t came from him; he was as sober as any elderly
spinster, and methodical as a miser. This courage called out Lucien's
courage; he had only newly come into the circle, and shrank with
invincible repugnance from speaking of his straits. One morning he went
out, manuscript in hand, and reached the Rue du Coq; he would sell
_The Archer of Charles IX._ to Doguereau; but Doguereau was out. Lucien
little knew how indulgent great natures can be to the weaknesses of
others. Every one of the friends had thought of the peculiar troubles
besetting the poetic temperament, of the prostration which follows upon
the struggle, when the soul has been overwrought by the contemplation of
that nature which it is the task of art to reproduce. And strong as they
were to endure their own ills, they felt keenly for Lucien's distress;
they guessed that his stock of money was failing; and after all the
pleasant evenings spent in friendly talk and deep meditations, after the
poetry, the confidences, the bold flights over the fields of thought or
into the far future of the nations, yet another trait was to prove how
little Lucien had understood these new friends of his.

"Lucien, dear fellow," said Daniel, "you did not dine at Flicoteaux's
yesterday, and we know why."

Lucien could not keep back the overflowing tears.

"You showed a want of confidence in us," said Michel Chrestien; "we
shall chalk that up over the chimney, and when we have scored ten we
will----"

"We have all of us found a bit of extra work," said Bianchon; "for
my own part, I have been looking after a rich patient for Desplein;
d'Arthez has written an article for the _Revue Encyclopedique_;
Chrestien thought of going out to sing in the Champs Elysees of an
evening with a pocket-handkerchief and four candles, but he found a
pamphlet to write instead for a man who has a mind to go into politics,
and gave his employer six hundred francs worth of Machiavelli; Leon
Giraud borrowed fifty francs of his publisher, Joseph sold one or two
sketches; and Fulgence's piece was given on Sunday, and there was a full
house."

"Here are two hundred francs," said Daniel, "and let us say no more
about it."

"Why, if he is not going to hug us all as if we had done something
extraordinary!" cried Chrestien.

Lucien, meanwhile, had written to the home circle. His letter was a
masterpiece of sensibility and goodwill, as well as a sharp cry wrung
from him by distress. The answers which he receiv