The dirty, cheerless room told a tale of a restless life and a want of self-respect; some one came hither to sleep and work at high pressure, staying no longer than he could help, longing, while he remained, to be out and away. What a difference between this cynical disorder and d’Arthez’s neat and self-respecting poverty! A warning came with the thought of d’Arthez; but Lucien would not heed it, for Étienne made a joking remark to cover the nakedness of a reckless life. “This is my kennel; I appear in state in the Rue de Bondy, in the new apartments which our druggist has taken for Florine; we hold the house-warming this evening.” Étienne Lousteau wore black trousers and beautifully-varnished boots; his coat was buttoned up to his chin; he probably meant to change his linen at Florine’s house, for his shirt collar was hidden by a velvet stock. He was trying to renovate his hat by an application of the brush. “Let us go,” said Lucien. “Not yet. I am waiting for a bookseller to bring me some money; I have not a farthing; there will be play, perhaps, and in any case I must have gloves.” As he spoke, the two new friends heard a man’s step in the passage outside. “There he is,” said Lousteau. “Now you will see, my dear fellow, the shape that Providence takes when he manifests himself to poets. You are going to behold Dauriat, the fashionable bookseller, in all his glory, but first you shall see the bookseller of of the Quai des Augustins, the pawnbroker, the marine store dealer of the trade, the Norman ex-greengrocer.—Come along, old Tartar!” shouted Lousteau. “Here am I,” said a voice like a cracked bell. “Brought the money with you?” “Money? There is no money now in the trade,” retorted the other, a young man who eyed Lucien curiously. “_Imprimis_, you owe me fifty francs,” Lousteau continued. “There are two copies of _Travels in Egypt_ here, a marvel, so they say, swarming with woodcuts, sure to sell. Finot has been paid for two reviews that I am to write for him. _Item_ two works, just out, by Victor Ducange, a novelist highly thought of in the Marais. _Item_ a couple of copies of a second work by Paul de Kock, a beginner in the same style. _Item_ two copies of _Yseult of Dôle_, a charming provincial work. Total, one hundred francs, my little Barbet.” Barbet made a close survey of edges and binding. “Oh! they are in perfect condition,” cried Lousteau. “The _Travels_ are uncut, so is the Paul de Kock, so is the Ducange, so is that other thing on the chimney-piece, _Considerations on Symbolism_. I will throw that in; myths weary me to that degree that I will let you have the thing to spare myself the sight of the swarms of mites coming out of it.” “But,” asked Lucien, “how are you going to write your reviews?” Barbet, in profound astonishment, stared at Lucien; then he looked at Étienne and chuckled. “One can see that the gentleman has not the misfortune to be a literary man,” said he.