In spite of the fact that this work was easy and seemed to me such a soothing and perfect sedative for the discomfort I felt, I found that I was really very ill. I said to myself that I had done well in giving up composing in my precarious state of health.
I went to Paris to consult my physician. He listened to my heart, and then, without hiding from me what his diagnosis had revealed, said,
"You are very sick."
"What," I exclaimed, "it is impossible. I was still copying when you came."
"You are seriously ill," he insisted.
The next morning the doctors and surgeons made me leave my dear quiet home and my beloved room.
A motor ambulance took me to the hospital in the Rue de la Chaise. It was some consolation not to leave my quarter! I was entered on the hospital records under an assumed name for the physicians feared interviews, however friendly, which would have been demanded and which I was absolutely forbidden to grant.
My bed, through a most gracious care, was in the best room in the place and I was much moved by this attention.
Surgeon Professor Pierre Duval and Drs. Richardière and Laffitte gave me the most admirable and devoted care. And there I was in a quiet which wrapped me in a tranquillity the value of which I appreciated.
My dearest friends came to see me whenever they were allowed. My wife was much upset and had hurried from Égreville bringing me her tender affection.