“Very well, gentlemen; it is understood that we push Coralie, eh? Put a few lines about her new engagement in your papers, and say something about her talent. Credit the management of the Gymnase with tact and discernment; will it do to say intelligence?” “Yes, say intelligence,” said Merlin; “Frédéric has something of Scribe’s.” “Oh! Well, then, the manager of the Gymnase is the most perspicacious and far-sighted of men of business,” said Vernou. “Look here! don’t write your articles on Nathan until we have come to an understanding; you shall hear why,” said Étienne Lousteau. “We ought to do something for our new comrade. Lucien here has two books to bring out—a volume of sonnets and a novel. The power of the paragraph should make him a great poet due in three months; and we will make use of his sonnets (_Marguerites_ is the title) to run down odes, ballads, and reveries, and all the Romantic poetry.” “It would be a droll thing if the sonnets were no good after all,” said Vernou.—“What do you yourself think of your sonnets, Lucien?” “Yes, what do you think of them?” asked one of the two whom Lucien did not know. “They are all right, gentlemen; I give you my word,” said Lousteau. “Very well, that will do for me,” said Vernou; “I will heave your book at the poets of the sacristy; I am tired of them.” “If Dauriat declines to take the _Marguerites_ this evening, we will attack him by pitching into Nathan.” “But what will Nathan say?” cried Lucien. His five colleagues burst out laughing. “Oh! he will be delighted,” said Vernou. “You will see how we manage these things.” “So he is one of us?” said one of the two journalists. “Yes, yes, Frédéric; no tricks.—We are all working for you, Lucien, you see; you must stand by us when your turn comes. We are all friends of Nathan’s, and we are attacking him. Now, let us divide Alexander’s empire.—Frédéric, will you take the Français and the Odéon?” “If these gentlemen are willing,” returned the person addressed as Frédéric. The others nodded assent, but Lucien saw a gleam of jealousy here and there. “I am keeping the Opera, the Italiens, and the Opera-Comique,” put in Vernou. “And how about me? Am I to have no theatres at all?” asked the second stranger. “Oh well, Hector can let you have the Variétés, and Lucien can spare you the Porte Saint-Martin.—Let him have the Porte Saint-Martin, Lucien, he is wild about Fanny Beaupré; and you can take the Cirque-Olympique in exchange. I shall have Bobino and the Funambules and Madame Saqui. Now, what have we for to-morrow?” “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “Nothing.” “Gentlemen, be brilliant for my first number. The Baron du Châtelet and his cuttlefish bone will not last for a week, and the writer of _Le Solitaire_ is worn out.” “And ‘Sosthenes-Demosthenes’ is stale too,” said Vernou; “everybody has taken it up.” “The fact is, we want a new set of ninepins,” said Frédéric.