s a hack. Repent, blockhead!" said Blondet.

Blondet, as sharp as a needle, could detect more than one secret in
Lucien's air and manner; while stroking him down, he contrived to
tighten the curb. He meant to know the reasons of Lucien's return to
Paris, his projects, and his means of living.

"On your knees to a superiority you can never attain to, albeit you are
Finot!" he went on. "Admit this gentleman forthwith to be one of the
great men to whom the future belongs; he is one of us! So witty and
so handsome, can he fail to succeed by your quibuscumque viis? Here he
stands, in his good Milan armor, his strong sword half unsheathed, and
his pennon flying!--Bless me, Lucien, where did you steal that smart
waistcoat? Love alone can find such stuff as that. Have you an address?
At this moment I am anxious to know where my friends are domiciled;
I don't know where to sleep. Finot has turned me out of doors for the
night, under the vulgar pretext of 'a lady in the case.'"

"My boy," said Lucien, "I put into practice a motto by which you may
secure a quiet life: Fuge, late, tace. I am off."

"But I am not off till you pay me a sacred debt--that little supper, you
know, heh?" said Blondet, who was rather too much given to good cheer,
and got himself treated when he was out of funds.

"What supper?" asked Lucien with a little stamp of impatience.

"You don't remember? In that I recognize my prosperous friend; he has
lost his memory."

"He knows what he owes us; I will go bail for his good heart," said
Finot, taking up Blondet's joke.

"Rastignac," said Blondet, taking the young dandy by the arm as he came
up the room to the column where the so-called friends were standing.
"There is a supper in the wind; you will join us--unless," he added
gravely, turning to Lucien, "Monsieur persists in ignoring a debt of
honor. He can."

"Monsieur de Rubempre is incapable of such a thing; I will answer for
him," said Rastignac, who never dreamed of a practical joke.

"And there is Bixiou, he will come too," cried Blondet; "there is no
fun without him. Without him champagne cloys my tongue, and I find
everything insipid, even the pepper of satire."

"My friends," said Bixiou, "I see you have gathered round the wonder of
the day. Our dear Lucien has revived the Metamorphoses of Ovid. Just as
the gods used to turn into strange vegetables and other things to seduce
the ladies, he has turned the Chardon (the Thistle) into a gentleman