I made the sittings last as long as possible, for I felt that this delicate spirit was imbuing me with her science of seeing into the beyond, and often in the serious steps of my life I have said to myself: “What would Emmy have done?... What would she have thought?...” I was somewhat surprised one day by the visit of Adolphe de Rothschild, who came to give me an order for his bust. I commenced the work immediately. But I had not properly considered this admirable man—he had nothing of the æsthetic, but the contrary. I tried, nevertheless, and I brought all my will to bear in order to succeed in this first order of which I was so proud. Twice I dashed the bust which I had commenced on the ground, and after a third attempt I definitely gave it up, stammering idiotic excuses which apparently did not convince my model, for he never returned to me. When we met, in our morning rides, he saluted me with a cold and rather severe bow. After this defeat I undertook the bust of a beautiful child, Mlle. Multon, a delicious little American whom later on I came across in Denmark, married and the mother of a family—but still as pretty as ever. Then I made a bust of Mlle. Hocquigny, that admirable person who was keeper of the linen in the hospital cars during the war and who had so efficiently helped me and my wounded at that time. Then I undertook the bust of my young sister Régina, who had, alas, a weak chest. A more perfect face was never made by the hand of God! Two leonine eyes, shaded by long brown lashes—so long that they made a shadow on her cheeks when she lowered them—a slender nose with delicate nostrils, a tiny mouth, a willful chin and a pearly skin, crowned by meshes of sun rays, for I have never seen hair so blond and so pale, so bright and so silky. But this admirable face was without charm: the expression was hard and the mouth without smile. I tried my best to reproduce this beautiful face in marble, but it needed a great artist and I was only a humble amateur. When I exhibited the bust of my little sister, it was five months after her death, which occurred after a six months’ illness full of false hopes. I had taken her to my home, No. 4 Rue de Rome, to the little _entresol_ which I had inhabited since the terrible fire which had destroyed my furniture, my books, my pictures, and all my scant possessions. This apartment in the Rue de Rome was small. My bedroom was very tiny. The big bamboo bed took up all the room. In front of the window was my coffin, where I frequently installed myself to learn my parts. Therefore when I took my sister to my home I found it quite natural to sleep every night in this little bed of white satin which was to be my last couch, and to put my sister in the big bamboo bed under the lace hangings. She herself found it quite natural, also, for I would not leave her at night and it was impossible to put another bed in this room. Besides, she was accustomed to my coffin.