a curse to him by putting thirty jokes at his expense in print at the rate of three a day; you can, if you choose, draw a revenue of pleasure from the actresses at your theatres; you can wreck a good play and send all Paris running after a bad one.  If Dauriat declines to pay you for your Marguerites, you can make him come to you, and meekly and humbly implore you to take two thousand francs for them.  If you have the ability, and knock off two or three articles that threaten to spoil some of Dauriat’s speculations, or to ruin a book on which he counts, you will see him come climbing up your stairs like a clematis, and always at the door of your dwelling.  As for your novel, the booksellers who would show you more or less politely to the door at this moment will be standing outside your attic in a string, and the value of the manuscript, which old Doguereau valued at four hundred francs will rise to four thousand.  These are the advantages of the journalist’s profession.  So let us do our best to keep all newcomers out of it.  It needs an immense amount of brains to make your way, and a still greater amount of luck.  And here are you quibbling over your good fortune!  If we had not met to-day, you see, at Flicoteaux’s, you might have danced attendance on the booksellers for another three years, or starved like d’Arthez in a garret.  By the time that d’Arthez is as learned as Bayle and as great a writer of prose as Rousseau, we shall have made our fortunes, you and I, and we shall hold his in our hands—­wealth and fame to give or to hold.  Finot will be a deputy and proprietor of a great newspaper, and we shall be whatever we meant to be—­peers of France, or prisoner for debt in Sainte-Pelagie.”

“So Finot will sell his paper to the highest bidder among the Ministers, just as he sells favorable notices to Mme. Bastienne and runs down Mlle. Virginie, saying that Mme. Bastienne’s bonnets are superior to the millinery which they praised at first!” said Lucien, recollecting that scene in the office.

“My dear fellow, you are a simpleton,” Lousteau remarked drily.  “Three years ago Finot was walking on the uppers of his boots, dining for eighteen sous at Tabar’s, and knocking off a tradesman’s prospectus (when he could get it) for ten francs.  His clothes hung together by some miracle as mysterious as the Immaculate Conception. Now, Finot has a paper of his own, worth about a hundred thousand francs.  What with subscribers who pay and take no copies, genuine subscriptions, and indirect taxes levied by his uncle, he is making twenty thousand francs a year.  He dines most sumptuously every day; he has set up a cabriolet within the last month; and now, at last, behold him the editor of a weekly review with a sixth share, for which he will not pay a penny, a salary of five hundred francs per month, and another thousand francs for supplying matter which costs him nothing, and for which the firm pays.  You yourself, to begin with, if Finot consents to pay you fifty francs per sheet, will be only too glad to let him have two or three articles for nothing.  When you are in his position, you can judge Finot; a man can only be tried by his peers.  And for you, is there not an immense future opening out before you, if you will blindly minister to his enmity, attack at Finot’s bidding, and praise when he gives the word?  Suppose that you yourself wish to be revenged upon somebody, you can break a foe or friend on the wheel.  You have only to say to me, ‘Lousteau, let us put an end to So-and-so,’ and we will kill him by a phrase put in the paper morning by morning; and afterwards you can slay the slain with a solemn article in Finot’s weekly.  Indeed, if it is a matter of capital importance to you, Finot would allow you to bludgeon your man in a big paper with ten or twelve thousand subscribers, if you make yourself indispensable to Finot.”

“Then are you sure that Florine can bring her druggist to make the bargain?” asked Lucien, dazzled by these prospects.

“Quite sure.  Now comes the interval, I will go and tell her everything at once in a word or two; it will be settled to-night.  If Florine once has her lesson by heart, she will have all my wit and her own besides.”

“And there sits that honest tradesman, gaping with open-mouthed admiration at Florine, little suspecting that you are about to get thirty thousand francs out of him!——­”

“More twaddle!  Anybody might think that the man was going to be robbed!” cried Lousteau.  “Why, my dear boy, if the minister buys the newspaper, the druggist may make twenty thousand francs in six months on an investment of thirty thousand.  Matifat is not looking at the newspaper, but at Florine’s prospects.  As soon as it is known that Matifat and Camusot—­(for they will go shares)—­that Matifat and Camusot are proprietors of a review, the newspapers will be full of friendly notices of Florine and Coralie.  Florine’s name will be made; she will perhaps obtain an engagement in another theatre with a salary of twelve thousand francs.  In fact, Matifat will save a thousand francs every month in dinners and presents to journalists.  You know nothing of men, nor of the way things are managed.”

“Poor man!” said Lucien, “he is looking forward to an evening’s pleasure.”

