shall hear why," said Etienne Lousteau. "We ought
to do something for our new comrade. Lucien here has two books to bring
out--a volume of sonnets and a novel. The power of the paragraph should
make him a great poet due in three months; and we will make use of his
sonnets (_Marguerites_ is the title) to run down odes, ballads, and
reveries, and all the Romantic poetry."

"It would be a droll thing if the sonnets were no good after all," said
Vernou.--"What do you yourself think of your sonnets, Lucien?"

"Yes, what do you think of them?" asked one of the two whom Lucien did
not know.

"They are all right, gentlemen; I give you my word," said Lousteau.

"Very well, that will do for me," said Vernou; "I will heave your book
at the poets of the sacristy; I am tired of them."

"If Dauriat declines to take the _Marguerites_ this evening, we will
attack him by pitching into Nathan."

"But what will Nathan say?" cried Lucien.

His five colleagues burst out laughing.

"Oh! he will be delighted," said Vernou. "You will see how we manage
these things."

"So he is one of us?" said one of the two journalists.

"Yes, yes, Frederic; no tricks.--We are all working for you, Lucien, you
see; you must stand by us when your turn comes. We are all friends
of Nathan's, and we are attacking him. Now, let us divide Alexander's
empire.--Frederic, will you take the Francais and the Odeon?"

"If these gentlemen are willing," returned the person addressed as
Frederic. The others nodded assent, but Lucien saw a gleam of jealousy
here and there.

"I am keeping the Opera, the Italiens, and the Opera-Comique," put in
Vernou.

"And how about me? Am I to have no theatres at all?" asked the second
stranger.

"Oh well, Hector can let you have the Varietes, and Lucien can spare you
the Porte Saint-Martin.--Let him have the Porte Saint-Martin, Lucien,
he is wild about Fanny Beaupre; and you can take the Cirque-Olympique in
exchange. I shall have Bobino and the Funambules and Madame Saqui. Now,
what have we for to-morrow?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Gentlemen, be brilliant for my first number. The Baron du Chatelet
and his cuttlefish bone will not last for a week, and the writer of _Le
Solitaire_ is worn out."

"And 'Sosthenes-Demosthenes' is stale too," said Vernou; "everybody has
taken it up."

"The fact is, we want a new set of ninepins," said Frederic.

"Suppose that we take the virtuous representatives of the Rig