Lost Illusions

Lucien went from Coralie and Camusot to the Wooden Galleries.  What a change had been wrought in his mind by his initiation into Journalism!  He mixed fearlessly now with the crowd which surged to and fro in the buildings; he even swaggered a little because he had a mistress; and he walked into Dauriat’s shop in an offhand manner because he was a journalist.

He found himself among distinguished men; gave a hand to Blondet and Nathan and Finot, and to all the coterie with whom he had been fraternizing for a week.  He was a personage, he thought, and he flattered himself that he surpassed his comrades.  That little flick of the wine did him admirable service; he was witty, he showed that he could “howl with the wolves.”

And yet, the tacit approval, the praises spoken and unspoken on which he had counted, were not forthcoming.  He noticed the first stirrings of jealousy among a group, less curious, perhaps, than anxious to know the place which this newcomer might take, and the exact portion of the sum-total of profits which he would probably secure and swallow.  Lucien only saw smiles on two faces—­Finot, who regarded him as a mine to be exploited, and Lousteau, who considered that he had proprietary rights in the poet, looked glad to see him.  Lousteau had begun already to assume the airs of an editor; he tapped sharply on the window-panes of Dauriat’s private office.

“One moment, my friend,” cried a voice within as the publisher’s face appeared above the green curtains.

The moment lasted an hour, and finally Lucien and Etienne were admitted into the sanctum.

“Well, have you thought over our friend’s proposal?” asked Etienne Lousteau, now an editor.

“To be sure,” said Dauriat, lolling like a sultan in his chair.  “I have read the volume.  And I submitted it to a man of taste, a good judge; for I don’t pretend to understand these things myself.  I myself, my friend, buy reputations ready-made, as the Englishman bought his love affairs.—­You are as great as a poet as you are handsome as a man, my boy,” pronounced Dauriat.  “Upon my word and honor (I don’t tell you that as a publisher, mind), your sonnets are magnificent; no sign of effort about them, as is natural when a man writes with inspiration and verve.  You know your craft, in fact, one of the good points of the new school.  Your volume of Marguerites is a fine book, but there is no business in it, and it is not worth my while to meddle with anything but a very big affair.  In conscience, I won’t take your sonnets.  It would be impossible to push them; there is not enough in the thing to pay the expenses of a big success.  You will not keep to poetry besides; this book of yours will be your first and last attempt of the kind.  You are young; you bring me the everlasting volume of early verse which every man of letters writes when he leaves school, he thinks a lot of it at the time, and laughs at it later on.  Lousteau, your friend, has a poem put away somewhere among his old socks, I’ll warrant.  Haven’t you a poem that you thought a good deal of once, Lousteau?” inquired Dauriat, with a knowing glance at the other.

“How should I be writing prose otherwise, eh?” asked Lousteau.

“There, you see!  He has never said a word to me about it, for our friend understands business and the trade,” continued Dauriat.  “For me the question is not whether you are a great poet, I know that,” he added, stroking down Lucien’s pride; “you have a great deal, a very great deal of merit; if I were only just starting in business, I should make the mistake of publishing your book.  But in the first place, my sleeping partners and those at the back of me are cutting off my supplies; I dropped twenty thousand francs over poetry last year, and that is enough for them; they will not hear of any more just now, and they are my masters.  Nevertheless, that is not the question.  I admit that you may be a great poet, but will you be a prolific writer?  Will you hatch sonnets regularly?  Will you run into ten volumes?  Is there business in it?  Of course not.  You will be a delightful prose writer; you have too much sense to spoil your style with tagging rhymes together.  You have a chance to make thirty thousand francs per annum by writing for the papers, and you will not exchange that chance for three thousand francs made with difficulty by your hemistiches and strophes and tomfoolery——­”

“You know that he is on the paper, Dauriat?” put in Lousteau.

“Yes,” Dauriat answered.  “Yes, I saw his article, and in his own interests I decline the Marguerites.  Yes, sir, in six months’ time I shall have paid you more money for the articles that I shall ask you to write than for your poetry that will not sell.”

“And fame?” said Lucien.

Dauriat and Lousteau laughed.

“Oh dear!” said Lousteau, “there be illusions left.”

