Two days afterwards, on the eve of the supper-party at Coralie’s house, there was a new play at the Ambigu, and it fell to Lucien to write the dramatic criticism. Lucien and Coralie walked together after dinner from the Rue de Vendôme to the Panorama-Dramatique, going along the Café Turc side of the Boulevard du Temple, a lounge much frequented at that time. People wondered at his luck, and praised Coralie’s beauty. Chance remarks reached his ears; some said that Coralie was the finest woman in Paris, others that Lucien was a match for her. The romantic youth felt that he was in his atmosphere. This was the life for him. The brotherhood was so far away that it was almost out of sight. Only two months ago, how he had looked up to those lofty great natures; now he asked himself if they were not just a trifle ridiculous with their notions and their Puritanism. Coralie’s careless words had lodged in Lucien’s mind, and begun already to bear fruit. He took Coralie to her dressing-room, and strolled about like a sultan behind the scenes; the actresses gave him burning glances and flattering speeches. “I must go to the Ambigu and attend to business,” said he. At the Ambigu the house was full; there was not a seat left for him. Indignant complaints behind the scenes brought no redress; the box-office keeper, who did not know him as yet, said that they had sent orders for two boxes to his paper, and sent him about his business. “I shall speak of the play as I find it,” said Lucien, nettled at this. “What a dunce you are!” said the leading lady, addressing the box-office keeper, “that is Coralie’s adorer.” The box-office keeper turned round immediately at this. “I will speak to the manager at once, sir,” he said. In all these small details Lucien saw the immense power wielded by the press. His vanity was gratified. The manager appeared to say that the Duc de Rhétoré and Tullia the opera-dancer were in the stage-box, and they had consented to allow Lucien to join them. “You have driven two people to distraction,” remarked the young Duke, mentioning the names of the Baron du Châtelet and Mme. de Bargeton. “Distraction? What will it be to-morrow?” said Lucien. “So far, my friends have been mere skirmishers, but I have given them red-hot shot to-night. To-morrow you will know why we are making game of ‘Potelet.’ The article is called ‘Potelet from 1811 to 1821.’ Châtelet will be a byword, a name for the type of courtier who deny their benefactor and rally to the Bourbons. When I have done with him, I am going to Mme. de Montcornet’s.” Lucien’s talk was sparkling. He was eager that this great personage should see how gross a mistake Mesdames d’Espard and de Bargeton had made when they slighted Lucien de Rubempré. But he showed the tip of his ear when he asserted his right to bear the name of Rubempré, the Duc de Rhétoré having purposely addressed him as Chardon.