"But in a year's time shall we have placed a hundred copies of Leonide?"said the other voice."If books went off as fast as the publishers would like,we should be millionaires,my good sir;but they don't,they go as the public pleases.There is some one now bringing out an edition of Scott's novels at eighteen sous per volume,three livres twelve sous per copy,and you want me to give you more for your stale remainders?No.If you mean me to push this novel of yours,you must make it worth my while.--Vidal!"A stout man,with a pen behind his ear,came down from his desk.
"How many copies of Ducange did you place last journey?"asked Porchon of his partner.
"Two hundred of Le Petit Vieillard de Calais,but to sell them I was obliged to cry down two books which pay in less commission,and uncommonly fine 'nightingales'they are now.
(A "nightingale,"as Lucien afterwards learned,is a bookseller's name for books that linger on hand,perched out of sight in the loneliest nooks in the shop.)"And besides,"added Vidal,"Picard is bringing out some novels,as you know.We have been promised twenty per cent on the published price to make the thing a success.""Very well,at twelve months,"the publisher answered in a piteous voice,thunderstruck by Vidal's confidential remark.
"Is it an offer?"Porchon inquired curtly.
"Yes."The stranger went out.After he had gone,Lucien heard Porchon say to Vidal:
"We have three hundred copies on order now.We will keep him waiting for his settlement,sell the Leonides for five francs net,settlement in six months,and----""And that will be fifteen hundred francs into our pockets,"said Vidal.
"Oh,I saw quite well that he was in a fix.He is giving Ducange four thousand francs for two thousand copies."Lucien cut Vidal short by appearing in the entrance of the den.
"I have the honor of wishing you a good day,gentlemen,"he said,addressing both partners.The booksellers nodded slightly.
"I have a French historical romance after the style of Scott.It is called The Archer of Charles IX.;I propose to offer it to you----"Porchon glanced at Lucien with lustreless eyes,and laid his pen down on the desk.Vidal stared rudely at the author.
"We are not publishing booksellers,sir;we are booksellers'agents,"he said."When we bring out a book ourselves,we only deal in well-known names;and we only take serious literature besides--history and epitomes.""But my book is very serious.It is an attempt to set the struggle between Catholics and Calvinists in its true light;the Catholics were supporters of absolute monarchy,and the Protestants for a republic.""M.Vidal!"shouted an assistant.Vidal fled.
"I don't say,sir,that your book is not a masterpiece,"replied Porchon,with scanty civility,"but we only deal in books that are ready printed.Go and see somebody that buys manus.There is old Doguereau in the Rue du Coq,near the Louvre,he is in the romance line.If you had only spoken sooner,you might have seen Pollet,a competitor of Doguereau and of the publisher in the Wooden Galleries.""I have a volume of poetry----"
"M.Porchon!"somebody shouted.
"POETRY!"Porchon exclaimed angrily."For what do you take me?"he added,laughing in Lucien's face.And he dived into the regions of the back shop.
Lucien went back across the Pont Neuf absorbed in reflection.From all that he understood of this mercantile dialect,it appeared that books,like cotton nightcaps,were to be regarded as articles of merchandise to be sold dear and bought cheap.
"I have made a mistake,"said Lucien to himself;but,all the same,this rough-and-ready practical aspect of literature made an impression upon him.
In the Rue du Coq he stopped in front of a modest-looking shop,which he had passed before.He saw the inion DOGUEREAU,BOOKSELLER,painted above it in yellow letters on a green ground,and remembered that he had seen the name at the foot of the title-page of several novels at Blosse's reading-room.In he went,not without the inward trepidation which a man of any imagination feels at the prospect of a battle.Inside the shop he discovered an odd-looking old man,one of the queer characters of the trade in the days of the Empire.
Doguereau wore a black coat with vast square skirts,when fashion required swallow-tail coats.His waistcoat was of some cheap material,a checked pattern of many colors;a steel chain,with a copper key attached to it,hung from his fob and dangled down over a roomy pair of black nether garments.The booksellers'watch must have been the size of an onion.Iron-gray ribbed stockings,and shoes with silver buckles completed is costume.The old man's head was bare,and ornamented with a fringe of grizzled locks,quite poetically scanty.
"Old Doguereau,"as Porchon styled him,was dressed half like a professor of belles-lettres as to his trousers and shoes,half like a tradesman with respect to the variegated waistcoat,the stockings,and the watch;and the same odd mixture appeared in the man himself.He united the magisterial,dogmatic air,and the hollow countenance of the professor of rhetoric with the sharp eyes,suspicious mouth,and vague uneasiness of the bookseller.
"M.Doguereau?"asked Lucien.
"That is my name,sir."
"You are very young,"remarked the bookseller.
"My age,sir,has nothing to do with the matter.""True,"and the old bookseller took up the manu."Ah,begad!The Archer of Charles IX.,a good title.Let us see now,young man,just tell me your subject in a word or two.""It is a historical work,sir,in the style of Scott.The character of the struggle between the Protestants and Catholics is depicted as a struggle between two opposed systems of government,in which the throne is seriously endangered.I have taken the Catholic side.""Eh!but you have ideas,young man.Very well,I will read your book,I promise you.I would rather have had something more in Mrs.
