“Monsieur, will you go to that door, through which you intended to pass, without turning your back on me?” He made an attempt, and then, furious, turned his back on me and disappeared, slamming the door after him. I lived for some time at 16 Rue Auber, in a flat on the first floor, which was rather a nice one. I had furnished it with old Dutch furniture which my grandmother had sent me. My godfather advised me to insure against fire, as this furniture, he assured me, constituted a small fortune. I decided to follow his advice, and asked my _petite dame_ to take the necessary steps for me. A few days later, she told me that some one would call about it on the 12th. On the day in question, toward two o’clock, a gentleman called, but I was in an extremely nervous condition, and could not see anyone. I had refused to be disturbed, and had shut myself up in my bedroom in a frightfully depressed state. That same evening, I received a letter from the fire insurance company, asking me which day their agent might call to have the agreement signed. I replied that he might come on Saturday. On Friday I was so utterly wretched that I sent to ask my mother to come and lunch with me. I was not playing that day, as I never used to play on Tuesdays and Fridays, the days we went through our repertory, for, as I was playing every other day in new pieces, it was feared that I should be overtired. My mother, on arriving, thought I looked very pale. “Yes,” I replied, “I do not know what is the matter with me, but I am in a very nervous state and most depressed.” The governess came to fetch my little boy to take him out for a walk, but I would not let him go. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, “the child must not leave me to-day, I am afraid of something happening.” What happened was fortunately of a less serious nature than I, with my love for my family, was dreading. I had my grandmother living with me at that time, and she was blind. It was the grandmother who had given me most of my furniture. She was a spectral-looking woman, and her beauty was of a cold, hard type. She was fearfully tall, and she looked like a giantess. She was thin, and very upright, and her long arms were always stretched in front of her, feeling for all the objects in her way, so that she might not knock herself, although she was always accompanied by the attendant whom I had engaged for her. Above this long lady was her little face, with two immense, pale blue eyes, which were always open, even when asleep through the night. She was generally dressed from head to foot in gray, and this neutral color gave something unreal to her general appearance. My mother, after trying to comfort me, went away about two o’clock. My grandmother, seated opposite me in her large Voltaire armchair, questioned me: “What are you afraid of?” she asked. “Why are you so mournful? I have not heard you laugh all day.”