Thursday, 29 April

I do not know whether I mentioned that the unpleasantness with Collignon and her departure were caused by Grand-papa. The great imbecile had taken a fancy to her, and I believe the young woman on her side would not have refused the heart and hand — especially the hand — of the poor old man.
Some time ago she said, in front of Georges and Lefèvre, that she would marry this old man in order to walk arm in arm with him on the Promenade — as one would lead a blind man — but that for all the treasures of the earth she would not be his wife in the full sense. Georges, drunk, repeated this to his father, who has since that day sulked with everyone, eats nothing, and behaves like a brute.
This morning I told Collignon, laughing, what had happened, and she blushed to her ears. We talked about Grand-papa, half-laughing, half-serious.
I made a pretence of trying to look clever and sound her out. She took the bait. And yet this woman is so shrewd. No matter — I am very fond of her, and I believe she is fond of me too.
I go to the concert, but it is hot and empty. Rickard dines with us for the last time; tomorrow she leaves and our walks together come to an end.
Marie and Olga are here; after dinner we walk in the garden, then gather in my room — the three of us — until ten o'clock, talking about every manner of forbidden things. One sees they are still children — Olga especially kept dwelling on the words lover, love affair, and so on — pure Alexandre Dumas. She even went so far as to say confinement.
How ridiculous — I listened, encouraged them, and laughed inwardly.
When they have gone, I stay an hour with Collignon reasoning about marriage and love, and then laughing about Fritz.