Well, it came. It came the next morning when I was still in bed, and I had to crawl into my wardrobe trunk while it was being installed. When the heavy footsteps had echoed down the hall, I sprang forward like any Eurydice, in my dollar-ninety-eight robe de nuit. I played and played, and was a little late to the Vestiaire that morning. I had a long hard day that day, and almost forgot my new treasure until after dinner, when I sat down on the piano-stool. I was casting about for some music--any music--to play, when Mlle. Germain, a French girl here, came in and offered a copy of the Beethoven Symphonies. I struck up the Fifth, and, believe me, it was like solid ground beneath my feet. Since then I have eaten up all five--it's only the first book that she has. We went to a concert given in a little room (I thought it was a bar when I first went in,--marble-topped tables and men smoking), but there was no symphony. I haven't had time to go to another lately. In spite of remembering the Steinway at home, you can imagine how happy I am with my little piano, even if it does come up barely to my hip. It is usually out of tune, and is very painful, but the little blind man comes with his wife and tunes it, and I couldn't send it back. I play with a bicycle face my whole repertoire;--but I tell you I'm gay, and I've learned to watch out at the end of the F major étude not to crack my elbow against the foot of the bed, for I find that my bed gives out a metallic sound when rapped sharply with a bone. I stick my umbrella into the brass handle at the side of the piano, and then I have a "piano à queue"! After a few hours of reading Beethoven, Mlle. Germain and I get out a piece of French gâteau from the armoire and cut off a couple of slices with my shoe-horn, and sit around in our pajamas and discuss music and education and politics--and our complexions. All too soon the lights go out on us, and she says, "Bon soir, chère Mademoiselle," and goes off down the hall by the light of her last cigarette. Oh, we do have good times! I must tell you about the maids, for they are no inconsiderable part of my days. There are two femmes de chambre, both small, and dark, and very young. I was reading in my room one night after I had been here about a week, when Mélanie came to turn down my bed. I, thinking to turn my French on any victim, started to ask her questions about where her home was, etc. She told me that she and Maria were both from the North--Pas-de-Calais--and that they had had to come to Paris to work after their husbands had been killed early in the war. "Husbands!" I said. "Don't tell me you're married?" "Mais si, Mademoiselle,--Maria has a little boy and I have a little girl,--they're both three years old. They live with their grandmothers back home. We can see them only once a year!"