aspects. Lucien had refused to believe that there could be so much
hidden corruption; but now he had heard the journalists themselves
crying woe for their hurt, he had seen them at their work, had watched
them tearing their foster-mother's heart to read auguries of the future.

That evening he had seen things as they are. He beheld the very heart's
core of corruption of that Paris which Blucher so aptly described; and
so far from shuddering at the sight, he was intoxicated with enjoyment
of the intellectually stimulating society in which he found himself.

These extraordinary men, clad in armor damascened by their vices, these
intellects environed by cold and brilliant analysis, seemed so
far greater in his eyes than the grave and earnest members of the
brotherhood. And besides all this, he was reveling in his first taste of
luxury; he had fallen under the spell. His capricious instincts awoke;
for the first time in his life he drank exquisite wines, this was
his first experience of cookery carried to the pitch of a fine art.
A minister, a duke, and an opera-dancer had joined the party of
journalists, and wondered at their sinister power. Lucien felt a
horrible craving to reign over these kings, and he thought that he had
power to win his kingdom. Finally, there was this Coralie, made happy by
a few words of his. By the bright light of the wax-candles, through
the steam of the dishes and the fumes of wine, she looked sublimely
beautiful to his eyes, so fair had she grown with love. She was the
loveliest, the most beautiful actress in Paris. The brotherhood, the
heaven of noble thoughts, faded away before a temptation that appealed
to every fibre of his nature. How could it have been otherwise? Lucien's
author's vanity had just been gratified by the praises of those who
know; by the appreciation of his future rivals; the success of his
articles and his conquest of Coralie might have turned an older head
than his.

During the discussion, moreover, every one at table had made a
remarkably good supper, and such wines are not met with every day.
Lousteau, sitting beside Camusot, furtively poured cherry-brandy several
times into his neighbor's wineglass, and challenged him to drink. And
Camusot drank, all unsuspicious, for he thought himself, in his own way,
a match for a journalist. The jokes became more personal when dessert
appeared and the wine began to circulate. The German Minister, a
keen-witted man of the world, ma