“Lucien, dear fellow,” said Daniel, “you did not dine at Flicoteaux’s yesterday, and we know why.”

Lucien could not keep back the overflowing tears.

“You showed a want of confidence in us,” said Michel Chrestien; “we shall chalk that up over the chimney, and when we have scored ten we will——­”

“We have all of us found a bit of extra work,” said Bianchon; “for my own part, I have been looking after a rich patient for Desplein; d’Arthez has written an article for the Revue Encyclopedique; Chrestien thought of going out to sing in the Champs Elysees of an evening with a pocket-handkerchief and four candles, but he found a pamphlet to write instead for a man who has a mind to go into politics, and gave his employer six hundred francs worth of Machiavelli; Leon Giraud borrowed fifty francs of his publisher, Joseph sold one or two sketches; and Fulgence’s piece was given on Sunday, and there was a full house.”

“Here are two hundred francs,” said Daniel, “and let us say no more about it.”

“Why, if he is not going to hug us all as if we had done something extraordinary!” cried Chrestien.

Lucien, meanwhile, had written to the home circle.  His letter was a masterpiece of sensibility and goodwill, as well as a sharp cry wrung from him by distress.  The answers which he received the next day will give some idea of the delight that Lucien took in this living encyclopedia of angelic spirits, each of whom bore the stamp of the art or science which he followed:—­

David Sechard to Lucien.

“MY DEAR LUCIEN,—­Enclosed herewith is a bill at ninety days, payable to your order, for two hundred francs.  You can draw on M. Metivier, paper merchant, our Paris correspondent in the Rue Serpente.  My good Lucien, we have absolutely nothing.  Eve has undertaken the charge of the printing-house, and works at her task with such devotion, patience, and industry, that I bless heaven for giving me such an angel for a wife.  She herself says that it is impossible to send you the least help.  But I think, my friend now that you are started in so promising a way, with such great and noble hearts for your companions, that you can hardly fail to reach the greatness to which you were born, aided as you are by intelligence almost divine in Daniel d’Arthez and Michel Chrestien and Leon Giraud, and counseled by Meyraux and Bianchon and Ridal, whom we have come to know through your dear letter.  So I have drawn this bill without Eve’s knowledge, and I will contrive somehow to meet it when the time comes.  Keep on your way, Lucien; it is rough, but it will be glorious.  I can bear anything but the thought of you sinking into the sloughs of Paris, of which I saw so much.  Have sufficient strength of mind to do as you are doing, and keep out of scrapes and bad company, wild young fellows and men of letters of a certain stamp, whom I learned to take at their just valuation when I lived in Paris.  Be a worthy compeer of the divine spirits whom we have learned to love through you.  Your life will soon meet with its reward.  Farewell, dearest brother; you have sent transports of joy to my heart.  I did not expect such courage of you.

“DAVID.”