ll from overwork, and wrote to his sister that a journey was
quite necessary for his health. On August 22nd he started from
Angouleme, having borrowed 150 francs from M. Carraud to take him as
far as Lyons. He had already spent the 100 francs sent him by his
mother, and he expected to find 300 francs more awaiting him at Lyons.
There he arrived on the 25th, having unfortunately fallen in mounting
the imperial of the diligence, and grazed his shin against the
footboard thus making a small hole in the bone. However, we can
appreciate the excellent reasons which led him to the conclusion that,
in spite of the inflammation in his leg, it would be wise to press on
at once to Aix. When he arrived there, on August 26th, he was
evidently rewarded by a very cordial greeting from the Marquise; as,
the day after, he wrote a most affectionate and joyful letter to his
mother, thanking her in the warmest terms for all she had done, and
for the pleasure she had procured him by enabling him to take this
journey.

He was now established in a simple little room, with a view over
the lovely valley of the Lac du Bourget; he got up each morning at
half-past five, and worked from then till half-past five in the evening,
his _dejeuner_ being sent in from the club, and Madame de Castries
providing him with excellent coffee, that primary necessity of his
existence. At six he dined with her, and they spent the evening till
eleven o'clock together. It was an exciting drama that went on during
those long _tete-a-tetes_. On one side was the accomplished coquette,
possibly only determined to make a plaything of the man of genius, to
charm him and keep him at her feet; or perhaps with a lurking hope
that her skilful game would turn to earnestness, and that in the
course of it she would manage to forget that charming young Metternich
who died at Florence and left her inconsolable. On the other was
Balzac, his senses bewildered by passionate love, but his acuteness
and knowledge of human nature not allowing him to be altogether
deceived; so that he writes to Madame Carraud: "She is the most
delicate type of woman--Madame de Beauseant, only better; but are not
all these pretty manners exercised at the expense of the heart?"[*]
Nevertheless, these were only passing doubts: he could not really
believe that she would behave as she was doing if there were no love
for him in her heart, and he pursued his suit with the intense ardour
natural to him. Occasion