The Theatre-Francais,the Vaudeville,the Varietes,the Opera-Comique relieved him of some sixty francs,although he always went to the pit.
What student could deny himself the pleasure of seeing Talma in one of his famous roles?Lucien was fascinated by the theatre,that first love of all poetic temperaments;the actors and actresses were awe-inspiring creatures;he did not so much as dream of the possibility of crossing the footlights and meeting them on familiar terms.The men and women who gave him so much pleasure were surely marvelous beings,whom the newspapers treated with as much gravity as matters of national interest.To be a dramatic author,to have a play produced on the stage!What a dream was this to cherish!A dream which a few bold spirits like Casimir Delavigne had actually realized.Thick swarming thoughts like these,and moments of belief in himself,followed by despair gave Lucien no rest,and kept him in the narrow way of toil and frugality,in spite of the smothered grumblings of more than one frenzied desire.
Carrying prudence to an extreme,he made it a rule never to enter the precincts of the Palais Royal,that place of perdition where he had spent fifty francs at Very's in a single day,and nearly five hundred francs on his clothes;and when he yielded to temptation,and saw Fleury,Talma,the two Baptistes,or Michot,he went no further than the murky passage where theatre-goers used to stand in a string from half-past five in the afternoon till the hour when the doors opened,and belated comers were compelled to pay ten sous for a place near the ticket-office.And after waiting for two hours,the cry of "All tickets are sold!"rang not unfrequently in the ears of disappointed students.When the play was over,Lucien went home with downcast eyes,through streets lined with living attractions,and perhaps fell in with one of those commonplace adventures which loom so large in a young and timorous imagination.
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 manus 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.12francs.
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.
