Lost Illusions (Penguin Classics) (36 page)

‘Look. There’s Finot, the director of my paper, chatting with a talented young man, Felicien Vernou, a little rascal who’s as nasty as an unmentionable disease.’

‘Well now, you’ve a first performance on tonight, old chap,’ said Finot as he and Vernou came up to Lousteau. ‘I’ve disposed of your box.’

‘You’ve sold it to Braulard?’

‘Well, why not? You’ll find a seat. What have you come to ask Dauriat for? By the way, it’s agreed that we cry up Paul de Kock: Dauriat has taken over two hundred copies of his book and now Victor Ducange is refusing him a novel. Dauriat says he wants to build up a new author in the same line. So you’ll put Paul de Kock over Ducange.’

‘But Ducange and I have a play on at the Gaieté,’ said Lousteau.

‘All right, you’ll tell him I wrote the article. You’ll make out I did a savage review and that you toned it down: he’ll be grateful to you.’

‘Couldn’t you get Dauriat’s cashier to discount this little hundred francs bill for me?’ Etienne asked Finot. ‘You know we’re having supper together for the house-warming of Florine’s flat.’

‘Oh of course, you’re standing treat,’ said Finot, pretending to be making an effort of memory. ‘Here, Babusson,’ he added, taking Barbet’s note of hand and presenting it to the cashier. ‘Give this man ninety francs for me. – Endorse it, old chap.’

Lousteau took the cashier’s pen while the latter was counting out the money and signed it. Lucien, all eyes and ears, lost not one syllable of this conversation.

‘There’s something else, my dear friend,’ Etienne continued. ‘I won’t thank you: I’m yours through thick and thin. But I want to introduce this gentleman to Dauriat, and you might well get him to listen to us.’

‘What about?’ asked Finot.

‘A collection of poems,’ Lucien answered.

‘Oh!’ said Finot with a shrug.

‘This gentleman,’ said Vernou, looking towards Lucien, ‘hasn’t had much to do with the book-trade, otherwise he would already have locked his manuscript up in the remotest recesses of his domicile.’

At this moment a handsome young man, Emile Blondet, who had just made a beginning on the staff of
Le Journal des Débats
with articles of far-reaching importance, came in, shook hands with Finot and Lousteau and gave a light nod to Vernou.

‘Come and have supper with us, at midnight, in Florine’s flat,’ said Lousteau to Blondet.

‘Fine,’ said the young man. ‘But who’ll be there?’

‘Oh!’ said Lousteau. ‘Florine and Matifat the druggist, Du Bruel, the dramatist who gave Florine her first part; a little old man, Cardot senior and his son-in-law Camusot; also Finot…’

‘Does he do things decently, your druggist?’

‘He won’t feed us on drugs,’ said Lucien.

‘Monsieur is very witty,’ said Blondet, keeping a straight face as he glanced at Lucien. ‘Will he be at the supper, Lousteau?’

‘Yes.’

‘We
shall
have fun!’

Lucien had blushed up to the ears.

‘How long are you going to be, Dauriat?’ asked Blondet, knocking on the window-pane through which one could look down on Dauriat’s writing-desk.

‘My friend, I’m just coming.’

‘Good,’ said Lousteau to his protégé. ‘This young man, almost as young as you, is on the staff of the
Journal des Débats
and he’s already a star critic: he commands respect, Dauriat will come and butter him up, and then we shall be able to state our business to this Pasha of vignettes and printing. Otherwise even at eleven o’clock we should still be waiting our turn. He’ll be giving audience to more and more people as time goes on.’

Lucien and Lousteau then drew close to Blondet, Finot and Vernou went to form a group at the other end of the shop.

‘What’s he doing?’ Blondet asked of Gabusson, the head assistant, who stood up to greet him.

‘He’s buying a weekly journal which he wants to ginger up to counteract the influence of the
Minerve Française
which is too devoted to Eymery’s interests, and that of the
Conservateur
which is too blindly Romantic.’

‘Will he pay well?’

‘Of course, as always… too well!’ said the cashier.

Just then there entered a young man who had recently
published a magnificent novel which had sold quickly and met with brilliant success: a second edition of it was being printed for Dauriat. This young man, got up in the quaint and extraordinary clothing which distinguishes the artistic temperament, made a vivid impression on Lucien.

‘This is Nathan,’ Lousteau whispered to the provincial poet.

Nathan, despite the independence and pride imprinted on his countenance, which was then in the bloom of youth, approached the journalists hat in hand and presented an almost humble demeanour to Blondet whom so far he only knew by sight. Blondet and Finot kept their hats on.

