Lucien, on this first visit to the Wooden Galleries, was bewildered by a sight which no novice can resist. He soon lost the guide who befriended him. “If you were as good-looking as yonder young fellow, I would give you your money’s worth,” a woman said, pointing out Lucien to an old man. Lucien slunk through the crowd like a blind man’s dog, following the stream in a state of stupefaction and excitement difficult to describe. Importuned by glances and white-rounded contours, dazzled by the audacious display of bared throat and bosom, he gripped his roll of manuscript tightly lest somebody should steal it—innocent that he was! “Well, what is it, sir!” he exclaimed, thinking, when some one caught him by the arm, that his poetry had proved too great a temptation to some author’s honesty, and turning, he recognized Lousteau. “I felt sure that you would find your way here at last,” said his friend. The poet was standing in the doorway of a shop crowded with persons waiting for an audience with the sultan of the publishing trade. Printers, paper-dealers, and designers were catechizing Dauriat’s assistants as to present or future business. Lousteau drew Lucien into the shop. “There! that is Finot who edits my paper,” he said; “he is talking with Félicien Vernou, who has abilities, but the little wretch is as dangerous as a hidden disease.” “Well, old boy, there is a first night for you,” said Finot, coming up with Vernou. “I have disposed of the box.” “Sold it to Braulard?” “Well, and if I did, what then? You will get a seat. What do you want with Dauriat? Oh, it is agreed that we are to push Paul de Kock, Dauriat has taken two hundred copies, and Victor Ducange is refusing to give him his next. Dauriat wants to set up another man in the same line, he says. You must rate Paul de Kock above Ducange.” “But I have a piece on with Ducange at the Gaité,” said Lousteau. “Very well, tell him that I wrote the article. It can be supposed that I wrote a slashing review, and you toned it down; and he will owe you thanks.” “Couldn’t you get Dauriat’s cashier to discount this bit of a bill for a hundred francs?” asked Étienne Lousteau. “We are celebrating Florine’s house-warming with a supper to-night, you know.” “Ah! yes, you are treating us all,” said Finot, with an apparent effort of memory. “Here, Gabusson,” he added, handing Barbet’s bill to the cashier, “let me have ninety francs for this individual.—Fill in your name, old man.” Lousteau signed his name while the cashier counted out the money; and Lucien, all eyes and ears, lost not a syllable of the conversation. “That is not all, my friend,” Étienne continued; “I don’t thank you, we have sworn an eternal friendship. I have taken it upon myself to introduce this gentleman to Dauriat, and you must incline his ear to listen to us.” “What is on foot?” asked Finot. “A volume of poetry,” said Lucien. “Oh!” said Finot, with a shrug of the shoulders.