“I made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two weapons: honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most terrible weapon a man can use against rascals and crafty people. The former don’t know what it is and the latter don’t believe in it; while the revolver is an admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep their word.” He used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures. He had a deep scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion about a contract to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer, Jarrett said to his interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right eye: “Look at that eye, sir. It is now reading in your mind all that you are not saying.” “It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the other, firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye. “A bad shot, sir,” replied Jarrett. “This is the way to take aim for effectually closing an eye.” And he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell down dead. When Jarrett told this story his lip curled up and his two incisors appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts of stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and I like what I remember of him. My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my hands with delight as I entered the drawing-room, which I had not yet seen. The busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo were on pedestals surrounded with flowers. All round the large room were sofas laden with cushions, and, to remind me of my home in Paris, there were tall palms stretching out their branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler, who had suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very charming man. I shook hands with him, and we were friends from that time forth. The visitors soon went away, but the reporters remained. They were all seated, some of them on the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions. One of them had crouched down tailor-fashion on a bear-skin, and was leaning back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin, and coughed a great deal. I went towards him, and had just opened my lips to speak to him, although I was rather shocked that he did not rise, when he addressed me in a bass voice. “Which is your favourite _rôle_, Madame?” he asked. “That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my back on him. In doing so I knocked against another reporter, who was more polite. “What do you eat when you wake in the morning, Madame?” he inquired. I was about to reply to him as I had done to the first one, but Jarrett, who had had difficulty in appeasing the anger of the crouching man, answered quickly for me, “Oatmeal.” I did not know what that dish was, but the ferocious reporter continued his questions. “And what do you eat during the day?” “Mussels.” He wrote down phlegmatically, “Mussels during the day.”