‘Monsieur, I am glad of the opportunity which an opportune moment offers me…’

‘He’s so flustered he’s committing pleonasms,’ said Félicien to Lousteau.

‘… of expressing my gratitude for the fine article you wrote about me in the
Journal des Débats
. Half the success of my book is due to you.’

‘No, no, my friend,’ said Blondet with an air of condescension disguised as geniality. ‘You are a man of talent, damn it, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’

‘Since your article is out, I shall not appear to be seeking your favour: we can now be on unconstrained terms with one another. Will you do me the honour and the pleasure of dining with me tomorrow? Finot will join us – and you, Lousteau, old man, you won’t refuse me?’ As Nathan said this he gave a handshake to Etienne. ‘Oh indeed, Monsieur,’ he said to Blondet, ‘you’ve a fine career before you. You’re carrying on the work of such men as Dussault, Fiévée, Geoffroi. Hoffmann was talking about you to Claude Vignon, one of my friends who was his pupil, and he told him he could die in peace, for the
Journal des Débats
would live for ever. They must pay you an enormous amount?’

‘One hundred francs a column,’ Blondet replied. ‘It’s not a great deal when one’s obliged to read a hundred books in order to find one worth writing about – like yours. Your work gave me great pleasure, you have my word for it.’

‘And it brought him fifteen hundred francs,’ said Lousteau to Lucien.

‘But you’re writing on politics?’ asked Nathan.

‘Yes, a little here and there,’ Blondet answered.

Lucien, feeling himself a tiro in this gathering, had admired Nathan’s book, revered him as a god, and was stupefied at such a show of servility in front of this critic whose name and significance were unknown to him.

‘Could I ever behave like this myself?’ he asked himself. ‘Must one really sacrifice one’s dignity? – Put your hat on, Nathan! You’ve written a fine book and the critic has merely written an article.’ Such thoughts made his blood boil. As one moment followed another, he saw timid young men, needy authors begging for a word with Dauriat, but who, seeing that the shop was full, despaired of gaining a hearing and went out saying: ‘I’ll come back.’ Two or three politicians were talking of the summoning of Parliament and public affairs amid a group composed of political celebrities. The weekly journal whose purchase Dauriat was negotiating enjoyed the right of political discussion. In those days periodicals officially authorized to discuss politics were becoming rare. The privilege of running a newspaper was as much sought after as that of running a theatre. One of the most influential shareholders of
Le Constitutionnel
happened to be in the centre of this group of politicians. Lousteau was admirably acquitting himself of his task as cicerone. And so, as one sentence succeeded another, Dauriat became greater and greater in Lucien’s estimation: it seemed to him that in this shop politics and literature converged. Our great man from the provinces learnt some terrible truths from the sight of an eminent poet prostituting the Muse to a journalist and thereby debasing Art, just as Woman was debased and prostituted in these squalid Galleries. Money! That was the answer to every riddle! Lucien felt that he was alone, a stranger, with only the thread of a dubious friendship to guide him to success and fortune. He blamed his tender and true friends of the Cénacle for having described the world to him in false colours, for having prevented him from throwing himself, pen in hand,
into this battle. ‘I might already be a Blondet,’ he exclaimed to himself. Lousteau, who only recently had been crying out like a wounded eagle on the heights of the Luxembourg gardens and whom he had then considered so great, had by now dwindled to minimal proportions. In this place, the fashionable bookseller-publisher, the middleman in the life of all these men, seemed to him to be the really important figure. Clutching his manuscript, the poet was a prey to a trepidation which came close to fear. Inside this shop, on pedestals of wood painted to look like marble, he could see various busts – one of Byron, one of Goethe and one of Monsieur de Canalis, from whom Dauriat was hoping to extract a volume and who, on the day he had first visited the shop, had been able to gauge how highly his work was assessed in publishing circles. Involuntarily, Lucien felt less confident of his own worth, his courage weakened, he foresaw the influence Dauriat was to exert over his destiny, and he waited impatiently for him to appear.

‘Humbug!’ said Blondet. ‘It’s seven hundred according to the stamp duty, and even that’s nothing to sneeze at.’

‘On my most solemn word of honour, there are twelve hundred. – I said two thousand,’ he added
sotto voce
, ‘to impress the paper-makers and printers here present. – I thought you had more tact, my boy,’ he continued out loud.

‘Are you taking partners?’ asked Finot.

