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.

What happens while we sleep?  Is there, unknown to us, a secret and irresistible ferment of ideas while our senses are closed to the impressions of the outside world?  Certain it is that on awakening I am apt to find myself in a state of mind very different from that in which I went to sleep.  I had not been awake ten minutes before the image of Pierre Fauchery came up before me, and at the same time the thought that I had taken a base advantage of the kindness of his reception of me became quite unbearable.  I felt a passionate longing to see him again, to ask his pardon for my deception.  I wished to tell him who I was, with what purpose I had gone to him and that I regretted it.  But there was no need of a confession.  It would be enough to destroy the pages I had written the night before.  With this idea I arose.  Before tearing them up, I reread them.  And then—­any writer will understand me—­and then they seemed to me so brilliant that I did not tear them up.  Fauchery is so intelligent, so generous, was the thought that crossed my mind.  What is there in this interview, after all, to offend him?  Nothing, absolutely nothing.  Even if I should go to him again this very morning, tell him my story and that upon the success of my little inquiry my whole future as a journalist might depend?  When he found that I had had five years of poverty and hard work without accomplishing anything, and that I had had to go onto a paper in order to earn the very bread I ate, he would pardon me, he would pity me and he would say, “Publish your interview.”  Yes, but what if he should forbid my publishing it?  But no, he would not do that.