me"
(twirling his cane with the engraved gold knob). "I intend to repair the
wrong I have done, and this is my battle array."

Lucien's success in this kind was his one real triumph; but the triumph,
be it said, was immense. If admiration freezes some people's tongues,
envy loosens at least as many more, and if women lost their heads over
Lucien, men slandered him. He might have cried, in the words of
the songwriter, "I thank thee, my coat!" He left two cards at the
prefecture, and another upon Petit-Claud. The next day, the day of the
banquet, the following paragraph appeared under the heading "Angouleme"
in the Paris newspapers:--

"ANGOULEME.

"The return of the author of _The Archer of Charles IX._ has been
the signal for an ovation which does equal honor to the town and
to M. Lucien de Rubempre, the young poet who has made so brilliant
a beginning; the writer of the one French historical novel not
written in the style of Scott, and of a preface which may be
called a literary event. The town hastened to offer him a
patriotic banquet on his return. The name of the
recently-appointed prefect is associated with the public
demonstration in honor of the author of the _Marguerites_, whose
talent received such warm encouragement from Mme. du Chatelet at
the outset of his career."

In France, when once the impulse is given, nobody can stop. The
colonel of the regiment offered to put his band at the disposal of the
committee. The landlord of the _Bell_ (renowned for truffled turkeys,
despatched in the most wonderful porcelain jars to the uttermost parts
of the earth), the famous innkeeper of L'Houmeau, would supply the
repast. At five o'clock some forty persons, all in state and festival
array, were assembled in his largest ball, decorated with hangings,
crowns of laurel, and bouquets. The effect was superb. A crowd of
onlookers, some hundred persons, attracted for the most part by the
military band in the yard, represented the citizens of Angouleme.

Petit-Claud went to the window. "All Angouleme is here," he said,
looking out.

"I can make nothing of this," remarked little Postel to his wife
(they had come out to hear the band play). "Why, the prefect and the
receiver-general, and the colonel and the superintendent of the powder
factory, and our mayor and deputy, and the headmaster of the school,
and the manager of the foundry at Ruelle, and the public prosecut