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Updated: May 21, 2025
She had been calumniated; and she evidently wanted to know if anything had tarnished her in the eyes of him who had loved her; had he died with all his illusions? "Michel," replied d'Arthez, "was one of those men who love absolutely, and who, if they choose ill, can suffer without renouncing the woman they have once elected." "Was I loved thus?" she said, with an air of exalted beatitude.
"Very likely," answered Finot, "if Bianchon has any hand in their theories." "Pshaw!" said Lousteau; "he will be a great physician anyhow." "Isn't d'Arthez their visible head?" asked Nathan, "a little youngster that is going to swallow all of us up." "He is a genius!" cried Lucien. "Genius, is he! Well, give me a glass of sherry!" said Claude Vignon, smiling.
It was his novel; a note from Daniel d'Arthez lay beside it: "Our friends are almost satisfied with your work, dear poet," d'Arthez wrote. "You will be able to present it with more confidence now, they say, to friends and enemies. We saw your charming article on the Panorama-Dramatique; you are sure to excite as much jealousy in the profession as regret among your friends here. "Regrets!
"I look upon a periodical repentance as great hypocrisy," d'Arthez said solemnly; "repentance becomes a sort of indemnity for wrongdoing. Repentance is virginity of the soul, which we must keep for God; a man who repents twice is a horrible sycophant. I am afraid that you regard repentance as absolution." Lucien went slowly back to the Rue de la Lune, stricken dumb by those words.
D'Arthez naturally wrote, after a time, to tell your husband of the condition of his sister-in-law and her children, informing him, at the same time, of the generous intentions of the Indian Gaston towards his Paris brother, which an unhappy chance had frustrated. Gaston, as you may imagine, hurried off to Paris. Here is the first ride accounted for.
"We can read your thoughts," answered Joseph Bridau. "There is a diabolical spirit in you that will seek to justify courses which are utterly contrary to our principles. Instead of being a sophist in theory, you will be a sophist in practice." "Ah! I am afraid of that," said d'Arthez.
At the present time Daniel d'Arthez was correcting the manuscript of The Archer of Charles IX. He reconstructed whole chapters, and wrote the fine passages found therein, as well as the magnificent preface, which is, perhaps, the best thing in the book, and throws so much light on the work of the young school of literature.
"Well?" queried Lucien, laying the manuscript on the chimney-piece. "You have made a good start on the right way," d'Arthez answered judicially, "but you must go over your work again. You must strike out a different style for yourself if you do not mean to ape Sir Walter Scott, for you have taken him for your model.
He had a piece of imaginative work on hand, undertaken solely for the sake of studying the resources of language, an important psychological study in the form of a novel, unfinished as yet, for d'Arthez took it up or laid it down as the humor took him, and kept it for days of great distress.
One day it so happened that Daniel had been waiting for Lucien, who now sat with his friend's hand in his own, when he saw Etienne Lousteau turn the door-handle. Lucien instantly dropped Daniel's hand, and told the waiter that he would dine at his old place by the counter. D'Arthez gave Lucien a glance of divine kindness, in which reproach was wrapped in forgiveness.
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