Tuesday, 3 February 1874

I did not go to bed; the coming carnival occupies me, and I go to talk about it with Dina, who is reading in the sitting room by the light of Joséphine’s lamp.
For a long time we talk -- of costumes, of society, above all of how we shall go. We despair over our life, how we shall be alone, how tedious it will be seeing everyone who knows one another. We talked so long that everyone comes back from Monaco on the last train and finds us still at it. I go down to supper and go to bed at two in the morning, endlessly regretting that missed ball. It is the best of the season, and how vexed I am that Maman did not go! Well.
Another grey and very cold day. I have a terrible cold (hooded cloak, good). One has such a fine complexion in this weather.
We go -- Dina, Paul, and I -- to the Promenade; there are few people. I take off my hooded cloak to put on Dina’s jacket, which looks pretty on me. I go for a walk with Hitchcock. I go into Bussi’s to look at pearls; I want a pair of black pearl earrings.
We shall have some difficulty, I think, in ridding ourselves of Hitchcock. She lacks all pride to the point that she said: I think you won’t go before March. There is a creature unworthy even of detestation.
I angered Papa by improvising bad verses at the table, then I began to say how beautiful I am, ravishing, etc. etc. First he told me I was ugly, then he flew into a rage and ended by shouting. Since I think I should not have joked with him, I went to make peace.
When I think of our life, I am in despair. Dina is right not to go to the ball; to go as we do is abominable. Often I forget and soften things for myself, but the naked truth shows itself and disillusions me, fills me with despair!..

Notes

In English in the original. ↩