‘That depends,’ said Dauriat. ‘Would you like a third share in it for forty thousand francs?’

‘Agreed, if you’ll take on the staff Emile Blondet – he’s
here – Claude Vignon, Scribe, Théodore Leclerc, Félicien Vernou, Jay, Jouy, Lousteau…’

‘And why not Lucien de Rubempré,’ the provincial poet boldly interjected before Finot had finished.

‘And Nathan,’ said Finot, concluding his list.

‘And why not all the people strolling about here?’ rejoindered the publisher, knitting his eyebrows as he turned towards the author of
Les Marguerites.
‘To whom have I the honour of speaking?’ he said, looking at Lucien with an insolent air.

‘Just a minute, Dauriat,’ Lousteau replied. ‘It is I who have brought this gentleman to you. While Finot is considering your proposition, listen to me.’

Lucien felt hot under the collar as he observed the cold and frowning demeanour of this redoubtable Padishah of the publishing trade; a man who thou’d Finot although Finot addressed him as ‘you’, who called the much feared Blondet ‘my lad’ and who had offered his hand to Nathan in regal fashion and greeted him with a gesture of familiarity.

‘A new piece of business, my lad,’ Dauriat exclaimed. ‘But do you know I have eleven hundred manuscripts to deal with? Yes, gentlemen,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve been offered eleven hundred manuscripts. Ask Gabusson. In fact I shall soon need an administrative staff to control the receipt of manuscripts and a reading committee to examine them; there’ll be meetings to vote on their merit, with attendance vouchers and a permanent secretary to draw up reports for me. It’s going to be like a branch of the French Academy, and my academicians will be better paid here in the Wooden Galleries than those at the Institut de France.’

‘Quite an idea!’ said Blondet.

‘A bad idea,’ Dauriat went on. ‘It’s not my business to sift the lucubrations of those among you who take to literature just because they can’t be capitalists, bootmakers, army corporals, domestic servants, civil servants or bailiffs. There’s no admittance here except to established reputations! Make your name, and gold will come flooding your way. In the last two years I’ve brought three people into the limelight,
which means that I’ve brought triple ingratitude on myself. Nathan is claiming six thousand francs for the second edition of his book, which cost me three thousand francs in review articles and didn’t bring me a thousand francs. As for Blondet’s two articles, they cost me a thousand francs and a dinner which set me back five hundred francs…’

‘And yet, Monsieur, if all the publishers talk like that, how can one get a first book into print?’ asked Lucien, whose respect for Blondet diminished enormously when he learned how much Dauriat had paid him for the articles in the
Journal des Débats.

‘That’s no concern of mine,’ said Dauriat, fixing a murderous stare on the handsome Lucien who looked at him amiably in return. ‘I don’t publish books for fun. I don’t risk two thousand francs just to get two thousand francs back. I’m a speculator in literature. I publish a work in forty volumes at ten thousand copies, just like Panckoucke and the Baudouin brothers. I use the power I have and the articles I pay for to launch a three hundred thousand francs venture rather than a volume in which only two thousand francs are invested. It costs as much effort to get a new name accepted – an author and his book – as to promote the success of works such as the
Masterpieces of Foreign Drama, French Victories and Conquests
or
Memoirs on the French Revolution
:
and there’s a fortune in them. I’m not here to be a springboard for future reputations, but to make money for myself and provide some for the celebrities. A manuscript which I buy for a hundred thousand francs costs me less than the one some unknown author expects me to buy for six hundred francs! Maybe I’m not quite a Mæcenas, but literature owes me some gratitude: I’ve already more than doubled the price which manuscripts fetch.’

‘I’m explaining all this to you, young man,’ said Dauriat to the poet, patting him on the shoulder with a gesture of revolting familiarity, ‘because you’re a friend of Lousteau. If I talked to all the authors who want me to publish their works, I should have to shut up shop – I should spend my time having extremely agreeable but much too expensive conversations. I’m still not rich enough to listen to all the
monologues dictated by self-esteem. That only happens on the stage in classical tragedies.’

The luxury of this terrible man’s apparel added emphasis, in the eyes of the provincial poet, to the cruel logic of his discourse.

‘What
is
this manuscript?’ Dauriat asked of Lousteau.

‘A splendid volume of verse.’

