Thursday, 8 April

My hair has suddenly stopped curling. Alas!
In a fearful wind I go out; at half past five my aunt takes the train for Cannes, and I go to order paper with a prince's crown and the initials A.B. — we shall see why.
In the evening I read Dumas's Napoléon aloud to Papa.
I truly do not know why one looks down on Dumas — is it because one reads him with interest and pleasure? What does one ask of a novelist? To entertain.
Well, Dumas always entertains and even [Crossed out: sometimes] often instructs. One cannot imagine how much I have thought of Sir Frédéric. From the very first moment I saw him he struck me as a rake of Carlo's sort — and I love nothing so much as Carlo's sort. I remember it so well: on the 10th of January last I was with Dina in a half-closed landau coming from the Promenade; we were passing the public garden, almost at the entrance to the Quai Masséna, when I saw a gentleman walking along the boulevard towards the Promenade. He had his hands in his pockets and was opening his mouth to yawn at the very moment we passed.
With my habitual quickness I saw at once what kind of creature he was; and with no embarrassment whatsoever I thrust my head out of the carriage to get a better look — but as he, noticing my movement, looked at me, I forgot to examine him, being occupied with the fact that he was looking at me.
It lasted five times less time than it has taken me to write this.
[Written across the page: Hamilton, Johnstone, Olliver, Prince of Wales. I was working myself into raptures over all of them at once. It is tiresome to have written such enthusiastic pages about these foolishnesses.]
Perhaps in time my taste for beautiful things will be of use to me? So far it serves only to torment me.

Notes

In English in the original.