Just at that moment Raoul Nathan flew upon Lucien, and grasped both his hands and shook them in a sudden access of violent friendship.
“Oh, my good friend, you are something more than a great man, you have a heart,” cried he, “a much rarer thing than genius in these days. You are a devoted friend. I am yours, in short, through thick and thin; I shall never forget all that you have done for me this week.”
Lucien’s joy had reached the highest point; to be thus caressed by a man of whom everyone was talking! He looked at his three friends of the brotherhood with something like a superior air. Nathan’s appearance upon the scene was the result of an overture from Merlin, who sent him a proof of the favorable review to appear in to-morrow’s issue.
“I only consented to write the attack on condition that I should be allowed to reply to it myself,” Lucien said in Nathan’s ear. “I am one of you.” This incident was opportune; it justified the remark which amused Fulgence. Lucien was radiant.
“When d’Arthez’s book comes out,” he said, turning to the three, “I am in a position to be useful to him. That thought in itself would induce me to remain a journalist.”
“Can you do as you like?” Michel asked quickly.
“So far as one can when one is indispensable,” said Lucien modestly.
It was almost midnight when they sat down to supper, and the fun grew fast and furious. Talk was less restrained in Lucien’s house than at Matifat’s, for no one suspected that the representatives of the brotherhood and the newspaper writers held divergent opinions. Young intellects, depraved by arguing for either side, now came into conflict with each other, and fearful axioms of the journalistic jurisprudence, then in its infancy, hurtled to and fro. Claude Vignon, upholding the dignity of criticism, inveighed against the tendency of the smaller newspapers, saying that the writers of personalities lowered themselves in the end. Lousteau, Merlin, and Finot took up the cudgels for the system known by the name of blague; puffery, gossip, and humbug, said they, was the test of talent, and set the hall-mark, as it were, upon it. “Any man who can stand that test has real power,” said Lousteau.
“Besides,” cried Merlin, “when a great man receives ovations, there ought to be a chorus in insults to balance, as in a Roman triumph.”
“Oho!” put in Lucien; “then every one held up to ridicule in print will fancy that he has made a success.”