“Fame means ten years of sticking to work, and a hundred thousand francs lost or made in the publishing trade.  If you find anybody mad enough to print your poetry for you, you will feel some respect for me in another twelvemonth, when you have had time to see the outcome of the transaction”

“Have you the manuscript here?” Lucien asked coldly.

“Here it is, my friend,” said Dauriat.  The publisher’s manner towards Lucien had sweetened singularly.

Lucien took up the roll without looking at the string, so sure he felt that Dauriat had read his Marguerites.  He went out with Lousteau, seemingly neither disconcerted nor dissatisfied.  Dauriat went with them into the shop, talking of his newspaper and Lousteau’s daily, while Lucien played with the manuscript of the Marguerites.

“Do you suppose that Dauriat has read your sonnets or sent them to any one else?” Etienne Lousteau snatched an opportunity to whisper.

“Yes,” said Lucien.

“Look at the string.”  Lucien looked down at the blot of ink, and saw that the mark on the string still coincided; he turned white with rage.

“Which of the sonnets was it that you particularly liked?” he asked, turning to the publisher.

“They are all of them remarkable, my friend; but the sonnet on the Marguerite is delightful, the closing thought is fine, and exquisitely expressed.  I felt sure from that sonnet that your prose work would command a success, and I spoke to Finot about you at once.  Write articles for us, and we will pay you well for them.  Fame is a very fine thing, you see, but don’t forget the practical and solid, and take every chance that turns up.  When you have made money, you can write poetry.”

The poet dashed out of the shop to avoid an explosion.  He was furious.  Lousteau followed.

“Well, my boy, pray keep cool.  Take men as they are—­for means to an end.  Do you wish for revenge?”

“At any price,” muttered the poet.

“Here is a copy of Nathan’s book.  Dauriat has just given it to me.  The second edition is coming out to-morrow; read the book again, and knock off an article demolishing it.  Felicien Vernou cannot endure Nathan, for he thinks that Nathan’s success will injure his own forthcoming book.  It is a craze with these little minds to fancy that there is not room for two successes under the sun; so he will see that your article finds a place in the big paper for which he writes.”

“But what is there to be said against the book; it is good work!” cried Lucien.

“Oh, I say! you must learn your trade,” said Lousteau, laughing.  “Given that the book was a masterpiece, under the stroke of your pen it must turn to dull trash, dangerous and unwholesome stuff.”

“But how?”

“You turn all the good points into bad ones.”

“I am incapable of such a juggler’s feat.”

“My dear boy, a journalist is a juggler; a man must make up his mind to the drawbacks of the calling.  Look here!  I am not a bad fellow; this is the way I should set to work myself.  Attention!  You might begin by praising the book, and amuse yourself a while by saying what you really think.  ‘Good,’ says the reader, ’this critic is not jealous; he will be impartial, no doubt,’ and from that point your public will think that your criticism is a piece of conscientious work.  Then, when you have won your reader’s confidence, you will regret that you must blame the tendency and influence of such work upon French literature.  ‘Does not France,’ you will say, ’sway the whole intellectual world?  French writers have kept Europe in the path of analysis and philosophical criticism from age to age by their powerful style and the original turn given by them to ideas.’  Here, for the benefit of the philistine, insert a panegyric on Voltaire, Rousseau, Diderot, Montesquieu, and Buffon.  Hold forth upon the inexorable French language; show how it spreads a varnish, as it were, over thought.  Let fall a few aphorisms, such as—­’A great writer in France is invariably a great man; he writes in a language which compels him to think; it is otherwise in other countries’—­and so on, and so on.  Then, to prove your case, draw a comparison between Rabener, the German satirical moralist, and La Bruyere.  Nothing gives a critic such an air as an apparent familiarity with foreign literature.  Kant is Cousin’s pedestal.

“Once on that ground you bring out a word which sums up the French men of genius of the eighteenth century for the benefit of simpletons—­you call that literature the ‘literature of ideas.’  Armed with this expression, you fling all the mighty dead at the heads of the illustrious living.  You explain that in the present day a new form of literature has sprung up; that dialogue (the easiest form of writing) is overdone, and description dispenses with any need for thinking on the part of the author or reader.  You bring up the fiction of Voltaire, Diderot, Sterne, and Le Sage, so trenchant, so compact of the stuff of life; and turn from them to the modern novel, composed of scenery and word-pictures and metaphor and the dramatic situations, of which Scott is full.  Invention may be displayed in such work, but there is no room for anything else.  ’The romance after the manner of Scott is a mere passing fashion in literature,’ you will say, and fulminate against the fatal way in which ideas are diluted and beaten thin; cry out against a style within the reach of any intellect, for any one can commence author at small expense in a way of literature, which you can nickname the ‘literature of imagery.’