At the word ‘verse’ Dauriat turned to Gabusson with a gesture worthy of the great actor Talma. ‘Friend Gabusson, from now on, anybody who comes asking me to publish manuscripts… Take this in, the rest of you,’ he said, addressing three shop-assistants who emerged from the piles of books on hearing the choleric tones of their employer, whose eyes were fixed on his finger-nails and his shapely hands. ‘Whenever anyone brings manuscripts for me, you’ll ask if they are in verse or prose. If they’re in verse, get rid of them straight away. Verse will ruin the book-trade!’

‘Well said! Dauriat’s quite right,’ the journalists cried out in chorus.

‘It’s a fact,’ the publisher exclaimed, walking up and down his shop with Lucien’s manuscript in his hand. ‘You don’t know, gentlemen, how much harm has been done by the success which came to Lord Byron, Victor Hugo, Casimir Delavigne, Canalis and Béranger. Their fame has brought us a new barbarian invasion. I’m sure that, at this very moment, publishers are having to cope with a thousand volumes of poetry which start off with disconnected stories of which you can’t make head or tail, imitations of
The Corsair
and
Lara.
Under pretext of originality, young people go in for incomprehensible stanzas and descriptive poems, and this new school of poets claims originality by re-inventing Delille! During the last two years poets have multiplied like may-bugs. Last year I lost twenty thousand francs on them – ask Gabusson! The world may well be swarming with immortal poets – I’ve seen some with such fresh, pink faces that they haven’t yet started shaving!’ – he said this for Lucien’s benefit – ‘but as far as the book-trade is concerned, young man, there are only four poets: Béranger, Casimir Delavigne, Lamartine and
Victor Hugo. As for Canalis, he’s been made a poet by the reviews he’s had!’

Lucien did not feel courageous enough to pull himself together and stand on his pride in front of these influential men and their hearty laughter. He realized that he would cover himself with ridicule, but he felt a violent urge to leap at the publisher’s throat, disarrange the insulting harmony of his knotted cravat, break the gold watch-chain glittering on his chest, stamp on his watch and tear him to pieces. Exasperated self-esteem opened the way to vengeful thoughts, and he vowed mortal hatred to the publisher while showing a smiling face.

‘Poetry is like the sun: it makes the eternal forests grow but also engenders gnats, midges and mosquitos,’ said Blondet. ‘There’s nothing good that doesn’t bring something bad in its wake. Literature, for example, engenders publishers.’

‘Journalists also!’ said Lousteau.

Dauriat gave a great guffaw.

‘Anyway, what’s in it?’ he asked, pointing to the manuscript.

‘A collection of sonnets which would make Petrarch sing small,’ Lousteau answered.

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Dauriat.

‘What anybody would mean,’ said Lousteau, noticing that everybody’s lips were curled in a sarcastic smile.

Lucien could not show how annoyed he was, but he was sweating like a horse under harness.

‘All right, I’ll read it,’ said Dauriat with a princely gesture which showed what a great concession he was making. ‘If your sonnets come up to the nineteenth-century standard I’ll turn you out as a great poet, my lad.’

‘If he’s as intelligent as he’s handsome, you’re not taking a big risk,’ said one of the most famous orators of the Chambre des Députés who was chatting with a member of the
Constitutionnel
staff and the director of the
Minerve
.

‘General,’ said Dauriat, ‘fame costs twelve thousand francs in reviews and three thousand francs in dinners. Ask the author of
Le Solitaire.
If Monsieur Benjamin Constant is
ready to write an article on this young poet, I’ll not take long to do a deal.’

At the word ‘General’ and the mention of the illustrious name of Benjamin Constant, the book-shop took on the proportions of Olympus in the eyes of the provincial prodigy.

‘Lousteau, I want a word with you,’ said Finot. ‘But I’ll see you again at the theatre. Dauriat, it’s a deal – but on certain conditions. Let’s go into your office.’

‘Come in, my boy,’ said Dauriat, ushering Finot in. Making the gesture of a busy man to the dozen persons who were waiting for him, he was about to disappear inside when Lucien, feeling impatient, halted him.

‘You are keeping my manuscript then. When can I expect your decision?’

‘Well, my little poet, come back in three or four days. We’ll see.’

Lucien was dragged off by Lousteau without being given time to take his leave either of Vernou, Blondet, Raoul Nathan, General Foy or Benjamin Constant, whose
Letters on the Hundred Days
had just appeared. Lucien scarcely caught more than a glimpse of his fair hair and fine head, his oblong face, his intelligent eyes, his attractive mouth, in short of the man who for twenty years had been the Potemkin of Madame de Staël and was making war on the Bourbons after making war on Napoleon, but whose fate it was to die from the shock of the victory he had won.