into a "mariage en detrempe,"--a Parisian term which is
equivalent to "morganatic marriage," as applied to royal personages.
Philippe when they left the house revealed his poverty to Giroudeau, but
the old roue reassured him.

"I'll speak to my nephew Finot," he said. "You see, Philippe, the reign
of phrases and quill-drivers is upon us; we may as well submit. To-day,
scribblers are paramount. Ink has ousted gunpowder, and talk takes the
place of shot. After all, these little toads of editors are pretty good
fellows, and very clever. Come and see me to-morrow at the newspaper
office; by that time I shall have said a word for you to my nephew.
Before long you'll have a place on some journal or other. Mariette,
who is taking you at this moment (don't deceive yourself) because she
literally has nothing, no engagement, no chance of appearing on the
stage, and I have told her that you are going on a newspaper like
myself,--Mariette will try to make you believe she is loving you for
yourself; and you will believe her! Do as I do,--keep her as long as you
can. I was so much in love with Florentine that I begged Finot to write
her up and help her to a debut; but my nephew replied, 'You say she has
talent; well, the day after her first appearance she will turn her back
on you.' Oh, that's Finot all over! You'll find him a knowing one."

The next day, about four o'clock, Philippe went to the rue de Sentier,
where he found Giroudeau in the entresol,--caged like a wild beast in
a sort of hen-coop with a sliding panel; in which was a little stove,
a little table, two little chairs, and some little logs of wood. This
establishment bore the magic words, SUBSCRIPTION OFFICE, painted on
the door in black letters, and the word "Cashier," written by hand and
fastened to the grating of the cage. Along the wall that lay opposite
to the cage, was a bench, where, at this moment, a one-armed man was
breakfasting, who was called Coloquinte by Giroudeau, doubtless from the
Egyptian colors of his skin.

"A pretty hole!" exclaimed Philippe, looking round the room. "In the
name of thunder! what are you doing here, you who charged with poor
Colonel Chabert at Eylau? You--a gallant officer!"

"Well, yes! broum! broum!--a gallant officer keeping the accounts of a
little newspaper," said Giroudeau, settling his black silk skull-cap.
"Moreover, I'm the working editor of all that rubbish," he added,
pointing to the newspaper itself.

"And I, who we