The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Hidden Masterpiece, by Honore de Balzac

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: The Hidden Masterpiece

Author: Honore de Balzac

Translator: Katharine Prescott Wormeley

Release Date: December, 1998 [Etext #1553]
Posting Date: February 26, 2010

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE ***

Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny

THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE

By Honore De Balzac

Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley

THE HIDDEN MASTERPIECE

CHAPTER I

On a cold morning in December, towards the close of the year 1612, a
young man, whose clothing betrayed his poverty, was standing before the
door of a house in the Rue des Grands-Augustine, in Paris. After walking
to and fro for some time with the hesitation of a lover who fears
to approach his mistress, however complying she may be, he ended by
crossing the threshold and asking if Maitre Francois Porbus were within.
At the affirmative answer of an old woman who was sweeping out one of
the lower rooms the young man slowly mounted the stairway, stopping from
time to time and hesitating, like a newly fledged courier doubtful as to
what sort of reception the king might grant him.

When he reached the upper landing of the spiral ascent, he paused a
moment before laying hold of a grotesque knocker which ornamented the
door of the atelier where the famous painter of Henry IV.--neglected by
Marie de Medicis for Rubens--was probably at work. The young man felt
the strong sensation which vibrates in the soul of great artists when,
in the flush of youth and of their ardor for art, they approach a man of
genius or a masterpiece. In all human sentiments there are, as it were,
primeval flowers bred of noble enthusiasms, which droop and fade from
year to year, till joy is but a memory and glory a lie. Amid such
fleeting emotions nothing so resembles love as the young passion of an
artist who tastes the first delicious anguish of his destined fame and
woe,--a passion daring yet timid, full of vague confidence and sure
discouragement. Is there a man, slender in fortune, rich in his
spring-time of genius, whose hea