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me, it was high time to look after my own nerves
instead of the nerves of others, if such things
could be seen and heard on the Boulevard
Malesherbes. And what the devil had I to do
with the Countess? She was getting on
splendidly in her château in Touraine, according to
Monsieur l’Abbé’s last letter, and I was getting
on splendidly in Paris, the most beautiful city
in the world. All I was in need of was a little
sleep. But what would the Count say if I wrote
him a letter to-night that I gladly accepted his
kind invitation and was starting to-morrow?
If I could only sleep to-night! Why shouldn’t
I take myself one of those excellent
sleeping-draughts I used to concoct for my patients, a
strong sleeping-draught that would send me to
sleep for twenty-four hours and make me forget
everything, Montparnasse, the château in
Touraine, the Countess and all the rest? I lay down
on my bed without taking off my clothes, I was
so tired. But I did not take the sleeping-draught,
les cuisiniers n’ont pas faim, as they say in Paris.
On entering my consulting-room next morning,
I found a letter on the table. It was from
Monsieur l’Abbé with a P.S. in the handwriting
of the Count:
“You said you liked the song of the skylark
the best. He is singing still, but it will not be
for long, so you had better come soon.”
The skylark! And I who had not heard any
other birds for two years but the sparrows in the
Tuileries Gardens!
* * *
The horses which took me from the station
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