ther again unless another is made welcome too, a man whose gifts
are greater than mine, a man destined for a brilliant future--David
Sechard, my brother, my friend. I shall find an answer waiting when I go
home. All the aristocrats may have been asked to hear me read my verses
this evening, but I shall not go if the answer is negative, and I will
never set foot in Mme. de Bargeton's house again."

David brushed the tears from his eyes, and wrung Lucien's hand. The
clock struck six.

"Eve must be anxious; good-bye," Lucien added abruptly.

He hurried away. David stood overcome by the emotion that is only
felt to the full at his age, and more especially in such a position as
his--the friends were like two young swans with wings unclipped as yet
by the experiences of provincial life.

"Heart of gold!" David exclaimed to himself, as his eyes followed Lucien
across the workshop.

Lucien went down to L'Houmeau along the broad Promenade de Beaulieu, the
Rue du Minage, and Saint-Peter's Gate. It was the longest way round,
so you may be sure that Mme. de Bargeton's house lay on the way. So
delicious it was to pass under her windows, though she knew nothing of
his presence, that for the past two months he had gone round daily by
the Palet Gate into L'Houmeau.

Under the trees of Beaulieu he saw how far the suburb lay from the city.
The custom of the country, moreover, had raised other barriers harder to
surmount than the mere physical difficulty of the steep flights of
steps which Lucien was descending. Youth and ambition had thrown the
flying-bridge of glory across the gulf between the city and the suburb,
yet Lucien was as uneasy in his mind over his lady's answer as any
king's favorite who has tried to climb yet higher, and fears that being
over-bold he is like to fall. This must seem a dark saying to those who
have never studied the manners and customs of cities divided into the
upper and lower town; wherefore it is necessary to enter here upon some
topographical details, and this so much the more if the reader is
to comprehend the position of one of the principal characters in the
story--Mme. de Bargeton.

The old city of Angouleme is perched aloft on a crag like a sugar-loaf,
overlooking the plain where the Charente winds away through the meadows.
The crag is an outlying spur on the Perigord side of a long, low ridge
of hill, which terminates abruptly just above the road from Paris to
Bordeaux, so that the Rock