Spaniard, it will be seen, was a fatalist, like Napoleon, Mahomet,
and many other great politicians. It is a strange thing that most men of
action have a tendency to fatalism, just as most great thinkers have a
tendency to believe in Providence.

"What I am, I do not know," said Esther with angelic sweetness; "but I
love Lucien, and shall die worshiping him."

"Come to breakfast," said the Spaniard sharply. "And pray to God that
Lucien may not marry too soon, for then you would never see him again."

"His marriage would be my death," said she.

She allowed the sham priest to lead the way, that she might stand on
tiptoe and whisper to Lucien without being seen.

"Is it your wish," said she, "that I should remain in the power of this
man who sets two hyenas to guard me?"

Lucien bowed his head.

The poor child swallowed down her grief and affected gladness, but
she felt cruelly oppressed. It needed more than a year of constant and
devoted care before she was accustomed to these two dreadful creatures
whom Carlos Herrera called the two watch-dogs.

Lucien's conduct since his return to Paris had borne the stamp of such
profound policy that it excited--and could not fail to excite--the
jealousy of all his former friends, on whom he took no vengeance but by
making them furious at his success, at his exquisite "get up," and his
way of keeping every one at a distance. The poet, once so communicative,
so genial, had turned cold and reserved. De Marsay, the model adopted by
all the youth of Paris, did not make a greater display of reticence in
speech and deed than did Lucien. As to brains, the journalist had ere
now proved his mettle. De Marsay, against whom many people chose to
pit Lucien, giving a preference to the poet, was small-minded enough to
resent this.

Lucien, now in high favor with men who secretly pulled the wires of
power, was so completely indifferent to literary fame, that he did not
care about the success of his romance, republished under its real title,
_L'Archer de Charles IX._, or the excitement caused by his volume of
sonnets called _Les Marguerites_, of which Dauriat sold out the edition
in a week.

"It is posthumous fame," said he, with a laugh, to Mademoiselle des
Touches, who congratulated him.

The terrible Spaniard held his creature with an iron hand, keeping him
in the road towards the goal where the trumpets and gifts of victory
await patient politicians. Lucien had taken Beaudenord'