“You are too clever not to know what has brought me here,” said Dauriat, fixing his eyes on Lucien.
“You have come to buy my sonnets.”
“Precisely. First of all, let us lay down our arms on both sides.” As he spoke he took out a neat pocketbook, drew from it three bills for a thousand francs each, and laid them before Lucien with a suppliant air. “Is monsieur content?” asked he.
“Yes,” said the poet. A sense of beatitude, for which no words exist, flooded his soul at the sight of that unhoped wealth. He controlled himself, but he longed to sing aloud, to jump for joy; he was ready to believe in Aladdin’s lamp and in enchantment; he believed in his own genius, in short.
“Then the Marguerites are mine,” continued Dauriat; “but you will undertake not to attack my publications, won’t you?”
“The Marguerites are yours, but I cannot pledge my pen; it is at the service of my friends, as theirs are mine.”
“But you are one of my authors now. All my authors are my friends. So you won’t spoil my business without warning me beforehand, so that I am prepared, will you?”
“I agree to that.”
“To your fame!” and Dauriat raised his glass.
“I see that you have read the Marguerites,” said Lucien.