One of my issues with 19th-century novels is how many of them began life as serialized publications. When you get paid by the word, you're going to use a lot of words, and while I don't begrudge anyone trying to make a living, even a writer of Balzac's level can't make me care about the topography of the Indre River valley for four whole pages. The first 50-75 pages of this were like literary Ambien, but there were enough compelling parts...