Oh! Who will understand my horrible agony? Who will understand the emotion of a man sound in mind, wide-awake, full of sense, who looks in horror at the disappearance of a little water while he was asleep, through the glass of a water-bottle! And I remained sitting until it was daylight, without venturing to go to bed again. July 6. I am going mad. Again all the contents of my water-bottle have been drunk during the night; or rather I have drunk it! But is it I? Is it I? Who could it be? Who? Oh! God! Am I going mad? Who will save me? July 10. I have just been through some surprising ordeals. Undoubtedly I must be mad! And yet! On July 6, before going to bed, I put some wine, milk, water, bread, and strawberries on my table. Somebody drank--I drank--all the water and a little of the milk, but neither the wine, nor the bread, nor the strawberries were touched. On the seventh of July I renewed the same experiment, with the same results, and on July 8 I left out the water and the milk and nothing was touched. Lastly, on July 9 I put only water and milk on my table, taking care to wrap up the bottles in white muslin and to tie down the stoppers. Then I rubbed my lips, my beard, and my hands with pencil lead, and went to bed. Deep slumber seized me, soon followed by a terrible awakening. I had not moved, and my sheets were not marked. I rushed to the table. The muslin round the bottles remained intact; I undid the string, trembling with fear. All the water had been drunk, and so had the milk! Ah! Great God! I must start for Paris immediately. July 12. Paris. I must have lost my head during the last few days! I must be the plaything of my enervated imagination, unless I am really a somnambulist, or I have been brought under the power of one of those influences--hypnotic suggestion, for example--which are known to exist, but have hitherto been inexplicable. In any case, my mental state bordered on madness, and twenty-four hours of Paris sufficed to restore me to my equilibrium. Yesterday after doing some business and paying some visits, which instilled fresh and invigorating mental air into me, I wound up my evening at the Theatre Francais. A drama by Alexander Dumas the Younger was being acted, and his brilliant and powerful play completed my cure. Certainly solitude is dangerous for active minds. We need men who can think and can talk, around us. When we are alone for a long time, we people space with phantoms.