life, and she has in
consequence presented to us simultaneously the writer, whose name will
remain an immortal one, and the man whose memory was treasured, long
after he had himself disappeared, by so many who, though they had
perhaps never understood him entirely, yet had realized that in the
marks of affection and attachment which he had given to them, he had
laid at their feet something which was infinitely precious, infinitely
real, something which could never be forgotten.

Her book will remain a most valuable, I was going to say the most
valuable, contribution to the history of Balzac, and those for whom he
was something more than a great writer and scholar, can never feel
sufficiently grateful to her for having given it to the world, and
helped to dissipate, thanks to its wonderful arguments, so many false
legends and wild stories which were believed until now, and indeed are
still believed by an ignorant crowd of so-called admirers of his, who,
nine times out of ten, are only detractors of his colossal genius, and
remarkable, though perhaps sometimes too exuberant, individuality.

At the same time, Miss Floyd, in the lines which she devotes to my
aunt and to the long attachment that had united the latter and Balzac,
has in many points re-established the truth in regard to the character
of a woman who in many instances has been cruelly calumniated and
slandered, in others absolutely misunderstood, to whom Balzac once
wrote that she was "one of those great minds, which solitude had
preserved from the petty meannesses of the world," words which
describe her better than volumes could have done. She had truly led a
silent, solitary, lonely life that had known but one love, the man
whom she was to marry after so many vicissitudes, and in spite of so
many impediments, and but one tenderness, her daughter, a daughter who
unfortunately was entirely her inferior, and in whom she could never
find consolation or comfort, who could neither share her joys, nor
soothe her sorrows.

In her convictions, Madame de Balzac was a curious mixture of atheism
and profound faith in a Divinity before whom mankind was accountable
for all its good or bad deeds. All through her long life she had been
under the influence of her father, one of the remarkable men of his
generation, who had enjoyed the friendship of most of the great French
writers of the period immediately preceding the Revolution, including
Voltaire; he had brought her up