rious instruments necessary to his craft,
were made and presented to him by a number of workmen, his military
comrades during the war, and serve to perpetually remind him of what, he
says, has been the most instructive and intensely interesting period of
his life. "That terrible year," I have heard him exclaim more than once,
"taught me many things. It was then for the first time that I learned to
appreciate our workpeople, _le peuple_. Had it not been for what I then
went through, one whole side of good human nature would have been shut
to me. The Paris _ouvrier_ is a splendid fellow, and among my best
friends I reckon some of those who fought by my side in 1870."

During those same eventful months M. Daudet made the acquaintance of the
man who was afterwards to prove his most indefatigable helper; it was
between one of the long waits outside the fortifications. To his
surprise, the novelist saw a young soldier reading a Latin book. In
answer to a question, the _pioupiou_ explained that he had been brought
up to be a priest, but had finally changed his mind and become a
workman. Now, the ex seminarist is M. Daudet's daily companion and
literary agent; it is he who makes all the necessary arrangements with
editors and publishers, and several of Daudet's later writings have been
dictated to him.

All that refers to a great writer's methods cannot but be of interest.
Daudet's novels are really human documents, for from early youth he has
put down from day to day, almost from hour to hour, all that he has
seen, heard, and done. He calls his note-books "my memory." When about
to start a new novel he draws out a general plan, then he copies out all
the incidents from his note-books which he thinks will be of value to
him for the story. The next step is to make out a rough list of
chapters, and then, with infinite care, and constant corrections, he
begins writing out the book, submitting each page to his wife's
criticism, and discussing with her the working out of every incident,
and the arrangement of every episode. Unlike most novelists, M. Daudet
does not care to always write on the same paper, and his manuscripts are
not all written on paper of the same size. Of late he has been using
some large, rough hand-made sheets, which Victor Hugo had specially made
for his own use, and which have been given to M. Daudet by Georges Hugo,
who knew what a pleasure his grandfather would have taken in the thought
that any of his liter