cusing his visitor of being a
demagogue. He said: "I have M. de Beaujon's house without the garden,
but I am owner of the gallery leading to the little church at the
corner of the street. A door on my staircase leads into the church.
One turn of the key, and I am at Mass. I care more for the gallery
than for the garden."[*]

[*] "Choses Vues," by Victor Hugo.

When Victor Hugo got up to go, Balzac accompanied him with difficulty
to this staircase, to point out the precious door; and called to his
wife, "Mind you show Hugo all my pictures." Though Balzac does not
appear to have been very intimate with the great romantic poet in
former years, he seems to have found special pleasure in his society
at this time. Hugo was at the seaside when Balzac next sent for him.
He hurried back,[*] however, at the urgent summons, and found the
dying man stretched on a sofa covered with red and gold brocade.
Balzac tried to rise, but could not; his face was purple, and his eyes
alone had life in them. Now that happiness in his married life had
failed him, his mind had reverted to the yet unfinished "Comedie
Humaine"; and he talked long and sadly of projected herculean labours,
and of the fate of his still unpublished works. "Although my wife has
more brains than I, who will support her in her solitude, she whom I
have accustomed to so much love?" "Certainly," Victor Hugo remarks
drily, "she was crying a great deal."

[*] See letter written by Madame Hamelin to the Countess Kisselef
quoted in "Histoire des Oeuvres de Balzac," by the Vicomte de
Spoelberch de Lovenjoul, p. 406.

Nevertheless, though Balzac did at last realise his dangerous state,
he had no idea that his end was approaching so near, and he still
hoped to be able to add a few more stones to the edifice of the
"Comedie Humaine," that great work, which was now again the principal
object of his life, the one bright vision in a world of
disappointment. In August, however, an agonising suspicion began for
the first time to visit him momentarily, a terrible fear to assail
him. What if there were not time after all? What if the creations
which floated through his mind while he lay suffering and helpless,
were never destined to be put into shape? What if his opportunity for
work on earth were really over? It was a horrible idea; a fancy, he
told himself, born only of weakness. Destiny _must_ intend him to
finish his appointed task. Robbed of everything else he had longed