at his
easel, another at his drafting board, myself at my desk, we would knock
off at about eleven o'clock and come down for beer and a long smoke in
front of the cafe below. A homely little place it was, with two rows of
small iron tables in front, and at one of these we would seat ourselves.
Behind us in the window was a long glass tank of gold fish, into which
from time to time a huge cat would reach an omnivorous paw. Often from
within the cafe we would hear Russian folk songs played on balalaikas by
a group of Russian students there. And between the songs a low hubbub
rose, in French and many other tongues, for here were French and
Germans, English and Bohemians, Russians and Italians, all gathered here
while they were young.

How serene the old city seemed those nights. The street outside was
quiet. The motor 'bus, that pest of Paris, had not yet appeared. Only an
occasional cab would come tinkling on its way. Our street was absurdly
short. At one end was a gay cluster of lights from the crowded cafes of
the "Boul' Mich'," at the other were the low lighted arches at the back
of the Odeon, from which when the play was over fluffy feminine figures
would emerge from the stage entrance; we would hear their low musical
voices as they came merrily by us in cabs. Other figures would pass.
Across the street before us rose the trees and the lofty iron fence of
the Gardens, with a rich gloom of shrubs behind, and against this
background figures in groups and alone and in couples would come
strolling by with their happiness or hurrying eagerly toward it. Or to
what else were they hurrying? From what were they coming so slowly away?

These strangers in this setting thrilled me. Comedy, tragedy, character,
plot--there seemed nothing in life but the writing of tales--watching,
listening, dreaming, finding, then becoming deeply excited, feeling them
grow inside of you, planning them out and writing them off, then working
them over and over and over, little by little building them up. What a
rich absorbing life for a fellow, and for me it still lay all ahead. I
had used but twenty-two years of my life, there were fifty left to write
in, and what couldn't you write in fifty years!

Often, sitting here at night, I would get an idea and begin to work, and
I would keep on until at last the enormous old woman who kept the
cafe--we called her "The Blessed Damozel"--would come lumbering out and
good humoredly growl,

"Couches-toi d