But reflect that I work too much to busy myself with certain details, and, in short, that I had rather spend five to six thousand francs a year than marry to have order in my household; for a man who undertakes what I have undertaken either marries to have a quiet existence, or accepts the wretchedness of La Fontaine and Rousseau.  For pity’s sake, do not talk to me of my want of order; it is the consequence of the independence in which I live, and which I desire to keep.”

In spite of these reproaches, Balzac’s affection for her continued, and he decided to have his portrait made for her.  Boulanger was the artist chosen, and since he wished payment at once, Madame Hanska sent the novelist a sum for this purpose.  For a Christmas greeting, 1836, she sent him a copy of the Daffinger miniature made at Vienna the preceding year.  Again—­this time in Illusions perdues—­he gave her name, Eve, to a young girl whom he regarded as the most charming creature he had created (Eve Chardon, who became Madame David Sechard).

In the spring of 1837 Balzac went to Italy to spend a few weeks.  Seeing at Florence a bust of his Predilecta, made by Bartolini, he asked M. de Hanski’s permission to have a copy of it, half size, made for himself, to place on his writing desk.  This journey aroused Madame Hanska’s suspicions again, but he assured her he was not dissipating, but was traveling to rejuvenate his broken-down brain, since, working night and day as he did, a man might easily die of overstrain.

He continued to save his manuscripts for her, awaiting an opportunity to send or take them to her.  Her letters became less frequent and full of stings, but he begged her to disbelieve everything she heard of him except from himself, as she had almost a complete journal of his life.  He explained that the tour he purposed making to the Mediterranean was neither for marriage nor for anything adventurous or silly, but he was pledged to secrecy, and, whether it turned out well or ill, he risked nothing but a journey.  As to her reproaches how he, knowing all, penetrating and observing all, could be so duped and deceived, he wondered if she could love him if he were always so prudent that no misfortune ever happened to him.

In the spring of 1838 he took his Mediterranean trip, going to Corsica, Sardinia, and Italy in quest of his Eldorado, but, as usual, he was doomed to meet with disappointment.  On his return he went to Les Jardies to reside, which was later to be the cause of another financial disaster.  Replying to her criticism of his journey to Sardinia, he begged her never to censure those who feel themselves sunk in deep waters and are struggling to the surface, for the rich can never comprehend the trials of the unfortunate.  One must be without friends, without resources, without food, without money, to know to its depths what misfortune is.