hose names will appear in the history of the nineteenth century,
women no less famous than the queens of past times for their wit,
their beauty, or their lovers; one who passed was the heroine Mlle. des
Touches, so well known as Camille Maupin, the great woman of letters,
great by her intellect, great no less by her beauty. He overheard the
name pronounced by those who went by.

"Ah!" he thought to himself, "she is Poetry."

What was Mme. de Bargeton in comparison with this angel in all the glory
of youth, and hope, and promise of the future, with that sweet smile of
hers, and the great dark eyes with all heaven in them, and the glowing
light of the sun? She was laughing and chatting with Mme. Firmiani, one
of the most charming women in Paris. A voice indeed cried, "Intellect is
the lever by which to move the world," but another voice cried no less
loudly that money was the fulcrum.

He would not stay any longer on the scene of his collapse and defeat,
and went towards the Palais Royal. He did not know the topography of his
quarter yet, and was obliged to ask his way. Then he went to Very's and
ordered dinner by way of an initiation into the pleasures of Paris,
and a solace for his discouragement. A bottle of Bordeaux, oysters
from Ostend, a dish of fish, a partridge, a dish of macaroni and
dessert,--this was the _ne plus ultra_ of his desire. He enjoyed this
little debauch, studying the while how to give the Marquise d'Espard
proof of his wit, and redeem the shabbiness of his grotesque
accoutrements by the display of intellectual riches. The total of the
bill drew him down from these dreams, and left him the poorer by fifty
of the francs which were to have gone such a long way in Paris. He
could have lived in Angouleme for a month on the price of that dinner.
Wherefore he closed the door of the palace with awe, thinking as he did
so that he should never set foot in it again.

"Eve was right," he said to himself, as he went back under the stone
arcading for some more money. "There is a difference between Paris
prices and prices in L'Houmeau."

He gazed in at the tailors' windows on the way, and thought of the
costumes in the Garden of the Tuileries.

"No," he exclaimed, "I will _not_ appear before Mme. d'Espard dressed
out as I am."

He fled to his inn, fleet as a stag, rushed up to his room, took out
a hundred crowns, and went down again to the Palais Royal, where his
future elegance lay scattered over half a s