# Sunday, 4 December 1876

Sunday, 4 December 1876

Ricardo lunched here and I gave him the cigarettes, each one stamped with his name.
Oh, what a life! It is death. To do nothing, to see no one! Hidden, shut in, alone!
My only amusement: the changes in the sky. Yesterday it was clear and the moon shone like a pale sun; this evening it is covered with great torn black clouds that part to reveal patches as clear and bright as yesterday’s... I make these observations while crossing the garden from the pavilion to my room.
In Paris one has none of this air, this verdure, and tonight’s scented rain.