take your sonnets.  It would be impossible to push them; there is not enough in the thing to pay the expenses of a big success.  You will not keep to poetry besides; this book of yours will be your first and last attempt of the kind.  You are young; you bring me the everlasting volume of early verse which every man of letters writes when he leaves school, he thinks a lot of it at the time, and laughs at it later on.  Lousteau, your friend, has a poem put away somewhere among his old socks, I’ll warrant.  Haven’t you a poem that you thought a good deal of once, Lousteau?” inquired Dauriat, with a knowing glance at the other.

“How should I be writing prose otherwise, eh?” asked Lousteau.

“There, you see!  He has never said a word to me about it, for our friend understands business and the trade,” continued Dauriat.  “For me the question is not whether you are a great poet, I know that,” he added, stroking down Lucien’s pride; “you have a great deal, a very great deal of merit; if I were only just starting in business, I should make the mistake of publishing your book.  But in the first place, my sleeping partners and those at the back of me are cutting off my supplies; I dropped twenty thousand francs over poetry last year, and that is enough for them; they will not hear of any more just now, and they are my masters.  Nevertheless, that is not the question.  I admit that you may be a great poet, but will you be a prolific writer?  Will you hatch sonnets regularly?  Will you run into ten volumes?  Is there business in it?  Of course not.  You will be a delightful prose writer; you have too much sense to spoil your style with tagging rhymes together.  You have a chance to make thirty thousand francs per annum by writing for the papers, and you will not exchange that chance for three thousand francs made with difficulty by your hemistiches and strophes and tomfoolery——­”

“You know that he is on the paper, Dauriat?” put in Lousteau.

“Yes,” Dauriat answered.  “Yes, I saw his article, and in his own interests I decline the Marguerites.  Yes, sir, in six months’ time I shall have paid you more money for the articles that I shall ask you to write than for your poetry that will not sell.”

“And fame?” said Lucien.

Dauriat and Lousteau laughed.

“Oh dear!” said Lousteau, “there be illusions left.”

“Fame means ten years of sticking to work, and a hundred thousand francs lost or made in the publishing trade.  If you find anybody mad enough to print your poetry for you, you will feel some respect for me in another twelvemonth, when you have had time to see the outcome of the transaction”

“Have you the manuscript here?” Lucien asked coldly.

“Here it is, my friend,” said Dauriat.  The publisher’s manner towards Lucien had sweetened singularly.

Lucien took up the roll without looking at the string, so sure he felt that Dauriat had read his Marguerites.  He went out with Lousteau, seemingly neither disconcerted nor dissatisfied.  Dauriat went with them into the shop, talking of his newspaper and Lousteau’s daily, while Lucien played with the manuscript of the Marguerites.