misery, under whose roof he had slept in the worst of
his troubles? Finot, Blondet, and he had groveled together; they had
wallowed in such orgies as consume something more than money. Like
soldiers who find no market for their courage, Lucien had just done what
many men do in Paris: he had still further compromised his character by
shaking Finot's hand, and not rejecting Blondet's affection.

Every man who has dabbled, or still dabbles, in journalism is under
the painful necessity of bowing to men he despises, of smiling at his
dearest foe, of compounding the foulest meanness, of soiling his fingers
to pay his aggressors in their own coin. He becomes used to seeing
evil done, and passing it over; he begins by condoning it, and ends by
committing it. In the long run the soul, constantly strained by shameful
and perpetual compromise, sinks lower, the spring of noble thoughts
grows rusty, the hinges of familiarity wear easy, and turn of their own
accord. Alceste becomes Philinte, natures lose their firmness, talents
are perverted, faith in great deeds evaporates. The man who yearned
to be proud of his work wastes himself in rubbishy articles which
his conscience regards, sooner or later, as so many evil actions. He
started, like Lousteau or Vernou, to be a great writer; he finds himself
a feeble scrivener. Hence it is impossible to honor too highly men whose
character stands as high as their talent--men like d'Arthez, who know
how to walk surefooted across the reefs of literary life.

Lucien could make no reply to Blondet's flattery; his wit had an
irresistible charm for him, and he maintained the hold of the corrupter
over his pupil; besides, he held a position in the world through his
connection with the Comtesse de Montcornet.

"Has an uncle left you a fortune?" said Finot, laughing at him.

"Like you, I have marked some fools for cutting down," replied Lucien in
the same tone.

"Then Monsieur has a review--a newspaper of his own?" Andoche Finot
retorted, with the impertinent presumption of a chief to a subordinate.

"I have something better," replied Lucien, whose vanity, nettled by the
assumed superiority of his editor, restored him to the sense of his new
position.

"What is that, my dear boy?"

"I have a party."

"There is a Lucien party?" said Vernou, smiling

"Finot, the boy has left you in the lurch; I told you he would. Lucien
is a clever fellow, and you never were respectful to him. You used him
a