Saturday, 21 November 1874

With Biasini we called on the stonemason and the locksmith. My aunt told him not to go beyond twenty thousand francs — he had asked a hundred thousand, which is not too much for what he is to do.

They are performing The Brigands¹ — I dress in white and silver and we set off, but oh, what a disappointment! Owing to the indisposition of some devil or other it is Bluebeard² instead. I am promptly taken home and I retrace my steps. I undress and sit down to write.

The execrable and innocent Count spends the evening here. Poor wretch! I was sorry (mark what a kind heart) not to grant him the happiness of seeing me. It would have required me to dress again, so I contented myself with regrets — which is something, for a scoundrel of that sort. Poor soul. It seems to me that this creature cannot have a soul, or rather ought not to have one, because I have one; to speak of this shell — no, this mollusc — I should want a separate language so as not to defile the languages I actually speak.

Yesterday