Dauriat and Lousteau laughed.
“Oh dear!” said Lousteau, “there be illusions left.”
“Fame means ten years of sticking to work, and a hundred thousand francs lost or made in the publishing trade. If you find anybody mad enough to print your poetry for you, you will feel some respect for me in another twelvemonth, when you have had time to see the outcome of the transaction.”
“Have you the manuscript here?” Lucien asked coldly.
“Here it is, my friend,” said Dauriat. The publisher’s manner towards Lucien had sweetened singularly.
Lucien took up the roll without looking at the string, so sure he felt that Dauriat had read his Marguerites. He went out with Lousteau, seemingly neither disconcerted nor dissatisfied. Dauriat went with them into the shop, talking of his newspaper and Lousteau’s daily, while Lucien played with the manuscript of the Marguerites.
“Do you suppose that Dauriat has read your sonnets or sent them to any one else?” Etienne Lousteau snatched an opportunity to whisper.
“Yes,” said Lucien.
“Look at the string.” Lucien looked down at the blot of ink, and saw that the mark on the string still coincided; he turned white with rage.
“Which of the sonnets was it that you particularly liked?” he asked, turning to the publisher.