“There are no children nowadays,” said Blondet. “Since M. de Chateaubriand called Victor Hugo a ‘sublime child,’ I can only tell you quite simply that you have spirit and taste, and write like a gentleman.” “He is on the newspaper,” said Finot, as he thanked Étienne, and gave him a shrewd glance. “What jokes have you made?” inquired Lousteau, turning to Blondet and du Bruel. “Here are du Bruel’s,” said Nathan. *** “Now, that M. le Vicomte d’A—— is attracting so much attention, they will perhaps let _me_ alone,” M. le Vicomte Demosthenes was heard to say yesterday. *** An Ultra, condemning M. Pasquier’s speech, said his programme was only a continuation of Decaze’s policy. “Yes,” said a lady, “but he stands on a Monarchical basis, he has just the kind of leg for a Court suit.” “With such a beginning, I don’t ask more of you,” said Finot; “it will be all right.—Run round with this,” he added, turning to the boy; “the paper is not exactly a genuine article, but it is our best number yet,” and he turned to the group of writers. Already Lucien’s colleagues were privately taking his measure. “That fellow has brains,” said Blondet. “His article is well written,” said Claude Vignon. “Supper!” cried Matifat. The Duke gave his arm to Florine, Coralie went across to Lucien, and Tullia went in to supper between Émile Blondet and the German Minister. “I cannot understand why you are making an onslaught on Mme. de Bargeton and the Baron du Châtelet; they say that he is prefect-designate of the Charente, and will be Master of Requests some day.” “Mme. de Bargeton showed Lucien the door as if he had been an imposter,” said Lousteau. “Such a fine young fellow!” exclaimed the Minister. Supper, served with new plate, Sèvres porcelain, and white damask, was redolent of opulence. The dishes were from Chevet, the wines from a celebrated merchant on the Quai Saint-Bernard, a personal friend of Matifat’s. For the first time Lucien beheld the luxury of Paris displayed; he went from surprise to surprise, but he kept his astonishment to himself, like a man who had spirit and taste and wrote like a gentleman, as Blondet had said. As they crossed the drawing-room, Coralie bent to Florine, “Make Camusot so drunk that he will be compelled to stop here all night,” she whispered. “So you have hooked your journalist, have you?” returned Florine, using the idiom of women of her class. “No, dear; I love him,” said Coralie, with an adorable little shrug of the shoulders.