pon him; he went on to indite, stroke by stroke, the
promised terrible article on Chatelet and Mme. de Bargeton. That morning
he experienced one of the keenest personal pleasures of journalism; he
knew what it was to forge the epigram, to whet and polish the cold blade
to be sheathed in a victim's heart, to make of the hilt a cunning piece
of workmanship for the reader to admire. For the public admires the
handle, the delicate work of the brain, while the cruelty is not
apparent; how should the public know that the steel of the epigram,
tempered in the fire of revenge, has been plunged deftly, to rankle
in the very quick of a victim's vanity, and is reeking from wounds
innumerable which it has inflicted? It is a hideous joy, that grim,
solitary pleasure, relished without witnesses; it is like a duel with an
absent enemy, slain at a distance by a quill; a journalist might really
possess the magical power of talismans in Eastern tales. Epigram is
distilled rancor, the quintessence of a hate derived from all the worst
passions of man, even as love concentrates all that is best in human
nature. The man does not exist who cannot be witty to avenge himself;
and, by the same rule, there is not one to whom love does not bring
delight. Cheap and easy as this kind of wit may be in France, it is
always relished. Lucien's article was destined to raise the previous
reputation of the paper for venomous spite and evil-speaking. His
article probed two hearts to the depths; it dealt a grievous wound to
Mme. de Bargeton, his Laura of old days, as well as to his rival, the
Baron du Chatelet.

"Well, let us go for a drive in the Bois," said Coralie, "the horses are
fidgeting. There is no need to kill yourself."

"We will take the article on Nathan to Hector. Journalism is really very
much like Achilles' lance, it salves the wounds that it makes," said
Lucien, correcting a phrase here and there.

The lovers started forth in splendor to show themselves to the Paris
which had but lately given Lucien the cold shoulder, and now was
beginning to talk about him. To have Paris talking of you! and this
after you have learned how large the great city is, how hard it is to
be anybody there--it was this thought that turned Lucien's head with
exultation.

"Let us go by way of your tailor's, dear boy, and tell him to be quick
with your clothes, or try them on if they are ready. If you are going to
your fine ladies' houses, you shall eclipse that mon