“Then you fall upon Nathan with your argument, and establish it beyound cavil that he is a mere imitator with an appearance of genius.  The concise grand style of the eighteenth century is lacking; you show that the author substitutes events for sentiments.  Action and stir is not life; he gives you pictures, but no ideas.

“Come out with such phrases, and people will take them up.—­In spite of the merits of the work, it seems to you to be a dangerous, nay, a fatal precedent.  It throws open the gates of the temple of Fame to the crowd; and in the distance you descry a legion of petty authors hastening to imitate this novel and easy style of writing.

“Here you launch out into resounding lamentations over the decadence and decline of taste, and slip in eulogies of Messieurs Etienne Jouy, Tissot, Gosse, Duval, Jay, Benjamin Constant, Aignan, Baour-Lormian, Villemain, and the whole Liberal-Bonapartist chorus who patronize Vernou’s paper.  Next you draw a picture of that glorious phalanx of writers repelling the invasion of the Romantics; these are the upholders of ideas and style as against metaphor and balderdash; the modern representatives of the school of Voltaire as opposed to the English and German schools, even as the seventeen heroic deputies of the Left fought the battle for the nation against the Ultras of the Right.

“And then, under cover of names respected by the immense majority of Frenchmen (who will always be against the Government), you can crush Nathan; for although his work is far above the average, it confirms the bourgeois taste for literature without ideas.  And after that, you understand, it is no longer a question of Nathan and his book, but of France and the glory of France.  It is the duty of all honest and courageous pens to make strenuous opposition to these foreign importations.  And with that you flatter your readers.  Shrewd French mother-wit is not easily caught napping.  If publishers, by ways which you do not choose to specify, have stolen a success, the reading public very soon judges for itself, and corrects the mistakes made by some five hundred fools, who always rush to the fore.

“Say that the publisher who sold a first edition of the book is audacious indeed to issue a second, and express regret that so clever a man does not know the taste of the country better.  There is the gist of it.  Just a sprinkle of the salt of wit and a dash of vinegar to bring out the flavor, and Dauriat will be done to a turn.  But mind that you end with seeming to pity Nathan for a mistake, and speak of him as of a man from whom contemporary literature may look for great things if he renounces these ways.”

Lucien was amazed at this talk from Lousteau.  As the journalist spoke, the scales fell from his eyes; he beheld new truths of which he had never before caught so much as a glimpse.

“But all this that you are saying is quite true and just,” said he.

“If it were not, how could you make it tell against Nathan’s book?” asked Lousteau.  “That is the first manner of demolishing a book, my boy; it is the pickaxe style of criticism.  But there are plenty of other ways.  Your education will complete itself in time.  When you are absolutely obliged to speak of a man whom you do not like, for proprietors and editors are sometimes under compulsion, you bring out a neutral special article.  You put the title of the book at the head of it, and begin with general remarks, on the Greeks and the Romans if you like, and wind up with—­’and this brings us to Mr. So-and-so’s book, which will form the subject of a second article.’  The second article never appears, and in this way you snuff out the book between two promises.  But in this case you are writing down, not Nathan, but Dauriat; he needs the pickaxe style.  If the book is really good, the pickaxe does no harm; but it goes to the core of it if it is bad.  In the first case, no one but the publisher is any the worse; in the second, you do the public a service.  Both methods, moreover, are equally serviceable in political criticism.”

Etienne Lousteau’s cruel lesson opened up possibilities for Lucien’s imagination.  He understood this craft to admiration.

“Let us go to the office,” said Lousteau; “we shall find our friends there, and we will agree among ourselves to charge at Nathan; they will laugh, you will see.”

