re of epigrams and jokes at the
end of the paper; and the associates smoked and chatted over the day's
adventures, over the foibles of some among their number, or some new bit
of personal gossip. From their witty, malicious, bantering talk, Lucien
gained a knowledge of the inner life of literature, and of the manners
and customs of the craft.

"While they are setting up the paper, I will go round with you and
introduce you to the managers of your theatres, and take you behind the
scenes," said Lousteau. "And then we will go to the Panorama-Dramatique,
and have a frolic in their dressing-rooms."

Arm-in-arm, they went from theatre to theatre. Lucien was introduced
to this one and that, and enthroned as a dramatic critic. Managers
complimented him, actresses flung him side glances; for every one of
them knew that this was the critic who, by a single article, had gained
an engagement at the Gymnase, with twelve thousand francs a year, for
Coralie, and another for Florine at the Panorama-Dramatique with eight
thousand francs. Lucien was a man of importance. The little ovations
raised Lucien in his own eyes, and taught him to know his power. At
eleven o'clock the pair arrived at the Panorama-Dramatique; Lucien with
a careless air that worked wonders. Nathan was there. Nathan held out a
hand, which Lucien squeezed.

"Ah! my masters, so you have a mind to floor me, have you?" said Nathan,
looking from one to the other.

"Just you wait till to-morrow, my dear fellow, and you shall see how
Lucien has taken you in hand. Upon my word, you will be pleased. A piece
of serious criticism like that is sure to do a book good."

Lucien reddened with confusion.

"Is it severe?" inquired Nathan.

"It is serious," said Lousteau.

"Then there is no harm done," Nathan rejoined. "Hector Merlin in the
greenroom of the Vaudeville was saying that I had been cut up."

"Let him talk, and wait," cried Lucien, and took refuge in Coralie's
dressing-room. Coralie, in her alluring costume, had just come off the
stage.

Next morning, as Lucien and Coralie sat at breakfast, a carriage drove
along the Rue de Vendome. The street was quiet enough, so that they
could hear the light sound made by an elegant cabriolet; and there was
that in the pace of the horse, and the manner of pulling up at the door,
which tells unmistakably of a thoroughbred. Lucien went to the window,
and there, in fact, beheld a splendid English horse, and no less a
pers