Wednesday, 8 September 1875

My aunt breaks my mirror — a sign of death or great misfortune. A few months before Romanoff’s death, the mirror in his travelling case shattered in the railway carriage.
At the Villa Baquis there were two broken mirrors in my room, and two deaths in the family — Dina’s brother Étienne, and Émile, my uncle.
A fourth omen this morning — a double omen, for I remember my dream at Schlangenbad.
Who is going to die?
Me, perhaps. Oh! how I should hate that!
I take my tea weeping over my future demise, while my aunt sits there with the face of a condemned man.
Things have never gone so badly for me. I am forced to leave without my dresses and hats. They will be sent on, I know that — but perhaps everything will arrive hideous. And then there is the mad dash to Florence: two women alone, and I shall suffer a thousand torments if I miss any of the parties.
Saëtone writes back, and among other things:
— You have probably seen Girofla in Paris, for he is there still.
Ah, Mercury, you are late and utterly useless. This charming uncle wants me to talk to him about the man.
I am furious and wretched at leaving without my dresses, without anything at all.
I spent my time there miserably — I was plain almost the whole time. I was dressed in deep blue with a black hat, which does not suit me. My face likes only light shades. I showed myself to my worst possible advantage. It is abominable. It is above all my dresses that torment me.
At last we leave the Paris of my heart, my beloved city — at eleven o’clock I am weeping and my aunt is suffering. Ah! how I should hate to die!
But no, I shall not die. Since it is to me that the omens come.
I dreamed that I was losing a tooth, which means the death of a relative. Oh! how that consoles me. For I would far rather see anyone else die than die myself. In such matters, one is selfish.
Good Lord, how I detest railways!
Towards evening I cheer up: I find in my illustrated paper some caricatures that will serve me admirably as models for the ones I intend to make of that surprising but stupid Émile d’Audiffret.
My aunt, seeing me smile, seizes the moment to make a few jokes about the aforesaid personage, and I laugh. It is not I who laugh — it is my face.
I am wretched. These dresses are driving me mad.