“Sooner or later, literature, politics, journalism, marriage, or some good speculation will make my fortune.” And later on,— “Thank you, my sister; you have restored to me that energy which has been my sole support. Yes, you are right. I will not stop; I will continue to advance, and some day you will see mine counted among the great names of our country.... My books are the only replies which I shall make to those who commence to attack me. Do not let their criticisms annoy you: they are the best of auguries; mediocrity is never discussed. Tell my mother that I love her as I did when a child. The tears fall from my eyes as I write these lines,—tears of tenderness and of despair, for I feel my future near at hand, and in my days of triumph my mother will be a necessity. When will they come? As to you and to your husband, I can only hope that you will never doubt my heart, and if I do not write to you let your tenderness be indulgent. Do not misjudge my silence, but say, rather, ‘He thinks of us, he is speaking to us;’ for, after my long meditations and overwhelming duties, I rest in your hearts as in some delicious spot where there is no pain.” In the same year, from Aix, he wrote to his mother,— “I shall not return to Paris until all my engagements are fulfilled; when I do so everything will have been paid off.” In 1833, to Madame Carraud,— “My life is mechanically changed. I go to sleep with the chickens and am called at one in the morning. I then work until eight o’clock, sleep for an hour, and at nine I take a cup of pure coffee, and remain in harness until four. I then take a bath, and go out, and after dinner return to bed. Profit is slow, and debts are inexorable, but I am certain now of immense wealth. I have but to wait and work for three years.” In the following year, he wrote,— “The fiascos of the ‘Médecin de Campagne’ and ‘Louis Lambert’ have affected me deeply, but I am resolved that nothing shall discourage me. After the 1st of August I think that I shall be free.” And later on, in the same year,— “If I but live, I shall have a beautiful position, and we will all be happy. Let us laugh then still, my sweet sister; the house of Balzac will triumph yet.” To his mother he wrote,— “The day when we shall all be happy rapidly approaches. I begin to gather the fruit of the sacrifices which I made for the sake of future prosperity. In a few months I will bring to you the ease and comfort which you need.... Oh, my dear mother, you will yet live to see my beautiful future; for, in the end, everything must bend beneath the work of him who loves you, and is your devoted son.” In 1835 he wrote to Werdet, his publisher,— “Some day,—and that day rapidly advances,—we shall both have made our fortune; and the sight of our carriages meeting in the Bois will make our enemies swoon with envy.” To his mother, in the same year, he wrote,—