"Good!"said the other,"one more Christian given over to the wild beasts in the arena.--There is a first-night performance at the Panorama-Dramatique,my dear fellow;it doesn't begin till eight,so you can change your coat,come properly dressed in fact,and call for me.I am living on the fourth floor above the Cafe Servel,Rue de la Harpe.We will go to Dauriat's first of all.You still mean to go on,do you not?Very well,I will introduce you to one of the kings of the trade to-night,and to one or two journalists.We will sup with my mistress and several friends after the play,for you cannot count that dinner as a meal.Finot will be there,editor and proprietor of my paper.As Minette says in the Vaudeville (do you remember?),'Time is a great lean creature.'Well,for the like of us,Chance is a great lean creature,and must be tempted.""I shall remember this day as long as I live,"said Lucien.
"Bring your manu with you,and be careful of your dress,not on Florine's account,but for the booksellers'benefit."The comrade's good-nature,following upon the poet's passionate outcry,as he described the war of letters,moved Lucien quite as deeply as d'Arthez's grave and earnest words on a former occasion.The prospect of entering at once upon the strife with men warmed him.In his youth and inexperience he had no suspicion how real were the moral evils denounced by the journalist.Nor did he know that he was standing at the parting of two distinct ways,between two systems,represented by the brotherhood upon one hand,and journalism upon the other.The first way was long,honorable,and sure;the second beset with hidden dangers,a perilous path,among muddy channels where conscience is inevitably bespattered.The bent of Lucien's character determined for the shorter way,and the apparently pleasanter way,and to snatch at the quickest and promptest means.At this moment he saw no difference between d'Arthez's noble friendship and Lousteau's easy comaraderie;his inconstant mind discerned a new weapon in journalism;he felt that he could wield it,so he wished to take it.
He was dazzled by the offers of this new friend,who had struck a hand in his in an easy way,which charmed Lucien.How should he know that while every man in the army of the press needs friends,every leader needs men.Lousteau,seeing that Lucien was resolute,enlisted him as a recruit,and hoped to attach him to himself.The relative positions of the two were similar--one hoped to become a corporal,the other to enter the ranks.
Lucien went back gaily to his lodgings.He was as careful over his toilet as on that former unlucky occasion when he occupied the Marquise d'Espard's box;but he had learned by this time how to wear his clothes with a better grace.They looked as though they belonged to him.He wore his best tightly-fitting,light-colored trousers,and a dress-coat.His boots,a very elegant pair adorned with tassels,had cost him forty francs.His thick,fine,golden hair was scented and crimped into bright,rippling curls.Self-confidence and belief in his future lighted up his forehead.He paid careful attention to his almost feminine hands,the filbert nails were a spotless pink,and the white contours of his chin were dazzling by contrast with a black satin stock.Never did a more beautiful youth come down from the hills of the Latin Quarter.
Glorious as a Greek god,Lucien took a cab,and reached the Cafe Servel at a quarter to seven.There the portress gave him some tolerably complicated directions for the ascent of four pairs of stairs.Provided with these instructions,he discovered,not without difficulty,an open door at the end of a long,dark passage,and in another moment made the acquaintance of the traditional room of the Latin Quarter.
A young man's poverty follows him wherever he goes--into the Rue de la Harpe as into the Rue de Cluny,into d'Arthez's room,into Chrestien's lodging;yet everywhere no less the poverty has its own peculiar characteristics,due to the idiosyncrasies of the sufferer.Poverty in this case wore a sinister look.
A shabby,cheap carpet lay in wrinkles at the foot of a curtainless walnut-wood bedstead;dingy curtains,begrimed with cigar smoke and fumes from a smoky chimney,hung in the windows;a Carcel lamp,Florine's gift,on the chimney-piece,had so far escaped the pawnbroker.Add a forlorn-looking chest of drawers,and a table littered with papers and disheveled quill pens,and the list of furniture was almost complete.All the books had evidently arrived in the course of the last twenty-four hours;and there was not a single object of any value in the room.In one corner you beheld a collection of crushed and flattened cigars,coiled pocket-handkerchiefs,shirts which had been turned to do double duty,and cravats that had reached a third edition;while a sordid array of old boots stood gaping in another angle of the room among aged socks worn into lace.
The room,in short,was a journalist's bivouac,filled with odds and ends of no value,and the most curiously bare apartment imaginable.Ascarlet tinder-box glowed among a pile of books on the nightstand.Abrace of pistols,a box of cigars,and a stray razor lay upon the mantel-shelf;a pair of foils,crossed under a wire mask,hung against a panel.Three chairs and a couple of armchairs,scarcely fit for the shabbiest lodging-house in the street,completed the inventory.
The dirty,cheerless room told a tale of a restless life and a want of self-respect;some one came hither to sleep and work at high pressure,staying no longer than he could help,longing,while he remained,to be out and away.What a difference between this cynical disorder and d'Arthez's neat and self-respecting poverty!A warning came with the thought of d'Arthez;but Lucien would not heed it,for Etienne made a joking remark to cover the nakedness of a reckless life.
