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In Paris in 1936 his wife died. Wall continued to dress gaudily, dine gaily, enjoy amiable caricatures of himself in the French newspapers. He could not conquer loneliness. For the first time he began to look back on his long life. The retrospect gave him a momentary power to write movingly and well: "No clippings, no diaries, no programs—nothing have I kept from the years to guide me, and I am an old man now. Details escape me. The general picture remains. Men who liked fighting and playing! Gracious and lovely women!" The old dude, whose life to most people would seem to have consisted of dressing and undressing rather than living, added: "I keep reminding myself as I draw nearer my last great duty, the obligation upon me to thank the God I believe in for the gift of life."