usted by his labors, seemed, as soon as he
felt the radiance of her glance of ingenuous idolatry, to recover that
vivacity, that elasticity of impression, which is the sovereign grace of
youthful lovers.

"I understand now why he cited Goethe and the young girl of Marienbad,"
said I to myself with a laugh, as my hired carriage sped on toward
Nemours. "He was thinking of himself. He is in love with that child, and
she is in love with him. We shall hear of his marrying her. There's a
wedding that will call forth copy, and when Pascal hears that I witnessed
the courtship--but just now I must think of my interview. Won't Fauchery
be surprised to read it day after to-morrow in his paper? But does he read
the papers? It may not be right but what harm will it do him? Besides,
it's a part of the struggle for life." It was by such reasoning, I
remember, the reasoning of a man determined to arrive that I tried to lull
to sleep the inward voice that cried, "You have no right to put on paper,
to give to the public what this noble writer said to you, supposing that
he was receiving a poet, not a reporter." But I heard also the voice of my
chief saying, "You will never succeed." And this second voice, I am
ashamed to confess, triumphed over the other with all the more ease
because I was obliged to do something to kill time. I reached Nemours too
late for the train which would have brought me back to Paris about dinner
time. At the old inn they gave me a room which was clean and quiet, a good
place to write, so I spent the evening until bedtime composing the first
of the articles which were to form my inquiry. I scribbled away under the
vivid impressions of the afternoon, my powers as well as my nerves spurred
by a touch of remorse. Yes, I scribbled four pages which would have been
no disgrace to the Journal des Goncourts, that exquisite manual of the
perfect reporter. It was all there, my journey, my arrival at the chateau,
a sketch of the quaint eighteenth century building, with its fringe of
trees and its well-kept walks, the master's room, the master himself and
his conversation; the tea at the end and the smile of the old novelist in
the midst of a circle of admirers, old and young. It lacked only a few
closing lines. "I will add these in the morning," I thought, and went to
bed with a feeling of duty performed, such is the nature of a writer.
Under the form of an interview I had done, and I knew it, the best work of
my life.

W