she has a horror of her first
purchaser, de Marsay; and when she came out of the galleys, for the king
of dandies soon dropped her, she picked up old Camusot. She does not
care much about him, but he is like a father to her, and she endures
him and his love. Several times already she has refused the handsomest
proposals; she is faithful to Camusot, who lets her live in peace. So
you are her first love. The first sight of you went to her heart like a
pistol-shot, Florine has gone to her dressing-room to bring the girl to
reason. She is crying over your cruelty; she has forgotten her part, the
play will go to pieces, and good-day to the engagement at the Gymnase
which Camusot had planned for her."

"Pooh!... Poor thing!" said Lucien. Every instinct of vanity was tickled
by the words; he felt his heart swell high with self-conceit. "More
adventures have befallen me in this one evening, my dear fellow, than in
all the first eighteen years of my life." And Lucien related the history
of his love affairs with Mme. de Bargeton, and of the cordial hatred he
bore the Baron du Chatelet.

"Stay though! the newspaper wants a _bete noire_; we will take him up.
The Baron is a buck of the Empire and a Ministerialist; he is the man
for us; I have seen him many a time at the Opera. I can see your great
lady as I sit here; she is often in the Marquise d'Espard's box. The
Baron is paying court to your lady love, a cuttlefish bone that she is.
Wait! Finot has just sent a special messenger round to say that they are
short of copy at the office. Young Hector Merlin has left them in the
lurch because they did not pay for white lines. Finot, in despair, is
knocking off an article against the Opera. Well now, my dear fellow, you
can do this play; listen to it and think it over, and I will go to the
manager's office and think out three columns about your man and your
disdainful fair one. They will be in no pleasant predicament to-morrow."

"So this is how a newspaper is written?" said Lucien.

"It is always like this," answered Lousteau. "These ten months that
I have been a journalist, they have always run short of copy at eight
o'clock in the evening."

Manuscript sent to the printer is spoken of as "copy," doubtless because
the writers are supposed to send in a fair copy of their work; or
possibly the word is ironically derived from the Latin word _copia_, for
copy is invariably scarce.

"We always mean to have a few numbers ready in adv