“Pooh!... Poor thing!” said Lucien. Every instinct of vanity was tickled by the words; he felt his heart swell high with self-conceit. “More adventures have befallen me in this one evening, my dear fellow, than in all the first eighteen years of my life.” And Lucien related the history of his love affairs with Mme. de Bargeton, and of the cordial hatred he bore the Baron du Châtelet. “Stay though! the newspaper wants a _bête noire_; we will take him up. The Baron is a buck of the Empire and a Ministerialist; he is the man for us; I have seen him many a time at the Opera. I can see your great lady as I sit here; she is often in the Marquise d’Espard’s box. The Baron is paying court to your lady love, a cuttlefish bone that she is. Wait! Finot has just sent a special messenger round to say that they are short of copy at the office. Young Hector Merlin has left them in the lurch because they did not pay for white lines. Finot, in despair, is knocking off an article against the Opera. Well now, my dear fellow, you can do this play; listen to it and think it over, and I will go to the manager’s office and think out three columns about your man and your disdainful fair one. They will be in no pleasant predicament to-morrow.” “So this is how a newspaper is written?” said Lucien. “It is always like this,” answered Lousteau. “These ten months that I have been a journalist, they have always run short of copy at eight o’clock in the evening.” Manuscript sent to the printer is spoken of as “copy,” doubtless because the writers are supposed to send in a fair copy of their work; or possibly the word is ironically derived from the Latin word _copia_, for copy is invariably scarce. “We always mean to have a few numbers ready in advance, a grand idea that will never be realized,” continued Lousteau. “It is ten o’clock, you see, and not a line has been written. I shall ask Vernou and Nathan for a score of epigrams on deputies, or on ‘Chancellor Cruzoé,’ or on the Ministry, or on friends of ours if it néeds must be. A man in this pass would slaughter his parent, just as a privateer will load his guns with silver pieces taken out of the booty sooner than perish. Write a brilliant article, and you will make brilliant progress in Finot’s estimation; for Finot has a lively sense of benefits to come, and that sort of gratitude is better than any kind of pledge, pawntickets always excepted, for they invariably represent something solid.” “What kind of men can journalists be? Are you to sit down at a table and be witty to order?” “Just exactly as a lamp begins to burn when you apply a match—so long as there is any oil in it.” Lousteau’s hand was on the lock when du Bruel came in with the manager.