Saturday, 7 November 1874

It had been agreed last evening that we would go riding — Pâris, Paul, and young Lubimoff, that little creature of pitiful appearance, dressed like a footman.
He lunched with us, and at one o'clock I went with my aunt, Pâris, and Paul to find horses — we found them at Mouton's.
On the road Ange asked us to take her home with us, so she witnessed the departure of the cavalcade; but I was in a carriage, even though in riding clothes — gray riding habit and top hat — good.
The third pommel was missing from my saddle; at Mouton's they fitted one that kept turning and bothered me the whole length of the Promenade.
I believe my gray habit surprised people here somewhat — it may be the first such habit in Nice, and certainly the first since I arrived. My little horse was docile and sweet; if not for the pommel everything would have been fine. Lubimoff rides badly, and the poor thing was ridiculous when he kept saying his horse was running away with him.
— But why are you going ahead? Yourkoff would call out to him.
— It's not me — it's my horse, the shy, alarmed creature would reply, in the magisterial tone Pâris was taking.
He has taken up spiritualism since his wife's death, and is studying medicine, having vowed to become an obstetrician to assist all poor women. He has summoned his wife's apparition several times through the spirits, and — what is most extraordinary of all — he photographed her himself during one of her appearances: she was in a long white garment like a ghost.
There was some company on the Promenade — notably Edy, who has been here only a few days; he seemed very glad to see Maman and greeted her with many smiles. He made the acquaintance through the Galignanis (at the Swiss Times), I believe.
Lubimoff dines with us. After dinner Yourkoff sings.
The young widower seemed to me to be admiring the not very admirable singer. When everyone had left — even Nina and Pâris, who are going to Monte-Carlo to prepare their move to Nice — I sang with Maman. My voice, long constrained by a cold and a sore throat, was almost not bad. May God keep and protect it — this treasure, this gift from heaven — may God protect it, for it is my greatest possession, my happiness, and almost my entire life.
On that note I go to bed. Tomorrow is Sunday — I will go to church, but not to pray, alas!
I pray only at home in the evening. May God forgive me for being distracted in His house — it is a sin. But I pray here — not from duty or hypocrisy, but from the depths of my soul and with all my heart.