"Well, children," said a voice, and a short, stout man appeared, with a puffy face that suggested a Roman pro-consul's visage, mellowed by an air of good-nature which deceived superficial observers. "Well, children, here am I, the proprietor of the only weekly paper in the market, a paper with two thousand subscribers!"
"Old joker! The registered number is seven hundred, and that is over the mark," said Blondet.
"Twelve thousand, on my sacred word of honor—I said two thousand for the benefit of the printers and paper-dealers yonder," he added, lowering his voice, then raising it again. "I thought you had more tact, my boy," he added.
"Are you going to take any partners?" inquired Finot.
"That depends," said Dauriat. "Will you take a third at forty thousand francs?"
"It's a bargain, if you will take Emile Blondet here on the staff, and
Claude Vignon, Scribe, Theodore Leclercq, Felicien Vernou, Jay, Jouy,
Lousteau, and——"
"And why not Lucien de Rubempre?" the provincial poet put in boldly.
"——and Nathan," concluded Finot.
"Why not the people out there in the street?" asked Dauriat, scowling at the author of the Marguerites.—"To whom have I the honor of speaking?" he added, with an insolent glance.
"One moment, Dauriat," said Lousteau. "I have brought this gentleman to you. Listen to me, while Finot is thinking over your proposals."