The manager of the Panorama-Dramatique gave a first performance of a vaudeville that night, so that Florine and Coralie might be free for the evening. There were to be cards before supper. Lousteau came for the short notice of the vaudeville; it had been written beforehand after the general rehearsal, for Etienne wished to have the paper off his mind. Lucien read over one of the charming sketches of Parisian whimsicalities which made the fortune of the paper, and Lousteau kissed him on both eyelids, and called him the providence of journalism.
“Then why do you amuse yourself by turning my article inside out?” asked Lucien. He had written his brilliant sketch simply and solely to give emphasis to his grievance.
“I?” exclaimed Lousteau.
“Well, who else can have altered my article?”
“You do not know all the ins and outs yet, dear fellow. The Ambigu pays for thirty copies, and only takes nine for the manager and box office-keeper and their mistresses, and for the three lessees of the theatre. Every one of the Boulevard theatres pays eight hundred francs in this way to the paper; and there is quite as much again in boxes and orders for Finot, to say nothing of the contributions of the company. And if the minor theatres do this, you may imagine what the big ones do! Now you understand? We are bound to show a good deal of indulgence.”
“I understand this, that I am not at liberty to write as I think——”
“Eh! what does that matter, so long as you turn an honest penny?” cried Lousteau. “Besides, my boy, what grudge had you against the theatre? You must have had some reason for it, or you would not have cut up the play as you did. If you slash for the sake of slashing, the paper will get into trouble, and when there is good reason for hitting hard it will not tell. Did the manager leave you out in the cold?”
“He had not kept a place for me.”
“Good,” said Lousteau. “I shall let him see your article, and tell him that I softened it down; you will find it serves you better than if it had appeared in print. Go and ask him for tickets to-morrow, and he will sign forty blank orders every month. I know a man who can get rid of them for you; I will introduce you to him, and he will buy them all up at half-price. There is a trade done in theatre tickets, just as Barbet trades in reviewers’ copies. This is another Barbet, the leader of the claque. He lives near by; come and see him, there is time enough.”
“But, my dear fellow, it is a scandalous thing that Finot should levy blackmail in matters intellectual. Sooner or later——”