But the poetry of this terrible mart appeared in all its splendor at the close of the day.Women of the town,flocking in and out from the neighboring streets,were allowed to make a promenade of the Wooden Galleries.Thither came prostitutes from every quarter of Paris to "do the Palais."The Stone Galleries belonged to privileged houses,which paid for the right of exposing women dressed like princesses under such and such an arch,or in the corresponding space of garden;but the Wooden Galleries were the common ground of women of the streets.
This was THE Palais,a word which used to signify the temple of prostitution.A woman might come and go,taking away her prey whithersoever seemed good to her.So great was the crowd attracted thither at night by the women,that it was impossible to move except at a slow pace,as in a procession or at a masked ball.Nobody objected to the slowness;it facilitated examination.The women dressed in a way that is never seen nowadays.The bodices cut extremely low both back and front;the fantastical head-dresses,designed to attract notice;here a cap from the Pays de Caux,and there a Spanish mantilla;the hair crimped and curled like a poodle's,or smoothed down in bandeaux over the forehead;the close-fitting white stockings and limbs,revealed it would not be easy to say how,but always at the right moment--all this poetry of vice has fled.The license of question and reply,the public cynicism in keeping with the haunt,is now unknown even at masquerades or the famous public balls.
It was an appalling,gay scene.The dazzling white flesh of the women's necks and shoulders stood out in magnificent contrast against the men's almost invariably sombre costumes.The murmur of voices,the hum of the crowd,could be heard even in the middle of the garden as a sort of droning bass,interspersed with fioriture of shrill laughter or clamor of some rare dispute.You saw gentlemen and celebrities cheek by jowl with gallows-birds.There was something indescribably piquant about the anomalous assemblage;the most insensible of men felt its charm,so much so,that,until the very last moment,Paris came hither to walk up and down on the wooden planks laid over the cellars where men were at work on the new buildings;and when the squalid wooden erections were finally taken down,great and unanimous regret was felt.
Ladvocat the bookseller had opened a shop but a few days since in the angle formed by the central passage which crossed the galleries;and immediately opposite another bookseller,now forgotten,Dauriat,a bold and youthful pioneer,who opened up the paths in which his rival was to shine.Dauriat's shop stood in the row which gave upon the garden;Ladvocat's,on the opposite side,looked out upon the court.
Dauriat's establishment was divided into two parts;his shop was simply a great trade warehouse,and the second room was his private office.
Lucien,on this first visit to the Wooden Galleries,was bewildered by a sight which no novice can resist.He soon lost the guide who befriended him.
"If you were as good-looking as yonder young fellow,I would give you your money's worth,"a woman said,pointing out Lucien to an old man.
Lucien slunk through the crowd like a blind man's dog,following the stream in a state of stupefaction and excitement difficult to describe.Importuned by glances and white-rounded contours,dazzled by the audacious display of bared throat and bosom,he gripped his roll of manu tightly lest somebody should steal it--innocent that he was!
"Well,what is it,sir!"he exclaimed,thinking,when some one caught him by the arm,that his poetry had proved too great a temptation to some author's honesty,and turning,he recognized Lousteau.
"I felt sure that you would find your way here at last,"said his friend.
The poet was standing in the doorway of a shop crowded with persons waiting for an audience with the sultan of the publishing trade.
Printers,paper-dealers,and designers were catechizing Dauriat's assistants as to present or future business.
Lousteau drew Lucien into the shop."There!that is Finot who edits my paper,"he said;"he is talking with Felicien Vernou,who has abilities,but the little wretch is as dangerous as a hidden disease.""Well,old boy,there is a first night for you,"said Finot,coming up with Vernou."I have disposed of the box.""Sold it to Braulard?"
"Well,and if I did,what then?You will get a seat.What do you want with Dauriat?Oh,it is agreed that we are to push Paul de Kock,Dauriat has taken two hundred copies,and Victor Ducange is refusing to give him his next.Dauriat wants to set up another man in the same line,he says.You must rate Paul de Kock above Ducange.""But I have a piece on with Ducange at the Gaite,"said Lousteau.
"Very well,tell him that I wrote the article.It can be supposed that I wrote a slashing review,and you toned it down;and he will owe you thanks.""Couldn't you get Dauriat's cashier to discount this bit of a bill for a hundred francs?"asked Etienne Lousteau."We are celebrating Florine's house-warming with a supper to-night,you know.""Ah!yes,you are treating us all,"said Finot,with an apparent effort of memory."Here,Gabusson,"he added,handing Barbet's bill to the cashier,"let me have ninety francs for this individual.--Fill in your name,old man."Lousteau signed his name while the cashier counted out the money;and Lucien,all eyes and ears,lost not a syllable of the conversation.
"That is not all,my friend,"Etienne continued;"I don't thank you,we have sworn an eternal friendship.I have taken it upon myself to introduce this gentleman to Dauriat,and you must incline his ear to listen to us.""What is on foot?"asked Finot.
"A volume of poetry,"said Lucien.
"Oh!"said Finot,with a shrug of the shoulders.
