twice a
success. The author, who writes it, it is said, in collaboration
with one of the great poets of the day, was called before the
curtain, and appeared with a love-distraught damsel on each arm,
and fairly brought down the excited house. The two dancers seemed
to have more wit in their legs than the author himself; but when
once the fair rivals left the stage, the dialogue seemed witty at
once, a triumphant proof of the excellence of the piece. The
applause and calls for the author caused the architect some
anxiety; but M. de Cursy, the author, being accustomed to volcanic
eruptions of the reeling Vesuvius beneath the chandelier, felt no
tremor. As for the actresses, they danced the famous bolero of
Seville, which once found favor in the sight of a council of
reverend fathers, and escaped ecclesiastical censure in spite of
its wanton dangerous grace. The bolero in itself would be enough
to attract old age while there is any lingering heat of youth in
the veins, and out of charity I warn these persons to keep the
lenses of their opera-glasses well polished.

While Lucien was writing a column which was to set a new fashion in
journalism and reveal a fresh and original gift, Lousteau indited an
article of the kind described as _moeurs_--a sketch of contemporary
manners, entitled _The Elderly Beau_.

"The buck of the Empire," he wrote, "is invariably long, slender, and
well preserved. He wears a corset and the Cross of the Legion of Honor.
His name was originally Potelet, or something very like it; but to stand
well with the Court, he conferred a _du_ upon himself, and _du_ Potelet
he is until another revolution. A baron of the Empire, a man of two
ends, as his name (_Potelet_, a post) implies, he is paying his court to
the Faubourg Saint-Germain, after a youth gloriously and usefully spent
as the agreeable trainbearer of a sister of the man whom decency forbids
me to mention by name. Du Potelet has forgotten that he was once
in waiting upon Her Imperial Highness; but he still sings the songs
composed for the benefactress who took such a tender interest in his
career," and so forth and so forth. It was a tissue of personalities,
silly enough for the most part, such as they used to write in those
days. Other papers, and notably the _Figaro_, have brought the art to
a curious perfection since. Lousteau compared the Baron to a heron,
and introduced Mme. de Bargeton, to whom he was