Sometimes, in the morning, he would meet me breathless, exhausted, giddy from the fresh air, like Vulcan escaping from his forge, and he would fall upon a couch; his long vigil had left him starving and he would blend sardines with butter and make a sort of paste which reminded him of the rillettes of Tours, and which he would spread on bread. This was his favorite dish; he had no sooner eaten than he fell asleep, begging me to awaken him after one hour. Without regard for his admonition, I would respect this well-earned sleep, and I silenced all of the whispers in the house. When Balzac awoke of his own accord, and he saw that the evening's twilight was diffusing its gray tints across the sky, he would leap up from his couch and heap me with abuse, calling me traitor, thief, assassin: I made him lose ten thousand francs, because awake he could have had the idea for a novel that would have earned this sum (without the reprints). I was the cause of the gravest catastrophes and unimaginable disorders. I had made him miss meetings with bankers, editors, duchesses; he would not be able to repay his debts on time; this fatal sleep would cost millions. But I was already used to these prodigious betting systems that Balzac, starting from the lowest figure, would push excessively to the most monstrous sums, and I easily consoled myself by seeing the beautiful colors characteristic in Tours reappear on his rested cheeks. Balzac lived then at Chaillot, rue des Batailles, a house from which one found an admirable view of the course of the Seine, the Champ de Mars, the École Militaire, the dome of the Invalides, a large proportion of Paris and further away the hills of Meudon. He had arranged there an interior that was luxurious enough, because he knew that in Paris nobody believed in an impoverished talent, and that perception often leads to reality. It was during this period that one hears of his tendencies toward elegance and dandyism, the famous blue coat with solid gold buttons, the walking stick with a turquoise head, the appearances at the Bouffes and at the Opera, and the more frequent visits into society where his sparkling flair made him much sought after, visits that were useful for more than one reason, for he met there more than one model. It was not easy to penetrate into his home, which was better guarded than the garden of the Hespérides. Two or three passwords were required. Balzac, for fear they might be divulged, changed them often. I remember these ones: to the porter one said: "Prune season has arrived," and he would let you cross the threshold; to the servant who ran to the stairs at the sound of the bell, it was necessary to whisper: "I bring lace from Belgium," and if you could assure the bedroom valet that "Madame Bertrand was in good health," you were finally introduced. This childish behavior very much amused Balzac; it was necessary to ward off unwanted people and those who were even more disagreeable.