I, too, would have liked to try that ‘hazardous and useless’ existence whose attractions Jacques and the younger novelists were praising all the time. But how could I introduce the unexpected into my daily life? Very occasionally my sister and I managed to spend an evening away from our mother’s vigilant eye; Poupette often took drawing lessons in the evening at La Grande Chaumière, and this provided a convenient pretext when I, too, had a good excuse for going out in the evenings. With the money I was earning at Neuilly we would go to see an avant-garde play at the Studio des Champs-Élysées, or we would go and stand in the promenade at the Casino for Maurice Chevalier. We would walk the streets, talking about our lives and about Life; adventure, unseen but ever-present, rubbed shoulders with us everywhere. These pranks used to raise our spirits; but we couldn’t repeat them often. The monotony of daily life continued to weigh heavily upon me: ‘Oh! deadly awakenings, life without longing, without love; all over, finished already, and so quickly; frightful boredom. Things can’t go on like this! What do I want? What can I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. My book? Vanity of vanities. Philosophy? I’m fed up to the teeth with it. Love? Too tired. Yet I’m only twenty. I want to live!’