Thursday, 6 August 1874

I go to meet Maman at the baths. I put on my ecru dress, a muslin fichu with Valenciennes lace, the flower hat, and I find myself adorable, my hair down my back. I am adorable because I am pink, very pink.
At Baas, we find Gericke but do not look at him.
I become pale again; the color that had illuminated my face has gone.
We go to the music, to the children's ball.
Monsieur de Jahal has left.
I did not dine; I feel ill. I have a pain in my left breast. The first time this pain seized me was when I was reading about the cancer of Anne of Austria in Nice, but then it was only at moments; since last night this pain does not stop.
If I should die, I shall burn my diary. I would be desolate to die... I shall live as I love or I shall die. One or the other. I am only fifteen. My God!
I dress with difficulty -- pink dress, hair hanging down -- for the theater, Les pattes de mouches. Paul, that scamp, gambled and won four hundred francs and took a box for us. I feel so ill at the theater that I undo my bodice (my pain returns) and place myself behind the curtain; we are in a stage box.
The play is very amusing; there is no one interesting. I thought Monsieur de Biesme was coming; I saw him on horseback with a little girl and then on foot going to the Casino. He passes several times a day through the street where we live, on horseback, on foot, etc., etc.
Maman torments me with her lamentations and weeps all evening, then sleeps in my room. She believes I am ill, and I am furious about it.
I do not wish to resort to doctors; I shall pray to God.
It is that I write and my pain torments me. It is a dull, slow pain that torments me, that would make me groan if I did not restrain myself, that prevents me from eating, walking, seeing, that mistreats me.