“Yes,” Dauriat answered. “Yes, I saw his article, and in his own interests I decline the _Marguerites_. Yes, sir, in six months’ time I shall have paid you more money for the articles that I shall ask you to write than for your poetry that will not sell.” “And fame?” said Lucien. Dauriat and Lousteau laughed. “Oh dear!” said Lousteau, “there be illusions left.” “Fame means ten years of sticking to work, and a hundred thousand francs lost or made in the publishing trade. If you find anybody mad enough to print your poetry for you, you will feel some respect for me in another twelvemonth, when you have had time to see the outcome of the transaction.” “Have you the manuscript here?” Lucien asked coldly. “Here it is, my friend,” said Dauriat. The publisher’s manner towards Lucien had sweetened singularly. Lucien took up the roll without looking at the string, so sure he felt that Dauriat had read his _Marguerites_. He went out with Lousteau, seemingly neither disconcerted nor dissatisfied. Dauriat went with them into the shop, talking of his newspaper and Lousteau’s daily, while Lucien played with the manuscript of the _Marguerites_. “Do you suppose that Dauriat has read your sonnets or sent them to any one else?” Étienne Lousteau snatched an opportunity to whisper. “Yes,” said Lucien. “Look at the string.” Lucien looked down at the blot of ink, and saw that the mark on the string still coincided; he turned white with rage. “Which of the sonnets was it that you particularly liked?” he asked, turning to the publisher. “They are all of them remarkable, my friend; but the sonnet on the _Marguerite_ is delightful, the closing thought is fine, and exquisitely expressed. I felt sure from that sonnet that your prose work would command a success, and I spoke to Finot about you at once. Write articles for us, and we will pay you well for them. Fame is a very fine thing, you see, but don’t forget the practical and solid, and take every chance that turns up. When you have made money, you can write poetry.” The poet dashed out of the shop to avoid an explosion. He was furious. Lousteau followed. “Well, my boy, pray keep cool. Take men as they are—for means to an end. Do you wish for revenge?” “At any price,” muttered the poet. “Here is a copy of Nathan’s book. Dauriat has just given it to me. The second edition is coming out to-morrow; read the book again, and knock off an article demolishing it. Félicien Vernou cannot endure Nathan, for he thinks that Nathan’s success will injure his own forthcoming book. It is a craze with these little minds to fancy that there is not room for two successes under the sun; so he will see that your article finds a place in the big paper for which he writes.” “But what is there to be said against the book; it is good work!” cried Lucien.