that mystic Rabelaisian epic, _The Magic Skin_. Have you experienced,
while reading at school or clandestinely some stray volume of the
_Comedie Humaine_, a sort of exaltation such as no other book had
aroused hitherto, and few have caused since? Have you dreamed at an
age when one plucks in advance all the fruit from the tree of life
--yet in blossom--I repeat, have you dreamed of being a Daniel d'Arthez,
and of covering yourself with glory by the force of your achievements,
in order to be requited, some day, for all the sufferings of your
poverty-stricken youth, by the sublime Diane, Duchesse de
Maufrigneuse, Princesse de Cadignan?

Or, perchance, being more ambitious and less literary, you have
desired to see--like a second Rastignac, the doors of high society
opened to your eager gaze by means of the golden key suspended from
Delphine de Nucingen's bracelet?

Romancist, have you sighed for the angelic tenderness of a Henriette
de Mortsauf, and realized in your dreams the innocent emotions excited
by culling nosegays, by listening to tales of grief, by furtive
hand-clasps on the banks of a narrow river, blue and placid, in a
valley where your friendship flourishes like a fair, delicate lily,
the ideal, the chaste flower?

Misanthrope, have you caressed the chimera, to ward off the dark hours
of advancing age, of a friendship equal to that with which the good
Schmucke enveloped even the whims of his poor Pons? Have you
appreciated the sovereign power of secret societies, and deliberated
with yourself as to which of your acquaintances would be most worthy
to enter The Thirteen? In your mind's eye has the map of France ever
appeared to be divided into as many provinces as the _Comedie Humaine_