“Nothing could be better or more opportune,” smiled this courtesan of wealth, reduced to adulating an idiot. “I was just wondering whom I should select. The position is yours. No, no; it is for me to thank you. My best regards to your dear father.” The youth had barely turned the corner when Balzac hastily summoned the members of the “Cheval Rouge.” “At last I have a capitalist!” he cried. “He has promised nothing, it is true, but I have reason to believe that, properly managed, he will invest anywhere from a hundred thousand up. He is an idiot, the son of Chose the banker. He wants to be dramatic critic, and that means money, simply money, and lots of it. But,” he continued, “the affair cannot be arranged without a subtle preparation and solemn initiation, and preparation and initiation mean _dinner_. It is at a dinner, not frugal but sumptuous, adorned with a garland of editors and critics, each more seductive than the other, that the alliance of your intelligence and the money of my imbecile will be consummated; and then, with the champagne in his throat, he will tell us how much he proposes to pour into the till of the ‘Chronique de Paris.’ It has not got one yet, to be sure, but we will buy one as soon as he furnishes the money.” “But there will be about twenty of us,” objected de Nerval, “and the dinner will cost at least four hundred francs. Where are they? Have you got them?” “No, but I will find them,” Balzac answered, with a magnificent gesture. “It is not a question of a dinner in a restaurant, for that would smack of the adventurer a mile away; and besides, there of course you pay cash. The banquet shall be served here, and on credit. We have only to inspire some caterer with sufficient confidence.” “Charming,” said Merle, as he looked about the poorly furnished apartment; “but how is that sufficiency of confidence to be inspired?” After innumerable propositions had been discussed and rejected, Balzac discovered that Granier de Cassagnac had a service of silver in pawn for eight hundred francs, and prevailed on Gautier to borrow a like amount, disengage the silver, which, negligently exposed on Balzac’s table, would inspire confidence in any caterer; promising that after the dinner the silver should be immediately repawned and the loan repaid. “My plan is triumphant!” he exclaimed; “the money is ours. To-morrow we will liberate the silver. Tuesday, conference with the caterer. Wednesday, invitation on vellum launched at our young capitalist; the same evening, solemn engagement on his part to invest, accompanied on ours by the most hilarious toasts. Thursday, contract drawn by a notary and signed by the delicate hand of our millionaire. Friday, reunion and tea, to read over the prospectus, which I will compose. Saturday, colossal advertisement on every wall, monument, and column; and the week after, brilliant apparition on the Parisian horizon of the first number. Soldiers! to arms!”