I saw the apotheosis of the Press—­a Press that makes a State Founder suppliant to a man like myself.  For he had the tone of a deprecating petitioner.  I stood between himself and a people, the arbiter of the peoples, of the kings of the future.  I was nothing, nobody; yet here I stood in communion with one of those who change the face of continents.  He had need of me, of the power that was behind me.  It was strange to be alone in that room with that man—­to be there just as I might be in my own little room alone with any other man.

I was not unduly elated, you must understand.  It was nothing to me.  I was just a person elected by some suffrage of accidents.  Even in my own eyes I was merely a symbol—­the sign visible of incomprehensible power.

“I will do my best,” I said.

“Ah, yes, do,” he said, “Mr. Churchill told me how nicely you can do such things.”

I said that it was very kind of Mr. Churchill.  The tension of the conversation was relaxed.  The Duc asked if I had yet seen my aunt.

“I had forgotten her,” I said.

“Oh, you must see her,” he said; “she is a most remarkable lady.  She is one of my relaxations.  All Paris talks about her, I can assure you.”

“I had no idea,” I said.

“Oh, cultivate her,” he said; “you will be amused.”

“I will,” I said, as I took my leave.

I went straight home to my little room above the roofs.  I began at once to write my article, working at high pressure, almost hysterically.  I remember that place and that time so well.  In moments of emotion one gazes fixedly at things, hardly conscious of them.  Afterward one remembers.

I can still see the narrow room, the bare, brown, discoloured walls, the incongruous marble clock on the mantel-piece, the single rickety chair that swayed beneath me.  I could almost draw the tortuous pattern of the faded cloth that hid the round table at which I sat.  The ink was thick, pale, and sticky; the pen spluttered.  I wrote furiously, anxious to be done with it.  Once I went and leaned over the balcony, trying to hit on a word that would not come.  Miles down below, little people crawled over the cobbled street, little carts rattled, little workmen let down casks into a cellar.  It was all very grey, small, and clear.

Through the open window of an opposite garret I could see a sculptor working at a colossal clay model.  In his white blouse he seemed big, out of all proportion to the rest of the world.  Level with my eyes there were flat lead roofs and chimneys.  On one of these was scrawled, in big, irregular, blue-painted letters:  “A has Coignet.”

Great clouds began to loom into view over the house-tops, rounded, toppling masses of grey, lit up with sullen orange against the pale limpid blue of the sky.  I stood and looked at all these objects.  I had come out here to think—­thoughts had deserted me.  I could only look.