pushed ahead audaciously, elbowing his way, and he made himself
enemies. He went his own road, indifferent to sarcasms, mockeries, and
spiteful comments called forth by his tranquil assurance and certainty
of his own strength, which he did not try to hide. At a period when it
was the fashion to sigh and be pale and melancholy, in a stage-setting
of lakes, clouds and cathedrals, and when one was expected to be
abnormal and mediaeval, Balzac displayed a robust joviality, he was
proud of his stalwart build and ruddy complexion, and, far from looking
to the past for literary material, his observing and clairvoyant eyes
eagerly seized the men of his own time and transformed them into heroes.

All day long he went the rounds of publishers and editors, of papers
and reviews, and sought connections with other writers of repute.
Returning in the evening to his study, he would write throughout the
entire night, until long after the dawn had come, with feverish
regularity and energy and without fatigue, ready to begin again the
next day. When he gave up his printing house he went to live at No. 1,
Rue Cassini, in a quarter which at that time was almost deserted,
between the Observatory and the Maternity Hospital. He brought his
furniture with him and fitted up his rooms in accordance with his own
tastes and resources. This had called forth some bitter comments from
his parents: What right had he to comfort and to something approaching
luxury before he had cleared off his debts? "I am reproached for the
furnishings of my rooms," he wrote to his sister Laure, "but all the
furniture belonged to me before the catastrophe came! I have not bought
a single new piece! The wall covering of blue percale which has caused
such an outcry was in my chamber at the printing house. Letouche and I
tacked it with our own hands over a frightful wall-paper, which would
otherwise have had to be changed. My books are my tools and I cannot
sell them. My sense of good taste, which enables me to make all my