the fourteen months during
which their connection lasted; he had never seen her so kindly, so
enchantingly lovely.

"Come," he thought, "let us keep near her anyhow!"

In consequence, Camusot made secret overtures. He promised Coralie an
income of six thousand livres; he would transfer the stock in the funds
into her name (his wife knew nothing about the investment) if only she
would consent to be his mistress still. He would shut his eyes to her
lover.

"And betray such an angel?... Why, just look at him, you old fossil, and
look at yourself!" and her eyes turned to her poet. Camusot had pressed
Lucien to drink till the poet's head was rather cloudy.

There was no help for it; Camusot made up his mind to wait till sheer
want should give him this woman a second time.

"Then I can only be your friend," he said, as he kissed her on the
forehead.

Lucien went from Coralie and Camusot to the Wooden Galleries. What a
change had been wrought in his mind by his initiation into Journalism!
He mixed fearlessly now with the crowd which surged to and fro in the
buildings; he even swaggered a little because he had a mistress; and
he walked into Dauriat's shop in an offhand manner because he was a
journalist.

He found himself among distinguished men; gave a hand to Blondet
and Nathan and Finot, and to all the coterie with whom he had been
fraternizing for a week. He was a personage, he thought, and he
flattered himself that he surpassed his comrades. That little flick
of the wine did him admirable service; he was witty, he showed that he
could "howl with the wolves."

And yet, the tacit approval, the praises spoken and unspoken on which
he had counted, were not forthcoming. He noticed the first stirrings of
jealousy among a group, less curious, perhaps, than anxious to know
the place which this newcomer might take, and the exact portion of the
sum-total of profits which he would probably secure and swallow. Lucien
only saw smiles on two faces--Finot, who regarded him as a mine to be
exploited, and Lousteau, who considered that he had proprietary rights
in the poet, looked glad to see him. Lousteau had begun already to
assume the airs of an editor; he tapped sharply on the window-panes of
Dauriat's private office.

"One moment, my friend," cried a voice within as the publisher's face
appeared above the green curtains.

The moment lasted an hour, and finally Lucien and Etienne were admitted
into the sanctum.

"Well, h