"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.
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