“And he will be sawn in two with arguments until Florine sees Finot’s receipt for a sixth share of the paper.  And to-morrow I shall be editor of Finot’s paper, and making a thousand francs a month.  The end of my troubles is in sight!” cried Florine’s lover.

Lousteau went out, and Lucien sat like one bewildered, lost in the infinite of thought, soaring above this everyday world.  In the Wooden Galleries he had seen the wires by which the trade in books is moved; he has seen something of the kitchen where great reputations are made; he had been behind the scenes; he had seen the seamy side of life, the consciences of men involved in the machinery of Paris, the mechanism of it all.  As he watched Florine on the stage he almost envied Lousteau his good fortune; already, for a few moments he had forgotten Matifat in the background.  He was not left alone for long, perhaps for not more than five minutes, but those minutes seemed an eternity.

Thoughts rose within him that set his soul on fire, as the spectacle on the stage had heated his senses.  He looked at the women with their wanton eyes, all the brighter for the red paint on their cheeks, at the gleaming bare necks, the luxuriant forms outlined by the lascivious folds of the basquina, the very short skirts, that displayed as much as possible of limbs encased in scarlet stockings with green clocks to them—­a disquieting vision for the pit.

A double process of corruption was working within him in parallel lines, like two channels that will spread sooner or later in flood time and make one.  That corruption was eating into Lucien’s soul, as he leaned back in his corner, staring vacantly at the curtain, one arm resting on the crimson velvet cushion, and his hand drooping over the edge.  He felt the fascination of the life that was offered to him, of the gleams of light among its clouds; and this so much the more keenly because it shone out like a blaze of fireworks against the blank darkness of his own obscure, monotonous days of toil.

Suddenly his listless eyes became aware of a burning glance that reached him through a rent in the curtain, and roused him from his lethargy.  Those were Coralie’s eyes that glowed upon him.  He lowered his head and looked across at Camusot, who just then entered the opposite box.

That amateur was a worthy silk-mercer of the Rue des Bourdonnais, stout and substantial, a judge in the commercial court, a father of four children, and the husband of a second wife.  At the age of fifty-six, with a cap of gray hair on his head, he had the smug appearance of a man who has his eighty thousand francs of income; and having been forced to put up with a good deal that he did not like in the way of business, has fully made up his mind to enjoy the rest of his life, and not to quit this earth until he has had his share of cakes and ale.  A brow the color of fresh butter and florid cheeks like a monk’s jowl seemed scarcely big enough to contain his exuberant jubilation.  Camusot had left his wife at home, and they were applauding Coralie to the skies.  All the rich man’s citizen vanity was summed up and gratified in Coralie; in Coralie’s lodging he gave himself the airs of a great lord of a bygone day; now, at this moment, he felt that half of her success was his; the knowledge that he had paid for it confirmed him in this idea.  Camusot’s conduct was sanctioned by the presence of his father-in-law, a little old fogy with powdered hair and leering eyes, highly respected nevertheless.

Again Lucien felt disgust rising within him.  He thought of the year when he loved Mme. de Bargeton with an exalted and disinterested love; and at that thought love, as a poet understands it, spread its white wings about him; countless memories drew a circle of distant blue horizon about the great man of Angouleme, and again he fell to dreaming.

Up went the curtain, and there stood Coralie and Florine upon the stage.

“He is thinking about as much of you as of the Grand Turk, my dear girl,” Florine said in an aside while Coralie was finishing her speech.

Lucien could not help laughing.  He looked at Coralie.  She was one of the most charming and captivating actresses in Paris, rivaling Mme. Perrin and Mlle. Fleuriet, and destined likewise to share their fate.  Coralie was a woman of a type that exerts at will a power of fascination over men.  With an oval face of deep ivory tint, a mouth red as a pomegranate, and a chin subtly delicate in its contour as the edge of a porcelain cup, Coralie was a Jewess of the sublime type.  The jet black eyes behind their curving lashes seemed to scorch her eyelids; you could guess how soft they might grow, or how sparks of the heat of the desert might flash from them in response to a summons from within.  The circles of olive shadow about them were bounded by thick arching lines of eyebrow.  Magnificent mental power, well-nigh amounting to genius, seemed to dwell in the swarthy forehead beneath the double curve of ebony hair that lay upon it like a crown, and gleamed in the light like a varnished surface; but like many another actress, Coralie had little wit in spite of her aptness at greenroom repartee, and scarcely any education in spite of her boudoir experience.  Her brain was prompted by her senses, her kindness was the impulsive warm-heartedness of girls of her class.  But who could trouble over Coralie’s psychology when his eyes were dazzled by those smooth, round arms of hers, the spindle-shaped fingers, the fair white shoulders, and breast celebrated in the Song of Songs, the flexible curving lines of throat, the graciously moulded outlines beneath the scarlet silk stockings?  And this beauty, worthy of an Eastern poet, was brought into relief by the conventional Spanish costume of the stage.  Coralie was the delight of the pit; all eyes dwelt on the outlines moulded by the clinging folds of her bodice, and lingered over the Andalusian contour of the hips from which her skirt hung, fluttering wantonly with every movement.  To Lucien, watching this creature, who played for him alone, caring no more for Camusot than a street-boy in the gallery cares for an apple-paring, there came a moment when he set desire above love, and enjoyment above desire, and the demon of Lust stirred strange thoughts in him.

