his books, did he occasionally show the discouragement to which the
artistic nature is prone. Sometimes the state of the weather, which
always had a great effect on him, the difficulty of his work, the
fatigue of sitting up all night, and his monetary embarrassments,
brought him to an extreme state of depression, both physical and
mental. He would arrive at the house of Madame Surville, his sister,
who tells the story, hardly able to drag himself along, in a gloomy,
dejected state, with his skin sallow and jaundiced.

[*] "Autour de la Table," by George Sand.

"Don't console me," he would say in a faint voice, dropping into a
chair; "it is useless--I am a dead man."

The dead man would then begin, in a doleful voice, to tell of his new
troubles; but he soon revived, and the words came forth in the most
ringing tones of his voice. Then, opening his proofs, he would drop
back into his dismal accents and say, by way of conclusion:

"Yes, I am a wrecked man, sister!"

"Nonsense! No man is wrecked with such proofs as those to correct."

Then he would raise his head, his face would unpucker little by
little, the sallow tones of his skin would disappear.

"My God, you are right!" he would say. "Those books will make me live.
Besides, blind Fortune is here, isn't she? Why shouldn't she protect a
Balzac as well as a ninny? And there are always ways of wooing her.
Suppose one of my millionaire friends (and I have some), or a banker,