Because I had a rather turned-up nose and a round face, my father
called me "pussy-cat". It needed no more than this to give a small
child the desire to imitate a cat; so it was my greatest pleasure to
go about on all fours, mewing. I was also in the habit of going up
to the second floor of the château to join my father in a library,
where he spent the hottest hours of the day. When he heard the
"miaow" of his little cat, he came and opened the door and gave me a
picture-book to look at while he continued his reading. These little
sessions gave me infinite pleasure. One day, however, my visit was
not so well received as usual. My father, perhaps absorbed in his
book, did not open the door for his little cat. In vain, I redoubled
my "miaows" in the most appealing tone which I could produce. The
door remained closed. Then I saw, at floor level, an opening called
a cat-hole, which is present in all the châteaux of the Midi, at the
bottom of the doors, to allow cats free access. This route seemed,
naturally, to be for me: I put my head through, but that was as far
as I could go. I then tried to withdraw my head, but my head was
stuck and I could go neither forward nor back, but I was so much
identified with my role as a cat that instead of speaking, to let my
father know my predicament, I "miaowed" at the top of my voice, like
a cat that is angry, and it appears that I did so in such a natural
tone that my father thought that I was playing, but suddenly the
"miaows" became weaker, and turned into crying and you may imagine my
father's concern when he realised what had happened. It was only
with great difficulty that I was freed and carried, half unconscious,
to my mother, who thinking I was injured was much distressed.

A surgeon was sent for, who proceeded to bleed me, and the sight
of my own blood and the crowd of all the inhabitants of the château,
gathered about my mother and me, made such a vivid impression on my