"I am crazy, I know, Therese. But who is not? Give me my hat,
quick!"

"And your gloves, Monsieur! and your umbrella!"

I had reached the bottom of the stairs, but still heard her protesting
and lamenting.



October 10, 1859.


I awaited Signor Polizzi's reply with ill-contained impatience. I
could not even remain quiet; I would make sudden nervous gestures--
open books and violently close them again. One day I happened to
upset a book with my elbow--a volume of Moreri. Hamilcar, who was
washing himself, suddenly stopped, and looked angrily at me, with
his paw over his ear. Was this the tumultuous existence he must
expect under my roof? Had there not been a tacit understanding
between us that we should live a peaceful life? I had broken the
covenant.

"My poor dear comrade," I made answer, "I am the victim of a violent
passion, which agitates and masters me. The passions are enemies
of peace and quiet, I acknowledge; but without them there would be
no arts or industries in the world. Everybody would sleep naked
on a dung-heap; and you would not be able, Hamilcar, to repose all
day on a silken cushion, in the City of Books."