ting him; he
considered it as a talisman, wore it working, and it inspired
_Seraphita_. He became her _moujik_ and signed his name _Honoreski_.
She became his "love," his "life," his "rose of the Occident," his
"star of the North," his "fairy of the _tiyeuilles_," his "only
thought," his "celestial angel," the end of all for him. "You shall be
the young _dilecta_,--already I name you the _predilecta_."[*]

[*] Balzac was imitating Madame Hanska's pronunciation of _tilleuls_
in having Madame Vauquer (_Pere Goriot_) pronounce it _tieuilles_.

His adoration became such that he writes her: "My loved angel, I am
almost mad for you . . . I cannot put two ideas together that you do
not come between them. I can think of nothing but you. In spite of
myself my imagination brings me back to you. . . ." It was during his
stay in Geneva that Madame Hanska presented her chain to him, which he
used later on his cane.

Balzac left Geneva February 8, 1834, having spent forty-four days with
his _Predilecta_, but his work was not entirely neglected. While
there, he wrote almost all of _La Duchesse de Langeais_, and a large
part of _Seraphita_. This work, which she inspired, was dedicated:

"To Madame Eveline de Hanska, nee Countess Rzewuska.

"Madame:--here is the work you desired of me; in dedicating it to
you I am happy to offer you some token of the respectful affection
you allow me to feel for you. If I should be accused of incapacity
after trying to extract from the depths of mysticism this book,
which demanded the glowing poetry of the East under the
transparency of our beautiful language, the blame be yours! Did
you not compel me to the effort--such an effort as Jacob's--by
telling me that even the most imperfect outline of the figure
dreamed of by you, as it has been by me from my infancy, would
still be something in your eyes? Here, then, is that something.
Why cannot this book be set apart exclusively for those lofty
spirits who, like you, are preserved from worldly pettiness by
solitude? They might impress on it the melodious rhythm which it
lacks, and which, in the hands of one of our poets, might have
made it the glorious epic for which France still waits. Still,
they will accept it from me as one of those balustrades, carved by
some artist full of faith, on which the pilgrims lean to moderate
on the end of man, while gazing at the choir of a beautiful
church. I remain, madame,