by shameful and perpetual compromise, sinks lower, the spring of noble
thoughts grows rusty, the hinges of familiarity wear easy, and turn of
their own accord. Alceste becomes Philinte, natures lose their
firmness, talents are perverted, faith in great deeds evaporates. The
man who yearned to be proud of his work wastes himself in rubbishy
articles which his conscience regards, sooner or later, as so many
evil actions. He started, like Lousteau or Vernou, to be a great
writer; he finds himself a feeble scrivener. Hence it is impossible to
honor too highly men whose character stands as high as their talent
--men like d'Arthez, who know how to walk surefooted across the reefs
of literary life.

Lucien could make no reply to Blondet's flattery; his wit had an
irresistible charm for him, and he maintained the hold of the
corrupter over his pupil; besides, he held a position in the world
through his connection with the Comtesse de Montcornet.

"Has an uncle left you a fortune?" said Finot, laughing at him.

"Like you, I have marked some fools for cutting down," replied Lucien
in the same tone.

"Then Monsieur has a review--a newspaper of his own?" Andoche Finot
retorted, with the impertinent presumption of a chief to a
subordinate.

"I have something better," replied Lucien, whose vanity, nettled by
the assumed superiority of his editor, restored him to the sense of
his new position.