That evening, after an interview with M. Vernet, I followed my comrades to the Café Greco--the dirtiest, darkest, dampest hole imaginable. How it justifies its existence as the artist’s favourite café I cannot imagine. We smoked abominable cigars and drank coffee that was none the nicer for being served on dirty little wooden tables, as sticky and greasy as the walls. Next day I made Mendelssohn’s acquaintance; but more of this when I come to write of Germany.[10] For a while I got on fairly well in this new life, then gradually my anxiety about my Paris letters, which were not forthcoming, increased to such an extent that, in defiance of the kindly expostulations of M. Horace Vernet, who tried to restrain me by saying that I must be struck off the list of _pensionnaires_ if I broke the Academy’s most stringent rule, I decided to return to Paris. I started, but at Florence was kept in bed a week by quinsy, and so made the acquaintance of Schlick, the Danish sculptor, a thoroughly good fellow of much talent. During this week I rewrote the Ball Scene for my _Symphonie Fantastique_, and added the present Coda. It was not quite finished when, the first time I was able to go out, I fetched my letters from the post. Among them was one of such unparalleled impudence that I fairly took leave of my senses. Needless to say, it was from Camilla’s mother. In it, after accusing me of _bringing annoyance_ into her household, she announced the marriage of my _fiancée_ to M. Pleyel. In two minutes my plans were laid. I must hurry to Paris to kill two guilty women and one innocent man; for, this act of justice done, I, too, must die! They would expect me, therefore I must go disguised. I hurried to Schlick and showed him the letter. “It is scandalous,” he said. “What will you do?” I thought it best to deceive him so as to be absolutely free. “Do? Why, return to France. But I will go to my father’s, not to Paris.” “Right!” he replied. “Your own home will best soothe your wounded heart. Keep up your spirits.” “I will; but I must go at once.” “You can easily go this evening. I know the official people here, and will get your passport and a seat for you in the mail. Go and pack.” Instead of packing, I went to a milliner in the Lung ‘Arno. “Madame,” I said, “I want a lady’s-maid’s outfit by five o’clock--dress, hat, green veil, everything. Money is no object. Can you do it?” She agreed, and leaving a deposit, I went back to the hotel. Taking the score of the Ball Scene, I wrote across it: