This ardent, continuous effort, this will-tension kept in his mind the warmth, animation, and excitement indispensable for poetical production.

His mind expanded rapidly, ready to receive the germs that were blown to him by the mysterious winds of inspiration.

At times he was astonished to see his pen fill the sheet so rapidly that he would stop, filled with pride at having thus reduced to obedience words and rhythms, and would ask himself what supernatural power had permitted him to arm these divine wild birds.
On Sundays, he had his meals brought him by the concierge, working all day and not going out until nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, to dine with Mamma Gerard.

It was the only distraction that he allowed himself, or rather the only recompense that he permitted himself.

He walked halfway across Paris to buy a cake in the Rue Fontaine for their dessert; then he climbed without fatigue, thanks to his young legs, to the top of Montmartre, lighted by swinging lamps, where one could almost believe one's self in the distant corner of some province.