at are blooming and rosy, and have no beards
on their chins as yet," he continued, looking at Lucien; "but in
the trade, young man, there are only four poets--Beranger, Casimir
Delavigne, Lamartine, and Victor Hugo; as for Canalis--he is a poet made
by sheer force of writing him up."

Lucien felt that he lacked the courage to hold up his head and show his
spirit before all these influential persons, who were laughing with
all their might. He knew very well that he should look hopelessly
ridiculous, and yet he felt consumed by a fierce desire to catch the
bookseller by the throat, to ruffle the insolent composure of his
cravat, to break the gold chain that glittered on the man's chest,
trample his watch under his feet, and tear him in pieces. Mortified
vanity opened the door to thoughts of vengeance, and inwardly he swore
eternal enmity to that bookseller. But he smiled amiably.

"Poetry is like the sun," said Blondet, "giving life alike to primeval
forests and to ants and gnats and mosquitoes. There is no virtue but has
a vice to match, and literature breeds the publisher."

"And the journalist," said Lousteau.

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.

"Very well, I will read them," said Dauriat, with a regal gesture that
marked the full extent of the concession. "If these sonnets of yours are
up to the level of the nineteenth century, I will make a great poet of
you, my boy."

"If he has brains to equal his good looks, you will run no great risks,"
remarked one of the greatest public speakers of the day, a deputy who
was chatting with the editor of the _Minerve_, and a writer for the
_Constitutionnel_.

"Fame means twelve thousand francs in reviews, and a thousand more for
dinners, General," said Dauriat. "If M. Benjamin de Constant means to
write a paper on this young poet, it will not be long before I make a
bargain with him."

At the title of General, and the distinguished name of Benjamin
Constant, the bookseller's shop took the proportions of Olympus for the
provincial great man.

"Lousteau, I want a word with you," said Finot; "but I shall see you
again later, at the theatre.--Dauriat, I will take your offer,