Saturday, 25 April 1874

Again at 55. Maman, myself, Dina, and Walitsky -- the three of us demolished a metre of the terrace wall.
We go there nearly every day. I love to walk about because I know that this land is mine, these trees, this house, everything is mine, and I am at ease, and I admire the smallest things.
I return for my lessons but at half past six I go for a turn on the Promenade with Dina.
I wanted to go to the theater; Saturday would have been convenient for me, but alas! no boxes. I dined well, I read Bragelonne, which amuses me well enough, and now I am writing; it is twenty past ten.
I feel embarrassed when I want to speak of the Duke because I speak of him too often, and I do not wish to do otherwise.
It is above all the word love that I have used too often, and which has lost much of its force for that reason. I ask myself seriously: what do I feel for the Duke? I cannot understand it. He appears to me quite differently from the others, and even... even at this moment, when I try to explain it to myself, I cannot. And it is strange, wanting to explain something one does not understand. And yet...
Do I truly love him?