Impossible.That stupid old animal told his wife that he was going out into the country.""Isn't she charming?"said Etienne,as they came away.
"But--but that Matifat,my dear fellow----""Oh!you know nothing of Parisian life,my boy.Some things cannot be helped.Suppose that you fell in love with a married woman,it comes to the same thing.It all depends on the way that you look at it."Etienne and Lucien entered the stage-box,and found the manager there with Finot.Matifat was in the ground-floor box exactly opposite with a friend of his,a silk-mercer named Camusot (Coralie's protector),and a worthy little old soul,his father-in-law.All three of these city men were polishing their opera-glasses,and anxiously scanning the house;certain symptoms in the pit appeared to disturb them.The usual heterogeneous first-night elements filled the boxes--journalists and their mistresses,lorettes and their lovers,a sprinkling of the determined playgoers who never miss a first night if they can help it,and a very few people of fashion who care for this sort of sensation.
The first box was occupied by the head of a department,to whom du Bruel,maker of vaudevilles,owed a snug little sinecure in the Treasury.
Lucien had gone from surprise to surprise since the dinner at Flicoteaux's.For two months Literature had meant a life of poverty and want;in Lousteau's room he had seen it at its cynical worst;in the Wooden Galleries he had met Literature abject and Literature insolent.The sharp contrasts of heights and depths;of compromise with conscience;of supreme power and want of principle;of treachery and pleasure;of mental elevation and bondage--all this made his head swim,he seemed to be watching some strange unheard-of drama.
Finot was talking with the manager."Do you think du Bruel's piece will pay?"he asked.
"Du Bruel has tried to do something in Beaumarchais'style.Boulevard audiences don't care for that kind of thing;they like harrowing sensations;wit is not much appreciated here.Everything depends on Florine and Coralie to-night;they are bewitchingly pretty and graceful,wear very short skirts,and dance a Spanish dance,and possibly they may carry off the piece with the public.The whole affair is a gambling speculation.A few clever notices in the papers,and I may make a hundred thousand crowns,if the play takes.""Oh!come,it will only be a moderate success,I can see,"said Finot.
"Three of the theatres have got up a plot,"continued the manager;"they will even hiss the piece,but I have made arrangements to defeat their kind intentions.I have squared the men in their pay;they will make a muddle of it.A couple of city men yonder have taken a hundred tickets apiece to secure a triumph for Florine and Coralie,and given them to acquaintances able and ready to act as chuckers out.The fellows,having been paid twice,will go quietly,and a scene of that sort always makes a good impression on the house.""Two hundred tickets!What invaluable men!"exclaimed Finot.
"Yes.With two more actresses as handsomely kept as Florine and Coralie,I should make something out of the business."For the past two hours the word money had been sounding in Lucien's ears as the solution of every difficulty.In the theatre as in the publishing trade,and in the publishing trade as in the newspaper-office--it was everywhere the same;there was not a word of art or of glory.The steady beat of the great pendulum,Money,seemed to fall like hammer-strokes on his heart and brain.And yet while the orchestra played the overture,while the pit was full of noisy tumult of applause and hisses,unconsciously he drew a comparison between this scene and others that came up in his mind.Visions arose before him of David and the printing-office,of the poetry that he came to know in that atmosphere of pure peace,when together they beheld the wonders of Art,the high successes of genius,and visions of glory borne on stainless wings.He thought of the evenings spent with d'Arthez and his friends,and tears glittered in his eyes.
"What is the matter with you?"asked Etienne Lousteau.
"I see poetry fallen into the mire."
"Ah!you have still some illusions left,my dear fellow.""Is there nothing for it but to cringe and submit to thickheads like Matifat and Camusot,as actresses bow down to journalists,and we ourselves to the booksellers?""My boy,do you see that dull-brained fellow?"said Etienne,lowering his voice,and glancing at Finot."He has neither genius nor cleverness,but he is covetous;he means to make a fortune at all costs,and he is a keen man of business.Didn't you see how he made forty per cent out of me at Dauriat's,and talked as if he were doing me a favor?--Well,he gets letters from not a few unknown men of genius who go down on their knees to him for a hundred francs."The words recalled the pen-and-ink sketch that lay on the table in the editor's office and the words,"Finot,my hundred francs!"Lucien's inmost soul shrank from the man in disgust.
"I would sooner die,"he said.
"Sooner live,"retorted Etienne.
The curtain rose,and the stage-manager went off to the wings to give orders.Finot turned to Etienne.
