I’ve been strolling all the morning through the Luxembourg Gardens, going over the events of the last days in my head. In an ironic twist of fate, the accident that was to prevent me from being initiated into the mysteries of Parisian high society, was going to become the springboard that would give me access to them. The event will be next Saturday at eleven p.m. in the castle that the Marquis Stanislas de Guaita has outside of Paris. On the one hand, I long for that day to come. On the other hand, I fear it. I’ve read too many feuilletons about secret sects that perform human sacrifices in order to obtain a good supply of blood to fill the inkwells of their initiates. However, all things considered, my fears are unfounded since I never have my blood on me when I leave: it stays at home keeping company to my physical body. And to make sure of that, I have turned away from the busy path and made a small cut in my hand with my penknife. Indeed, not a drop of blood has come out. But, while returning to the path, the inverse fear has assaulted me: What if the purpose of inviting me to the Marquis’ castle was precisely to get me away from my physical body to comfortably extract all the blood they want? This terrible possibility does not stop haunting me. But there is a more immediate danger that haunts me. As I passed the théatre des marionnettes, I realized that a puppet that was hitting another with a long stick suddenly stopped and turned to look at me. I swear I recognized his face: it was Monsieur Verdurin! To the disappointment of the children, the puppet has jumped off the little stage and started to follow me. Despite his tiny legs, each time I had him closer, so I went to the guard to report the harassment to which I was being subjected by a puppet. The guard has thrown himself on the ground to laugh at ease, and the puppet has taken the opportunity to throw himself on my head and beat me savagely with his stick until I’m stunned. Then he has returned to the little theater and the show has resumed.