Where
was he? Either at his office, or the theatre, or with Mariette. No
light whatever as to his conduct reached the household of the rue
Mazarin. Giroudeau, Finot, Bixiou, Vernou, Lousteau, saw him leading a
life of pleasure. Philippe shared the gay amusements of Tullia, a
leading singer at the Opera, of Florentine, who took Mariette's place
at the Porte-Saint-Martin, of Florine and Matifat, Coralie and
Camusot. After four o'clock, when he left his office, until midnight,
he amused himself; some party of pleasure had usually been arranged
the night before,--a good dinner, a card-party, a supper by some one
or other of the set. Philippe was in his element.

This carnival, which lasted eighteen months, was not altogether
without its troubles. The beautiful Mariette no sooner appeared at the
Opera, in January, 1821, than she captured one of the most
distinguished dukes of the court of Louis XVIII. Philippe tried to
make head against the peer, and by the month of April he was compelled
by his passion, notwithstanding some luck at cards, to dip into the
funds of which he was cashier. By May he had taken eleven hundred
francs. In that fatal month Mariette started for London, to see what
could be done with the lords while the temporary opera house in the
Hotel Choiseul, rue Lepelletier, was being prepared. The luckless
Philippe had ended, as often happens, in loving Mariette
notwithstanding her flagrant infidelities; she herself had never
thought him anything but a dull-minded, brutal soldier, the first rung
of a ladder on which she had never intended to remain long. So,
foreseeing the time when Philippe would have spent all his money, she
captured other journalistic support which released her from the
necessity of depending on him; nevertheless, she did feel the peculiar
gratitude that class of women acknowledge towards the first man who
smooths their way, as it were, among the difficulties and horrors of a
theatrical career.

Forced to let his terrible mistress go to London without him, Philippe
went into winter quarters, as he called it,--that is, he returned to
his attic room in his mother's _appartement_. He made some gloomy
reflections as he went to bed that night, and when he got up again. He
was conscious within himself of the inability to live otherwise than
as he had been living the last year. The luxury that surrounded
Mariette, the dinners, the suppers, the evenings in the side-scenes,
the animation of wits an