Arrived in the Rue Saint-Fiacre, they went up to the room in the roof where the paper was made up, and Lucien was surprised and gratified no less to see the alacrity with which his comrades proceeded to demolish Nathan’s book.  Hector Merlin took up a piece of paper and wrote a few lines for his own newspaper.—­

“A second edition of M. Nathan’s book is announced.  We had intended to keep silence with regard to that work, but its apparent success obliges us to publish an article, not so much upon the book itself as upon certain tendencies of the new school of literature.”

At the head of the “Facetiae” in the morning’s paper, Lousteau inserted the following note:—­

  “M.  Dauriat is bringing out a second edition of M. Nathan’s book. 
  Evidently he does not know the legal maxim, Non bis in idem.  All
  honor to rash courage.”

Lousteau’s words had been like a torch for burning; Lucien’s hot desire to be revenged on Dauriat took the place of conscience and inspiration.  For three days he never left Coralie’s room; he sat at work by the fire, waited upon by Berenice; petted, in moments of weariness, by the silent and attentive Coralie; till, at the end of that time, he had made a fair copy of about three columns of criticism, and an astonishingly good piece of work.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when he ran round to the office, found his associates, and read over his work to an attentive audience.  Felicien said not a syllable.  He took up the manuscript, and made off with it pell-mell down the staircase.

“What has come to him?” cried Lucien.

“He has taken your article straight to the printer,” said Hector Merlin. “’Tis a masterpiece; not a line to add, nor a word to take out.”

“There was no need to do more than show you the way,” said Lousteau.

“I should like to see Nathan’s face when he reads this to-morrow,” said another contributor, beaming with gentle satisfaction.

“It is as well to have you for a friend,” remarked Hector Merlin.

“Then it will do?” Lucien asked quickly.

“Blondet and Vignon will feel bad,” said Lousteau.

“Here is a short article which I have knocked together for you,” began Lucien; “if it takes, I could write you a series.”

“Read it over,” said Lousteau, and Lucien read the first of the delightful short papers which made the fortune of the little newspaper; a series of sketches of Paris life, a portrait, a type, an ordinary event, or some of the oddities of the great city.  This specimen—­“The Man in the Street”—­was written in a way that was fresh and original; the thoughts were struck out by the shock of the words, the sounding ring of the adverbs and adjectives caught the reader’s ear.  The paper was as different from the serious and profound article on Nathan as the Lettres persanes from the Esprit des lois.

“You are a born journalist,” said Lousteau.  “It shall go in to-morrow.  Do as much of this sort of thing as you like.”

“Ah, by the by,” said Merlin, “Dauriat is furious about those two bombshells hurled into his magazine.  I have just come from him.  He was hurling imprecations, and in such a rage with Finot, who told him that he had sold his paper to you.  As for me, I took him aside and just said a word in his ear.  ‘The Marguerites will cost you dear,’ I told him.  ’A man of talent comes to you, you turn the cold shoulder on him, and send him into the arms of the newspapers.’”

“Dauriat will be dumfounded by the article on Nathan,” said Lousteau.  “Do you see now what journalism is, Lucien?  Your revenge is beginning to tell.  The Baron Chatelet came here this morning for your address.  There was a cutting article upon him in this morning’s issue; he is a weakling, that buck of the Empire, and he has lost his head.  Have you seen the paper?  It is a funny article.  Look, ’Funeral of the Heron, and the Cuttlefish-bone’s lament.’  Mme. de Bargeton is called the Cuttlefish-bone now, and no mistake, and Chatelet is known everywhere as Baron Heron.”

Lucien took up the paper, and could not help laughing at Vernou’s extremely clever skit.

“They will capitulate soon,” said Hector Merlin.

Lucien merrily assisted at the manufacture of epigrams and jokes at the end of the paper; and the associates smoked and chatted over the day’s adventures, over the foibles of some among their number, or some new bit of personal gossip.  From their witty, malicious, bantering talk, Lucien gained a knowledge of the inner life of literature, and of the manners and customs of the craft.

“While they are setting up the paper, I will go round with you and introduce you to the managers of your theatres, and take you behind the scenes,” said Lousteau.  “And then we will go to the Panorama-Dramatique, and have a frolic in their dressing-rooms.”

