Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 10 February 1876

I wake with my throat so seized that I can neither cough nor speak — a dreadful state.
It is three o'clock in the afternoon; it is raining; Soroka and Galula are already there, sheltered beneath a shop doorway, Soroka hiding behind Galula. But they are both ugly — and on their carriage I saw only initials.
I am hoarse; my throat aches. It is no doubt the Colosseum that chilled me with its antique draughts.
I stay indoors all day. Soroka has no doubt come by day because he could not come in the evening.
God! What if he were a wine merchant.
In any case I care rather little — he is yellow and ugly.
But remembering the face I saw in the mirror on New Year's Eve, I find he resembles it. Ugly and stupid, I said — a mixture of Godard and Robillard.