Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff

Lundi, 23 novembre 1874

I complain more than ever and beg more than ever to go to Paris. God, let me go!
It is grey and cold — I am fresh and rosy. I love this cold weather; I look plain but I feel at ease.
They are at Monaco.
Mr Morgan, an Englishman Paul met in Geneva, dined with us; he has promised me a little pug.
As for Paul, he is prospering along the most dreadful of paths. It would take too long to tell it all — and even if I went on as long as I pleased I could never say enough about his misdeeds. I expect some scandal; one fine morning the sum he owes will come to light, for one does not frequent actresses and loose women, nor surround oneself with scoundrels — a species of [pickpockets],1 for forty francs a month. My God, the shame of it with that boy!
H[is] G[race] t[he] D[uke] o[f] Hamilton]2

Notes

In English in the original.
In English in the original. Marie's obsessive recurring signature — she signs her diary entry with the name of the man she adores.