ment, and flatter all the little base
passions of the sultans of literature. There is Hector Merlin, who came
from Limoges a short time ago; he is writing political articles already
for a Right Centre daily, and he is at work on our little paper as well.
I have seen an editor drop his hat and Merlin pick it up. The fellow was
careful never to give offence, and slipped into the thick of the fight
between rival ambitions. I am sorry for you. It is as if I saw in you
the self that I used to be, and sure am I that in one or two years' time
you will be what I am now.--You will think that there is some lurking
jealousy or personal motive in this bitter counsel, but it is prompted
by the despair of a damned soul that can never leave hell.--No one
ventures to utter such things as these. You hear the groans of anguish
from a man wounded to the heart, crying like a second Job from the
ashes, 'Behold my sores!'"

"But whether I fight upon this field or elsewhere, fight I must," said
Lucien.

"Then, be sure of this," returned Lousteau, "if you have anything in
you, the war will know no truce, the best chance of success lies in an
empty head. The austerity of your conscience, clear as yet, will relax
when you see that a man holds your future in his two hands, when a word
from such a man means life to you, and he will not say that word. For,
believe me, the most brutal bookseller in the trade is not so insolent,
so hard-hearted to a newcomer as the celebrity of the day. The
bookseller sees a possible loss of money, while the writer of books
dreads a possible rival; the first shows you the door, the second
crushes the life out of you. To do really good work, my boy, means that
you will draw out the energy, sap, and tenderness of your nature at
every dip of the pen in the ink, to set it forth for the world in
passion and sentiment and phrases. Yes; instead of acting, you will
write; you will sing songs instead of fighting; you will love and
hate and live in your books; and then, after all, when you shall have
reserved your riches for your style, your gold and purple for your
characters, and you yourself are walking the streets of Paris in rags,
rejoicing in that, rivaling the State Register, you have authorized the
existence of beings styled Adolphe, Corinne or Clarissa, Rene or Manon;
when you shall have spoiled your life and your digestion to give life
to that creation, then you shall see it slandered, betrayed, sold, swept
away in