I spoke to no one except Woerman, who asked after Maman's health.

It is cold and grey, dusty and windy, as in March. I am increasingly without a stitch to wear — all that remains proper to me is "the satin costume the good Lord gave me."

At the concert with Florence and Dina. We laughed — the little one is not too downcast and speaks freely of all sorts of things. The worst of it all right now is that I have nothing to put on.

In the evening comes my most honoured uncle Georges. Well! would one believe it — I attract that man.

We begin by talking business and end in a storm, for at every word I said he unleashed a hundred lamentations accompanied by howling.

"Only the grave straightens the hunchback," as they say in Russia.¹

Now, I am not the grave, and therefore I cannot straighten these people — but I bear them no ill will on that account, quite the contrary.