Amadis! What a pretty libretto I had in _Amadis_! What a really novel viewpoint! The Knight of the Lily is poetically and emotionally attractive and still remains the type of the constant, respectful lover. The situations are enchanting. In short what resurrection could be more pleasing than that of the noble heroes of the Middle Ages--those doughty, valiant, courageous knights. I took this score from the safe and left in its place a work for a quartet and two choruses for male voices. _Amadis_ was to be my work for that summer. I began to copy it cheerfully at Paris and went to Égreville to continue on it. In spite of the fact that this work was easy and seemed to me such a soothing and perfect sedative for the discomfort I felt, I found that I was really very ill. I said to myself that I had done well in giving up composing in my precarious state of health. I went to Paris to consult my physician. He listened to my heart, and then, without hiding from me what his diagnosis had revealed, said, "You are very sick." "What," I exclaimed, "it is impossible. I was still copying when you came." "You are seriously ill," he insisted. The next morning the doctors and surgeons made me leave my dear quiet home and my beloved room. A motor ambulance took me to the hospital in the Rue de la Chaise. It was some consolation not to leave my quarter! I was entered on the hospital records under an assumed name for the physicians feared interviews, however friendly, which would have been demanded and which I was absolutely forbidden to grant. My bed, through a most gracious care, was in the best room in the place and I was much moved by this attention. Surgeon Professor Pierre Duval and Drs. Richardière and Laffitte gave me the most admirable and devoted care. And there I was in a quiet which wrapped me in a tranquillity the value of which I appreciated. My dearest friends came to see me whenever they were allowed. My wife was much upset and had hurried from Égreville bringing me her tender affection. I was better in a few days, but the compulsory rest imposed on my body did not prevent my mind working. I did not wait for my condition to improve before I busied myself with the speeches I would have to deliver as president of the Institute and of the Académie des Beaux-Arts (the double presidency fell to me that year) and though I was in bed packed in ice, I sent directions for the scenery of _Don Quichotte_. Finally I got back home. What a joy it was to see my home again, my furniture, to find the books whose pages I loved to turn, all the objects that delighted my eyes and to which I was accustomed, to see again those who were dear to me, and the servants overflowing with attentions. My joy was so intense that I burst into tears.