“We will take the article on Nathan to Hector. Journalism is really very much like Achilles’ lance, it salves the wounds that it makes,” said Lucien, correcting a phrase here and there.
The lovers started forth in splendor to show themselves to the Paris which had but lately given Lucien the cold shoulder, and now was beginning to talk about him. To have Paris talking of you! and this after you have learned how large the great city is, how hard it is to be anybody there—it was this thought that turned Lucien’s head with exultation.
“Let us go by way of your tailor’s, dear boy, and tell him to be quick with your clothes, or try them on if they are ready. If you are going to your fine ladies’ houses, you shall eclipse that monster of a de Marsay and young Rastignac and any Ajuda-Pinto or Maxime de Trailles or Vandenesse of them all. Remember that your mistress is Coralie! But you will not play me any tricks, eh?”
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.