I woke in an hour’s time, for I have the precious gift of being able to sleep ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or an hour, just as I like, and I then wake quite peacefully without any start, at the time I have decided upon. Nothing does me so much good as this rest to body and mind, decided upon and regulated merely by my will. Very often in my own family I have lain down on the bearskin hearth rug in front of the fire, telling everyone to go on talking and take no notice of me. I have then slept, perhaps for an hour, and on waking have found two or three newcomers in the room who, not wishing to disturb me, have taken part in the general conversation, while waiting until I should wake up to present their respects to me. Even now I lie down on the huge, wide sofa in the little Empire salon which leads into my loge and I sleep while waiting for the friends and artistes, with whom I have made appointments, to be ushered in. When I open my eyes I see the faces of my kind friends, who shake hands cordially, delighted that I should have had some rest. My mind is then tranquil and I am ready to listen to all the beautiful ideas proposed to me or to decline the absurdities submitted to me, without being ungracious.
I woke up, then, at the Albemarle Hotel an hour later and found myself lying on the rug. I opened the door of my room and discovered my dear Guérard and my faithful Félicie seated on a trunk.
“Are there any people there still?” I asked.
“Oh, madame! there are about a hundred now,” answered Félicie.
“Help me take my things off then, quickly,” I said, “and find me a white dress.”
In about five minutes I was ready, and I felt that I looked nice from head to foot. I went into the drawing-room, where all these unknown persons were waiting. Jarrett came forward to meet me, but on seeing me well dressed and with a smiling face, he postponed the sermon that he wanted to preach me.
I should like to introduce Jarrett to my readers, for he was a most extraordinary man. He was then about sixty-five or seventy years of age. He was tall with a face like King Agamemnon, framed by the most beautiful silver-white hair I have even seen on a man’s head. His eyes were of so pale a blue that when they lighted up with anger he looked as though he were blind. When he was calm and tranquil, admiring nature, his face was really handsome, but when gay and animated his upper lip showed his teeth, and curled up in a most ferocious sniff, and his grin seemed to be caused by the drawing up of his pointed ears which were always moving as though on the watch for prey. He was a terrible man, extremely intelligent, but from childhood he must have been fighting with the world, and he had the most profound contempt for all mankind. Although he must have suffered a great deal himself, he had no pity for those who suffered. He always said that every man was armed for his own defense. He pitied women, did not care for them, but was always ready to help them. He was very rich, and very economical, but not miserly. “I made my way in life,” he often said to me, “by the aid of two weapons: honesty and a revolver. In business honesty is the most terrible weapon a man can use against rascals and crafty people—the former don’t know what it is, and the latter do not believe in it—while the revolver is an admirable invention for compelling scoundrels to keep their word.” He used to tell me about wonderful and terrifying adventures. He had a deep scar under his right eye. During a violent discussion about a contract to be signed for Jenny Lind, the celebrated singer, Jarrett said to his interlocutor, pointing at the same time to his right eye: “Look at that eye, sir, it is now reading in your mind all that you are not saying.” “It doesn’t know how to read, then, for it never foresaw that,” said the other firing his revolver at Jarrett’s right eye. “A bad shot, sir,” replied Jarrett, “this is the way to take aim for effectually closing an eye,” and he put a ball between the two eyes of the other man, who fell down dead. When Jarrett told this story, his lip curled up and his two incisors appeared to be crunching the words with delight, and his bursts of stifled laughter sounded like the snapping of his jaws. He was an upright, honest man, though, and I liked him very much, and like what I remember of him.
My first impression was a joyful one, and I clapped my hands with delight as I entered the drawing-room which I had not yet seen. The busts of Racine, Molière, and Victor Hugo were on pedestals surrounded with flowers. All around the large room were sofas laden with cushions and to remind me of my home in Paris there were tall palms stretching out their branches over the sofas. Jarrett introduced Knoedler to me, who had suggested this piece of gallantry. He was a very charming man. I shook hands with him and we were friends from that time forth. The visitors soon went away, but the reporters remained. They were all seated, some of them on the arms of the chairs, others on the cushions. One of them had crouched down tailor fashion on a bearskin and was leaning back against the steam heater. He was pale and thin and coughed a great deal. I went toward him and had just opened my lips to speak to him, although I was rather horrified that he did not rise, when he addressed me in a bass voice:
“Which is your favorite rôle, madame?” he asked.
“That is no concern of yours,” I answered, turning my back on him. In doing so I knocked against another reporter, who was more polite.