afternoon till the hour when the doors opened, and belated comers were compelled to pay ten sous for a place near the ticket-office.  And after waiting for two hours, the cry of “All tickets are sold!” rang not unfrequently in the ears of disappointed students.  When the play was over, Lucien went home with downcast eyes, through streets lined with living attractions, and perhaps fell in with one of those commonplace adventures which loom so large in a young and timorous imagination.

One day Lucien counted over his remaining stock of money, and took alarm at the melting of his funds; a cold perspiration broke out upon him when he thought that the time had come when he must find a publisher, and try also to find work for which a publisher would pay him.  The young journalist, with whom he had made a one-sided friendship, never came now to Flicoteaux’s.  Lucien was waiting for a chance—­which failed to present itself.  In Paris there are no chances except for men with a very wide circle of acquaintance; chances of success of every kind increase with the number of your connections; and, therefore, in this sense also the chances are in favor of the big battalions.  Lucien had sufficient provincial foresight still left, and had no mind to wait until only a last few coins remained to him.  He resolved to face the publishers.

So one tolerably chilly September morning Lucien went down the Rue de la Harpe, with his two manuscripts under his arm.  As he made his way to the Quai des Augustins, and went along, looking into the booksellers’ windows on one side and into the Seine on the other, his good genius might have counseled him to pitch himself into the water sooner than plunge into literature.  After heart-searching hesitations, after a profound scrutiny of the various countenances, more or less encouraging, soft-hearted, churlish, cheerful, or melancholy, to be seen through the window panes, or in the doorways of the booksellers’ establishments, he espied a house where the shopmen were busy packing books at a great rate.  Goods were being despatched.  The walls were plastered with bills: 

JUST OUT.

LE SOLITAIRE, by M. le Vicomte d’Arlincourt. 
Third edition. 
LEONIDE, by Victor Ducange; five volumes
12mo, printed on fine paper. 12 francs. 
INDUCTIONS MORALES, by Keratry.

“They are lucky, that they are!” exclaimed Lucien.

The placard, a new and original idea of the celebrated Ladvocat, was just beginning to blossom out upon the walls.  In no long space Paris was to wear motley, thanks to the exertions of his imitators, and the Treasury was to discover a new source of revenue.

Anxiety sent the blood surging to Lucien’s heart, as he who had been so great at Angouleme, so insignificant of late in Paris, slipped past the other houses, summoned up all his courage, and at last entered the shop thronged with assistants, customers, and booksellers—­“And authors too, perhaps!” thought Lucien.