at he
could not reckon on his father's help in misfortune.

In Angouleme that day people talked of nothing but the Bishop's epigram
and Mme. de Bargeton's reply. Every least thing that happened that
evening was so much exaggerated and embellished and twisted out of all
knowledge, that the poet became the hero of the hour. While this storm
in a teacup raged on high, a few drops fell among the _bourgeoisie_;
young men looked enviously after Lucien as he passed on his way through
Beaulieu, and he overheard chance phrases that filled him with conceit.

"There is a lucky young fellow!" said an attorney's clerk, named
Petit-Claud, a plain-featured youth who had been at school with Lucien,
and treated him with small, patronizing airs.

"Yes, he certainly is," answered one of the young men who had been
present on the occasion of the reading; "he is a good-looking fellow, he
has some brains, and Mme. de Bargeton is quite wild about him."

Lucien had waited impatiently until he could be sure of finding Louise
alone. He had to break the tidings of his sister's marriage to the
arbitress of his destinies. Perhaps after yesterday's soiree, Louise
would be kinder than usual, and her kindness might lead to a moment of
happiness. So he thought, and he was not mistaken; Mme. de Bargeton met
him with a vehemence of sentiment that seemed like a touching progress
of passion to the novice in love. She abandoned her hands, her beautiful
golden hair, to the burning kisses of the poet who had passed through
such an ordeal.

"If only you could have seen your face whilst you were reading," cried
Louise, using the familiar _tu_, the caress of speech, since yesterday,
while her white hands wiped the pearls of sweat from the brows on which
she set a poet's crown. "There were sparks of fire in those beautiful
eyes! From your lips, as I watched them, there fell the golden chains
that suspend the hearts of men upon the poet's mouth. You shall read
Chenier through to me from beginning to end; he is the lover's poet. You
shall not be unhappy any longer; I will not have it. Yes, dear angel,
I will make an oasis for you, there you shall live your poet's life,
sometimes busy, sometimes languid; indolent, full of work, and musing
by turns; but never forget that you owe your laurels to me, let that
thought be my noble guerdon for the sufferings which I must endure. Poor
love! the world will not spare me any more than it has spared you; the
world is a