This first triumph of the future novelist—
obtained, curiously enough, by a book which was
not a novel—failed to smoothe the way onward
and upward for Balzac as speedily and pleasantly
as might have been supposed. He had another
stumble on that hard road of his, before he fairly
started on the career of success. Soon after the
publication of the Physiology of Marriage, an
unlucky idea of strengthening his resources by
trading in literature, as well as by writing books,
seems to have occurred to him. He tried book-
selling and printing; proved himself to be, in
both cases, probably the very worst man of
business who ever lived and breathed in this world;
failed in the most hopeless way, with the most
extraordinary rapidity; and so learnt at last, by
the cruel teaching of experience, that his one
fair chance of getting money lay in sticking fast
to his pen for the rest of his days. In the next
ten years of his life that pen produced the noble
series of fictions which influenced French
literature far and wide, and which will last in public
remembrance long after the miserable errors
and inconsistencies of the writer's personal
character are forgotten. This was the period when
Balzac was in the full enjoyment of his matured
intellectual powers and his enviable public
celebrity; and this was also the golden time when
his publisher and biographer first became
acquainted with him. Now, therefore, Monsieur
Werdet may be encouraged to come forward and
take the post of honour as narrator of the strange
story that is still to be told; for now he is
placed in the fit position to address himself
intelligibly, as well as amusingly, to an English
audience.

The story opens with the starting of Monsieur
Werdet as a publisher in Paris, on his own
account. The modest capital at his command
amounted to just one hundred and twenty
pounds English; and his leading idea, on beginning
business, was to become the publisher of
Balzac.

He had already entered into transactions, on
a large scale, with his favourite author, in the
character of agent for a publishing-house of
high standing. He had been very well received,
on that first occasion, as a man representing
undeniable capital and a great commercial
position. On the second occasion, however, of
his representing nobody but himself and nothing
but the smallest of existing capitals, he very
wisely secured the protection of an intimate
friend of Balzac's, to introduce him as favourably
as might be, for the second time. Accompanied
by this gentleman, whose name was
Monsieur Barbier, and carrying his capital in
his pocket-book, the embryo publisher nervously
presented himself in the sanctum sanctorum of
the great man.

Monsieur Barbier having carefully explained
the business on which they came, Balzac
addressed himself, with an indescribable suavity
and grandeur of manner, to anxious Monsieur
Werdet.

"Ha! just so," said the eminent man. "You
are doubtless possessed, sir, of considerable
capital? You, are probably aware that no man
can hope to publish for ME who is not prepared
to assert himself magnificently in the matter of
cash? I sell high—high—very high. And,
not to deceive you—for I am incapable of
suppressing the truth—I am a man who requires
to be dealt with on the principle of considerable
advances. Proceed, sir—I am prepared to listen
to you."

But Monsieur Werdet was too cautious to
proceed without strengthening his position
before starting. He entrenched himself instantly
behind his pocket-book.

One by one, the notes of the Bank of France,
which formed the poor publisher's small capital,
were drawn out of their snug hiding-place.
Monsieur Werdet produced six of them,
representing five hundred francs each (or, as before
mentioned, a hundred and twenty pounds sterling),
arranged them neatly and impressively in
a circle on the table, and then cast himself on
the author's mercy in an agitated voice, and in
these words:

"Sir! behold my capital. There lies my
whole fortune. It is yours in exchange for any
book you please to write for me——"

At that point, to the horror and astonishment
of Monsieur Werdet, his further progress was
cut short by roars of laughter—formidable roars,
as he himself expressly states—bursting from
the lungs of the highly diverted Balzac.

"What remarkable simplicity!" exclaimed
the great man. "Sir! I really admire you.
Sir! do you actually believe that I—I—De
Balzac—can so entirely forget what is due to
myself as to sell you any conceivable species of
fiction which is the product of MY PEN, for the
sum of three thousand francs? You have come
here, sir, to address an offer to me, without
preparing yourself by previous reflection. If I felt
so disposed, I should have every right to
consider your conduct as unbecoming in the highest
degree. But I don't feel so disposed. On the
contrary, I can even allow your honest ignorance,
your innocent confidence, to excuse you
in my estimation—that is to say, to excuse you
to a certain extent."

Between disappointment, indignation, and
astonishment, Monsieur Werdet was struck dumb.
His friend, Monsieur Barbier, therefore spoke
for him, urging every possible consideration;
and finally proposing that Balzac, if he was
determined not to write a new story for three
thousand francs, should at least sell one edition
of an old one for that sum. Monsieur Barbier's
arguments were admirably put: they lasted a
long time; and when they had come to an end,
they received this reply:

"Gentlemen!" cried Balzac, pushing back
his long hair from his heated temples, and taking
a fresh dip of ink, "you have wasted an hour
of MY TIME in talking of trifles. I rate the
pecuniary loss thus occasioned to me at two
hundred francs. My time is my capital. I must
work. Gentlemen! leave me." Having
expressed himself in these hospitable terms, the