So your book is sealed,so to speak.This is not useless to you for the experiment that you propose to make.And another thing:please to observe that you are not arriving quite alone and without a sponsor in the place,like the youngsters who make the round of half-a-score of publishers before they find one that will offer them a chair."Lucien's experience confirmed the truth of this particular.Lousteau paid the cabman,giving him three francs--a piece of prodigality following upon such impecuniosity astonishing Lucien more than a little.Then the two friends entered the Wooden Galleries,where fashionable literature,as it is called,used to reign in state.
The Wooden Galleries of the Palais Royal used to be one of the most famous sights of Paris.Some deion of the squalid bazar will not be out of place;for there are few men of forty who will not take an interest in recollections of a state of things which will seem incredible to a younger generation.
The great dreary,spacious Galerie d'Orleans,that flowerless hothouse,as yet was not;the space upon which it now stands was covered with booths;or,to be more precise,with small,wooden dens,pervious to the weather,and dimly illuminated on the side of the court and the garden by borrowed lights styled windows by courtesy,but more like the filthiest arrangements for obscuring daylight to be found in little wineshops in the suburbs.
The Galleries,parallel passages about twelve feet in height,were formed by a triple row of shops.The centre row,giving back and front upon the Galleries,was filled with the fetid atmosphere of the place,and derived a dubious daylight through the invariably dirty windows of the roof;but so thronged were these hives,that rents were excessively high,and as much as a thousand crowns was paid for a space scarce six feet by eight.The outer rows gave respectively upon the garden and the court,and were covered on that side by a slight trellis-work painted green,to protect the crazy plastered walls from continual friction with the passers-by.In a few square feet of earth at the back of the shops,strange freaks of vegetable life unknown to science grew amid the products of various no less flourishing industries.You beheld a rosebush capped with printed paper in such a sort that the flowers of rhetoric were perfumed by the cankered blossoms of that ill-kept,ill-smelling garden.Handbills and ribbon streamers of every hue flaunted gaily among the leaves;natural flowers competed unsuccessfully for an existence with odds and ends of millinery.You discovered a knot of ribbon adorning a green tuft;the dahlia admired afar proved on a nearer view to be a satin rosette.
The Palais seen from the court or from the garden was a fantastic sight,a grotesque combination of walls of plaster patchwork which had once been whitewashed,of blistered paint,heterogeneous placards,and all the most unaccountable freaks of Parisian squalor;the green trellises were prodigiously the dingier for constant contact with a Parisian public.So,upon either side,the fetid,disreputable approaches might have been there for the express purpose of warning away fastidious people;but fastidious folk no more recoiled before these horrors than the prince in the fairy stories turns tail at sight of the dragon or of the other obstacles put between him and the princess by the wicked fairy.
There was a passage through the centre of the Galleries then as now;and,as at the present day,you entered them through the two peristyles begun before the Revolution,and left unfinished for lack of funds;but in place of the handsome modern arcade leading to the Theatre-Francais,you passed along a narrow,disproportionately lofty passage,so ill-roofed that the rain came through on wet days.All the roofs of the hovels indeed were in very bad repair,and covered here and again with a double thickness of tarpaulin.A famous silk mercer once brought an action against the Orleans family for damages done in the course of a night to his stock of shawls and stuffs,and gained the day and a considerable sum.It was in this last-named passage,called "The Glass Gallery"to distinguish it from the Wooden Galleries,that Chevet laid the foundations of his fortunes.
Here,in the Palais,you trod the natural soil of Paris,augmented by importations brought in upon the boots of foot passengers;here,at all seasons,you stumbled among hills and hollows of dried mud swept daily by the shopman's besom,and only after some practice could you walk at your ease.The treacherous mud-heaps,the window-panes incrusted with deposits of dust and rain,the mean-looking hovels covered with ragged placards,the grimy unfinished walls,the general air of a compromise between a gypsy camp,the booths of a country fair,and the temporary structures that we in Paris build round about public monuments that remain unbuilt;the grotesque aspect of the mart as a whole was in keeping with the seething traffic of various kinds carried on within it;for here in this shameless,unblushing haunt,amid wild mirth and a babel of talk,an immense amount of business was transacted between the Revolution of 1789and the Revolution of 1830.
For twenty years the Bourse stood just opposite,on the ground floor of the Palais.Public opinion was manufactured,and reputations made and ruined here,just as political and financial jobs were arranged.