“I know nothing of the love that wallows in luxury and wine and sensual pleasure,” he said within himself.  “I have lived more with ideas than with realities.  You must pass through all experience if you mean to render all experience.  This will be my first great supper, my first orgy in a new and strange world; why should I not know, for once, the delights which the great lords of the eighteenth century sought so eagerly of wantons of the Opera?  Must one not first learn of courtesans and actresses the delights, the perfections, the transports, the resources, the subtleties of love, if only to translate them afterwards into the regions of a higher love than this?  And what is all this, after all, but the poetry of the senses?  Two months ago these women seemed to me to be goddesses guarded by dragons that no one dared approach; I was envying Lousteau just now, but here is another handsomer than Florine; why should I not profit by her fancy, when the greatest nobles buy a night with such women with their richest treasures?  When ambassadors set foot in these depths, they fling aside all thought of yesterday or to-morrow.  I should be a fool to be more squeamish than princes, especially as I love no one as yet.”

Lucien had quite forgotten Camusot.  To Lousteau he had expressed the utmost disgust for this most hateful of all partitions, and now he himself had sunk to the same level, and, carried away by the casuistry of his vehement desire, had given the reins to his fancy.

“Coralie is raving about you,” said Lousteau as he came in.  “Your countenance, worthy of the greatest Greek sculptors, has worked unutterable havoc behind the scenes.  You are in luck my dear boy.  Coralie is eighteen years old, and in a few days’ time she may be making sixty thousand francs a year by her beauty.  She is an honest girl still.  Since her mother sold her three years ago for sixty thousand francs, she has tried to find happiness, and found nothing but annoyance.  She took to the stage in a desperate mood; she has a horror of her first purchaser, de Marsay; and when she came out of the galleys, for the king of dandies soon dropped her, she picked up old Camusot.  She does not care much about him, but he is like a father to her, and she endures him and his love.  Several times already she has refused the handsomest proposals; she is faithful to Camusot, who lets her live in peace.  So you are her first love.  The first sight of you went to her heart like a pistol-shot, Florine has gone to her dressing-room to bring the girl to reason.  She is crying over your cruelty; she has forgotten her part, the play will go to pieces, and good-day to the engagement at the Gymnase which Camusot had planned for her.”

“Pooh! . . .  Poor thing!” said Lucien.  Every instinct of vanity was tickled by the words; he felt his heart swell high with self-conceit.  “More adventures have befallen me in this one evening, my dear fellow, than in all the first eighteen years of my life.”  And Lucien related the history of his love affairs with Mme. de Bargeton, and of the cordial hatred he bore the Baron du Chatelet.

“Stay though! the newspaper wants a bete noire; we will take him up.  The Baron is a buck of the Empire and a Ministerialist; he is the man for us; I have seen him many a time at the Opera.  I can see your great lady as I sit here; she is often in the Marquise d’Espard’s box.  The Baron is paying court to your lady love, a cuttlefish bone that she is.  Wait!  Finot has just sent a special messenger round to say that they are short of copy at the office.  Young Hector Merlin has left them in the lurch because they did not pay for white lines.  Finot, in despair, is knocking off an article against the Opera.  Well now, my dear fellow, you can do this play; listen to it and think it over, and I will go to the manager’s office and think out three columns about your man and your disdainful fair one.  They will be in no pleasant predicament to-morrow.”

“So this is how a newspaper is written?” said Lucien.

“It is always like this,” answered Lousteau.  “These ten months that I have been a journalist, they have always run short of copy at eight o’clock in the evening.”

Manuscript sent to the printer is spoken of as “copy,” doubtless because the writers are supposed to send in a fair copy of their work; or possibly the word is ironically derived from the Latin word copia, for copy is invariably scarce.