Arm-in-arm, they went from theatre to theatre.  Lucien was introduced to this one and that, and enthroned as a dramatic critic.  Managers complimented him, actresses flung him side glances; for every one of them knew that this was the critic who, by a single article, had gained an engagement at the Gymnase, with twelve thousand francs a year, for Coralie, and another for Florine at the Panorama-Dramatique with eight thousand francs.  Lucien was a man of importance.  The little ovations raised Lucien in his own eyes, and taught him to know his power.  At eleven o’clock the pair arrived at the Panorama-Dramatique; Lucien with a careless air that worked wonders.  Nathan was there.  Nathan held out a hand, which Lucien squeezed.

“Ah! my masters, so you have a mind to floor me, have you?” said Nathan, looking from one to the other.

“Just you wait till to-morrow, my dear fellow, and you shall see how Lucien has taken you in hand.  Upon my word, you will be pleased.  A piece of serious criticism like that is sure to do a book good.”

Lucien reddened with confusion.

“Is it severe?” inquired Nathan.

“It is serious,” said Lousteau.

“Then there is no harm done,” Nathan rejoined.  “Hector Merlin in the greenroom of the Vaudeville was saying that I had been cut up.”

“Let him talk, and wait,” cried Lucien, and took refuge in Coralie’s dressing-room.  Coralie, in her alluring costume, had just come off the stage.

Next morning, as Lucien and Coralie sat at breakfast, a carriage drove along the Rue de Vendome.  The street was quiet enough, so that they could hear the light sound made by an elegant cabriolet; and there was that in the pace of the horse, and the manner of pulling up at the door, which tells unmistakably of a thoroughbred.  Lucien went to the window, and there, in fact, beheld a splendid English horse, and no less a person than Dauriat flinging the reins to his man as he stepped down.

“’Tis the publisher, Coralie,” said Lucien.

“Let him wait, Berenice,” Coralie said at once.

Lucien smiled at her presence of mind, and kissed her with a great rush of tenderness.  This mere girl had made his interests hers in a wonderful way; she was quick-witted where he was concerned.  The apparition of the insolent publisher, the sudden and complete collapse of that prince of charlatans, was due to circumstances almost entirely forgotten, so utterly has the book trade changed during the last fifteen years.

From 1816 to 1827, when newspaper reading-rooms were only just beginning to lend new books, the fiscal law pressed more heavily than ever upon periodical publications, and necessity created the invention of advertisements.  Paragraphs and articles in the newspapers were the only means of advertisement known in those days; and French newspapers before the year 1822 were so small, that the largest sheet of those times was not so large as the smallest daily paper of ours.  Dauriat and Ladvocat, the first publishers to make a stand against the tyranny of journalists, were also the first to use the placards which caught the attention of Paris by strange type, striking colors, vignettes, and (at a later time) by lithograph illustrations, till a placard became a fairy-tale for the eyes, and not unfrequently a snare for the purse of the amateur.  So much originality indeed was expended on placards in Paris, that one of that peculiar kind of maniacs, known as a collector, possesses a complete series.

At first the placard was confined to the shop-windows and stalls upon the Boulevards in Paris; afterwards it spread all over France, till it was supplanted to some extent by a return to advertisements in the newspapers.  But the placard, nevertheless, which continues to strike the eye, after the advertisement and the book which is advertised are both forgotten, will always be among us; it took a new lease of life when walls were plastered with posters.

Newspaper advertising, the offspring of heavy stamp duties, a high rate of postage, and the heavy deposits of caution-money required by the government as security for good behavior, is within the reach of all who care to pay for it, and has turned the fourth page of every journal into a harvest field alike for the speculator and the Inland Revenue Department.  The press restrictions were invented in the time of M. de Villele, who had a chance, if he had but known it, of destroying the power of journalism by allowing newspapers to multiply till no one took any notice of them; but he missed his opportunity, and a sort of privilege was created, as it were, by the almost insuperable difficulties put in the way of starting a new venture.  So, in 1821, the periodical press might be said to have power of life and death over the creations of the brain and the publishing trade.  A few lines among the items of news cost a fearful amount.  Intrigues were multiplied in newspaper offices; and of a night when the columns were divided up, and this or that article was put in or left out to suit the space, the printing-room became a sort of battlefield; so much so, that the largest publishing firms had writers in their pay to insert short articles in which many ideas are put in little space.  Obscure journalists of this stamp were only paid after the insertion of the items, and not unfrequently spent the night in the printing-office to make sure that their contributions were not omitted; sometimes putting in a long article, obtained heaven knows how, sometimes a few lines of a puff.

