c folly, memory brought Pauline before me,
as it brings the scenes of our childhood, and made me pause to muse over
past delicious moments that softened my heart. I sometimes saw her,
the adorable girl who sat quietly sewing at my table, wrapped in her
meditations; the faint light from my window fell upon her and was
reflected back in silvery rays from her thick black hair; sometimes I
heard her young laughter, or the rich tones of her voice singing some
canzonet that she composed without effort. And often my Pauline seemed
to grow greater, as music flowed from her, and her face bore a striking
resemblance to the noble one that Carlo Dolci chose for the type of
Italy. My cruel memory brought her back athwart the dissipations of my
existence, like a remorse, or a symbol of purity. But let us leave the
poor child to her own fate. Whatever her troubles may have been, at any
rate I protected her from a menacing tempest--I did not drag her down
into my hell.

"Until last winter I led the uneventful studious life of which I have
given you some faint picture. In the earliest days of December 1829,
I came across Rastignac, who, in spite of the shabby condition of my
wardrobe, linked his arm in mine, and inquired into my affairs with a
quite brotherly interest. Caught by his engaging manner, I gave him a
brief account of my life and hopes; he began to laugh, and treated me as
a mixture of a man of genius and a fool. His Gascon accent and knowledge
of the world, the easy life his clever management procured for him, all
produced an irresistible effect upon me. I should die an unrecognized
failure in a hospital, Rastignac said, and be buried in a pauper's
grave. He talked of charlatanism. Every man of genius was a charlatan,
he plainly showed me in that pleasant way of his that makes him so
fascinating. He insisted that I must be out of my senses, and would be
my own death, if I lived on alone in the Rue des Cordiers. According to
him, I ought to go into society, to accustom people to the sound of my
name, and to rid myself of the simple title of 'monsieur' which sits but
ill on a great man in his lifetime.

"'Those who know no better,' he cried, 'call this sort of business
_scheming_, and moral people condemn it for a "dissipated life." We need
not stop to look at what people think, but see the results. You work,
you say? Very good, but nothing will ever come of that. Now, I am ready
for anything and fit for nothing. As lazy as a