I had been to the Hôtel Choiseul, which had been inhabited by my family, and had been transformed into an auction-mart. I wandered through its rooms, every one of which was crowded with furniture and goods offered to the highest bidder. (Subsequently, part of the Opéra was built on the site.) Alas, throughout my wandering I did not find a stick that belonged to us; even the porter had changed, and, however improbable and romantic it may seem, my only friend of old was Castor, the poor watch-dog, who still occupied his kennel. Pricking up his ears and wagging his tail, Castor licked my hands when I began to stroke him. Perhaps Castor’s friendliness directed my thoughts to the old friends of my family. Among them I had heard M. Récamier cited as the richest banker of his time, and his wife as the foremost woman of fashion. I knew Mme. Récamier before her marriage, and when she first came to Paris. When we both were children our parents lived in the same house. Our games and our studies were often interrupted by the scenes of the Revolution. I remembered the incidents of those first years most vividly; but would she remember them? I had lost sight of her completely during those six years so crowded with events. A kind of false shame kept me back. I could not make up my mind to go and see her, amidst all her opulence, in a condition bordering so closely upon a state of poverty as mine. The days went by meanwhile, and I had practically exhausted my last resources. In vain had I tried to borrow money on the portrait of Louis XVI., the last gift of the ill-fated prince to my ‘father,’ his faithful and devoted minister. What interest had those money-changers in a prince who was only great by his virtues, and who already belonged to history? I informed my ‘father’ of my position; told him of my various unsuccessful attempts, and asked him for fresh instructions. I received in reply a letter dated from Holland. He told me to remain for a little longer in Paris, but if I did not succeed, to come back to Amsterdam, where M. Vandenberg, the landlord of our inn, would procure me the means to join him, my ‘father,’ in England, whither important affairs compelled him to proceed immediately.