“Well, children,” said a voice, and a short, stout man appeared, with a puffy face that suggested a Roman pro-consul’s visage, mellowed by an air of good-nature which deceived superficial observers.  “Well, children, here am I, the proprietor of the only weekly paper in the market, a paper with two thousand subscribers!”

“Old joker!  The registered number is seven hundred, and that is over the mark,” said Blondet.

“Twelve thousand, on my sacred word of honor—­I said two thousand for the benefit of the printers and paper-dealers yonder,” he added, lowering his voice, then raising it again.  “I thought you had more tact, my boy,” he added.

“Are you going to take any partners?” inquired Finot.

“That depends,” said Dauriat.  “Will you take a third at forty thousand francs?”

“It’s a bargain, if you will take Emile Blondet here on the staff, and Claude Vignon, Scribe, Theodore Leclercq, Felicien Vernou, Jay, Jouy, Lousteau, and——­”

“And why not Lucien de Rubempre?” the provincial poet put in boldly.

“——­and Nathan,” concluded Finot.

“Why not the people out there in the street?” asked Dauriat, scowling at the author of the Marguerites.—­“To whom have I the honor of speaking?” he added, with an insolent glance.

“One moment, Dauriat,” said Lousteau.  “I have brought this gentleman to you.  Listen to me, while Finot is thinking over your proposals.”

Lucien watched this Dauriat, who addressed Finot with the familiar tu, which even Finot did not permit himself to use in reply; who called the redoubtable Blondet “my boy,” and extended a hand royally to Nathan with a friendly nod.  The provincial poet felt his shirt wet with perspiration when the formidable sultan looked indifferent and ill pleased.

“Another piece of business, my boy!” exclaimed Dauriat.  “Why, I have eleven hundred manuscripts on hand, as you know!  Yes, gentlemen, I have eleven hundred manuscripts submitted to me at this moment; ask Gabusson.  I shall soon be obliged to start a department to keep account of the stock of manuscripts, and a special office for reading them, and a committee to vote on their merits, with numbered counters for those who attend, and a permanent secretary to draw up the minutes for me.  It will be a kind of local branch of the Academie, and the Academicians will be better paid in the Wooden Galleries than at the Institut.”

“’Tis an idea,” said Blondet.

“A bad idea,” returned Dauriat.  “It is not my business to take stock of the lucubrations of those among you who take to literature because they cannot be capitalists, and there is no opening for them as bootmakers, nor corporals, nor domestic servants, nor officials, nor bailiffs.  Nobody comes here until he has made a name for himself!  Make a name for yourself, and you will find gold in torrents.  I have made three great men in the last two years; and lo and behold three examples of ingratitude!  Here is Nathan talking of six thousand francs for the second edition of his book, which cost me three thousand francs in reviews, and has not brought in a thousand yet.  I paid a thousand francs for Blondet’s two articles, besides a dinner, which cost me five hundred——­”