The manners and customs of journalism and of the publishing houses have since changed so much, that many people nowadays will not believe what immense efforts were made by writers and publishers of books to secure a newspaper puff; the martyrs of glory, and all those who are condemned to the penal servitude of a life-long success, were reduced to such shifts, and stooped to depths of bribery and corruption as seem fabulous to-day.  Every kind of persuasion was brought to bear on journalists—­dinners, flattery, and presents.  The following story will throw more light on the close connection between the critic and the publisher than any quantity of flat assertions.

There was once upon a time an editor of an important paper, a clever writer with a prospect of becoming a statesman; he was young in those days, and fond of pleasure, and he became the favorite of a well-known publishing house.  One Sunday the wealthy head of the firm was entertaining several of the foremost journalists of the time in the country, and the mistress of the house, then a young and pretty woman, went to walk in her park with the illustrious visitor.  The head-clerk of the firm, a cool, steady, methodical German with nothing but business in his head, was discussing a project with one of the journalists, and as they chatted they walked on into the woods beyond the park.  In among the thickets the German thought he caught a glimpse of his hostess, put up his eyeglass, made a sign to his young companion to be silent, and turned back, stepping softly.—­“What did you see?” asked the journalist.—­“Nothing particular,” said the clerk.  “Our affair of the long article is settled.  To-morrow we shall have at least three columns in the Debats.”

Another anecdote will show the influence of a single article.

A book of M. de Chateaubriand’s on the last of the Stuarts was for some time a “nightingale” on the bookseller’s shelves.  A single article in the Journal des Debats sold the work in a week.  In those days, when there were no lending libraries, a publisher would sell an edition of ten thousand copies of a book by a Liberal if it was well reviewed by the Opposition papers; but then the Belgian pirated editions were not as yet.

The preparatory attacks made by Lucien’s friends, followed up by his article on Nathan, proved efficacious; they stopped the sale of his book.  Nathan escaped with the mortification; he had been paid; he had nothing to lose; but Dauriat was like to lose thirty thousand francs.  The trade in new books may, in fact, be summed up much on this wise.  A ream of blank paper costs fifteen francs, a ream of printed paper is worth anything between a hundred sous and a hundred crowns, according to its success; a favorable or unfavorable review at a critical time often decides the question; and Dauriat having five hundred reams of printed paper on hand, hurried to make terms with Lucien.  The sultan was now the slave.

After waiting for some time, fidgeting and making as much noise as he could while parleying with Berenice, he at last obtained speech of Lucien; and, arrogant publisher though he was, he came in with the radiant air of a courtier in the royal presence, mingled, however, with a certain self-sufficiency and easy good humor.

“Don’t disturb yourselves, my little dears!  How nice they look, just like a pair of turtle-doves!  Who would think now, mademoiselle, that he, with that girl’s face of his, could be a tiger with claws of steel, ready to tear a reputation to rags, just as he tears your wrappers, I’ll be bound, when you are not quick enough to unfasten them,” and he laughed before he had finished his jest.

“My dear boy——­” he began, sitting down beside Lucien.  —­“Mademoiselle, I am Dauriat,” he said, interrupting himself.  He judged it expedient to fire his name at her like a pistol shot, for he considered that Coralie was less cordial than she should have been.

“Have you breakfasted, monsieur; will you keep us company?” asked Coralie.

“Why, yes; it is easier to talk at table,” said Dauriat.  “Besides, by accepting your invitation I shall have a right to expect you to dine with my friend Lucien here, for we must be close friends now, hand and glove!”

“Berenice!  Bring oysters, lemons, fresh butter, and champagne,” said Coralie.

“You are too clever not to know what has brought me here,” said Dauriat, fixing his eyes on Lucien.

“You have come to buy my sonnets.”

“Precisely.  First of all, let us lay down our arms on both sides.”  As he spoke he took out a neat pocketbook, drew from it three bills for a thousand francs each, and laid them before Lucien with a suppliant air.  “Is monsieur content?” asked he.

