ABSTRACT
The attic in the Rue Richelieu is lighted by two wax candles, flickering in their holders on the writing-table. Stendhal has been at work on his novel since noon. Now he throws down his pen. He makes his preparations, thrusts his arms into his coat, pushes back his wig. Now for a final glance in the mirror! He contemplates his own image, and promptly pulls a face which brings a sardonic fold to the corner of his mouth. It would not be so bad, he muses, if this obese and massive body housed a virile and ruthless spirit. There are women who have no confidence in any but broad-shouldered men, who would rather trust themselves to a Cossack than to a dandy. There is nothing to be done with such an exterior; Stendhal has been well aware of this ever since his youth. A veritable magician among tailors is helpless before such a figure.
