This project, which of course resulted in nothing, and which was soon abandoned, was none the less practicable, and minus the mysterious farce with which it was surrounded has since, in many instances, been put into successful operation. Through one of those psychical phenomena which generate within us a diversity of sentiment while uniting their contradictory elements, Balzac was tortured by a combined distaste and affection for journalism. It possessed a morbid attraction for him; and while he execrated the entire profession, he longed none the less for an editor’s chair, from which he could bombard his enemies at his ease, and glean at the same time the rich harvest which a successful review invariably produces. The foundation of a journal, however, is money, more money, always money; and Balzac, who was rich only in unrecognized audacity and unquoted talent, after having tried in every way to acquire the necessary capital, was about to abandon his scheme as hopeless, when Providence in the form of a young man passed the sentries and entered his room. “M. de Balzac?” And Balzac, to whom every stranger was a dun, replied, “It is, sir, and it is not; it depends.” “I am looking for the author of ‘La Peau de Chagrin.’” “Ah! then, I am he.” “Sir,” said the youth, “I understand that you are about to edit a journal, and I have come to ask for the position of theatrical critic. I would also like to write the fashion article.” Balzac, furious at the intrusion and indignant at the youth’s proposition to collaborate in a journal whose appearance was prevented by lack of funds, was about to order the young man out, when he suddenly noticed that he was clothed in the most expensive manner. “May I ask whom I have the honor of addressing?” inquired the ogre, with his most seductive smile. “I am the son of M. Chose, the banker.” Balzac became very fascinating. “I thought so,—I thought so from the first; you look like him. Will you not sit down? As we were saying, I am about to edit the ‘Chronique de Paris,’ whose appearance, so impatiently awaited, I have delayed only that its success might be the better assured. And did I understand you to say that you would like to take charge of the theatrical criticisms?” “Yes, indeed, sir, if you think me capable.” “Capable? Do I think you capable? Why, all the more capable, as it is unusual for a banker’s son to wish to enter a purely literary association. The blood of a financier is seldom inclined to”... “I do not care for letters of credit, M. de Balzac. I care for _letters_, simply.” “Adorable witticism!” cried Balzac, illuminated with hope. “And you care, then, for literature, in spite of the immense fortune which you enjoy?” “I expect ten millions more,” interrupted the youth. “Ten millions!” “Rather more than less, M. de Balzac.”