“Yes,” said the poet.  A sense of beatitude, for which no words exist, flooded his soul at the sight of that unhoped wealth.  He controlled himself, but he longed to sing aloud, to jump for joy; he was ready to believe in Aladdin’s lamp and in enchantment; he believed in his own genius, in short.

“Then the Marguerites are mine,” continued Dauriat; “but you will undertake not to attack my publications, won’t you?”

“The Marguerites are yours, but I cannot pledge my pen; it is at the service of my friends, as theirs are mine.”

“But you are one of my authors now.  All my authors are my friends.  So you won’t spoil my business without warning me beforehand, so that I am prepared, will you?”

“I agree to that.”

“To your fame!” and Dauriat raised his glass.

“I see that you have read the Marguerites,” said Lucien.

Dauriat was not disconcerted.

“My boy, a publisher cannot pay a greater compliment than by buying your Marguerites unread.  In six months’ time you will be a great poet.  You will be written up; people are afraid of you; I shall have no difficulty in selling your book.  I am the same man of business that I was four days ago.  It is not I who have changed; it is you.  Last week your sonnets were so many cabbage leaves for me; to-day your position has ranked them beside Delavigne.”

“Ah well,” said Lucien, “if you have not read my sonnets, you have read my article.”  With the sultan’s pleasure of possessing a fair mistress, and the certainty of success, he had grown satirical and adorably impertinent of late.

“Yes, my friend; do you think I should have come here in such a hurry but for that?  That terrible article of yours is very well written, worse luck.  Oh! you have a very great gift, my boy.  Take my advice and make the most of your vogue,” he added, with good humor, which masked the extreme insolence of the speech.  “But have you yourself a copy of the paper?  Have you seen your article in print?”

“Not yet,” said Lucien, “though this is the first long piece of prose which I have published; but Hector will have sent a copy to my address in the Rue Charlot.”

“Here—­read!” . . . cried Dauriat, copying Talma’s gesture in Manlius.

Lucien took the paper but Coralie snatched it from him.

“The first-fruits of your pen belong to me, as you well know,” she laughed.

Dauriat was unwontedly courtier-like and complimentary.  He was afraid of Lucien, and therefore he asked him to a great dinner which he was giving to a party of journalists towards the end of the week, and Coralie was included in the invitation.  He took the Marguerites away with him when he went, asking his poet to look in when he pleased in the Wooden Galleries, and the agreement should be ready for his signature.  Dauriat never forgot the royal airs with which he endeavored to overawe superficial observers, and to impress them with the notion that he was a Maecenas rather than a publisher; at this moment he left the three thousand francs, waving away in lordly fashion the receipt which Lucien offered, kissed Coralie’s hand, and took his departure.

“Well, dear love, would you have seen many of these bits of paper if you had stopped in your hole in the Rue de Cluny, prowling about among the musty old books in the Bibliotheque de Sainte-Genevieve?” asked Coralie, for she knew the whole story of Lucien’s life by this time.  “Those little friends of yours in the Rue des Quatre-Vents are great ninnies, it seems to me.”

His brothers of the cenacle!  And Lucien could hear the verdict and laugh.

He had seen himself in print; he had just experienced the ineffable joy of the author, that first pleasurable thrill of gratified vanity which comes but once.  The full import and bearing of his article became apparent to him as he read and re-read it.  The garb of print is to manuscript as the stage is to women; it brings beauties and defects to light, killing and giving life; the fine thoughts and the faults alike stare you in the face.

Lucien, in his excitement and rapture, gave not another thought to Nathan.  Nathan was a stepping-stone for him—­that was all; and he (Lucien) was happy exceedingly—­he thought himself rich.  The money brought by Dauriat was a very Potosi for the lad who used to go about unnoticed through the streets of Angouleme and down the steep path into L’Houmeau to Postel’s garret, where his whole family had lived upon an income of twelve hundred francs.  The pleasures of his life in Paris must inevitably dim the memories of those days; but so keen were they, that, as yet, he seemed to be back again in the Place du Murier.  He thought of Eve, his beautiful, noble sister, of David his friend, and of his poor mother, and he sent Berenice out to change one of the notes.  While she went he wrote a few lines to his family, and on the maid’s return he sent her to the coach-office with a packet of five hundred francs addressed to his mother.  He could not trust himself; he wanted to sent the money at once; later he might not be able to do it.  Both Lucien and Coralie looked upon this restitution as a meritorious action.  Coralie put her arms about her lover and kissed him, and thought him a model son and brother; she could not make enough of him, for generosity is a trait of character which delights these kindly creatures, who always carry their hearts in their hands.

