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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Then do you yourself expect these ordeals?" asked Lucien. "Trials of every kind, slander and treachery, and effrontery and cunning, the rivals who act unfairly, and the keen competition of the literary market," his companion said resignedly. "What is a first loss, if only your work was good?" "Will you look at mine and give me your opinion?" asked Lucien. "So be it," said d'Arthez.
A man can be a great man and a wicked one, just as he can be a fool and a devoted lover. D'Arthez is one of those privileged beings in whom shrewdness of mind and a broad expanse of the qualities of the brain do not exclude either the strength or the grandeur of sentiments. He is, by rare privilege, equally a man of action and a man of thought. His private life is noble and generous.
Be assured that where, as you say, other women are common and vulgar, you can only seem distinguished; your manner of saying things would make a cook-book interesting." "You go fast in friendship," she said, in a grave voice which made d'Arthez extremely uneasy.
Daniel d'Arthez, one of the rare men who, in our day, unite a noble character with great talent, had already obtained, not all the popularity his works deserve, but a respectful esteem to which souls of his own calibre could add nothing. His reputation will certainly increase; but in the eyes of connoisseurs it had already attained its full development.
"Yes, I will," replied the princess. A few days after this conversation Blondet and Rastignac, who knew d'Arthez, promised Madame d'Espard that they would bring him to dine with her. This promise might have proved rash had it not been for the name of the princess, a meeting with whom was not a matter of indifference to the great writer.
Canalis and Nathan are two dissimilar cases; things never fall out in the same way twice. There is d'Arthez, who knocks himself to pieces with work he will make a famous name by some other chance. "This so much desired reputation is nearly always crowned prostitution.
D'Arthez was dumbfounded. In his eyes convicts sent to the galleys for murder, or aggravated robbery, or for putting a wrong name to checks, were saints compared to the men and women of society. This atrocious elegy, forged in the arsenal of lies, and steeped in the waters of the Parisian Styx, had been poured into his ears with the inimitable accent of truth.
For several months past d'Arthez had been subjected to the jests and satire of Blondet and Rastignac, who reproached him with knowing neither the world nor women.
"Michel foresees your future; perhaps in the street, at this moment, he is thinking of you with tears in his eyes." D'Arthez was kind, and talked comfortingly, and tried to cheer Lucien. The poet spent an hour with his friends, then he went, but his conscience treated him hardly, crying to him, "You will be a journalist a journalist!" as the witch cried to Macbeth that he should be king hereafter!
"It confirms some observations of my own. There is a spice of vanity in Lucien." "He is a poet," said d'Arthez. "But do you grudge me such a very natural feeling?" asked Lucien. "We should bear in mind that he did not hide it," said Leon Giraud; "he is still open with us; but I am afraid that he may come to feel shy of us." "And why?" Lucien asked.
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