to
bewitch--whom? Charles X.!--My dear boy," he went on, holding Lucien
by his coat button, "a journalist who apes the fine gentleman deserves
rough music. In their place," said the merciless jester, as he pointed
to Finot and Vernou, "I should take you up in my society paper; you
would bring in a hundred francs for ten columns of fun."

"Bixiou," said Blondet, "an Amphitryon is sacred for twenty-four hours
before a feast and twelve hours after. Our illustrious friend is giving
us a supper."

"What then!" cried Bixiou; "what is more imperative than the duty of
saving a great name from oblivion, of endowing the indigent aristocracy
with a man of talent? Lucien, you enjoy the esteem of the press of
which you were a distinguished ornament, and we will give you our
support.--Finot, a paragraph in the 'latest items'!--Blondet, a
little butter on the fourth page of your paper!--We must advertise the
appearance of one of the finest books of the age, _l'Archer de Charles
IX._! We will appeal to Dauriat to bring out as soon as possible _les
Marguerites_, those divine sonnets by the French Petrarch! We must carry
our friend through on the shield of stamped paper by which reputations
are made and unmade."

"If you want a supper," said Lucien to Blondet, hoping to rid himself
of this mob, which threatened to increase, "it seems to me that you need
not work up hyperbole and parable to attack an old friend as if he were
a booby. To-morrow night at Lointier's----" he cried, seeing a woman
come by, whom he rushed to meet.

"Oh! oh! oh!" said Bixiou on three notes, with a mocking glance, and
seeming to recognize the mask to whom Lucien addressed himself. "This
needs confirmation."

He followed the handsome pair, got past them, examined them keenly, and
came back, to the great satisfaction of all the envious crowd, who were
eager to learn the source of Lucien's change of fortune.

"Friends," said Bixiou, "you have long known the goddess of the Sire de
Rubempre's fortune: She is des Lupeaulx's former 'rat.'"

A form of dissipation, now forgotten, but still customary at the
beginning of this century, was the keeping of "rats." The "rat"--a slang
word that has become old-fashioned--was a girl of ten or twelve in the
chorus of some theatre, more particularly at the opera, who was trained
by young roues to vice and infamy. A "rat" was a sort of demon page, a
tomboy who was forgiven a trick if it were but funny. The "rat" might
take