His book was not yet finished.  In Paris he worked on it daily, but without enthusiasm.  The city was too noisy, the weather too dismal.  His note-book says: 

May 7th.  I wish this terrible winter would come to an end.  Have had rain almost without intermission for two months and one week.

May 28th.  This is one of the coldest days of this most damnable and interminable winter.

It was not all gloom and discomfort.  There was congenial company in Paris, and dinner-parties, and a world of callers.  Aldrich the scintillating—­[ Of Aldrich Clemens used to say:  “When Aldrich speaks it seems to me he is the bright face of the moon, and I feel like the other side.”  Aldrich, unlike Clemens, was not given to swearing.  The Parisian note-book has this memorandum:  “Aldrich gives his seat in the horse-car to a crutched cripple, and discovers that what he took for a crutch is only a length of walnut beading and the man not lame; whereupon Aldrich uses the only profanity that ever escaped his lips:  ’Damn a dam’d man who would carry a dam’d piece of beading under his dam’d arm!’"]—­was there, also Gedney Bunce, of Hartford, Frank Millet and his wife, Hjalinar Hjorth Boyesen and his wife, and a Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, artist people whom the Clemenses had met pleasantly in Italy.  Turgenieff, as in London, came to call; also Baron Tauchnitz, that nobly born philanthropist of German publishers, who devoted his life, often at his personal cost, to making the literature of other nations familiar to his own.  Tauchnitz had early published the ‘Innocents’, following it with other Mark Twain volumes as they appeared, paying always, of his own will and accord, all that he could afford to pay for this privilege; which was not really a privilege, for the law did not require him to pay at all.  He traveled down to Paris now to see the author, and to pay his respects to him.  “A mighty nice old gentleman,” Clemens found him.  Richard Whiteing was in Paris that winter, and there were always plenty of young American painters whom it was good to know.

They had what they called the Stomach Club, a jolly organization, whose purpose was indicated by its name.  Mark Twain occasionally attended its sessions, and on one memorable evening, when Edwin A. Abbey was there, speeches were made which never appeared in any printed proceedings.  Mark Twain’s address that night has obtained a wide celebrity among the clubs of the world, though no line of it, or even its title has ever found its way into published literature.

Clemens had a better time in Paris than the rest of his party.  He could go and come, and mingle with the sociabilities when the abnormal weather kept the others housed in.  He did a good deal of sight-seeing of his own kind, and once went up in a captive balloon.  They were all studying French, more or less, and they read histories and other books relating to France.  Clemens renewed his old interest in Joan of Arc, and for the first time appears to have conceived the notion of writing the story of that lovely character.