g to it that they acted consistently,
pulling the wires, supplying them conversation, dialogue, plot and
counterplot, and amid all this bustle and confusion bringing out a
perfect story. And still sanely to do the work of the workaday world was
a miracle indeed! The man had the strength of Hercules, but even
physical strength has its penalty--it seduces one to over-exertion. The
midnight brain is a bad thing to cultivate, especially when reinforced
with much coffee. Balzac was growing stout; physical exercise was
difficult. Dark lines were growing under his eyes. In his letters to
Madame Hanska he tells how he is taking treatment from the doctor, and
that he suffers from asthma and aneurism of the heart.

His eyes are failing him so he can not see to write by lamplight.

Madame Hanska now becomes alarmed. She thinks she can win him back to
life. She begs him to come to Poland at once, and they will be married.

Balzac at once begins the journey to the Hanska country home. The
excitement and change of scene evidently benefited him. Great plans were
being made for the future.

The wedding occurred on March Fourteenth, Eighteen Hundred Fifty.

Balzac was a sick man. The couple arrived back in Paris, with Balzac
leaning heavily on his wife's arm. Chaos thundered in his ears; his
brain reeled with vertigo; dazzling lights appeared in the darkness; and
in the sunshine he saw only confused darkness.

Balzac died August Seventeenth, Eighteen Hundred Fifty, aged fifty-one,
and Pere-la-Chaise tells the rest.

Said Victor Hugo:

The candle scarcely illumined the magnificent Pourbus, the
magnificent Holbein, on the walls. The bust of marble was like the
ghost of the man who was to die. I asked to see Monsieur De Balzac.
We crossed a corridor and mounted a staircase crowded with vases,
statues and enamels. Another corridor--I saw a door that was open. I
heard a sinister noise--a rough and loud breathing. I was in
Balzac's bedchamber. The bed was in the middle of the room: Balzac,
supported on it, as best he might be, by pillows and cushions taken
from the sofa. I saw his profile, which was like that of Napoleon.
An old sick-nurse and a servant of the house stood on either side of
the bed. I lifted the counterpane and took the hand of Balzac. The
nurse said to me, "He will die about dawn."

His death has smitten Paris. Some months ago he came back into
France. Feeling