on to its latest
variation. Lamartine could not be alluded to without eliciting from this
gentleman the quotation of a famous phrase of the man of the people:
"Enough of poetry!" Cavaignac was, from this time forth, nothing better
in his eyes than a traitor. The President, whom he had admired for a
period of three months, was beginning to fall off in his esteem (as he
did not appear to exhibit the "necessary energy"); and, as he always
wanted a savior, his gratitude, since the affair of the Conservatoire,
belonged to Changarnier: "Thank God for Changarnier.... Let us place our
reliance on Changarnier.... Oh, there's nothing to fear as long as
Changarnier----"

M. Thiers was praised, above all, for his volume against Socialism, in
which he showed that he was quite as much of a thinker as a writer.
There was an immense laugh at Pierre Leroux, who had quoted passages
from the philosophers in the Chamber. Jokes were made about the
phalansterian tail. The "Market of Ideas" came in for a meed of
applause, and its authors were compared to Aristophanes. Frederick
patronised the work as well as the rest.

Political verbiage and good living had an enervating effect on his
morality. Mediocre in capacity as these persons appeared to him, he felt
proud of knowing them, and internally longed for the respectability that
attached to a wealthy citizen. A mistress like Madame Dambreuse would
give him a position.

He set about taking the necessary steps for achieving that object.

He made it his business to cross her path, did not fail to go and greet
her with a bow in her box at the theatre, and, being aware of the hours
when she went to church, he would plant himself behind a pillar in a
melancholy attitude. There was a continual interchange of little notes
between them with regard to curiosities to which they drew each other's
attention, preparations for a concert, or the borrowing of books or
reviews. In addition to his visit each night, he sometimes made a call
just as the day was closing; and he experienced a progressive succession
of pleasures in passing through the large front entrance, through the
courtyard, through the anteroom, and through the two reception-rooms.
Finally, he reached her boudoir, which was as quiet as a tomb, as warm
as an alcove, and in which one jostled against the upholstered edging of
furniture in the midst of objects of every sort placed here and
there--chiffoniers, screens, bowls, and trays made of la