f I am obliged to attend while somebody reads aloud after
dinner, it upsets my digestion."

"Poor dearie," whispered Zephirine, "take a glass of eau _sucree_."

"It was very well declaimed," said Alexandre, "but I like whist better
myself."

After this dictum, which passed muster as a joke from the play on the
word "whist," several card-players were of the opinion that the reader's
voice needed a rest, and on this pretext one or two couples slipped
away into the card-room. But Louise, and the Bishop, and pretty Laure
de Rastignac besought Lucien to continue, and this time he caught the
attention of his audience with Chenier's spirited reactionary _Iambes_.
Several persons, carried away by his impassioned delivery, applauded
the reading without understanding the sense. People of this sort are
impressed by vociferation, as a coarse palate is ticked by strong
spirits.

During the interval, as they partook of ices, Zephirine despatched
Francis to examine the volume, and informed her neighbor Amelie that the
poetry was in print.

Amelie brightened visibly.

"Why, that is easily explained," said she. "M. de Rubempre works for a
printer. It is as if a pretty woman should make her own dresses," she
added, looking at Lolotte.

"He printed his poetry himself!" said the women among themselves.

"Then, why does he call himself M. de Rubempre?" inquired Jacques. "If a
noble takes a handicraft, he ought to lay his name aside."

"So he did as a matter of fact," said Zizine, "but his name was
plebeian, and he took his mother's name, which is noble."

"Well, if his verses are printed, we can read them for ourselves," said
Astolphe.

This piece of stupidity complicated the question, until Sixte du
Chatelet condescended to inform these unlettered folk that the prefatory
announcement was no oratorical flourish, but a statement of fact,
and added that the poems had been written by a Royalist brother of
Marie-Joseph Chenier, the Revolutionary leader. All Angouleme, except
Mme. de Rastignac and her two daughters and the Bishop, who had really
felt the grandeur of the poetry, were mystified, and took offence at
the hoax. There was a smothered murmur, but Lucien did not heed it.
The intoxication of the poetry was upon him; he was far away from the
hateful world, striving to render in speech the music that filled his
soul, seeing the faces about him through a cloudy haze. He read the
sombre Elegy on the Suicide, lines in the taste