ance. Braulard has been going through the play with her while you
were asleep."

"Who? Braulard?" asked Lucien; it seemed to him that he had heard the
name before.

"He is the head of the _claqueurs_, and she was arranging with him the
places where she wished him to look after her. Florine might try to
play her some shabby trick, and take all for herself, for all she calls
herself her friend. There is such a talk about your article on the
Boulevards.--Isn't it a bed fit for a prince," she said, smoothing the
lace bed-spread.

She lighted the wax-candles, and to Lucien's bewildered fancy, the house
seemed to be some palace in the _Cabinet des Fees_. Camusot had chosen
the richest stuffs from the _Golden Cocoon_ for the hangings and
window-curtains. A carpet fit for a king's palace was spread upon the
floor. The carving of the rosewood furniture caught and imprisoned the
light that rippled over its surface. Priceless trifles gleamed from the
white marble chimney-piece. The rug beside the bed was of swan's skins
bordered with sable. A pair of little, black velvet slippers lined with
purple silk told of happiness awaiting the poet of _The Marguerites_. A
dainty lamp hung from the ceiling draped with silk. The room was full
of flowering plants, delicate white heaths and scentless camellias,
in stands marvelously wrought. Everything called up associations of
innocence. How was it possible in these rooms to see the life that
Coralie led in its true colors? Berenice noticed Lucien's bewildered
expression.

"Isn't it nice?" she said coaxingly. "You would be more comfortable
here, wouldn't you, than in a garret?--You won't let her do anything
rash?" she continued, setting a costly stand before him, covered with
dishes abstracted from her mistress' dinner-table, lest the cook should
suspect that her mistress had a lover in the house.

Lucien made a good dinner. Berenice waiting on him, the dishes were
of wrought silver, the painted porcelain plates had cost a louis d'or
apiece. The luxury was producing exactly the same effect upon him that
the sight of a girl walking the pavement, with her bare flaunting throat
and neat ankles, produces upon a schoolboy.

"How lucky Camusot is!" cried he.

"Lucky?" repeated Berenice. "He would willingly give all that he is
worth to be in your place; he would be glad to barter his gray hair for
your golden head."

She gave Lucien the richest wine that Bordeaux keeps for the wealthiest
En