second article
never appears, and in this way you snuff out the book between two
promises. But in this case you are writing down, not Nathan, but
Dauriat; he needs the pickaxe style. If the book is really good, the
pickaxe does no harm; but it goes to the core of it if it is bad. In the
first case, no one but the publisher is any the worse; in the second,
you do the public a service. Both methods, moreover, are equally
serviceable in political criticism."

Etienne Lousteau's cruel lesson opened up possibilities for Lucien's
imagination. He understood this craft to admiration.

"Let us go to the office," said Lousteau; "we shall find our friends
there, and we will agree among ourselves to charge at Nathan; they will
laugh, you will see."

Arrived in the Rue Saint-Fiacre, they went up to the room in the roof
where the paper was made up, and Lucien was surprised and gratified no
less to see the alacrity with which his comrades proceeded to demolish
Nathan's book. Hector Merlin took up a piece of paper and wrote a few
lines for his own newspaper.--

"A second edition of M. Nathan's book is announced. We had
intended to keep silence with regard to that work, but its
apparent success obliges us to publish an article, not so much
upon the book itself as upon certain tendencies of the new school
of literature."

At the head of the "Facetiae" in the morning's paper, Lousteau inserted
the following note:--

"M. Dauriat is bringing out a second edition of M. Nathan's book.
Evidently he does not know the legal maxim, _Non bis in idem_. All
honor to rash courage."

Lousteau's words had been like a torch for burning; Lucien's hot desire
to be revenged on Dauriat took the place of conscience and inspiration.
For three days he never left Coralie's room; he sat at work by the fire,
waited upon by Berenice; petted, in moments of weariness, by the silent
and attentive Coralie; till, at the end of that time, he had made a
fair copy of about three columns of criticism, and an astonishingly good
piece of work.

It was nine o'clock in the evening when he ran round to the office,
found his associates, and read over his work to an attentive audience.
Felicien said not a syllable. He took up the manuscript, and made off
with it pell-mell down the staircase.

"What has come to him?" cried Lucien.

"He has taken your article straight to the printer," said Hector Merlin.
"'Tis a masterpiece; not a line to add,