Monday, 23 November 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 sort of pickpockets, on forty francs a month. My God, what shame that boy brings on us!

Notes

Written in Russian in the manuscript; French translation by the editor. ↩
In English in the original. ↩