"Regrets!What does he mean?"exclaimed Lucien.The polite tone of the note astonished him.Was he to be henceforth a stranger to the brotherhood?He had learned to set a higher value on the good opinion and the friendship of the circle in the Rue des Quatre-Vents since he had tasted of the delicious fruits offered to him by the Eve of the theatrical underworld.For some moments he stood in deep thought;he saw his present in the garret,and foresaw his future in Coralie's rooms.Honorable resolution struggled with temptation and swayed him now this way,now that.He sat down and began to look through his manu,to see in what condition his friends had returned it to him.What was his amazement,as he read chapter after chapter,to find his poverty transmuted into riches by the cunning of the pen,and the devotion of the unknown great men,his friends of the brotherhood.
Dialogue,closely packed,nervous,pregnant,terse,and full of the spirit of the age,replaced his conversations,which seemed poor and pointless prattle in comparison.His characters,a little uncertain in the drawing,now stood out in vigorous contrast of color and relief;physiological observations,due no doubt to Horace Bianchon,supplied links of interpretations between human character and the curious phenomena of human life--subtle touches which made his men and women live.His wordy passages of deion were condensed and vivid.The misshapen,ill-clad child of his brain had returned to him as a lovely maiden,with white robes and rosy-hued girdle and scarf--an entrancing creation.Night fell and took him by surprise,reading through rising tears,stricken to earth by such greatness of soul,feeling the worth of such a lesson,admiring the alternations,which taught him more of literature and art than all his four years'apprenticeship of study and reading and comparison.A master's correction of a line made upon the study always teaches more than all the theories and criticisms in the world.
"What friends are these!What hearts!How fortunate I am!"he cried,grasping his manu tightly.
With the quick impulsiveness of a poetic and mobile temperament,he rushed off to Daniel's lodging.As he climbed the stairs,and thought of these friends,who refused to leave the path of honor,he felt conscious that he was less worthy of them than before.A voice spoke within him,telling him that if d'Arthez had loved Coralie,he would have had her break with Camusot.And,besides this,he knew that the brotherhood held journalism in utter abhorrence,and that he himself was already,to some small extent,a journalist.All of them,except Meyraux,who had just gone out,were in d'Arthez's room when he entered it,and saw that all their faces were full of sorrow and despair.
"What is it?"he cried.
"We have just heard news of a dreadful catastrophe;the greatest thinker of the age,our most loved friend,who was like a light among us for two years----""Louis Lambert!"
"Has fallen a victim to catalepsy.There is no hope for him,"said Bianchon.
"He will die,his soul wandering in the skies,his body unconscious on earth,"said Michel Chrestien solemnly.
"He will die as he lived,"said d'Arthez.
"Love fell like a firebrand in the vast empire of his brain and burned him away,"said Leon Giraud.
"Yes,"said Joseph Bridau,"he has reached a height that we cannot so much as see.""WE are to be pitied,not Louis,"said Fulgence Ridal.
"Perhaps he will recover,"exclaimed Lucien.
"From what Meyraux has been telling us,recovery seems impossible,"answered Bianchon."Medicine has no power over the change that is working in his brain.""Yet there are physical means,"said d'Arthez.
"Yes,"said Bianchon;"we might produce imbecility instead of catalepsy.""Is there no way of offering another head to the spirit of evil?Iwould give mine to save him!"cried Michel Chrestien.
"And what would become of European federation?"asked d'Arthez.
"Ah!true,"replied Michel Chrestien."Our duty to Humanity comes first;to one man afterwards.""I came here with a heart full of gratitude to you all,"said Lucien.
"You have changed my alloy into golden coin.""Gratitude!For what do you take us?"asked Bianchon.
"We had the pleasure,"added Fulgence.
"Well,so you are a journalist,are you?"asked Leon Giraud."The fame of your first appearance has reached even the Latin Quarter.""I am not a journalist yet,"returned Lucien.
"Aha!So much the better,"said Michel Chrestien.
"I told you so!"said d'Arthez."Lucien knows the value of a clean conscience.When you can say to yourself as you lay your head on the pillow at night,'I have not sat in judgment on another man's work;Ihave given pain to no one;I have not used the edge of my wit to deal a stab to some harmless soul;I have sacrificed no one's success to a jest;I have not even troubled the happiness of imbecility;I have not added to the burdens of genius;I have scorned the easy triumphs of epigram;in short,I have not acted against my convictions,'is not this a viaticum that gives one daily strength?""But one can say all this,surely,and yet work on a newspaper,"said Lucien."If I had absolutely no other way of earning a living,Ishould certainly come to this."
"Oh!oh!oh!"cried Fulgence,his voice rising a note each time;"we are capitulating,are we?""He will turn journalist,"Leon Giraud said gravely."Oh,Lucien,if you would only stay and work with us!We are about to bring out a periodical in which justice and truth shall never be violated;we will spread doctrines that,perhaps,will be of real service to mankind----""You will not have a single subscriber,"Lucien broke in with Machiavellian wisdom.
"There will be five hundred of them,"asserted Michel Chrestien,"but they will be worth five hundred thousand.""You will need a lot of capital,"continued Lucien.
"No,only devotion,"said d'Arthez.
