My time was then occupied in looking after the building of a pretty little mansion which I was having erected at the corner of the Avenue de Villiers and the Rue Fortuny. A sister of my grandmother had left me in her will a nice legacy, which I used to buy the ground. My great desire was to have a house that should be entirely my own, and I was then realising it. The son-in-law of M. Régnier, Félix Escalier, a fashionable architect, was building me a charming place. Nothing amused me more than to go with him in the morning over the unfinished house. Afterwards I mounted the movable scaffolds. Then I went on the roofs. I forgot my worries of the theatre in this new occupation. The thing I most desired just then was to become an architect. When the building was finished, the interior had to be thought of. I spent much time in helping my painter friends who were decorating the ceilings in my bedroom, in my dining-room, in my hall: Georges Clairin; the architect Escalier, who was also a talented painter; Duez, Picard, Butin, Jadin, and Parrot. I was deeply interested. And I recollect a joke which I played on one of my relations. My aunt Betsy had come from Holland, her native country, in order to spend a few days in Paris. She was staying with my mother. I invited her to lunch in my new unfinished habitation. Five of my painter friends were working, some in one room, some in another, and everywhere lofty scaffoldings were erected. In order to be able to climb the ladders more easily I was wearing my sculptor’s costume. My aunt, seeing me thus arrayed, was horribly shocked, and told me so. But I was preparing yet another surprise for her. She thought these young workers were ordinary house-painters, and considered I was too familiar with them. But she nearly fainted when mid-day came and I rushed to the piano to play “The Complaint of the Hungry Stomachs.” This wild melody had been improvised by the group of painters, but revised and corrected by poet friends. Here it is: Oh! Peintres de la Dam’ jolie, De vos pinceaux arrêtez la folie! Il faut descendr’ des escabeaux, Vous nettoyer et vous faire très beaux! Digue, dingue, donne! L’heure sonne. Digue, dingue, di.... C’est midi! Sur les grils et dans les cass’roles Sautent le veau, et les œufs et les soles. Le bon vin rouge et l’Saint-Marceaux Feront gaiment galoper nos pinceaux! Digue, dingue, donne! L’heure sonne. Digue, dingue, di.... C’est midi! Voici vos peintres, Dam’ jolie Qui vont pour vous débiter leur folie. Ils ont tous lâché l’escabeau Sont frais, sont fiers, sont propres et très beaux! Digue, dingue, donne L’heure sonne. Digue, dingue, di.... C’est midi.