Lucien took d'Arthez's advice unquestioningly,and followed it out to the letter.The most magnificent palaces of fancy had been suddenly flung open to him by a nobly-gifted mind,matured already by thought and critical examinations undertaken for their own sake,not for publication,but for the solitary thinker's own satisfaction.The burning coal had been laid on the lips of the poet of Angouleme,a word uttered by a hard student in Paris had fallen upon ground prepared to receive it in the provincial.Lucien set about recasting his work.
In his gladness at finding in the wilderness of Paris a nature abounding in generous and sympathetic feeling,the distinguished provincial did,as all young creatures hungering for affection are wont to do;he fastened,like a chronic disease,upon this one friend that he had found.He called for D'Arthez on his way to the Bibliotheque,walked with him on fine days in the Luxembourg Gardens,and went with his friend every evening as far as the door of his lodging-house after sitting next to him at Flicoteaux's.He pressed close to his friend's side as a soldier might keep by a comrade on the frozen Russian plains.
During those early days of his acquaintance,he noticed,not without chagrin,that his presence imposed a certain restraint on the circle of Daniel's intimates.The talk of those superior beings of whom d'Arthez spoke to him with such concentrated enthusiasm kept within the bounds of a reserve but little in keeping with the evident warmth of their friendships.At these times Lucien discreetly took his leave,a feeling of curiosity mingling with the sense of something like pain at the ostracism to which he was subjected by these strangers,who all addressed each other by their Christian names.Each one of them,like d'Arthez,bore the stamp of genius upon his forehead.
After some private opposition,overcome by d'Arthez without Lucien's knowledge,the newcomer was at length judged worthy to make one of the cenacle of lofty thinkers.Henceforward he was to be one of a little group of young men who met almost every evening in d'Arthez's room,united by the keenest sympathies and by the earnestness of their intellectual life.They all foresaw a great writer in d'Arthez;they looked upon him as their chief since the loss of one of their number,a mystical genius,one of the most extraordinary intellects of the age.This former leader had gone back to his province for reasons on which it serves no purpose to enter,but Lucien often heard them speak of this absent friend as "Louis."Several of the group were destined to fall by the way;but others,like d'Arthez,have since won all the fame that was their due.A few details as to the circle will readily explain Lucien's strong feeling of interest and curiosity.
One among those who still survive was Horace Bianchon,then a house-student at the Hotel-Dieu;later,a shining light at the Ecole de Paris,and now so well known that it is needless to give any deion of his appearance,genius,or character.
Next came Leon Giraud,that profound philosopher and bold theorist,turning all systems inside out,criticising,expressing,and formulating,dragging them all to the feet of his idol--Humanity;great even in his errors,for his honesty ennobled his mistakes.An intrepid toiler,a conscientious scholar,he became the acknowledged head of a school of moralists and politicians.Time alone can pronounce upon the merits of his theories;but if his convictions have drawn him into paths in which none of his old comrades tread,none the less he is still their faithful friend.
Art was represented by Joseph Bridau,one of the best painters among the younger men.But for a too impressionable nature,which made havoc of Joseph's heart,he might have continued the traditions of the great Italian masters,though,for that matter,the last word has not yet been said concerning him.He combines Roman outline with Venetian color;but love is fatal to his work,love not merely transfixes his heart,but sends his arrow through the brain,deranges the course of his life,and sets the victim describing the strangest zigzags.If the mistress of the moment is too kind or too cruel,Joseph will send into the Exhibition sketches where the drawing is clogged with color,or pictures finished under the stress of some imaginary woe,in which he gave his whole attention to the drawing,and left the color to take care of itself.He is a constant disappointment to his friends and the public;yet Hoffmann would have worshiped him for his daring experiments in the realms of art.When Bridau is wholly himself he is admirable,and as praise is sweet to him,his disgust is great when one praises the failures in which he alone discovers all that is lacking in the eyes of the public.He is whimsical to the last degree.
His friends have seen him destroy a finished picture because,in his eyes,it looked too smooth."It is overdone,"he would say;"it is niggling work."With his eccentric,yet lofty nature,with a nervous organization and all that it entails of torment and delight,the craving for perfection becomes morbid.Intellectually he is akin to Sterne,though he is not a literary worker.There is an indescribable piquancy about his epigrams and sallies of thought.He is eloquent,he knows how to love,but the uncertainty that appears in his execution is a part of the very nature of the man.The brotherhood loved him for the very qualities which the philistine would style defects.
