Wednesday, 27 August 1873

At half past eight I am ready. I sit down to write. At half past nine I run with my aunt to Worth's
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to order a dress — it has barely opened. The young ladies arrive all freshly coiffed, their little snouts powdered and more.
I end by ordering the same as at Laferriere's. From there we run to the hotel; it is time — a quarter past ten. I have barely time to take a cup of coffee, and we leave the city I adore — alas!!! Without having seen the wretch; it is a pity — I made this journey for that. Well. And now if someone told me he was in China, I would have gone there at once to see him. Not to speak to him — that is too much — but only to see him pass, and I should be satisfied. It is in my innermost self that I found this resolution, clear and without any doubt. Proof that I love him? I cannot imagine what I should feel if he were dead, but I see perfectly my situation if he were married... It is terrible; better not to think of it. I see neither her nor him — they are together. In Russia, perhaps? She is so beautiful in the photograph that I shiver every time I look at it. What gives her composure and illuminates her face is that air of triumph and that assurance in her gaze; it is those two things that make her so frighteningly beautiful to me.
The aunt is cross the whole time:
"We shall be late," she says.
But alas! We arrive in time and depart... a thousand thunderbolts!!!
With us are a French lady and gentleman. They are going to Switzerland, with us as far as Macon. A storm breaks; the lightning is terrible. Sometimes it falls upon the earth in the distance and leaves a silvery line for a few seconds across the sky, straight as a Roman candle.
I read, having nothing else, Impressions of Travel in Russia by Dumas. There are absurdities! He describes Peter the Great as a demigod. There is a man I was in love with! And if he loved me, what a triumph!!
Let us not lose ourselves in vagueness!
Dumas speaks there of the famous man. He says: "...he was taking his leave of Lady Hamilton, Princess of Baden."
Decidedly this name is dear to me; I fix my gaze upon it and there I go for five minutes. Having read two or three pages, I turn back to look at it — the same story, and so on. I fall asleep.
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