“We have a dinner now every day for a week,” she said; “we will make a little carnival; you have worked quite hard enough.”

Coralie, fain to delight in the beauty of a man whom all other women should envy her, took Lucien back to Staub.  He was not dressed finely enough for her.  Thence the lovers went to drive in the Bois de Boulogne, and came back to dine at Mme. du Val-Noble’s.  Rastignac, Bixiou, des Lupeaulx, Finot, Blondet, Vignon, the Baron de Nucingen, Beaudenord, Philippe Bridau, Conti, the great musician, all the artists and speculators, all the men who seek for violent sensations as a relief from immense labors, gave Lucien a welcome among them.  And Lucien had gained confidence; he gave himself out in talk as though he had not to live by his wit, and was pronounced to be a “clever fellow” in the slang of the coterie of semi-comrades.

“Oh! we must wait and see what he has in him,” said Theodore Gaillard, a poet patronized by the Court, who thought of starting a Royalist paper to be entitled the Reveil at a later day.

After dinner, Merlin and Lucien, Coralie and Mme. du Val-Noble, went to the Opera, where Merlin had a box.  The whole party adjourned thither, and Lucien triumphant reappeared upon the scene of his first serious check.

He walked in the lobby, arm in arm with Merlin and Blondet, looking the dandies who had once made merry at his expense between the eyes.  Chatelet was under his feet.  He clashed glances with de Marsay, Vandenesse, and Manerville, the bucks of that day.  And indeed Lucien, beautiful and elegantly arrayed, had caused a discussion in the Marquise d’Espard’s box; Rastignac had paid a long visit, and the Marquise and Mme. de Bargeton put up their opera-glasses at Coralie.  Did the sight of Lucien send a pang of regret through Mme. de Bargeton’s heart?  This thought was uppermost in the poet’s mind.  The longing for revenge aroused in him by the sight of the Corinne of Angouleme was as fierce as on that day when the lady and her cousin had cut him in the Champs-Elysees.

“Did you bring an amulet with you from the provinces?”—­It was Blondet who made this inquiry some few days later, when he called at eleven o’clock in the morning and found that Lucien was not yet risen.—­“His good looks are making ravages from cellar to garret, high and low,” continued Blondet, kissing Coralie on the forehead.  “I have come to enlist you, dear fellow,” he continued, grasping Lucien by the hand.  “Yesterday, at the Italiens, the Comtesse de Montcornet asked me to bring you to her house.  You will not give a refusal to a charming woman?  You meet people of the first fashion there.”

“If Lucien is nice, he will not go to see your Countess,” put in Coralie.  “What call is there for him to show his face in fine society?  He would only be bored there.”

“Have you a vested interest in him?  Are you jealous of fine ladies?”

“Yes,” cried Coralie.  “They are worse than we are.”

“How do you know that, my pet?” asked Blondet.

“From their husbands,” retorted she.  “You are forgetting that I once had six months of de Marsay.”

“Do you suppose, child, that I am particularly anxious to take such a handsome fellow as your poet to Mme. de Montcornet’s house?  If you object, let us consider that nothing has been said.  But I don’t fancy that the women are so much in question as a poor devil that Lucien pilloried in his newspaper; he is begging for mercy and peace.  The Baron du Chatelet is imbecile enough to take the thing seriously.  The Marquise d’Espard, Mme. de Bargeton, and Mme. de Montcornet’s set have taken up the Heron’s cause; and I have undertaken to reconcile Petrarch and his Laura—­Mme. de Bargeton and Lucien.”

“Aha!” cried Lucien, the glow of the intoxication of revenge throbbing full-pulsed through every vein.  “Aha! so my foot is on their necks!  You make me adore my pen, worship my friends, bow down to the fate-dispensing power of the press.  I have not written a single sentence as yet upon the Heron and the Cuttlefish-bone.—­I will go with you, my boy,” he cried, catching Blondet by the waist; “yes, I will go; but first, the couple shall feel the weight of this, for so light as it is.”  He flourished the pen which had written the article upon Nathan.