For several days I was in a state of most intense excitement; I did not know what to do, nor what course to adopt. Sometimes I determined to go away, to leave France forever; but the thought of Henriette detained me; sometimes I determined to go back into society, to have mistresses, to pass my time with them, and to do my best to forget the past. A profound prostration succeeded to that feverish excitement of my senses. I avoided society, I did not even go to Ernest’s, although he had come several times to beg me to do so. Everything bored and tired me; I cared for nothing except to be alone, to think of my daughter. I hated and cursed her mother. Yes, I would go away, I would leave the country. What detained me there? I had no idea. Several weeks passed, and I do not now know how I lived. I went out early in order to avoid even Ernest’s visits, for I became more misanthropical, more morose every day. I walked in solitary places, I returned early, and always ordered my concierge to say that I was not at home. My concierge was my servant also now; he took care of my apartment, which was wretchedly kept. The house in which I was living suited me in many respects; it was gloomy and dark, like most of the old houses in the Marais, and contained but few tenants, I thought, for I never met anybody on the stairs. I had one neighbor, however, with whom I would gladly have dispensed; it was a man who lived in the attic rooms above my apartment, the house having only three floors in all. That neighbor of mine was in the habit of beginning to sing as soon as he got home, which was ordinarily between ten and eleven o’clock at night; and I was forced to listen to his jovial refrains and drinking songs until he was in bed and asleep. It annoyed me; not because it prevented me from sleeping, for sleep never visited my eyes so early; but it disturbed me in my thoughts, in my reflections. I was inclined sometimes to complain to the concierge. But because I was unhappy, must I prevent others from being light-hearted? For some days that music had become more unendurable than ever, because my neighbor had taken to returning much earlier, and his songs often began at eight o’clock. Although I never talked with my concierge, I decided to ask him who the man was who was always singing. “Monsieur,” the concierge replied, “he’s a poor German, a tailor. I don’t understand how he has the courage to sing, for he hasn’t a sou, and apparently he never finds any work. That doesn’t surprise me, for he is a drunkard and he works very badly. I gave him a pair of trousers, to make a coat for my son; and it was very badly made, without fit or style, and the patches all in front! I took my custom away from him. However, he won’t trouble you long; as he doesn’t pay his rent, the landlord has decided to give him notice.”