Friday, 1 September 1876 (20 August)

Once Alexandre and Kapitan had left, I painted, I played croquet and I lost two hundred roubles, which with the other hundred makes three hundred. But you know that I do not worry over so little.
And in the evening it was quite another matter: we played baccarat. I won it all back, and twenty-five roubles from Michel besides, which I lost again to my father, and, that venerable gentleman having gone to bed, we went on until eleven o’clock. After which I laughed for no reason for a whole half-hour; not for no reason, though, for Michel was making speeches to Pacha, who sat on the sofa as motionless and silent as a statue. I begged him to laugh and he only grew more serious, and Michel kept on, addressing him now as a dreamer of genius, now as a counterfeiter or a conspirator, and ended with the supposition that Pacha was dreaming of a migration into Europe that would depopulate the Indies and the whole of Asia.
I had barely been in my room an hour and was reading when I heard my name under the window; I opened it. It was Paul and Michel, who, having frightened the Jews and Chocolat, were bringing me the latter, strangely wrapped up in his livery.
There was nothing but jeering and bursts of laughter, in the middle of the night and by rather pretty moonlight. At last I threw pears at them, telling Chocolat to seize these gentlemen.
“Well, Chocolat, obey!”
“I am not the official,” answered Chocolat.
They stayed on, and Michel reeled off, one after another, scraps of tragedies so insane that it was a treat.
They beat cymbals, but my father sleeps like a saint, so they contented themselves with going and firing two guns under the window of the Jews, who were lodged in one of the little pavilions.