“Mme. de Bargeton showed Lucien the door as if he had been an imposter,” said Lousteau.

“Such a fine young fellow!” exclaimed the Minister.

Supper, served with new plate, Sevres porcelain, and white damask, was redolent of opulence.  The dishes were from Chevet, the wines from a celebrated merchant on the Quai Saint-Bernard, a personal friend of Matifat’s.  For the first time Lucien beheld the luxury of Paris displayed; he went from surprise to surprise, but he kept his astonishment to himself, like a man who had spirit and taste and wrote like a gentleman, as Blondet had said.

As they crossed the drawing-room, Coralie bent to Florine, “Make Camusot so drunk that he will be compelled to stop here all night,” she whispered.

“So you have hooked your journalist, have you?” returned Florine, using the idiom of women of her class.

“No, dear; I love him,” said Coralie, with an adorable little shrug of the shoulders.

Those words rang in Lucien’s ears, borne to them by the fifth deadly sin.  Coralie was perfectly dressed.  Every woman possesses some personal charm in perfection, and Coralie’s toilette brought her characteristic beauty into prominence.  Her dress, moreover, like Florine’s, was of some exquisite stuff, unknown as yet to the public, a mousseline de soie, with which Camusot had been supplied a few days before the rest of the world; for, as owner of the Golden Cocoon, he was a kind of Providence in Paris to the Lyons silkweavers.

Love and toilet are like color and perfume for a woman, and Coralie in her happiness looked lovelier than ever.  A looked-for delight which cannot elude the grasp possesses an immense charm for youth; perhaps in their eyes the secret of the attraction of a house of pleasure lies in the certainty of gratification; perhaps many a long fidelity is attributable to the same cause.  Love for love’s sake, first love indeed, had blent with one of the strange violent fancies which sometimes possess these poor creatures; and love and admiration of Lucien’s great beauty taught Coralie to express the thoughts in her heart.

“I should love you if you were ill and ugly,” she whispered as they sat down.

What a saying for a poet!  Camusot utterly vanished, Lucien had forgotten his existence, he saw Coralie, and had eyes for nothing else.  How should he draw back—­this creature, all sensation, all enjoyment of life, tired of the monotony of existence in a country town, weary of poverty, harassed by enforced continence, impatient of the claustral life of the Rue de Cluny, of toiling without reward?  The fascination of the under world of Paris was upon him; how should he rise and leave this brilliant gathering?  Lucien stood with one foot in Coralie’s chamber and the other in the quicksands of Journalism.  After so much vain search, and climbing of so many stairs, after standing about and waiting in the Rue de Sentier, he had found Journalism a jolly boon companion,