Wednesday, 21 April

At nine in the morning I go for a walk before the villa, without a hat and reading. The weather is so beautiful. I am in a melancholy frame of mind and empty Nice pleases me. I go to church with Dina. A parasol has been brought for me — pale ecru, lined with rose, the handle a long light rattan cane. Very pretty and simple.
Until two o'clock we remain in the garden, which grows more beautiful every day, with Maman; then I go out with her for half an hour — I believe, thank heaven, she is better. It is warm, it is pleasant.
Nadinka writes that Paul was received at his father's with cannon salutes, champagne, etc., etc., and that a magnificent apartment is being prepared for him in the main house. The poor wretch will have his head completely turned. All this pomp makes me want to go there.
But what makes me feel as if I am going to die?
Die! Ugh, how horrible!
Yes, but if I die...
The horrible thought! My dream foretells it, and the cards too. God knows what He does — He does not want to give me everything, and makes me die out of pity.
But what do I ask for, in truth — only what all society women have. Nothing more. And for that must I be killed?
My God, it has been a long time since I have truly prayed to You; I say prayers, I repeat my requests, but I do not rise up to You. Direct my spirit; remove my doubts; protect me and let me live.
The fact is that I am miserably sad this evening. What did I do during the day? Oh yes — I took a walk, I saw Lady Folkner, then I was at the café where I saw Somaglia with the white Doria. And that is all.
Maman was unwell again; I no longer know what to think.
Victor continues to be called Sir Frédéric — I chatter endlessly about this Frédéric. How foolish it is, but there is nothing to be done.
They say that at sixteen one often thinks of dying. I should like it to be only for that reason that my dark thoughts come to me.
My God, hear my voice and do not be harsh with me.