“He is draining our lives just now, but only a few months ago he saved us by sending us the first fruits of his earnings,” said the good David. He had the sense to see that his wife was in despair, was going beyond the limit, and that love for Lucien would very soon come back. “Fifty years ago, or thereabouts, Mercier said in his _Tableau de Paris_ that a man cannot live by literature, poetry, letters, or science, by the creatures of his brain, in short; and Lucien, poet that he is, would not believe the experience of five centuries. The harvests that are watered with ink are only reaped ten or twelve years after the sowing, if indeed there is any harvest after all. Lucien has taken the green wheat for the sheaves. He will have learned something of life, at any rate. He was the dupe of a woman at the outset; he was sure to be duped afterwards by the world and false friends. He has bought his experience dear, that is all. Our ancestors used to say, ‘If the son of the house brings back his two ears and his honor safe, all is well----’” “Honor!” poor Eve broke in. “Oh, but Lucien has fallen in so many ways! Writing against his conscience! Attacking his best friend! Living upon an actress! Showing himself in public with her. Bringing us to lie on straw----” “Oh, that is nothing----!” cried David, and suddenly stopped short. The secret of Lucien’s forgery had nearly escaped him, and, unluckily, his start left a vague, uneasy impression on Eve. “What do you mean by nothing?” she answered. “And where shall we find the money to meet bills for three thousand francs?” “We shall be obliged to renew the lease with Cérizet, to begin with,” said David. “The Cointets have been allowing him fifteen per cent on the work done for them, and in that way alone he has made six hundred francs, besides contriving to make five hundred francs by job printing.” “If the Cointets know that, perhaps they will not renew the lease. They will be afraid of him, for Cérizet is a dangerous man.” “Eh! what is that to me!” cried David, “we shall be rich in a very little while. When Lucien is rich, dear angel, he will have nothing but good qualities.” “Oh! David, my dear, my dear; what is this that you have said unthinkingly? Then Lucien fallen into the clutches of poverty would not have the force of character to resist evil? And you think just as M. d’Arthez thinks! No one is great unless he has strength of character, and Lucien is weak. An angel who must not be tempted--what is that?” “What but a nature that is noble only in its own region, its own sphere, its heaven? I will spare him the struggle; Lucien is not meant for it. Look here! I am so near the end now that I can talk to you about the means.” He drew several sheets of white paper from his pocket, brandished them in triumph, and laid them on his wife’s lap. “A ream of this paper, royal size, would cost five francs at the most,” he added, while Eve handled the specimens with almost childish surprise.