Saturday, 8 August 1874

I do not go out; it rains. Father and son Merjeewsky pay a call; I do not go out to them in the drawing room.
At four o’clock we go to the Redoute, where the music plays because of the rain, but no one is there. In the reading room the count asks me to play dominoes; I refuse. He plays with Dina, who is his confidante, to whom he speaks of me in hints, and who understands him and is kind to him. It is a very great happiness to find a person who listens and understands obligingly.
At last I am sure of it: he loves me. I pity him.
It is the first time I am loved, and how. This poor count — he loves with such courage, such silence, such distinction. Never a word too many; never has he tried to touch my hand, to draw near me. While I, once while dancing, deliberately brushed his cheek with my head; once, getting up (at Remonchamps, when I jumped a ditch), I pressed his arm harder than I should have when he offered it.
Only sometimes, when I was not looking, I felt him watching me with such love that I blushed; and every time I touched his hand I felt that he did not touch mine as he did the others’, because this contact made me shiver. Seeing myself so loved, I am grateful.