“Take care, my dear fellow, you are falling off,” he said. “You must not let yourself down, your work wants inspiration!” “That little Lucien has written himself out with his romance and his first articles,” cried Félicien Vernou, Merlin, and the whole chorus of his enemies, whenever his name came up at Dauriat’s or the Vaudeville. “The work he is sending us is pitiable.” “To have written oneself out” (in the slang of journalism), is a verdict very hard to live down. It passed everywhere from mouth to mouth, ruining Lucien, all unsuspicious as he was. And, indeed, his burdens were too heavy for his strength. In the midst of a heavy strain of work, he was sued for the bills which he had drawn in David Séchard’s name. He had recourse to Camusot’s experience, and Coralie’s sometime adorer was generous enough to assist the man she loved. The intolerable situation lasted for two whole months; the days being diversified by stamped papers handed over to Desroches, a friend of Bixiou, Blondet, and des Lupeaulx. Early in August, Bianchon told them that Coralie’s condition was hopeless—she had only a few days to live. Those days were spent in tears by Bérénice and Lucien; they could not hide their grief from the dying girl, and she was broken-hearted for Lucien’s sake. Some strange change was working in Coralie. She would have Lucien bring a priest; she must be reconciled to the Church and die in peace. Coralie died as a Christian; her repentance was sincere. Her agony and death took all energy and heart out of Lucien. He sank into a low chair at the foot of the bed, and never took his eyes off her till Death brought the end of her suffering. It was five o’clock in the morning. Some singing-bird lighting upon a flower-pot on the window-sill, twittered a few notes. Bérénice, knéeling by the bedside, was covering a hand fast growing cold with kisses and tears. On the chimney-piece there lay eleven sous. Lucien went out. Despair made him beg for money to lay Coralie in her grave. He had wild thoughts of flinging himself at the Marquise d’Espard’s feet, of entreating the Comte du Châtelet, Mme. de Bargeton, Mlle. des Touches, nay, that terrible dandy of a de Marsay. All his pride had gone with his strength. He would have enlisted as a common soldier at that moment for money. He walked on with a slouching, feverish gait known to all the unhappy, reached Camille Maupin’s house, entered, careless of his disordered dress, and sent in a message. He entreated Mlle. des Touches to see him for a moment. “Mademoiselle only went to bed at three o’clock this morning,” said the servant, “and no one would dare to disturb her until she rings.” “When does she ring?” “Never before ten o’clock.”