I had an income of twenty-two thousand francs;
furthermore, I was certain that by doing literary work
I could earn an equal sum, at least. Nothing seemed
difficult to me, the path lay straight before me without
a single obstacle, I had but to march on. . . . My
shyness, my fears, my doubts, exhaustingly painful
efforts, spiritual agonies oh, those things no longer
mattered! A novel, two novels a year, a few plays
for the theatre. . . . What did that amount to for a
young man in love as I was? . . . Weren't people talking about X. . . . and Z. . . . two hopeless and notorious idiots who in a few years amassed a large fortune?. . . Ideas for a novel, a comedy, a dramatic play came to me in droves. . . and I indicated their arrival by a broad and haughty gesture. . . .
I saw myself already monopolizing all the libraries, all the theatres, all the magazines, the attention of the whole world. . . . In the hours when inspiration should prove slow and painful, all I would need to do would be to look at Juliette and masterpieces would come forth from her eyes as in a fairy-tale. I did not hesitate to demand Malterre's departure and complete charge of Juliette's affairs. Malterre wrote heartrending letters, begged, threatened and finally departed. Later on Jesselin, displaying his usual vaunted tact, told us that Malterre, grief-stricken, had taken a trip to Italy.
"I accompanied him as far as Marseilles," he told us. "He wanted to kill himself and was crying all the time. You know I am not a gullible sort of a chap. . . but he actually made me feel sorry for him. Now really!"
And he added:
"You know. He was ready to fight you. . . . It was his friend, Monsieur Lirat, who kept him from
