Thus absolved of the profane zeal of a working man, I saunter out into a Paris that fits me as snugly as my dogskin-leather gloves (a Paris teeming with flâneurs as perhaps the dog that supplied my glove leather once teemed with fleas).

City of idlers, city of strollers, traversed by packs of tourists, window-shoppers, suburban scouts, provincial boulevard hedonists—while the streets are boiling, boiling away energy, boiling away action, combustion-engine-driven dynamics, every kind of purposeful efficiency: a need for a higher living standard, a desire to shape the future, an economic commitment, a political commitment, an erotic commitment—every kind of greed, drive, compulsion, madness stepping on the gas, throwing the gearshift, clutching the wheel, expelled from the exhaust . . . The weather is delicious; dove-blue Paris has donned lemon-yellow lights, and I stroll along the avenue Foch as far as the Bois de Boulogne, circle around the pond twinkling with golden scales, study the ducks, the children, the dogs, the loving couples, wander back to the place de l’Étoile and then a bit down the Champs-Élysées (briskly, briskly! you’re getting to the age when you have to watch your form and figure!). At Faguet, on the rue Washington, I select a jar of apple, sour-cherry, or currant jelly for Gaia’s breakfast table (should she ever—perhaps on a Sunday—arrange the leisure to relish it). At Fouquet, I order an aperitif and read the newspaper (there’s nothing interesting in it). At noon, we meet in a substantial, intimate little restaurant known only to very (but very!) knowledgeable Parisians and not imperiled by touristry (a blanc de veau chez Anna, a sôle aux champignons chez les Fils de Charpentier). If Madame does not have one of her urgent appointments right after, we indulge in a little treat for the eyes (drop in at the Musée Camondot to look at furniture, an exhibit of illusionist designs at the Orangerie) or we run a few errands (a geode of rose quartz at a mineral dealer’s on the rue Guénégaud, curtains for my study at Halard’s), and then we separate—“Allons, mon ours—ferme le pot de confiture—chacun à son boulot!”—for she’s discovered a skiffle group that’s more interesting than Ken Coyler’s, she wants to cut a few demos and sell them to Odéon, perhaps manage the group. I, for my part, return home to my work. It may not be the ideal hour—I work best at night or very early in the morning—but this mustn’t count now, so much depends on this work, Gaia’s waiting for my book, she knows it’s going to be a big, significant novel, she doesn’t however read German, therefore unfortunately can’t follow the emergence of the masterpiece step by step, but she believes in me, she loves me for this book, is prepared to sacrifice anything for it, spoils me in order to make writing possible for me, earns the money for my sovereign equanimity, the ironic distance from myself that I must achieve, she won’t hear of any other work, I only wasted my time with my scriptwriting, and got nothing in return but debts all around, she cheerfully pays them, laughingly talks me into admitting to those I wanted to keep from her, she is my muse and my Maecenas, I’d be a scoundrel to disappoint her, that would be a blow to her, a blow she could never overcome.