When he left Coralie in the morning and returned to the Latin Quarter, he took out his purse and found the money he had lost.  At first he felt miserable over the discovery, and thought of going back at once to return a gift which humiliated him; but—­he had already come as far as the Rue de la Harpe; he would not return now that he had almost reached the Hotel de Cluny.  He pondered over Coralie’s forethought as he went, till he saw in it a proof of the maternal love which is blended with passion in women of her stamp.  For Coralie and her like, passion includes every human affection.  Lucien went from thought to thought, and argued himself into accepting the gift.  “I love her,” he said; “we shall live together as husband and wife; I will never forsake her!”

What mortal, short of a Diogenes, could fail to understand Lucien’s feelings as he climbed the dirty, fetid staircase to his lodging, turned the key that grated in the lock, and entered and looked round at the unswept brick floor, at the cheerless grate, at the ugly poverty and bareness of the room.

A package of manuscript was lying on the table.  It was his novel; a note from Daniel d’Arthez lay beside it:—­

“Our friends are almost satisfied with your work, dear poet,” d’Arthez wrote.  “You will be able to present it with more confidence now, they say, to friends and enemies.  We saw your charming article on the Panorama-Dramatique; you are sure to excite as much jealousy in the profession as regret among your friends here.  DANIEL.”

“Regrets!  What does he mean?” exclaimed Lucien.  The polite tone of the note astonished him.  Was he to be henceforth a stranger to the brotherhood?  He had learned to set a higher value on the good opinion and the friendship of the circle in the Rue des Quatre-Vents since he had tasted of the delicious fruits offered to him by the Eve of the theatrical underworld.  For some moments he stood in deep thought; he saw his present in the garret, and foresaw his future in Coralie’s rooms.  Honorable resolution struggled with temptation and swayed him now this way, now that.  He sat down and began to look through his manuscript, to see in what condition his friends had returned it to him.  What was his amazement, as he read chapter after chapter, to find his poverty transmuted into riches by the cunning of the pen, and the devotion of the unknown great men, his friends of the brotherhood.  Dialogue, closely packed, nervous, pregnant, terse, and full of the spirit of the age, replaced his conversations, which seemed poor and pointless prattle in comparison.  His characters, a little uncertain in the drawing, now stood out in vigorous contrast of color and relief; physiological observations, due no doubt to Horace Bianchon, supplied links of interpretations between human character and the curious phenomena of human life—­subtle touches which made his men and women live.  His wordy passages of description