Lucien appeared to be humiliated.

“When I see you again, you will have lost a hundred francs,” he added.  “I shall only give a hundred crowns.”

With that he rose and took his leave.  On the threshold he said, “If you had not something in you, and a future before you; if I did not take an interest in studious youth, I should not have made you such a handsome offer.  A hundred francs per month!  Think of it!  After all, a romance in a drawer is not eating its head off like a horse in a stable, nor will it find you in victuals either, and that’s a fact.”

Lucien snatched up his manuscript and dashed it on the floor.

“I would rather burn it, sir!” he exclaimed.

“You have a poet’s head,” returned his senior.

Lucien devoured his bread and supped his bowl of milk, then he went downstairs.  His room was not large enough for him; he was turning round and round in it like a lion in a cage at the Jardin des Plantes.

At the Bibliotheque Saint-Genevieve, whither Lucien was going, he had come to know a stranger by sight; a young man of five-and-twenty or thereabouts, working with the sustained industry which nothing can disturb nor distract, the sign by which your genuine literary worker is known.  Evidently the young man had been reading there for some time, for the librarian and attendants all knew him and paid him special attention; the librarian would even allow him to take away books, with which Lucien saw him return in the morning.  In the stranger student he recognized a brother in penury and hope.

Pale-faced and slight and thin, with a fine forehead hidden by masses of black, tolerably unkempt hair, there was something about him that attracted indifferent eyes:  it was a vague resemblance which he bore to portraits of the young Bonaparte, engraved from Robert Lefebvre’s picture.  That engraving is a poem of melancholy intensity, of suppressed ambition, of power working below the surface.  Study the face carefully, and you will discover genius in it and discretion, and all the subtlety and greatness of the man.  The portrait has speaking eyes like a woman’s; they look out, greedy of space, craving difficulties to vanquish.  Even if the name of Bonaparte were not written beneath it, you would gaze long at that face.

Lucien’s young student, the incarnation of this picture, usually wore footed trousers, shoes with thick soles to them, an overcoat of coarse cloth, a black cravat, a waistcoat of some gray-and-white material buttoned to the chin, and a cheap hat.  Contempt for superfluity in dress was visible in his whole person.  Lucien also discovered that the mysterious stranger with that unmistakable stamp which genius sets upon the forehead of its slaves was one of Flicoteaux’s most regular customers; he ate to live, careless of the fare which appeared to be familiar to him, and drank water.  Wherever Lucien saw him, at the library or at Flicoteaux’s,