“They are all of them remarkable, my friend; but the sonnet on the Marguerite is delightful, the closing thought is fine, and exquisitely expressed. I felt sure from that sonnet that your prose work would command a success, and I spoke to Finot about you at once. Write articles for us, and we will pay you well for them. Fame is a very fine thing, you see, but don’t forget the practical and solid, and take every chance that turns up. When you have made money, you can write poetry.”
The poet dashed out of the shop to avoid an explosion. He was furious. Lousteau followed.
“Well, my boy, pray keep cool. Take men as they are—for means to an end. Do you wish for revenge?”
“At any price,” muttered the poet.
“Here is a copy of Nathan’s book. Dauriat has just given it to me. The second edition is coming out to-morrow; read the book again, and knock off an article demolishing it. Félicien Vernou cannot endure Nathan, for he thinks that Nathan’s success will injure his own forthcoming book. It is a craze with these little minds to fancy that there is not room for two successes under the sun; so he will see that your article finds a place in the big paper for which he writes.”
“But what is there to be said against the book; it is good work!” cried Lucien.
“Oh, I say! you must learn your trade,” said Lousteau, laughing. “Given that the book was a masterpiece, under the stroke of your pen it must turn to dull trash, dangerous and unwholesome stuff.”
“But how?”
“You turn all the good points into bad ones.”
“I am incapable of such a juggler’s feat.”