"Very well,I will read them,"said Dauriat,with a regal gesture that marked the full extent of the concession."If these sonnets of yours are up to the level of the nineteenth century,I will make a great poet of you,my boy.""If he has brains to equal his good looks,you will run no great risks,"remarked one of the greatest public speakers of the day,a deputy who was chatting with the editor of the Minerve,and a writer for the Constitutionnel.
"Fame means twelve thousand francs in reviews,and a thousand more for dinners,General,"said Dauriat."If M.Benjamin de Constant means to write a paper on this young poet,it will not be long before I make a bargain with him."At the title of General,and the distinguished name of Benjamin Constant,the bookseller's shop took the proportions of Olympus for the provincial great man.
"Lousteau,I want a word with you,"said Finot;"but I shall see you again later,at the theatre.--Dauriat,I will take your offer,but on conditions.Let us step into your office.""Come in,my boy,"answered Dauriat,allowing Finot to pass before him.Then,intimating to some ten persons still waiting for him that he was engaged,he likewise was about to disappear when Lucien impatiently stopped him.
"You are keeping my manu.When shall I have an answer?""Oh,come back in three or four days,my little poet,and we will see."Lousteau hurried Lucien away;he had not time to take leave of Vernou and Blondet and Raoul Nathan,nor to salute General Foy nor Benjamin Constant,whose book on the Hundred Days was just about to appear.
Lucien scarcely caught a glimpse of fair hair,a refined oval-shaped face,keen eyes,and the pleasant-looking mouth belonging to the man who had played the part of a Potemkin to Mme.de Stael for twenty years,and now was at war with the Bourbons,as he had been at war with Napoleon.He was destined to win his cause and to die stricken to earth by his victory.
"What a shop!"exclaimed Lucien,as he took his place in the cab beside Lousteau.
"To the Panorama-Dramatique;look sharp,and you shall have thirty sous,"Etienne Lousteau called to the cabman.--"Dauriat is a rascal who sells books to the amount of fifteen or sixteen hundred thousand francs every year.He is a kind of Minister of Literature,"Lousteau continued.His self-conceit had been pleasantly tickled,and he was showing off before Lucien."Dauriat is just as grasping as Barbet,but it is on a wholesale scale.Dauriat can be civil,and he is generous,but he has a great opinion of himself;as for his wit,it consists in a faculty for picking up all that he hears,and his shop is a capital place to frequent.You meet all the best men at Dauriat's.A young fellow learns more there in an hour than by poring over books for half-a-score of years.People talk about articles and concoct subjects;you make the acquaintance of great or influential people who may be useful to you.You must know people if you mean to get on nowadays.--It is all luck,you see.And as for sitting by yourself in a corner alone with your intellect,it is the most dangerous thing of all.""But what insolence!"said Lucien.
"Pshaw!we all of us laugh at Dauriat,"said Etienne."If you are in need of him,he tramples upon you;if he has need of the Journal des Debats,Emile Blondet sets him spinning like a top.Oh,if you take to literature,you will see a good many queer things.Well,what was Itelling you,eh?"
"Yes,you were right,"said Lucien."My experience in that shop was even more painful than I expected,after your programme.""Why do you choose to suffer?You find your subject,you wear out your wits over it with toiling at night,you throw your very life into it:
and after all your journeyings in the fields of thought,the monument reared with your life-blood is simply a good or a bad speculation for a publisher.Your work will sell or it will not sell;and therein,for them,lies the whole question.A book means so much capital to risk,and the better the book,the less likely it is to sell.A man of talent rises above the level of ordinary heads;his success varies in direct ratio with the time required for his work to be appreciated.
And no publisher wants to wait.To-day's book must be sold by to-morrow.Acting on this system,publishers and booksellers do not care to take real literature,books that call for the high praise that comes slowly.""D'Arthez was right,"exclaimed Lucien.
"Do you know d'Arthez?"asked Lousteau."I know of no more dangerous company than solitary spirits like that fellow yonder,who fancy that they can draw the world after them.All of us begin by thinking that we are capable of great things;and when once a youthful imagination is heated by this superstition,the candidate for posthumous honors makes no attempt to move the world while such moving of the world is both possible and profitable;he lets the time go by.I am for Mahomet's system--if the mountain does not come to me,I am for going to the mountain."The common-sense so trenchantly put in this sally left Lucien halting between the resignation preached by the brotherhood and Lousteau's militant doctrine.He said not a word till they reached the Boulevard du Temple.
