haps it was
interdicted by the hypocritical manners of his country. Woman for him is
duty incarnate. His heroines, with possibly one or two exceptions, are
all alike; he has drawn them all from the same model, as painters
say. They are, every one of them, descended from Clarissa Harlowe. And
returning continually, as he did, to the same idea of woman, how could
he do otherwise than produce a single type, varied only by degrees of
vividness in the coloring? Woman brings confusion into Society through
passion. Passion gives infinite possibilities. Therefore depict passion;
you have one great resource open to you, foregone by the great genius
for the sake of providing family reading for prudish England. In France
you have the charming sinner, the brightly-colored life of Catholicism,
contrasted with sombre Calvinistic figures on a background of the times
when passions ran higher than at any other period of our history.

"Every epoch which has left authentic records since the time of Charles
the Great calls for at least one romance. Some require four or five; the
periods of Louis XIV., of Henry IV., of Francis I., for instance. You
would give us in this way a picturesque history of France, with the
costumes and furniture, the houses and their interiors, and domestic
life, giving us the spirit of the time instead of a laborious narration
of ascertained facts. Then there is further scope for originality. You
can remove some of the popular delusions which disfigure the memories
of most of our kings. Be bold enough in this first work of yours to
rehabilitate the great magnificent figure of Catherine, whom you have
sacrificed to the prejudices which still cloud her name. And finally,
paint Charles IX. for us as he really was, and not as Protestant writers
have made him. Ten years of persistent work, and fame and fortune will
be yours."

By this time it was nine o'clock; Lucien followed the example set in
secret by his future friend by asking him to dine at Eldon's, and spent
twelve francs at that restaurant. During the dinner Daniel admitted
Lucien into the secret of his hopes and studies. Daniel d'Arthez would
not allow that any writer could attain to a pre-eminent rank without
a profound knowledge of metaphysics. He was engaged in ransacking the
spoils of ancient and modern philosophy, and in the assimilation of
it all; he would be like Moliere, a profound philosopher first, and a
writer of comedies afterwards. He was studyin