an to look through his manuscript, to
see in what condition his friends had returned it to him. What was
his amazement, as he read chapter after chapter, to find his poverty
transmuted into riches by the cunning of the pen, and the devotion of
the unknown great men, his friends of the brotherhood. Dialogue, closely
packed, nervous, pregnant, terse, and full of the spirit of the age,
replaced his conversations, which seemed poor and pointless prattle in
comparison. His characters, a little uncertain in the drawing, now
stood out in vigorous contrast of color and relief; physiological
observations, due no doubt to Horace Bianchon, supplied links of
interpretations between human character and the curious phenomena of
human life--subtle touches which made his men and women live. His
wordy passages of description were condensed and vivid. The misshapen,
ill-clad child of his brain had returned to him as a lovely maiden,
with white robes and rosy-hued girdle and scarf--an entrancing creation.
Night fell and took him by surprise, reading through rising tears,
stricken to earth by such greatness of soul, feeling the worth of such
a lesson, admiring the alterations, which taught him more of literature
and art than all his four years' apprenticeship of study and reading and
comparison. A master's correction of a line made upon the study always
teaches more than all the theories and criticisms in the world.

"What friends are these! What hearts! How fortunate I am!" he cried,
grasping his manuscript tightly.

With the quick impulsiveness of a poetic and mobile temperament, he
rushed off to Daniel's lodging. As he climbed the stairs, and thought of
these friends, who refused to leave the path of honor, he felt conscious
that he was less worthy of them than before. A voice spoke within him,
telling him that if d'Arthez had loved Coralie, he would have had her
break with Camusot. And, besides this, he knew that the brotherhood held
journalism in utter abhorrence, and that he himself was already, to some
small extent, a journalist. All of them, except Meyraux, who had just
gone out, were in d'Arthez's room when he entered it, and saw that all
their faces were full of sorrow and despair.

"What is it?" he cried.

"We have just heard news of a dreadful catastrophe; the greatest thinker
of the age, our most loved friend, who was like a light among us for two
years----"

"Louis Lambert!"

"Has fallen a victim to catalepsy. There is