scribable confusion were supposed to show the
bewildered printer the various places at which
the multitude of new insertions were to be
slipped in. Illegible as Balzac's original
manuscripts were, his corrected proofs were more
hopelessly puzzling still. The picked men in
the office, to whom alone they could be entrusted,
shuddered at the very name of Balzac,
and relieved each other at intervals of an hour,
beyond which time no one printer could be got
to continue at work on the universally execrated
and universally unintelligible proofs. The
"revises"—that is to say, the proofs embodying
the new alterations—were next pulled to pieces
in their turn. Two, three, and sometimes four,
separate sets of them were required before the
author's leave could be got to send the perpetually
rewritten book to press at last, and so
have done with it. He was literally the terror
of all printers and editors; and he himself
described his process of work as a misfortune, to
be the more deplored, because it was, in his
case, an intellectual necessity. '' I toil sixteen
hours out of the twenty-four," he said, " over
the elaboration of my unhappy style; and I am
never satisfied, myself, when all is done."

Looking back to the school-days of Balzac,
when his mind suffered under the sudden and
mysterious shock which has been described in its
place; remembering that his father's character
was notorious for its eccentricity; observing the
prodigious toil, the torture almost, of mind which
the act of literary production seems to have cost
him all through life, it is impossible not to
arrive at the conclusion, that, in his case, there
must have been a fatal incompleteness some-
where in the mysterious intellectual machine.
Magnificently as it was endowed, the balance of
faculties in his mind seems to have been even
more than ordinarily imperfect. On this theory,
his unparalleled difficulties in expressing himself,
as a writer, and his errors, inconsistencies,
and meannesses of character, as a man, become,
at least, not wholly unintelligible. On any other
theory, all explanation both of his personal life and
his literary life appears to be simply impossible.

Such was the perilous pen on which Monsieur
Werdet's prospects in life all depended. If
Balzac failed to perform his engagements punctually,
or if his health broke down under his
severe literary exertions, the commercial decease
of his unfortunate publisher followed either
disaster, purely as a matter of course.

At the outset, however, the posture of affairs
looked encouragingly enough. On its completion
in the Revue de Paris, Le Lys dans la
Vallée was republished by Monsieur Werdet, who
had secured his interest in the work by a timely
advance of six thousand francs. Of this novel
(the most highly valued in France of all the
writer's fictions), but two hundred copies of the
first edition were left undisposed of within two
hours after its publication. This unparalleled
success kept Monsieur Werdet's head above
water, and encouraged him to hope great things
from the next novel (Séraphita), which was also
begun, periodically, in the Revue de Paris.
Before it was finished, however, Balzac and his
editor quarrelled, and the long-suffering publisher
was obliged to step in and pay the author's
forfeit-money, obtaining the incomplete novel in
return, and with it Balzac's promise to finish
the work off-hand. Months passed, however,
and not a page of manuscript was produced. One
morning, at eight o'clock, to Monsieur Werdet's
horror and astonishment, Balzac burst in on him
in a condition of sublime despair, to announce
that he and his genius had to all appearance
parted company for ever.

"My brain is empty!" cried the great man.
"My imagination is dried up! Hundreds of
cups of coffee and two baths a day have done
nothing for me. Werdet, I am a lost man!"

The publisher thought of his empty cash-box,
and was petrified. The author proceeded:

"I must travel!" he exclaimed, wildly. " My
genius has run away from me—I must pursue it
over mountains and valleys—Werdet! I must
catch my genius up!"

Poor Monsieur Werdet faintly suggested a
little turn in the immediate neighbourhood of
Paris—something equivalent to a nice airy ride
to Hampstead on the top of an omnibus. But
Balzac's runaway genius had, in the estimation
of its bereaved proprietor, got as far as Vienna
already; and he coolly announced his intention
of travelling after it to the Austrian capital.

"And who is to finish Séraphita?" inquired
the unhappy publisher. " My illustrious friend,
you are ruining me!"

"On the contrary," remarked Balzac,
persuasively,  " I am making your fortune. At
Vienna, I shall find my genius—at Vienna I
shall finish Séraphita, and a new book besides
at Vienna, I shall meet with an angelic woman
who admires me—I call her 'Carissima'—she
has written to invite me to Vienna—I ought, I
must, I will, accept the invitation."

Here an ordinary acquaintance would have
had an excellent opportunity of saying something
smart. But poor Monsieur Werdet was not in
a position to be witty; and, moreover, he knew
but too well what was coming next. All he
ventured to say was:

"But I am afraid you have no money."

"You can raise some," replied his illustrious
friend. " Borrow—deposit stock in trade—get
me two thousand francs. Everything else I can
do for myself. Werdet! I will hire a post-
chaise—I will dine with my dear sister—I will
set off after dinner—I will not be later than
eight o'clock—click-clack!" And the great man
executed an admirable imitation of the cracking
of a postilion's whip.

There was no resource for Monsieur Werdet
but to throw the good money after the bad. He
raised the two thousand francs; and away went
Balzac to catch his runaway genius, to bask in
the society of a female angel, and to coin money
in the form of manuscripts.

Eighteen days afterwards a perfumed letter
from the author reached the publisher. He had
caught his genius at Vienna; he had been
magnificently received by the aristocracy; he had