Whatever else it may be considered, it is at least a typographical exploit and a worthy example of literary and commercial heroism.
Writer, publisher, and printer, all deserve the praise of their countrymen.
Posterity will gossip about the binders, and our grand-nephews will regret that they do not know the names of the apprentices.
I regret it myself,—otherwise I would tell them.
The “Figaro” promised the book for the 15th of December, and M. de Balzac began it on the 17th of November.
M. de Balzac and the “Figaro” have the singular habit of keeping their word.
The printing-press was prepared, and pawed the ground like an excited charger.
M. de Balzac sent immediately two hundred sheets, scribbled in five nights of fever.
Every one knows how he writes. It was an outline, a chaos, an apocalypse, a Hindu poem.
The office paled. The time was short, the writing unheard of. The monster was transformed and translated as nearly as possible into familiar signs. No one could make head or tail of it. Back it went to the author. The author sent back the first two proofs glued on enormous placards.