"I'm rather a Balzacian myself." "I can't say I've read all Balzac.

That's a colossal order," said Paul, rather excited-for, in his limited acquaintance with cultivated folk, Colonel Winwood was the only human being who could claim acquaintance with one of the literary gods of his idolatry--"but I know him pretty well.

I can't stand his 'Theatre'-- that's footle--but the big things--'Le Pere Goriot,' 'La Cousine Bette,' 'Cesar Birotteau'-- what a great book 'Cesar Birotteau' is!--" "You're right," said Colonel Winwood, forgetful of any possible barriers between himself and the young enthusiast.

"It's one of the four or five great books, and very few people recognize it." "'Le Lys dans la Vallee,'" said Paul.
"There's another--" And they talked for half an hour of the Baron Nucingen, and Rastignac, and Hulot, and Bixiou, and Lousteau, and Gobsec, and Gaudissart, and Vautrin, and many another vivid personage in the human comedy.
"That man could have gone on writing for a hundred years," cried Paul, "and he could have exhausted all the possibilities of human life." Colonel Winwood smiled courteously.

"We have a bond in Balzac," said he.