One day Lucien counted over his remaining stock of money, and took alarm at the melting of his funds; a cold perspiration broke out upon him when he thought that the time had come when he must find a publisher, and try also to find work for which a publisher would pay him. The young journalist, with whom he had made a one-sided friendship, never came now to Flicoteaux’s. Lucien was waiting for a chance—which failed to present itself. In Paris there are no chances except for men with a very wide circle of acquaintance; chances of success of every kind increase with the number of your connections; and, therefore, in this sense also the chances are in favor of the big battalions. Lucien had sufficient provincial foresight still left, and had no mind to wait until only a last few coins remained to him. He resolved to face the publishers.
So one tolerably chilly September morning Lucien went down the Rue de la Harpe, with his two manuscripts under his arm. As he made his way to the Quai des Augustins, and went along, looking into the booksellers’ windows on one side and into the Seine on the other, his good genius might have counseled him to pitch himself into the water sooner than plunge into literature. After heart-searching hesitations, after a profound scrutiny of the various countenances, more or less encouraging, soft-hearted, churlish, cheerful, or melancholy, to be seen through the window panes, or in the doorways of the booksellers’ establishments, he espied a house where the shopmen were busy packing books at a great rate. Goods were being despatched. The walls were plastered with bills:
JUST OUT.
LE SOLITAIRE, by M. le Vicomte d’Arlincourt.
Third edition.
LEONIDE, by Victor Ducange; five volumes
12mo, printed on fine paper. 12 francs.
INDUCTIONS MORALES, by Keratry.
“They are lucky, that they are!” exclaimed Lucien.
The placard, a new and original idea of the celebrated Ladvocat, was just beginning to blossom out upon the walls. In no long space Paris was to wear motley, thanks to the exertions of his imitators, and the Treasury was to discover a new source of revenue.
Anxiety sent the blood surging to Lucien’s heart, as he who had been so great at Angouleme, so insignificant of late in Paris, slipped past the other houses, summoned up all his courage, and at last entered the shop thronged with assistants, customers, and booksellers—“And authors too, perhaps!” thought Lucien.
“I want to speak with M. Vidal or M. Porchon,” he said, addressing a shopman. He had read the names on the sign-board—VIDAL & PORCHON (it ran), French and foreign booksellers’ agents.
“Both gentlemen are engaged,” said the man.
“I will wait.”
Left to himself, the poet scrutinized the packages, and amused himself for a couple of hours by scanning the titles of books, looking into them, and reading a page or two here and there. At last, as he stood leaning against a window, he heard voices, and suspecting that the green curtains hid either Vidal or Porchon, he listened to the conversation.
“Will you take five hundred copies of me? If you will, I will let you have them at five francs, and give fourteen to the dozen.”
“What does that bring them in at?”
“Sixteen sous less.”
“Four francs four sous?” said Vidal or Porchon, whichever it was.
“Yes,” said the vendor.
“Credit your account?” inquired the purchaser.
“Old humbug! you would settle with me in eighteen months’ time, with bills at a twelvemonth.”
“No. Settled at once,” returned Vidal or Porchon.
“Bills at nine months?” asked the publisher or author, who evidently was selling his book.
“No, my dear fellow, twelve months,” returned one of the firm of booksellers’ agents.
There was a pause.
“You are simply cutting my throat!” said the visitor.
“But in a year’s time shall we have placed a hundred copies of Leonide?” said the other voice. “If books went off as fast as the publishers would like, we should be millionaires, my good sir; but they don’t, they go as the public pleases. There is some one now bringing out an edition of Scott’s novels at eighteen sous per volume, three livres twelve sous per copy, and you want me to give you more for your stale remainders? No. If you mean me to push this novel of yours, you must make it worth my while.—Vidal!”
A stout man, with a pen behind his ear, came down from his desk.
“How many copies of Ducange did you place last journey?” asked Porchon of his partner.
“Two hundred of Le Petit Vieillard de Calais, but to sell them I was obliged to cry down two books which pay in less commission, and uncommonly fine ‘nightingales’ they are now.”
(A “nightingale,” as Lucien afterwards learned, is a bookseller’s name for books that linger on hand, perched out of sight in the loneliest nooks in the shop.)
“And besides,” added Vidal, “Picard is bringing out some novels, as you know. We have been promised twenty per cent on the published price to make the thing a success.”
“Very well, at twelve months,” the publisher answered in a piteous voice, thunderstruck by Vidal’s confidential remark.
“Is it an offer?” Porchon inquired curtly.
“Yes.” The stranger went out. After he had gone, Lucien heard Porchon say to Vidal:
“We have three hundred copies on order now. We will keep him waiting for his settlement, sell the Leonides for five francs net, settlement in six months, and——”
“And that will be fifteen hundred francs into our pockets,” said Vidal.
“Oh, I saw quite well that he was in a fix. He is giving Ducange four thousand francs for two thousand copies.”
Lucien cut Vidal short by appearing in the entrance of the den.
“I have the honor of wishing you a good day, gentlemen,” he said, addressing both partners. The booksellers nodded slightly.
“I have a French historical romance after the style of Scott. It is called The Archer of Charles IX.; I propose to offer it to you——”
Porchon glanced at Lucien with lustreless eyes, and laid his pen down on the desk. Vidal stared rudely at the author.
“We are not publishing booksellers, sir; we are booksellers’ agents,” he said. “When we bring out a book ourselves, we only deal in well-known names; and we only take serious literature besides—history and epitomes.”
“But my book is very serious. It is an attempt to set the struggle between Catholics and Calvinists in its true light; the Catholics were supporters of absolute monarchy, and the Protestants for a republic.”
“M. Vidal!” shouted an assistant. Vidal fled.
“I don’t say, sir, that your book is not a masterpiece,” replied Porchon, with scanty civility, “but we only deal in books that are ready printed. Go and see somebody that buys manuscripts. There is old Doguereau in the Rue du Coq, near the Louvre, he is in the romance line. If you had only spoken sooner, you might have seen Pollet, a competitor of Doguereau and of the publisher in the Wooden Galleries.”
“I have a volume of poetry——”
“M. Porchon!” somebody shouted.
“Poetry!” Porchon exclaimed