Strange to say, De Montaigne's views did not discourage his own new and secret ardour for intellectual triumphs; not because he felt that he was now able to achieve them, but because he felt the iron of his own nature, and knew that a man who has iron in his nature must ultimately hit upon some way of shaping the metal into use.
The host and guest were now joined by Castruccio himself--silent and gloomy as indeed he usually was, especially in the presence of De Montaigne, with whom he felt his "self-love" wounded; for though he longed to despise his hard brother-in-law, the young poet was compelled to acknowledge that De Montaigne was not a man to be despised.
Maltravers dined with the De Montaignes, and spent the evening with them.

He could not but observe that Castruccio, who affected in his verses the softest sentiments--who was, indeed, by original nature, tender and gentle--had become so completely warped by that worst of all mental vices--the eternally pondering on his own excellences, talents, mortifications, and ill-usage, that he never contributed to the gratification of those around him; he had none of the little arts of social benevolence, none of the playful youth of disposition which usually belongs to the good-hearted, and for which men of a master-genius, however elevated their studies, however stern or reserved to the vulgar world, are commonly noticeable amidst the friends they love or in the home they adorn.

Occupied with one dream, centred in self, the young Italian was sullen and morose to all who did not sympathise with his own morbid fancies.

From the children--the sister--the friend--the whole living earth, he fled to a poem on Solitude, or stanzas upon Fame.

Maltravers said to himself, "I will never be an author--I will never sigh for renown--if I am to purchase shadows at such a price!".