to the back waters of oblivion by journalists, and buried out
of sight by your best friends. How can you afford to wait until the day
when your creation shall rise again, raised from the dead--how?
when? and by whom? Take a magnificent book, the _pianto_ of unbelief;
_Obermann_ is a solitary wanderer in the desert places of booksellers'
warehouses, he has been a 'nightingale,' ironically so called, from
the very beginning: when will his Easter come? Who knows? Try, to begin
with, to find somebody bold enough to print the _Marguerites_; not to
pay for them, but simply to print them; and you will see some queer
things."

The fierce tirade, delivered in every tone of the passionate feeling
which it expressed, fell upon Lucien's spirit like an avalanche, and
left a sense of glacial cold. For one moment he stood silent; then, as
he felt the terrible stimulating charm of difficulty beginning to work
upon him, his courage blazed up. He grasped Lousteau's hand.

"I will triumph!" he cried aloud.

"Good!" said the other, "one more Christian given over to the wild
beasts in the arena.--There is a first-night performance at the
Panorama-Dramatique, my dear fellow; it doesn't begin till eight, so you
can change your coat, come properly dressed in fact, and call for me. I
am living on the fourth floor above the Cafe Servel, Rue de la Harpe. We
will go to Dauriat's first of all. You still mean to go on, do you
not? Very well, I will introduce you to one of the kings of the trade
to-night, and to one or two journalists. We will sup with my mistress
and several friends after the play, for you cannot count that dinner
as a meal. Finot will be there, editor and proprietor of my paper. As
Minette says in the Vaudeville (do you remember?), 'Time is a great lean
creature.' Well, for the like of us, Chance is a great lean creature,
and must be tempted."

"I shall remember this day as long as I live," said Lucien.

"Bring your manuscript with you, and be careful of your dress, not on
Florine's account, but for the booksellers' benefit."

The comrade's good-nature, following upon the poet's passionate outcry,
as he described the war of letters, moved Lucien quite as deeply as
d'Arthez's grave and earnest words on a former occasion. The prospect of
entering at once upon the strife with men warmed him. In his youth and
inexperience he had no suspicion how real were the moral evils denounced
by the journalist. Nor did he know that he was st