Lost Illusions | Page 8

strong oaken cheeks,
polished up by the apprentice.
"Isn't it a love of a press?"
A wedding announcement lay in the press. The old "bear" folded down
the frisket upon the tympan, and the tympan upon the form, ran in the
carriage, worked the lever, drew out the carriage, and lifted the frisket
and tympan, all with as much agility as the youngest of the tribe. The
press, handled in this sort, creaked aloud in such fine style that you
might have thought some bird had dashed itself against the window
pane and flown away again.
"Where is the English press that could go at that pace?" the parent
asked of his astonished son.
Old Sechard hurried to the second, and then to the third in order,
repeating the manoeuvre with equal dexterity. The third presenting to
his wine-troubled eye a patch overlooked by the apprentice, with a
notable oath he rubbed it with the skirt of his overcoat, much as a
horse-dealer polishes the coat of an animal that he is trying to sell.
"With those three presses, David, you can make your nine thousand
francs a year without a foreman. As your future partner, I am opposed
to your replacing these presses by your cursed cast-iron machinery, that
wears out the type. You in Paris have been making such a to-do over
that damned Englishman's invention--a foreigner, an enemy of France

who wants to help the ironfounders to a fortune. Oh! you wanted
Stanhopes, did you? Thanks for your Stanhopes, that cost two thousand
five hundred francs apiece, about twice as much as my three jewels put
together, and maul your type to pieces, because there is no give in them.
I haven't book-learning like you, but you keep this well in mind, the life
of the Stanhope is the death of the type. Those three presses will serve
your turn well enough, the printing will be properly done, and folk here
in Angouleme won't ask any more of you. You may print with presses
made of wood or iron or gold or silver, they will never pay you a
farthing more."
"'Item,'" pursued David, "'five thousand pounds weight of type from M.
Vaflard's foundry----'" Didot's apprentice could not help smiling at the
name.
"Laugh away! After twelve years of wear, that type is as good as new.
That is what I call a typefounder! M. Vaflard is an honest man, who
uses hard metal; and, to my way of thinking, the best typefounder is the
one you go to most seldom."
"'----Taken at ten thousand francs,'" continued David. "Ten thousand
francs, father! Why, that is two francs a pound, and the Messrs. Didot
only ask thirty-six sous for their Cicero! These nail-heads of yours will
only fetch the price of old metal--fivepence a pound."
"You call M. Gille's italics, running-hand and round-hand, 'nail-heads,'
do you? M. Gille, that used to be printer to the Emperor! And type that
costs six francs a pound! masterpieces of engraving, bought only five
years ago. Some of them are as bright yet as when they came from the
foundry. Look here!"
Old Sechard pounced upon some packets of unused sorts, and held
them out for David to see.
"I am not book-learned; I don't know how to read or write; but, all the
same, I know enough to see that M. Gille's sloping letters are the
fathers of your Messrs. Didot's English running-hand. Here is the
round-hand," he went on, taking up an unused pica type.
David saw that there was no way of coming to terms with his father. It
was a case of Yes or No--of taking or leaving it. The very ropes across
the ceiling had gone down into the old "bear's" inventory, and not the
smallest item was omitted; jobbing chases, wetting-boards, paste-pots,
rinsing-trough, and lye-brushes had all been put down and valued

separately with miserly exactitude. The total amounted to thirty
thousand francs, including the license and the goodwill. David asked
himself whether or not this thing was feasible.
Old Sechard grew uneasy over his son's silence; he would rather have
had stormy argument than a wordless acceptance of the situation.
Chaffering in these sorts of bargains means that a man can look after
his interests. "A man who is ready to pay you anything you ask will pay
nothing," old Sechard was saying to himself. While he tried to follow
his son's train of thought, he went through the list of odds and ends of
plant needed by a country business, drawing David now to a hot-press,
now to a cutting-press, bragging of its usefulness and sound condition.
"Old tools are always the best tools," said he. "In our line of business
they ought to fetch more than the new, like goldbeaters' tools."
Hideous vignettes, representing Hymen