Then came an evil week when the power of production completely left me. How I cursed and fretted. I was sick of the whole trade of writing. What a sorry craft! And my work was rotten. I hated it. A fog overhung my brain. I saw the whole world with distempered eyes. I started out on long walks around the fortifications, and as I walked everything seemed to lose all sense of my identity. Yet the fresh air was good to me, and the weaving of green leaves had a strange sweetness. The river, too, soothed me; then one day all my interest in the world came back.
At six o’clock that evening I began to work, and all night through I wrote like a madman. As I finished covering a sheet I would throw it on the floor and grab a fresh one. I was conscious that my wrist ached infernally. The dawn came and found me still writing, my face drawn, my eyes staring vaguely. Then at eleven in the morning I had finished. I was islanded in a sea of sheets, over twelve thousand words.
“Please pick them up for me,” I asked her. “I’m afraid it’s awful stuff, but I just had to go on. Everything seemed so plain, and I just wanted to get it down and out of my mind. Well, it’s done, my novel’s done. See, I’ve written the sweetest of all words: Finis. But I’m so tired. No, I don’t want any lunch. I’ll just lie down a bit.”
With a feeling of happiness that was like a flood of sunshine I crept into bed, and there I slept till eight of the following morning. Next day all I did was to loaf around the Luxembourg in the joyance of leaf and flower. I was still fagged, but so happy. As I smoked a tranquil pipe I watched the children on the merry-go-round. They were given little spears, with which to tilt at rings hung round the course, and if they bagged a certain number they were entitled to a seat for the next round. To watch the rosy and eager faces of these youthful knights on their fiery steeds, as they rode with lances couched, was a gentle specific for the soul.
Yes, everything seemed so good, so bright, so beneficent. I loved that picture full of freshness, gaiety and youth. Anastasia and the Môme joined me, and we listened to the band under the marronniers. Then we lingered on the Terrace of the Queen’s to watch the sky behind the Tower Eiffel kindle to a glow of amber, and a wondrous golden tide o’erflooding the groves till each leaf seemed radiant and the fountain exulted in a spray of flame.
Suddenly the Môme gave a cry of delight. Listen! In the distance we could hear a noise like a hum of bees. It is the little soldier, who every evening at closing time, parades the garden with his drum, warning every one it is time to go. This to the children is the crown of all the happy day. Hasten Sylvere and Yvonne—it is the little soldier. Fall in line, Francois and Odette, we must march to the music. Gather round Cyprille, Maurice, Victoire: follow to the rattle of the drum. Here he comes, the little blue and red soldier. How sturdily he beats! With what imperturbable dignity he marches amid that scampering, jostling, laughing, shouting mob of merry-hearted children!
“After all,” I observe, “struggle, poverty and hard work give us moments of joy such as the rich never know. I want to put it on record, that though we are nearly at the end of our resources, this has been one of the happiest days of my life.”
“I weesh you let me go to work, darleen. I make some money for help. I sew for dressmaker if you let me.”
“Never. How near are we to the end?”
“I have enough for to-morrow only.”