o peacefully, so delightfully, and so completely
heart to heart. I have never been so happy before in my life. I
seemed to catch a glimpse of that future which I desire and dream
of in the midst of my overwhelming labors. . . ."

The happiness of Madame Hanska did not seem to be so great, for, ever
uncertain, she consulted a fortune-teller about him. To this he
replies: "Tell your fortune-teller that her cards have lied, and that
I am not preoccupied with any blonde, except Dame Fortune." As to
whether she was justified in being suspicious, one can judge from the
preceding pages. Balzac always denied or explained to her these
accusations; however true were some of his vindications of himself, he
certainly exaggerated in assuring her that he always told her the
exact truth and never hid from her the smallest trifle whether good or
bad.

In October, 1845, the novelist left Paris again, met his "Polar Star,"
her daughter and M. de Mniszech at Chalons, and accompanied them on
their Italian tour by way of Marseilles as far as Naples. On his
return to Marseilles on November 12, he invested in wonderful bargains
in bric-a-brac, a favorite pursuit which eventually cost him a great
deal in worry and time as well as much money. Madame Hanska had
supplied his purse from time to time.

Although he was being pressed by debts and for unfinished work, having
wasted almost the entire year and having had much extra expense in
traveling, Balzac could not rise to the situation, and implored his
_Chatelaine_ to resign herself to keeping him near her, for he had
done nothing since he left Dresden. In this frame of mind, he writes:

"Nothing amuses me, nothing distracts me, nothing enlivens me; it
is the death of the soul, the death of the will, the collapse of
the entire being; I feel that I cannot take up my work until I see
my life decided, fixed, settled. . . . I am quite exhausted; I
have waited too long, I have hoped too much, I have been too happy
this year; and I no longer wish anything else. After so many years
of toil and misfortune, to have been free as a bird of the air, a
thoughtless traveler, super-humanly happy, and then to come back
to a dungeon! . . . is that possible? . . . I dream, I dream by
day, by night; and my heart's thought, folding upon itself,
prevents all action of the thought of the brain--it is fearful!"

Balzac was ever seeing objects worthy to be placed in his art
collection, g