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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 were condensed and vivid.
He had no mind to stay a moment longer than was necessary in that odious house. He wasted his time that day; he had fallen a victim to that fever of the brain that accompanies the too vivid hopes of youth. Vautrin's arguments had set him meditating on social life, and he was deep in these reflections when he happened on his friend Bianchon in the Jardin du Luxembourg.
Lucien was in danger for two long months; and often at the theatre Coralie acted her frivolous role with one thought in her heart, "Perhaps he is dying at this moment." Lucien owed his life to the skill and devotion of a friend whom he had grievously hurt. Bianchon had come to tend him after hearing the story of the attack from d'Arthez, who told it in confidence, and excused the unhappy poet.
"If you go on living as you live now, in three years you will be hideous," replied Bianchon in a dictatorial tone. "Monsieur!" said Madame de la Baudraye, almost frightened. "Forgive my friend," said Lousteau, half jestingly. "He is always the medical man, and to him love is merely a question of hygiene.
"I cannot bear to keep them waiting, poor souls! Well, and what do you want of me?" "I have come to ask you to dine to-morrow with the Marquise d'Espard." "A relation of ours?" asked Popinot, with such genuine absence of mind that Bianchon laughed.
"You would not say that if you thought that there was no harm in it," said Bianchon. "I could have wished Lucien a Beatrice," said d'Arthez, "a noble woman, who would have been a help to him in life " "But, Daniel," asked Lucien, "love is love wherever you find it, is it not?" "Ah!" said the republican member, "on that one point I am an aristocrat.
Joseph had invited Leon Giraud, d'Arthez, Michel Chrestien, Fulgence Ridal, and Horace Bianchon, his friends of the fraternity. Madame Descoings had promised Bixiou, her so-called step-son, that the young people should play at ecarte. Desroches the younger, who had now taken, under his father's stern rule, his degree at law, was also of the party.
We have Puritan women here, sour enough to tear the laces of Parisian finery, and eat out all the poetry of your Parisian beauties, who undermine the happiness of others while they cry up their walnuts and rancid bacon, glorify this squalid mouse-hole, and the dingy color and conventual small of our delightful life at Sancerre." "I admire such courage, madame," said Bianchon.
"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."
At this moment the footman, so called a farm-servant put into livery brought in the letters and papers, and among them a packet of proof, which the journalist left for Bianchon; for Madame de la Baudraye, on seeing the parcel, of which the form and string were obviously from the printers, exclaimed: "What, does literature pursue you even here?"
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