The summer of 1894 found Mark Twain in the proper frame of mind for literary work.  He was no longer in a state of dread.  At Etretat, a watering-place on the French coast, he returned eagerly to the long-neglected tale of Joan—­“a book which writes itself,” he wrote Mr. Rogers”—­a tale which tells itself; I merely have to hold the pen.”  Etretat, originally a fishing-village, was less pretentious than to-day, and the family had taken a small furnished cottage a little way back from the coast—­a charming place, and a cheap one—­as became their means.  Clemens worked steadily at Etretat for more than a month, finishing the second part of his story, then went over to Rouen to visit the hallowed precincts where Joan dragged out those weary months that brought her to the stake.  Susy Clemens was taken ill at Rouen, and they lingered in that ancient city, wandering about its venerable streets, which have been changed but slowly by the centuries, and are still full of memories.

They returned to Paris at length—­to the Brighton; their quarters of the previous winter—­but presently engaged for the winter the studio home of the artist Pomroy at 169 rue de l’Universite, beyond the Seine.  Mark Twain wrote of it once: 

It was a lovely house; large, rambling, quaint, charmingly furnished and decorated, built upon no particular plan, delightfully uncertain and full of surprises.  You were always getting lost in it, and finding nooks and corners which you did not know were there and whose presence you had not suspected before.  It was built by a rich French artist, and he had also furnished it and decorated it himself.  The studio was coziness itself.  With us it served as a drawing-room, sitting-room, living-room, dancing-room—­we used it for everything.  We couldn’t get enough of it.  It is odd that it should have been so cozy, for it was 40 feet long, 40 feet high, and 30 feet wide, with a vast fireplace on, each side, in the middle, and a musicians’ gallery at one end.

Mrs. Clemens had hoped to return to America, to their Hartford home.  That was her heart’s desire—­to go back once more to their old life and fireside, to forget all this period of exile and wandering.  Her letters were full of her home-longing; her three years of absence seemed like an eternity.

In its way, the Pomroy house was the best substitute for home they had found.  Its belongings were of the kind she loved.  Susy had better health, and her husband was happy in his work.  They had much delightful and distinguished company.  Her letters tell of these attractive things, and of their economies to make their income reach.

It was near the end of the year that the other great interest—­the machine—­came finally to a conclusion.  Reports from the test had been hopeful during the summer.  Early in October Clemens, receiving a copy of the Times-Herald, partly set by the machine, wrote:  “The Herald has just arrived, and that column is healing for sore eyes.  It affects me like Columbus sighting land.”  And again on the 28th: