I go to the landlady and complain about the other lodgers. She declares that she has heard nothing, but, for the rest, is very polite, and promises to turn out anyone who dares to disturb me, for she is anxious to keep me in her hotel, which is not prospering very well.
Without attaching much credit to the word of a woman, I still believe she means to treat me well in her own interests. None the less the noises continue, and I come to the conclusion that these ladies—stupid people!—want to make me believe that there are "rapping spirits" in the house. At the same time my companions in the restaurant alter their behaviour towards me, and a concealed hostility shows itself in their envious looks and innuendoes. Weary of the struggle, I bid farewell to the hotel and restaurant, and depart, plundered to my last shirt, leaving behind my books and other things. On February 21, 1896, I entered the Hôtel Orfila.
[V]
PURGATORY
Hôtel Orfila has a monastic appearance, and is a boarding establishment for Catholic students. It is superintended by a quiet, amiable Abbé, and peace, order, and morality prevail here. What especially comforts me after so many annoyances is, that women are not admitted here. The house is old, the rooms are low, the passages dark, and the wooden staircases wind and twist hither and thither as if in a labyrinth. There is an air of mysteriousness about the whole building, which for a long time has attracted me. My room looks out on a cul-de-sac, so that standing in the middle of it, one sees nothing but a moss-grown wall with two small round windows in it. But when I sit at my table close to the window, I have an uncommonly pleasant look-out. Under me there is a circular wall overgrown with ivy surrounding a courtyard, where young girls walk under plane trees and acacias. In the centre there stands a charming Gothic chapel. Somewhat farther on one sees high walls with numerous little barred windows, which remind one of a convent. Still farther away are old, half-hidden houses crowned by a forest of chimneys, and in the extreme distance one sees the tower of Notre-Dame des Champs surmounted by a cross and weathercock. In my room there hangs a faded likeness of St. Vincent de Paul, and a picture of St. Peter looks down on my bed. St. Peter, the opener of the gates of heaven. What an ironical situation for me, who some years ago threw ridicule on the Apostle in a fantastic drama!
Quite contented with my room, I sleep well the first night. I edify myself by reading the book of Job, and arrive at an ever clearer conviction that the Eternal has handed me over to Satan to be tried. This thought comforts me again, and suffering seems to me a mark of confidence on the part of the Almighty.
Now things begin to happen which cannot be explained without the co-operation of the unknown powers. From this point I use the entries in my journal, which have gradually become very numerous, giving them in a condensed form.