e at last made up his
mind to go to the office, he met with a cool reception from Theodore
Gaillard, who had advanced him money, and turned his literary diamonds
to good account afterwards.

"Take care, my dear fellow, you are falling off," he said. "You must not
let yourself down, your work wants inspiration!"

"That little Lucien has written himself out with his romance and his
first articles," cried Felicien Vernou, Merlin, and the whole chorus of
his enemies, whenever his name came up at Dauriat's or the Vaudeville.
"The work he is sending us is pitiable."

"To have written oneself out" (in the slang of journalism), is a verdict
very hard to live down. It passed everywhere from mouth to mouth,
ruining Lucien, all unsuspicious as he was. And, indeed, his burdens
were too heavy for his strength. In the midst of a heavy strain of work,
he was sued for the bills which he had drawn in David Sechard's name. He
had recourse to Camusot's experience, and Coralie's sometime adorer was
generous enough to assist the man she loved. The intolerable situation
lasted for two whole months; the days being diversified by stamped
papers handed over to Desroches, a friend of Bixiou, Blondet, and des
Lupeaulx.

Early in August, Bianchon told them that Coralie's condition was
hopeless--she had only a few days to live. Those days were spent in
tears by Berenice and Lucien; they could not hide their grief from the
dying girl, and she was broken-hearted for Lucien's sake.

Some strange change was working in Coralie. She would have Lucien bring
a priest; she must be reconciled to the Church and die in peace. Coralie
died as a Christian; her repentance was sincere. Her agony and death
took all energy and heart out of Lucien. He sank into a low chair at the
foot of the bed, and never took his eyes off her till Death brought
the end of her suffering. It was five o'clock in the morning. Some
singing-bird lighting upon a flower-pot on the window-sill, twittered a
few notes. Berenice, kneeling by the bedside, was covering a hand fast
growing cold with kisses and tears. On the chimney-piece there lay
eleven sous.

Lucien went out. Despair made him beg for money to lay Coralie in
her grave. He had wild thoughts of flinging himself at the Marquise
d'Espard's feet, of entreating the Comte du Chatelet, Mme. de Bargeton,
Mlle. des Touches, nay, that terrible dandy of a de Marsay. All his
pride had gone with his strength. He would have enlisted as