Friday, 19 March 1875

A family scene: Sacha has thrashed Adam. I am extremely pleased — that lout has long deserved it, a thrashing.
For four years — that is, since before the death of my uncle Romanoff, an excellent man in every respect — he has thought himself an important person, indispensable to the lawsuit; above all he dared to think he had a hold on us through his testimony. But the testimony we have, and if he takes it into his head to change his mind, his second deposition, should there be one, is worthless, since he will have made it after being ill-treated and dismissed. Quite apart from the affair, it is a great blessing for our stomachs, for one cannot imagine how badly he fed us, and we were always suffering.
Out of indolence, and because of that sort of torpor I spoke of. Well, it is done — provided they do not take him back; here, alas, anything is possible, so as to spare themselves any trouble.
I go out alone. Passing the Théâtre Italien I see Terffidua’s basket carriage; on the pretext of asking what is on tonight and for which letter, I go into the box office, all in a flutter over this escapade. There is only the old man; the other is no doubt with some actress, because the old man had his own coupé.
Maman had been better for three days; today the Adam affair and Paul’s conduct have put her back to bed. Paul does not behave like this out of ignorance or because he has gone astray, for there is a letter of his to his school friend in which he recounts his exploits among actresses and girls, adding that this in no way interferes with his lessons, that he studies hard, and finally:
“You cannot imagine how happy I am to learn that you are so changed, that you study so much; I see that both of us have at last understood what is good for us.”
Just look at this abominable monster!
Surely there has never been before him, and never will be after him, a child so corrupt, so vicious, a creature so utterly lost. Sly, cowardly. Oh my God, I will not say all there is. Have pity on his soul!
I go for an hour to the Théâtre Français with my aunt (new straw-coloured dress).
An empty, stupid house, but they are giving La Boule^[French title: roughly “The Hot-Water Bottle” — Meilhac and Halévy’s comedy (1874).], and what I had time to see of it struck me as amusing.