Friday, 20 October 1876 (8 October)

At eight in the morning, in grey weather, with the black earth lightly powdered with snow like Mme Boutowsky’s face, we are already out hunting.
Michel has brought his pack of greyhounds and some rossrin. We were barely in the fields when I got on horseback, without taking off my pelisse, which I tied round my waist with my strap. I was given three dogs on a leash, and I stuck a long dagger in my belt for greater effect.
The frost, the snow, the horses and the fine heads of the greyhounds filled me with joy. I was triumphant.
In fact it was a mediocre hunt; we coursed the hare, but as the dogs were badly trained the animal escaped into the forest, out of which the rosserin had just driven it with their howling bays.
Pacha, on horseback like me, was very amiable, which suits him very ill and disconcerts me... and yet no, these changes of mood are not to be scorned. I let fall a few words...
— Pacha, there is a person who is horribly in my way (set your mind at rest, it is not Sophie Pavlovna Tutcheff), and this person... I should like, in a polite manner... to exterminate.
— Very well.
— Really?
— Try me.
— Word of honour? And you will say nothing?
— Word of honour, nothing to anyone.
— I would believe you, if I believed in anything at all except God.
A few more words were said, of a kind to interest, to intrigue, to inspire a sort of vanity, for I almost resorted to flattery. Only, for God’s sake, let us not rush anything!
Because of those few words a kind of bond now exists between me and the green man. We have to speak to each other in low voices, in English, when Hélène is not there.
All this is very serious...
To everything I say about the Tutcheff woman, my father answers that it may well be so and that, besides, her embarrassed manner... in front of me proves “that the fox has hen’s down on its nose,” that is to say that she is guilty, the scoundrel.
Pacha wanted to go on being amiable, but I gave him both my hands to kiss and a poem by Victor Hugo to read, and, as Hélène was laughing, I cried out that I was going to intimidate her son completely, and sat on his lap. I had the satisfaction of seeing him turn sombre and absent again.
I treat him as a brother. My teasing will do him good; he will be less unsociable.
Kill Antonelli? I would rather ruin his reputation; I have thought about it and understood that for such an undertaking one would need either thirty thousand francs to spend. Or wide connections, or the possibility of not sparing oneself and becoming an intriguer oneself, of busying oneself everywhere. I have none of these three things. Nothing is left me but death, unless... no, not that, for if he still loved me I would become his servant again instead of harming him.
We shall see, we shall see... later.