writes a letter,--_prima vista_,--never perusing again what he
had written, be it good or bad. When writing he imbibed a good deal of
beer, and was in the habit of using snuff. He did not regard writing as
work. For him it was like a chat in pen and ink with friends. As for an
inclination to work; as for a feeling that he had something to say, and
_must_ say it, come what will,--there was nothing of the sort in him. He
said he hated romances, tales, and all the like, and wrote only to gain
his "_pain quotidien_" and that he detested the humbug with all his
heart and despised the mob that would read it. He declared that if he
were a millionaire or simply wealthy, "he'd never take a pen in hand for
bullying a stupid public with his nonsense."

Emile Richebourg writes his fascinating novels in a plain style, but,
despite the absence of flowery language, is capable of expressing much
feeling. The novel or drama is completed in his head before he writes a
line. As the plot develops, the dialogues and events suggest themselves.
When he has got to work he keeps right on, seldom re-reading what he has
composed. He makes an outline of his book before beginning. He is in the
habit of noting down on a piece of paper the names, ages, lodgings,
etc., of the persons who are pictured in his novels, also the title of
each chapter. Formerly he worked from eight to twelve hours a day, but
never at night. Now he labors only five or six hours at the most, and
always in the morning. Richebourg is an early riser, and goes to bed
early in the evening. He gets up at six in the morning. At eight o'clock
he drinks a bowl of warm milk without sugar, which constitutes his sole
nourishment until dinner at noon. With him this is the principal meal of
the day; and during its progress, according to his own confession, he
finds a bottle of wine very agreeable. He eats but little in the
evening. When at work he smokes continuously; always a pipe. He works
with difficulty, yet with pleasure, and identifies himself, that is,
when composing, with the personages whom he describes. During the
afternoon he promenades in his garden, attends to his roses and other
flowers, and trims the shrubs.

The study of Maurice Jokai, the great Hungarian romancer, is a perfect
museum of valuable souvenirs and rare antiquities. Books, journals, and
pamphlets cover tables, chairs, and walls; busts and statuettes, which
stand about here and there, give the room the appearanc