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Updated: June 24, 2025
Dauriat burst out laughing. "What is this after all?" he asked, holding up the manuscript. "A volume of sonnets that will put Petrarch to the blush," said Lousteau. "What do you mean?" "Just what I say," answered Lousteau, seeing the knowing smile that went round the group. Lucien could not take offence but he chafed inwardly.
Lucien watched this Dauriat, who addressed Finot with the familiar tu, which even Finot did not permit himself to use in reply; who called the redoubtable Blondet "my boy," and extended a hand royally to Nathan with a friendly nod. The provincial poet felt his shirt wet with perspiration when the formidable sultan looked indifferent and ill pleased.
Dauriat was said to prefer a first loss of a thousand crowns to the risk of publishing the verses; Lucien was called "the Poet sans Sonnets;" and one morning, in that very paper in which he had so brilliant a beginning, he read the following lines, significant enough for him, but barely intelligible to other readers: * "If M. Dauriat persistently withholds the Sonnets of the future Petrarch from publication, we will act like generous foes.
Dauriat had this and that in hand, which took up all his time; a new volume by Canalis was coming out, and he did not want the two books to clash; M. de Lamartine's second series of Meditations was in the press, and two important collections of poetry ought not to appear together.
And as for sitting by yourself in a corner alone with your intellect, it is the most dangerous thing of all." "But what insolence!" said Lucien. "Pshaw! we all of us laugh at Dauriat," said Etienne. "If you are in need of him, he tramples upon you; if he has need of the Journal des Debats, Emile Blondet sets him spinning like a top.
"If anybody comes here with manuscripts," he continued, looking at the finger-nails of a well-kept hand, "ask him whether it is poetry or prose; and if he says poetry, show him the door at once. Verses mean reverses in the booktrade." "Bravo! well put, Dauriat," cried the chorus of journalists. "It is true!" cried the bookseller, striding about his shop with Lucien's manuscript in his hand.
"I will write it," said Hector Merlin. "It is my own point of view." "Your party will complain that you are compromising them," said Finot. "Felicien, you must undertake it; Dauriat will bring it out, and we will keep the secret." "How much shall I get?" "Six hundred francs. Sign it 'Le Comte C, three stars." "It's a bargain," said Felicien Vernou.
It will be a kind of local branch of the Academie, and the Academicians will be better paid in the Wooden Galleries than at the Institut." "'Tis an idea," said Blondet. "A bad idea," returned Dauriat.
And as for sitting by yourself in a corner alone with your intellect, it is the most dangerous thing of all." "But what insolence!" said Lucien. "Pshaw! we all of us laugh at Dauriat," said Etienne. "If you are in need of him, he tramples upon you; if he has need of the Journal des Debats, Emile Blondet sets him spinning like a top.
Haven't you a poem that you thought a good deal of once, Lousteau?" inquired Dauriat, with a knowing glance at the other. "How should I be writing prose otherwise, eh?" asked Lousteau. "There, you see! He has never said a word to me about it, for our friend understands business and the trade," continued Dauriat.
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