“That’s right,” said Lousteau, addressing his protege.  “That young fellow is hardly any older than you are, and he is on the Debats!  He is one of the princes of criticism.  They are afraid of him, Dauriat will fawn upon him, and then we can put in a word about our business with the pasha of vignettes and type.  Otherwise we might have waited till eleven o’clock, and our turn would not have come.  The crowd of people waiting to speak with Dauriat is growing bigger every moment.”

Lucien and Lousteau followed Blondet, Finot, and Vernou, and stood in a knot at the back of the shop.

“What is he doing?” asked Blondet of the head-clerk, who rose to bid him good-evening.

“He is buying a weekly newspaper.  He wants to put new life into it, and set up a rival to the Minerve and the Conservateur; Eymery has rather too much of his own way in the Minerve, and the Conservateur is too blindly Romantic.”

“Is he going to pay well?”

“Only too much—­as usual,” said the cashier.

Just as he spoke another young man entered; this was the writer of a magnificent novel which had sold very rapidly and met with the greatest possible success.  Dauriat was bringing out a second edition.  The appearance of this odd and extraordinary looking being, so unmistakably an artist, made a deep impression on Lucien’s mind.

“That is Nathan,” Lousteau said in his ear.

Nathan, then in the prime of his youth, came up to the group of journalists, hat in hand; and in spite of his look of fierce pride he was almost humble to Blondet, whom as yet he only knew by sight.  Blondet did not remove his hat, neither did Finot.

“Monsieur, I am delighted to avail myself of an opportunity yielded by chance——­”

("He is so nervous that he is committing a pleonasm,” said Felicien in an aside to Lousteau.)

“——­to give expression to my gratitude for the splendid review which you were so good as to give me in the Journal des Debats.  Half the success of my book is owing to you.”

“No, my dear fellow, no,” said Blondet, with an air of patronage scarcely masked by good-nature.  “You have talent, the deuce you have, and I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“Now that your review has appeared, I shall not seem to be courting power; we can feel at ease.  Will you do me the honor and the pleasure of dining with me to-morrow?  Finot is coming.—­Lousteau, old man, you will not refuse me, will you?” added Nathan, shaking Etienne by the hand.—­“Ah, you are on the way to a great future, monsieur,” he added, turning again to Blondet; “you will carry on the line of Dussaults, Fievees, and Geoffrois!  Hoffmann was talking about you to a friend of mine, Claude Vignon, his pupil; he said that he could die in peace, the Journal des Debats would live forever.  They ought to pay you tremendously well.”

“A hundred francs a column,” said Blondet.  “Poor pay when one is obliged to read the books, and read a hundred before you find one worth interesting yourself in, like yours.  Your work gave me pleasure, upon my word.”