In France, when once the impulse is given, nobody can stop. The colonel of the regiment offered to put his band at the disposal of the committee. The landlord of the _Bell_ (renowned for truffled turkeys, despatched in the most wonderful porcelain jars to the uttermost parts of the earth), the famous innkeeper of L’Houmeau, would supply the repast. At five o’clock some forty persons, all in state and festival array, were assembled in his largest ball, decorated with hangings, crowns of laurel, and bouquets. The effect was superb. A crowd of onlookers, some hundred persons, attracted for the most part by the military band in the yard, represented the citizens of Angoulême. Petit-Claud went to the window. “All Angoulême is here,” he said, looking out. “I can make nothing of this,” remarked little Postel to his wife (they had come out to hear the band play). “Why, the prefect and the receiver-general, and the colonel and the superintendent of the powder factory, and our mayor and deputy, and the headmaster of the school, and the manager of the foundry at Ruelle, and the public prosecutor, M. Milaud, and all the authorities, have just gone in!” The bank struck up as they sat down to table with variations on the air _Vive le roy, vive la France_, a melody which has never found popular favor. It was then five o’clock in the evening; it was eight o’clock before dessert was served. Conspicuous among the sixty-five dishes appeared an Olympus in confectionery, surmounted by a figure of France modeled in chocolate, to give the signal for toasts and speeches. “Gentlemen,” called the prefect, rising to his feet, “the King! the rightful ruler of France! To what do we owe the generation of poets and thinkers who maintain the sceptre of letters in the hands of France, if not to the peace which the Bourbons have restored----” “Long live the King!” cried the assembled guests (ministerialists predominated). The venerable headmaster rose. “To the hero of the day,” he said, “to the young poet who combines the gift of the _prosateur_ with the charm and poetic faculty of Petrarch in that sonnet-form which Boileau declares to be so difficult.” Cheers. The colonel rose next. “Gentlemen, to the Royalist! for the hero of this evening had the courage to fight for sound principles!” “Bravo!” cried the prefect, leading the applause. Then Petit-Claud called upon all Lucien’s schoolfellows there present. “To the pride of the grammar-school of Angoulême! to the venerable headmaster so dear to us all, to whom the acknowledgment for some part of our triumph is due!” The old headmaster dried his eyes; he had not expected this toast. Lucien rose to his feet, the whole room was suddenly silent, and the poet’s face grew white. In that pause the old headmaster, who sat on his left, crowned him with a laurel wreath. A round of applause followed, and when Lucien spoke it was with tears in his eyes and a sob in his throat.