“What!” he exclaimed, to Lucien’s utter bewilderment.  “Do you dare to come here, sir?  Your patent was made out, but his lordship has torn it up.  Here it is!” (the Secretary-General caught up the first torn sheet that came to hand).  “The Minister wished to discover the author of yesterday’s atrocious article, and here is the manuscript,” added the speaker, holding out the sheets of Lucien’s article.  “You call yourself a Royalist, sir, and you are on the staff of that detestable paper which turns the Minister’s hair gray, harasses the Centre, and is dragging the country headlong to ruin?  You breakfast on the Corsair, the Miroir, the Constitutionnel, and the Courier; you dine on the Quotidienne and the Reveil, and then sup with Martainville, the worst enemy of the Government!  Martainville urges the Government on to Absolutist measures; he is more likely to bring on another Revolution than if he had gone over to the extreme Left.  You are a very clever journalist, but you will never make a politician.  The Minister denounced you to the King, and the King was so angry that he scolded M. le Duc de Navarreins, his First Gentleman of the Bedchamber.  Your enemies will be all the more formidable because they have hitherto been your friends.  Conduct that one expects from an enemy is atrocious in a friend.”

“Why, really, my dear fellow, are you a child?” said des Lupeaulx.  “You have compromised me.  Mme. d’Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Mme. de Montcornet, who were responsible for you, must be furious.  The Duke is sure to have handed on his annoyance to the Marquise, and the Marquise will have scolded her cousin.  Keep away from them and wait.”

“Here comes his lordship—­go!” said the Secretary-General.

Lucien went out into the Place Vendome; he was stunned by this bludgeon blow.  He walked home along the Boulevards trying to think over his position.  He saw himself a plaything in the hands of envy, treachery, and greed.  What was he in this world of contending ambitions?  A child sacrificing everything to the pursuit of pleasure and the gratification of vanity; a poet whose thoughts never went beyond the moment, a moth flitting from one bright gleaming object to another.  He had no definite aim; he was the slave of circumstance —­meaning well, doing ill.  Conscience tortured him remorselessly.  And to crown it all, he was penniless and exhausted with work and emotion.  His articles could not compare with Merlin’s or Nathan’s work.

He walked at random, absorbed in these thoughts.  As he passed some of the reading-rooms which were already lending books as well as newspapers, a placard caught his eyes.  It was an advertisement of a book with a grotesque title, but beneath the announcement he saw his name in brilliant letters—­“By Lucien Chardon de Rubempre.”  So his book had come out, and he had heard nothing of it!  All the newspapers were silent.  He stood motionless before the placard, his arms hanging at his sides.  He did not notice a little knot of acquaintances —­Rastignac and de Marsay and some other fashionable young men; nor did he see that Michel Chrestien and Leon Giraud were coming towards him.