“But if all booksellers talked as you do, sir, how could a man publish his first book at all?” asked Lucien.  Blondet had gone down tremendously in his opinion since he had heard the amount given by Dauriat for the articles in the Debats.

“That is not my affair,” said Dauriat, looking daggers at this handsome young fellow, who was smiling pleasantly at him.  “I do not publish books for amusement, nor risk two thousand francs for the sake of seeing my money back again.  I speculate in literature, and publish forty volumes of ten thousand copies each, just as Panckouke does and the Baudoins.  With my influence and the articles which I secure, I can push a business of a hundred thousand crowns, instead of a single volume involving a couple of thousand francs.  It is just as much trouble to bring out a new name and to induce the public to take up an author and his book, as to make a success with the Theatres etrangers, Victoires et Conquetes, or Memoires sur la Revolution, books that bring in a fortune.  I am not here as a stepping-stone to future fame, but to make money, and to find it for men with distinguished names.  The manuscripts for which I give a hundred thousand francs pay me better than work by an unknown author who asks six hundred.  If I am not exactly a Maecenas, I deserve the gratitude of literature; I have doubled the prices of manuscripts.  I am giving you this explanation because you are a friend of Lousteau’s my boy,” added Dauriat, clapping Lucien on the shoulder with odious familiarity.  “If I were to talk to all the authors who have a mind that I should be their publisher, I should have to shut up shop; I should pass my time very agreeably no doubt, but the conversations would cost too much.  I am not rich enough yet to listen to all the monologues of self-conceit.  Nobody does, except in classical tragedies on the stage.”

The terrible Dauriat’s gorgeous raiment seemed in the provincial poet’s eyes to add force to the man’s remorseless logic.

“What is it about?” he continued, addressing Lucien’s protector.

“It is a volume of magnificent poetry.”

At that word, Dauriat turned to Gabusson with a gesture worthy of Talma.

“Gabusson, my friend,” he said, “from this day forward, when anybody begins to talk of works in manuscript here—­Do you hear that, all of you?” he broke in upon himself; and three assistants at once emerged from among the piles of books at the sound of their employer’s wrathful voice.  “If anybody comes here with manuscripts,” he continued, looking at the finger-nails of a well-kept hand, “ask him whether it is poetry or prose; and if he says poetry, show him the door at once.  Verses mean reverses in the booktrade.”

“Bravo! well put, Dauriat,” cried the chorus of journalists.