I took a pretty flat on the first floor of a house in the Rue de Rome. It was very sunny, and that delighted me more than anything else. There were two drawing-rooms and a large dining-room. I arranged for my grandmother to live at a home kept by lay Sisters and nuns. She was a Jewess, and carried out very strictly all the laws laid down by her religion. The house was very comfortable, and my grandmother took with her her own maid, the young girl from Burgundy, to whom she was accustomed. When I went to see her she told me that she was much better off there than with me. “When I was with you,” she said, “I found your boy too noisy.” I very rarely went to visit her there, for after seeing my mother turn pale at her unkind words I never cared any more for her. She was happy, and that was the essential thing. I now played in “Le Bâtard,” in which I had great success; in “L’Affranchi,” in “L’Autre,” by George Sand, and in “Jean-Marie,” a little masterpiece by André Theuriet, which had the most brilliant success. Porel played the part of _Jean-Marie_. He was at that time slender, and full of hope as regarded his future. Since then his slenderness has developed into plumpness and his hope into certitude. Evil days then came upon us! Paris began to get feverish and excited. The streets were black with groups of people, discussing and gesticulating. And all this noise was only the echo of far-distant groups gathered together in German streets. These other groups were yelling, gesticulating, and discussing, but—they knew; while we—did not know! I could not keep calm, but was extremely excited, until finally I was ill. War was declared, and I hate war! It exasperates me and makes me shudder from head to foot. At times I used to spring up terrified, upset by the distant cries of human voices. Oh, war! What infamy, shame, and sorrow! War! What theft and crime, abetted, forgiven, and glorified! On the 19th of July, war was seriously declared and Paris then became the theater of the most touching and burlesque scenes. Excitable and delicate as I was, I could not bear the sight of all these young men gone wild, who were yelling the “Marseillaise,” and rushing along the streets in close file, shouting over and over again; “To Berlin! To Berlin!” My heart used to beat wildly for I, too, thought that they were going to Berlin. I understood the fury they felt, for these people had provoked us without plausible reasons, but at the same time it seemed to me that they were getting ready for this great occasion without sufficient respect and dignity. My own impotence made me feel rebellious, and when I saw all the mothers, with pale faces and eyes swollen with crying, holding their boys in their arms and kissing them in despair, the most frightful anguish seemed to choke me. I cried, too, almost unceasingly, and I was wearing myself away with anxiety, but I did not foresee the horrible catastrophe that was to take place.