"A bad idea,"returned Dauriat."It is not my business to take stock of the lucubrations of those among you who take to literature because they cannot be capitalists,and there is no opening for them as bootmakers,nor corporals,nor domestic servants,nor officials,nor bailiffs.Nobody comes here until he has made a name for himself!Make a name for yourself,and you will find gold in torrents.I have made three great men in the last two years;and lo and behold three examples of ingratitude!Here is Nathan talking of six thousand francs for the second edition of his book,which cost me three thousand francs in reviews,and has not brought in a thousand yet.I paid a thousand francs for Blondet's two articles,besides a dinner,which cost me five hundred----""But if all booksellers talked as you do,sir,how could a man publish his first book at all?"asked Lucien.Blondet had gone down tremendously in his opinion since he had heard the amount given by Dauriat for the articles in the Debats.
"That is not my affair,"said Dauriat,looking daggers at this handsome young fellow,who was smiling pleasantly at him."I do not publish books for amusement,nor risk two thousand francs for the sake of seeing my money back again.I speculate in literature,and publish forty volumes of ten thousand copies each,just as Panckouke does and the Baudoins.With my influence and the articles which I secure,I can push a business of a hundred thousand crowns,instead of a single volume involving a couple of thousand francs.It is just as much trouble to bring out a new name and to induce the public to take up an author and his book,as to make a success with the Theatres etrangers,Victoires et Conquetes,or Memoires sur la Revolution,books that bring in a fortune.I am not here as a stepping-stone to future fame,but to make money,and to find it for men with distinguished names.
The manus for which I give a hundred thousand francs pay me better than work by an unknown author who asks six hundred.If I am not exactly a Maecenas,I deserve the gratitude of literature;I have doubled the prices of manus.I am giving you this explanation because you are a friend of Lousteau's my boy,"added Dauriat,clapping Lucien on the shoulder with odious familiarity."If I were to talk to all the authors who have a mind that I should be their publisher,I should have to shut up shop;I should pass my time very agreeably no doubt,but the conversations would cost too much.I am not rich enough yet to listen to all the monologues of self-conceit.
Nobody does,except in classical tragedies on the stage."The terrible Dauriat's gorgeous raiment seemed in the provincial poet's eyes to add force to the man's remorseless logic.
"What is it about?"he continued,addressing Lucien's protector.
"It is a volume of magnificent poetry."
At that word,Dauriat turned to Gabusson with a gesture worthy of Talma.
"Gabusson,my friend,"he said,"from this day forward,when anybody begins to talk of works in manu here--Do you hear that,all of you?"he broke in upon himself;and three assistants at once emerged from among the piles of books at the sound of their employer's wrathful voice."If anybody comes here with manus,"he continued,looking at the finger-nails of a well-kept hand,"ask him whether it is poetry or prose;and if he says poetry,show him the door at once.Verses mean reverses in the booktrade.""Bravo!well put,Dauriat,"cried the chorus of journalists.
"It is true!"cried the bookseller,striding about his shop with Lucien's manu in his hand."You have no idea,gentlemen,of the amount of harm that Byron,Lamartine,Victor Hugo,Casimir Delavigne,Canalis,and Beranger have done by their success.The fame of them has brought down an invasion of barbarians upon us.I know THIS:there are a thousand volumes of manu poetry going the round of the publishers at this moment,things that nobody can make head nor tail of,stories in verse that begin in the middle,like The Corsair and Lara.They set up to be original,forsooth,and indulge in stanzas that nobody can understand,and deive poetry after the pattern of the younger men who discovered Delille,and imagine that they are doing something new.Poets have been swarming like cockchafers for two years past.I have lost twenty thousand francs through poetry in the last twelvemonth.You ask Gabusson!There may be immortal poets somewhere in the world;I know of some that are blooming and rosy,and have no beards on their chins as yet,"he continued,looking at Lucien;"but in the trade,young man,there are only four poets--Beranger,Casimir Delavigne,Lamartine,and Victor Hugo;as for Canalis--he is a poet made by sheer force of writing him up."Lucien felt that he lacked the courage to hold up his head and show his spirit before all these influential persons,who were laughing with all their might.He knew very well that he should look hopelessly ridiculous,and yet he felt consumed by a fierce desire to catch the bookseller by the throat,to ruffle the insolent composure of his cravat,to break the gold chain that glittered on the man's chest,trample his watch under his feet,and tear him in pieces.Mortified vanity opened the door to thoughts of vengeance,and inwardly he swore eternal enmity to that bookseller.But he smiled amiably.
"Poetry is like the sun,"said Blondet,"giving life alike to primeval forests and to ants and gnats and mosquitoes.There is no virtue but has a vice to match,and literature breeds the publisher.""And the journalist,"said Lousteau.
Dauriat burst out laughing.
"What is this after all?"he asked,holding up the manu.
"A volume of sonnets that will put Petrarch to the blush,"said Lousteau.
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say,"answered Lousteau,seeing the knowing smile that went round the group.Lucien could not take offence but he chafed inwardly.
