“There!” said Coralie, “I will dress and take you to your office. I will wait outside in the boulevard for you with the carriage.” Lucien sat down on the sofa and made some very sober reflections as he watched Coralie at her toilet. It would have been wiser to leave Coralie free than to start all at once with such an establishment; but Coralie was there before his eyes, and Coralie was so lovely, so graceful, so bewitching, that the more picturesque aspects of bohemia were in evidence; and he flung down the gauntlet to fortune. Bérénice was ordered to superintend Lucien’s removal and installation; and Coralie, triumphant, radiant, and happy, carried off her love, her poet, and must néeds go all over Paris on the way to the Rue Saint-Fiacre. Lucien sprang lightly up the staircase, and entered the office with an air of being quite at home. Coloquinte was there with the stamped paper still on his head; and old Giroudeau told him again, hypocritically enough, that no one had yet come in. “But the editor and contributors _must_ meet somewhere or other to arrange about the journal,” said Lucien. “Very likely; but I have nothing to do with the writing of the paper,” said the Emperor’s captain, resuming his occupation of checking off wrappers with his eternal broum! broum! Was it lucky or unlucky? Finot chanced to come in at that very moment to announce his sham abdication and to bid Giroudeau watch over his interests. “No shilly-shally with this gentleman; he is on the staff,” Finot added for his uncle’s benefit, as he grasped Lucien by the hand. “Oh! is he on the paper?” exclaimed Giroudeau, much surprised at this friendliness. “Well, sir, you came on without much difficulty.” “I want to make things snug for you here, lest Étienne should bamboozle you,” continued Finot, looking knowingly at Lucien. “This gentleman will be paid three francs per column all round, including theatres.” “You have never taken any one on such terms before,” said Giroudeau, opening his eyes. “And he will take the four Boulevard theatres. See that nobody sneaks his boxes, and that he gets his share of tickets.—I should advise you, nevertheless, to have them sent to your address,” he added, turning to Lucien.—“And he agrees to write besides ten miscellaneous articles of two columns each, for fifty francs per month, for one year. Does that suit you?” “Yes,” said Lucien. Circumstances had forced his hand. “Draw up the agreement, uncle, and we will sign it when we come downstairs.” “Who is the gentleman?” inquired Giroudeau, rising and taking off his black silk skull-cap. “M. Lucien de Rubempré, who wrote the article on _The Alcalde_.” “Young man, you have a gold mine _there_,” said the old soldier, tapping Lucien on the forehead. “I am not literary myself, but I read that article of yours, and I liked it. That is the kind of thing! There’s gaiety for you! ‘That will bring us new subscribers,’ says I to myself. And so it did. We sold fifty more numbers.”