knocked at my door. His face bore an aspect of consternation.
"A great misfortune happened last night, sir," said he.
"What was it?"
"All monsieur's furniture was stolen—all, everything, even to the smallest objects."
The intelligence gave me pleasure. Why? Who can tell? It rendered me master of myself and my actions, it gave me an opportunity to dissemble, to say nothing to any one of what my eyes had seen, to conceal it, to bury it at the bottom of my consciousness like a dread secret. I made answer:
"Then those must be the same parties who stole my keys from me. The police must be notified at once. I will get up and be with you in a few moments."
The investigation lasted five months. No discovery was made; no trace of the robbers was found, nor was the least bit of my furniture recovered. Parbleu! If I had told what I knew—if I had told—they would have locked me up, me—not the thieves, but the man who had been capable of seeing such things.
Oh! I knew enough to hold my tongue. I did not refurnish my house, however. There would have been no use in doing that; the same thing would have happened again. I did not wish to return to it, I did not return to it. I never set eyes on it again.
I came and lived at Paris, at the hotel, and I, consulted physicians upon my nervous condition, which had been the cause of much anxiety to me since that ill-omened night. They urged me to travel. I followed their advice.
