sed brain fatigue, though this would never have been
suspected by the Fathers of their idlest pupil.

Honore, his sister tells us, came home thin and puny, like a
somnambulist sleeping with open eyes, and his grandmother groaned over
the strain of modern education. At first he heard hardly any of the
questions that were put to him, and his mother was obliged to disturb
him in reveries, and to insist on his taking part in games with the
rest of the family; but with the fresh air and the home life he soon
recovered his health and spirits, and became again a lively, merry
boy. He attended lectures at a college near, and had tutors at home;
but great efforts were necessary in order to get into his head the
requisite amount of Greek and Latin. Nevertheless, at times, he was
astonishing, or might have been to any one with powers of observation.
On these occasions he made such extraordinary and sagacious remarks
that Madame de Balzac, in her character of represser, felt obliged to
remark sharply, "You cannot possibly understand what you are saying,
Honore!" When Honore, who dared not argue, looked at her with a smile,
she would, with the ease of absolute authority, escape from the
awkwardness of the situation by remarking that he was impertinent. He
was already ambitious, and would tell his sisters and brother about
his future fame, and accept with a laugh the teasing he received in
consequence.

It must have been during this time that he grew to love with an
enduring love the scenery of his native province of Touraine, with its
undulating stretches of emerald green, through which the Loire or the
Indre wound like a long ribbon of water, while lines of poplars decked
the banks with moving lace. It was a smiling country, dotted with
vineyards and oak woods, while here and there an old gnarled walnut
tree stood in rugged independence. The susceptible boy, lately escaped
from the abominations of the stuffy school-house, drank in with
rapture the warm scented air, and often describes in his novels the
landscape of the province where he was born, which he loves, in his
own words, "as an artist loves art." Another lasting memory[*] was
that of the poetry and splendour of the Cathedral of Saint-Gatien in
Tours, where he was taken every feast-day. There he watched with
delight the beautiful effects of light and shade, the play of colour
produced by the rays of sunlight shining through the old stained
glass, and the strange, fascinat