Not that the room was squalid.  The walls were covered with a sea-green paper, bordered with red; there was one mirror over the chimney-piece, and a second above the chest of drawers.  The bare boards were covered with a cheap carpet, which Berenice had bought in spite of Coralie’s orders, and paid for out of her own little store.  A wardrobe, with a glass door and a chest, held the lovers’ clothing, the mahogany chairs were covered with blue cotton stuff, and Berenice had managed to save a clock and a couple of china vases from the catastrophe, as well as four spoons and forks and half-a-dozen little spoons.  The bedroom was entered from the dining-room, which might have belonged to a clerk with an income of twelve hundred francs.  The kitchen was next the landing, and Berenice slept above in an attic.  The rent was not more than a hundred crowns.

The dismal house boasted a sham carriage entrance, the porter’s box being contrived behind one of the useless leaves of the gate, and lighted by a peephole through which that personage watched the comings and goings of seventeen families, for this hive was a “good-paying property,” in auctioneer’s phrase.

Lucien, looking round the room, discovered a desk, an easy-chair, paper, pens, and ink.  The sight of Berenice in high spirits (she was building hopes on Coralie’s debut at the Gymnase), and of Coralie herself conning her part with a knot of blue ribbon tied about it, drove all cares and anxieties from the sobered poet’s mind.

“So long as nobody in society hears of this sudden comedown, we shall pull through,” he said.  “After all, we have four thousand five hundred francs before us.  I will turn my new position in Royalist journalism to account.  To-morrow we shall start the Reveil; I am an old hand now, and I will make something out.”

And Coralie, seeing nothing but love in the words, kissed the lips that uttered them.  By this time Berenice had set the table near the fire and served a modest breakfast of scrambled eggs, a couple of cutlets, coffee, and cream.  Just then there came a knock at the door, and Lucien, to his astonishment, beheld three of his loyal friends of old days—­d’Arthez, Leon Giraud, and Michel Chrestien.  He was deeply touched, and asked them to share the breakfast.

“No; we have come on more serious business than condolence,” said d’Arthez; “we know the whole story, we have just come from the Rue de Vendome.  You know my opinions, Lucien.  Under any other circumstances I should be glad to hear that you had adopted my political convictions; but situated as you are with regard to the Liberal Press, it is impossible for you to go over to the Ultras.  Your life will be sullied, your character blighted for ever.  We have come to entreat you in the name of our friendship, weakened though it may be, not to soil yourself in this way.  You have been prominent in attacking the Romantics, the Right, and the Government; you cannot now declare for the Government; the Right, and the Romantics.”