you are talking a little above our heads; these ladies
do not understand your meaning," said Mme. de Bargeton, and the words
paralyzed the laughter, and drew astonished eyes upon her. "A poet
who looks to the Bible for his inspiration has a mother indeed in the
Church.--M. de Rubempre, will you recite _Saint John in Patmos_ for us,
or _Belshazzar's Feast_, so that his lordship may see that Rome is still
the _Magna Parens_ of Virgil?"

The women exchanged smiles at the Latin words.

The bravest and highest spirits know times of prostration at the outset
of life. Lucien had sunk to the depths at the blow, but he struck the
bottom with his feet, and rose to the surface again, vowing to subjugate
this little world. He rose like a bull, stung to fury by a shower of
darts, and prepared to obey Louise by declaiming _Saint John in Patmos_;
but by this time the card-tables had claimed their complement of
players, who returned to the accustomed groove to find amusement there
which poetry had not afforded them. They felt besides that the revenge
of so many outraged vanities would be incomplete unless it were followed
up by contemptuous indifference; so they showed their tacit disdain for
the native product by leaving Lucien and Mme. de Bargeton to themselves.
Every one appeared to be absorbed in his own affairs; one chattered
with the prefect about a new crossroad, another proposed to vary
the pleasures of the evening with a little music. The great world of
Angouleme, feeling that it was no judge of poetry, was very anxious,
in the first place, to hear the verdict of the Pimentels and the
Rastignacs, and formed a little group about them. The great influence
wielded in the department by these two families was always felt on every
important occasion; every one was jealous of them, every one paid court
to them, foreseeing that they might some day need that influence.

"What do you think of our poet and his poetry?" Jacques asked of the
Marquise. Jacques used to shoot over the lands belonging to the Pimentel
family.

"Why, it is not bad for provincial poetry," she said, smiling; "and
besides, such a beautiful poet cannot do anything amiss."

Every one thought the decision admirable; it traveled from lip to
lip, gaining malignance by the way. Then Chatelet was called upon to
accompany M. du Bartas on the piano while he mangled the great solo from
_Figaro_; and the way being opened to music, the audience, as in duty
bound listened