Lucien, all unsuspicious of the idea at the back of the old man’s head, gave his address; he did not see that he had to do with a bookseller of the old school, a survival of the eighteenth century, when booksellers tried to keep Voltaires and Montesquieus starving in garrets under lock and key.

“The Latin Quarter.  I am coming back that very way,” said Doguereau, when he had read the address.

“Good man!” thought Lucien, as he took his leave.  “So I have met with a friend to young authors, a man of taste who knows something.  That is the kind of man for me!  It is just as I said to David—­talent soon makes its way in Paris.”

Lucien went home again happy and light of heart; he dreamed of glory.  He gave not another thought to the ominous words which fell on his ear as he stood by the counter in Vidal and Porchon’s shop; he beheld himself the richer by twelve hundred francs at least.  Twelve hundred francs!  It meant a year in Paris, a whole year of preparation for the work that he meant to do.  What plans he built on that hope!  What sweet dreams, what visions of a life established on a basis of work!  Mentally he found new quarters, and settled himself in them; it would not have taken much to set him making a purchase or two.  He could only stave off impatience by constant reading at Blosse’s.

Two days later old Doguereau come to the lodgings of his budding Sir Walter Scott.  He was struck with the pains which Lucien had taken with the style of this his first work, delighted with the strong contrasts of character sanctioned by the epoch, and surprised at the spirited imagination which a young writer always displays in the scheming of a first plot—­he had not been spoiled, thought old Daddy Doguereau.  He had made up his mind to give a thousand francs for The Archer of Charles IX.; he would buy the copyright out and out, and bind Lucien by an engagement for several books, but when he came to look at the house, the old fox thought better of it.

“A young fellow that lives here has none but simple tastes,” said he to himself; “he is fond of study, fond of work; I need not give more than eight hundred francs.”

“Fourth floor,” answered the landlady, when he asked for M. Lucien de Rubempre.  The old bookseller, peering up, saw nothing but the sky above the fourth floor.

“This young fellow,” thought he, “is a good-looking lad; one might go so far as to say that he is very handsome.  If he were to make too much money, he would only fall into dissipated ways, and then he would not work.  In the interests of us both, I shall only offer six hundred francs, in coin though, not paper.”

He climbed the stairs and gave three raps at the door.  Lucien came to open it.  The room was forlorn in its bareness.  A bowl of milk and a penny roll stood on the table.  The destitution of genius made an impression on Daddy Doguereau.