Des soirs, des gens, des choses... (1909-1911)

In this lively memoir the narrator invites us into a single, sun‑splashed February day in 1909, when Paris seemed to hold its breath between the lingering chill of winter and the sudden bloom of spring. He recounts a flamboyant ceremony at the Académie française, the presence of Maurice Barrès, the glowing chatter of the Raymond‑Poincaré couple, and even a fleeting glimpse of Sarah Bernhardt balancing on one foot. The prose is peppered with wry observations, turning the pomp of high society into a playground for his dry humor.

Throughout the opening, he also hints at his own modest ambitions—recently appointed drama critic for a well‑known journal, eager to chronicle the chaotic backstage dramas that mingle with political intrigue. He mentions a handful of unfinished projects, from a sword‑in‑scabbard novel to four‑act plays, suggesting that the notebook he carries is as crowded as the boulevards he walks. The tone remains playful, making the listener feel like a confidant sharing a cigarette and a pipe while the city’s artistic heart beats around him.