So, at the end of four hours I started, still whirling, and walked over to the rue Scribe—­4 p.m.—­and asked a question or two and was told I should be running a big risk if I took the 9 p.m. train for London and Southampton; “better come right along at 6.52 per Havre special and step aboard the New York all easy and comfortable.”  Very! and I about two miles from home and no packing done.

Then it occurred to me that none of these salvation notions that were whirlwinding through my head could be examined or made available unless at least a month’s time could be secured.  So I cabled you, and said to myself that I would take the French steamer to-morrow (which will be Sunday).

By bedtime Mrs. Clemens had reasoned me into a fairly rational and contented state of mind; but of course it didn’t last long.  So I went on thinking—­mixing it with a smoke in the dressing-room once an hour—­until dawn this morning.  Result—­a sane resolution; no matter what your answer to my cable might be I would hold still and not sail until I should get an answer to this present letter which I am now writing or a cable answer from you saying “Come” or “Remain.”

    I have slept 6 hours, my pond has clarified, and I find the sediment
    of my 70,000 projects to be of this character: 

He follows with a detailed plan for reconstructing the machine, using brass type, etc., and concludes: 

    Don’t say I’m wild.  For really I’m sane again this morning.

I am going right along with Joan now, and wait untroubled till I hear from you.  If you think I can be of the least use cable me “Come.”  I can write Joan on board ship and lose no time.  Also I could discuss my plan with the publisher for a de luxe Joan, time being an object, for some of the pictures could be made over here, cheaply and quickly, that would cost much more time and money in America.

The second letter followed five days later: 

169 rue de l’Universite,
Paris, December 27, 1894.

Dear Mr. Rogers,—­Notwithstanding your heart is “old and hard” you make a body choke up.  I know you “mean every word you say” and I do take it “in the same spirit in which you tender it.”  I shall keep your regard while we two live—­that I know; for I shall always remember what you have done for me, and that will insure me against ever doing anything that could forfeit it or impair it.

It is six days or seven days ago that I lived through that despairing day, and then through a night without sleep; then settled down next day into my right mind (or thereabouts) and wrote you.  I put in the rest of that day till 7 P.m. plenty comfortably enough writing a long chapter of my book; then went to a masked ball blacked