I settled down in Paris and began to write a play.

I led a very regular life, working in the morning, and in the afternoon lounging about the gardens of the Luxembourg or sauntering through the streets. I spent long hours in the Louvre, the most friendly of all galleries and the most convenient for meditation; or idled on the quays, fingering second-hand books that I never meant to buy. I read a page here and there, and made acquaintance with a great many authors whom I was content to know thus desultorily.

In the evenings I went to see my friends. I looked in often on the Stroeves, and sometimes shared their modest fare.

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