“Yes,” said the poet.  A sense of beatitude, for which no words exist, flooded his soul at the sight of that unhoped wealth.  He controlled himself, but he longed to sing aloud, to jump for joy; he was ready to believe in Aladdin’s lamp and in enchantment; he believed in his own genius, in short.

“Then the Marguerites are mine,” continued Dauriat; “but you will undertake not to attack my publications, won’t you?”

“The Marguerites are yours, but I cannot pledge my pen; it is at the service of my friends, as theirs are mine.”

“But you are one of my authors now.  All my authors are my friends.  So you won’t spoil my business without warning me beforehand, so that I am prepared, will you?”

“I agree to that.”

“To your fame!” and Dauriat raised his glass.

“I see that you have read the Marguerites,” said Lucien.

Dauriat was not disconcerted.

“My boy, a publisher cannot pay a greater compliment than by buying your Marguerites unread.  In six months’ time you will be a great poet.  You will be written up; people are afraid of you; I shall have no difficulty in selling your book.  I am the same man of business that I was four days ago.  It is not I who have changed; it is you.  Last week your sonnets were so many cabbage leaves for me; to-day your position has ranked them beside Delavigne.”

“Ah well,” said Lucien, “if you have not read my sonnets, you have read my article.”  With the sultan’s pleasure of possessing a fair mistress, and the certainty of success, he had grown satirical and adorably impertinent of late.

“Yes, my friend; do you think I should have come here in such a hurry but for that?  That terrible article of yours is very well written, worse luck.  Oh! you have a very great gift, my boy.  Take my advice and make the most of your vogue,” he added, with good humor, which masked the extreme insolence of the speech.  “But have you yourself a copy of the paper?  Have you seen your article in print?”

“Not yet,” said Lucien, “though this is the first long piece of prose which I have published; but Hector will have sent a copy to my address in the Rue Charlot.”

“Here—­read!” . . . cried Dauriat, copying Talma’s gesture in Manlius.

Lucien took the paper but Coralie snatched it from him.

“The first-fruits of your pen belong to me, as you well know,” she laughed.

Dauriat was unwontedly courtier-like and complimentary.  He was afraid of Lucien, and therefore he asked him to a great dinner which he was giving to a party of journalists towards the end of the week, and Coralie was included in the invitation.  He took the Marguerites away with him when he went, asking his poet to look in when he pleased in the Wooden Galleries, and the agreement should be ready for his signature.  Dauriat never forgot the royal airs with which he endeavored to overawe superficial observers, and to impress them with the notion that he was a Maecenas rather than a publisher; at this moment he left the three thousand francs, waving away in lordly fashion the receipt which Lucien offered, kissed Coralie’s hand, and took his departure.