“I felt sure that you would find your way here at last,” said his friend.
The poet was standing in the doorway of a shop crowded with persons waiting for an audience with the sultan of the publishing trade. Printers, paper-dealers, and designers were catechizing Dauriat’s assistants as to present or future business.
Lousteau drew Lucien into the shop. “There! that is Finot who edits my paper,” he said; “he is talking with Félicien Vernou, who has abilities, but the little wretch is as dangerous as a hidden disease.”
“Well, old boy, there is a first night for you,” said Finot, coming up with Vernou. “I have disposed of the box.”
“Sold it to Braulard?”
“Well, and if I did, what then? You will get a seat. What do you want with Dauriat? Oh, it is agreed that we are to push Paul de Kock, Dauriat has taken two hundred copies, and Victor Ducange is refusing to give him his next. Dauriat wants to set up another man in the same line, he says. You must rate Paul de Kock above Ducange.”
“But I have a piece on with Ducange at the Gaité,” said Lousteau.
“Very well, tell him that I wrote the article. It can be supposed that I wrote a slashing review, and you toned it down; and he will owe you thanks.”
“Couldn’t you get Dauriat’s cashier to discount this bit of a bill for a hundred francs?” asked Etienne Lousteau. “We are celebrating Florine’s house-warming with a supper to-night, you know.”
“Ah! yes, you are treating us all,” said Finot, with an apparent effort of memory. “Here, Gabusson,” he added, handing Barbet’s bill to the cashier, “let me have ninety francs for this individual.—Fill in your name, old man.”