themselves to their fate. Jules Sandeau, who was gentleness
itself, merely observed with a sigh that it was the fifteenth time
Balzac had proposed to make him a millionnaire; Henri Monnier offered to
sell his share of the prospective profits for 7 francs, 50 centimes;
Leon Gozlan suggested that their host might have discovered a diamond
mine, whereupon Balzac, who had just entered the room, declared that a
diamond mine was nothing to it. He was simply going to monopolize the
whole of the Paris theatres. He exposed the plan in a magnificent speech
of two hours' duration, and would have continued for two hours more had
not one of the guests reminded him that it was time for dinner.

"Dinner," exclaimed Balzac; "why, I never thought of it."

Luckily there was a restaurant near, and the future millionnaires and
their would-be benefactor were enabled to sit down to "a banquet quite
in keeping, not only with the magnificent prospects just disclosed to
them, but with the splendour actually surrounding them," as Mery
expressed it.

For it should be added that the sumptuous dwelling which was to be, was
at that moment absolutely bare of furniture, save a few deal chairs and
tables. The garden was a wilderness, intersected by devious paths,
sloping so suddenly as to make it impossible to keep one's balance
without the aid of an Alpenstock or the large stones imbedded in the
soil, but only temporarily, by the considerate owner. One day, Dutacq,
the publisher, having missed his footing, rolled as far as the wall
inclosing the domain, without his friends being able to stop him.

The garden, like everything else connected with the schemes of Balzac,
was eventually to become a gold-mine. Part of it was to be built upon,
and converted into a dairy; another part was to be devoted to the
culture of the pineapple and the Malaga grape, all of which would yield
an income of 30,000 francs annually "at least"--to borrow Balzac's own
words.

The apartments had been furnished in the same grandiose
way--theoretically. The walls were, as I have already remarked,
absolutely bare, but on their plaster, scarcely dry, were magnificent
inscriptions of what was to be. They were mapped out regardless of
expense. On that facing the north there was a splendid piece of
thirteenth-century Flemish tapestry--in writing, of course, flanked by
two equally priceless pictures by Raphael and Titian. Facing these,
one by Rembrandt, and, underneath, a couch, a