Thursday, 15 April

Yourkoff comes to tell us something curious. A Belgian gentleman made his acquaintance at the London House and praised me to him endlessly, ending with the remark that if he had an income of fifty thousand francs a year he would ask for me in marriage at once. Ugh! How revolting — he values me at a million francs all told, the impertinent creature.
I go out with my aunt; the weather is bad; I am bored.
I am reading five books at once: the Holy Bible, Napoléon, the History of Monaco, and a Dumas novel.
I am bored — but no matter, one must hope that one day I shall be amused.
There is talk of an accident that has befallen an English lord — worse than an accident, as we shall see.
He was travelling with his wife on his yacht, and at the entrance to the port of Algiers the yacht broke up; everyone escaped except the [sic] cook — the lord threw himself in to save him and they both perished.
[Crossed out: People avoid speaking of it in front of me.]
The wife is offering a hundred thousand francs to whoever finds her husband's body. When I speak of this catastrophe, people fall silent; I ask the name — they have forgotten; I ask which paper — it is lost; I ask the date of the paper — approximately, or even approximately not. Nothing at all.
This gives me vague anxieties, and the stars of the dream increase them.
I am mad.