Grandet cannot make his fortune by the same methods employed by Gobseck, his rival in avarice; nor Ferdinand du Tillet, that jackal, with the same magnitude of operations worked out by that elephant of a Nucingen.  He has outlined and measured the exact relation of each character to his environment in the same way he has outlined and measured the bonds uniting the various characters; so well that each individual is defined separately as to his personal and his social side, and in the same manner each family is defined.  It is the skeleton of these individuals and of these families that is laid bare for your contemplation in these notes of Messieurs Cerfberr and Christophe.  But this structure of facts, dependent one upon another by a logic equal to that of life itself, is the smallest effort of Balzac’s genius.  Does a birth-certificate, a marriage-contract or an inventory of wealth represent a person?  Certainly not.  There is still lacking, for a bone covering, the flesh, the blood, the muscles and the nerves.  A glance from Balzac, and all these tabulated facts become imbued with life; to this circumstantial view of the conditions of existence with certain beings is added as full a view of the beings themselves.

And first of all he knows them physiologically.  The inner workings of their corporeal mechanism is no mystery for him.  Whether it is Birotteau’s gout, or Mortsauf’s nervousness, or Fraisier’s skin trouble, or the secret reason for Rouget’s subjugation by Flore, or Louis Lambert’s catalepsy, he is as conversant with the case as though he were a physician; and he is as well informed, also, as a confessor concerning the spiritual mechanism which this animal machine supports.  The slightest frailties of conscience are perceptible to him.  From the portress Cibot to the Marquise d’Espard, not one of his women has an evil thought that he does not fathom.  With what art, comparable to that of Stendhal, or Laclos, or the most subtle analysts, does he note —­in The Secrets of a Princess—­the transition from comedy to sincerity!  He knows when a sentiment is simple and when it is complex, when the heart is a dupe of the mind and when of the senses.  And through it all he hears his characters speak, he distinguishes their voices, and we ourselves distinguish them in the dialogue.  The growling of Vautrin, the hissing of La Gamard, the melodious tones of Madame de Mortsauf still linger in our ears.  For such intensity of evocation is as contagious as an enthusiasm or a panic.

There is abundant testimony going to show that with Balzac this evocation is accomplished, as in the mystic arts by releasing it, so to speak, from the ordinary laws of life.  Pray note in what terms M. le Docteur Fournier, the real mayor of Tours, relates incidents of the novelist’s method of work, according to the report of a servant employed at the chateau of Sache:  “Sometimes he would shut himself up in his room and stay there several days.  Then