I have seen the Duke of Hamilton since his arrival on Wednesday the 13th of December — in all, twelve days; on several of those days I happened to see him two or three times.

December 13, 14, 20, 25. January 5, 19, 20, 24. February 8, 9, 12.

I walked with Paul; it is beginning to grow cool. I visited the Jardin Villemessant; I wanted to see that of Rosalie Leon — we rang but there was no one. I look at all the gardens; we need a plan.

Ange is with us; she calls me little bird and little doll, which I hardly resemble.

We go to the theatre with her; we are subscribers for a box at the stage side of the first tier, opposite the prefect's box. I am in white and silver; my hair, good. They are giving Gentil Bernard, ou l'art d'aimer, a piece of which I heard very little, for we talked the whole time. Galula stays for one act and another act in our box. There is no one; in all his splendour, Saetone blooms in the Durands' box, with Monsieur de Cessole, who is very ugly and represents nothing.

We left before the end. The moonlight is still magnificent. Ange, beneath a jaded appearance, is filled with poetic tendencies. What a garden, she said — the one ruined, and the other a peasant, and the moon illuminates all that! The one belongs to Monsieur Pelikan, head of the family of a patron [?], in Russia or something of the sort, and the muzhik is his doctor.