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pound, masterpieces of punch-cutting which I bought five years ago. And look, some of them still have the white of the casting on them!’ Séchard senior caught up a handful of still unused ‘sorts’ and showed them to his son, ‘I’m no scholar and can’t read or write, but I know enough about it to guess that the English script types used by your precious Didots were cribbed from those of the Gillé foundry. Here’s a
ronde,’
he added, pointing to a case and taking an M from it: ‘a
ronde
in pica size which is still brand-new.’
    David perceived that there could be no arguing with his father. He had to take it or leave it, accept or refuse the lot. The old ‘bear’ had included everything in the inventory, even the ropes in the drying room. The smallest job-chase, the wetting-boards, the basins, the stone and brushes for cleaning, everything was priced with miserly precision. The total amounted to thirty thousand francs, including the master-printer’s licence and the good-will. David was mentally computing whether the transaction was feasible or not. Seeing his son musing in silence over the figure, Séchard senior grew anxious, for he preferred heated bargaining to mute acceptance. In this sort of dealing, bargaining denotes a business man capable of defending his interests. ‘The man who never haggles never pays,’ old Séchard used to say. As he watched his son closely to guess his thoughts, he ran through the list of his sorry utensils, all of them needed, he argued, for running a provincial printing-office. He took David round to a glazing-press and a trimmer for jobbing-work, and boasted of their usefulness and soundness.
    ‘Old tools are always best,’ he said. ‘In the printing business they ought to fetch a better price than the new ones, as they do in the gold-beaters’ trade.’
    Hideous vignettes representing Hymens and Cupids, dead people pushing up the lids of their sepulchres and representing a V or an M, and enormous play-bill borders complete with mummers’ masks were transformed, by virtue of Jérôme-Nicolas’s wine-sodden eloquence, into articles of tremendous value. He told his son that provincial people were strongly rooted in their habits, and that any attempt to provide them with better products would be wasted. He, Jérôme-Nicolas Séchard, had tried to sell them better almanacs than the
Double Liégois,
which was printed on sugar-bag paper. Well, they had preferred the original
Double Liégois
to the most splendid almanacs. David would soon recognize the importance of such old-fashioned stuff, which would sell better than the most costly novelties.
    ‘Ha! Ha! my boy! The provinces are one thing, Paris is another. If a man from L’Houmeau comes and orders wedding-cards, and if you print them without a Cupid and garlands, hewon’t think he’s properly married: he’ll bring them back to you if he only sees an M on them, as with your Messrs Didot. They are the glory of the printing-trade, but their new-fangled ideas won’t take on in the provinces for a hundred years. And that’s the truth.’
    Generous souls make poor business men. David was one of those shy and sensitive people who shrink from argument and give way as soon as their opponent’s foil pricks too near to their heart. His lofty sentiments and the deference he still paid to the old drunkard made him even less fit to hold his own in discussion with his father, particularly since he credited him with the best intentions – for at first he put down the pressman’s voracious selfishness to affection for his tools. Nonetheless, since Jérôme-Nicolas Séchard had bought the entire concern from Rouzeau’s widow for ten thousand francs in
assignats,
and since at present values thirty thousand francs was an exorbitant price, young David exclaimed:
    ‘But father, you are bleeding me white!’
    ‘I who brought you into the world…’ said the old sot, with his arms raised towards the drying-poles. ‘How much