Honore de Balzac was intoxicated with his liberty, and revelled in it
to his heart's content. He could dream, idle, read or work, according
to his mood. Ideas swarmed in his brain, and every day he drafted
projects for tragedies, comedies, novels and operas. He did not know
which of all these to work out to a finish, for every one of them
seemed to him capable of being developed into a masterpiece. He brooded
over a possible novel which was to be called Coquecigrue, but he
doubted whether he had the ability to carry it out according to his
conception; so, after long hesitation, he decided in favour of a
classic drama in verse, Cromwell, which he considered the finest
subject in modern history. Honore de Balzac rhymed ahead desperately,
laboriously, for versification was not his strong point, and he had
infinite trouble in expressing, with the required dignity, the
lamentations of the Queen of England. His study of the great masters
hampered him: "I devour our four tragic authors. Crebillon reassures
me, Voltaire fills me with terror, Corneille transports me, and Racine
makes me throw down my pen." Nevertheless, he refused to renounce his
hopes. He had promised to produce a masterpiece, he was pledged to
achieve a masterpiece, and the price of it was to be a blessed
independence.

In the silence of his mansarde garret he worked, with his brow
congested, his head enveloped in a Dantesque cap, his legs wrapped in a
venerable Touraine great-coat, his shoulders guaranteed against the
cold, thanks to an old family shawl. He toiled over his alexandrian
lines, he sent fragments of his tragedy to Laure, asking her for
advice: "Don't flatter me, be severe." Yet he had high ambitions: "I
want my tragedy to be the breviary of peoples and kings!" he wrote. "I
must make my debut with a masterpiece, or wring my neck."