cture with
a note addressed to M. Chardon. That note appeared to decide the day for
the poet's vanity; the world contending against the family for him had
won.

"M. le Comte Sixte du Chatelet and Mme. la Comtesse du Chatelet request
the honor of M. Lucien Chardon's company at dinner on the fifteenth of
September. R. S. V. P."

Enclosed with the invitation there was a card--

LE COMTE SIXTE DU CHATELET,
Gentleman of the Bedchamber, Prefect of the Charente,
Councillor of State.

"You are in favor," said old Sechard; "they are talking about you in the
town as if you were somebody! Angouleme and L'Houmeau are disputing as
to which shall twist wreaths for you."

"Eve, dear," Lucien whispered to his sister, "I am exactly in the same
condition as I was before in L'Houmeau when Mme. de Bargeton sent me
the first invitation--I have not a dress suit for the prefect's
dinner-party."

"Do you really mean to accept the invitation?" Eve asked in alarm, and a
dispute sprang up between the brother and sister. Eve's provincial good
sense told her that if you appear in society, it must be with a smiling
face and faultless costume. "What will come of the prefect's dinner?"
she wondered. "What has Lucien to do with the great people of Angouleme?
Are they plotting something against him?" but she kept these thoughts to
herself.

Lucien spoke the last word at bedtime: "You do not know my influence.
The prefect's wife stands in fear of a journalist; and besides, Louise
de Negrepelisse lives on in the Comtesse du Chatelet, and a woman
with her influence can rescue David. I am going to tell her about my
brother's invention, and it would be a mere nothing to her to obtain a
subsidy of ten thousand francs from the Government for him."

At eleven o'clock that night the whole household was awakened by the
town band, reinforced by the military band from the barracks. The Place
du Murier was full of people. The young men of Angouleme were giving
Lucien Chardon de Rubempre a serenade. Lucien went to his sister's
window and made a speech after the last performance.

"I thank my fellow-townsmen for the honor that they do me," he said in
the midst of a great silence; "I will strive to be worthy of it; they
will pardon me if I say no more; I am so much moved by this incident
that I cannot speak."

"Hurrah for the writer of _The Archer of Charles IX._! . . . Hurrah for
the poet of t