Sunday, 11 March 1877

In the midst of a bouquet of sneezes, coughs, and runny-cold tears, we receive a letter from Walitsky saying there is another fortune-teller and asking whether I want to consult him. At the same time my aunt writes that there are not and never have been any such fortune-tellers in Nice, and that Walitsky is lying. The wretch was mocking me — but so much the better; the prediction had not charmed me.
Mme Hamontoff and her daughter came; we kept Olga (the daughter) until evening. She is at the Conservatoire and is a true artist in the making — the emancipated, friendly manner of a girl from the theatre or a Russian institute, minus a certain reserve, but charming.
I am so ill in my nose, chest, and throat that a doctor is called, and as this is quite new to me I surround myself with a dozen medicine bottles whose contents I drink as faithfully as possible.
And then there is a scene — you know Maman's marvelous and inimitable art for enraging me — and then Dina!
I retreat to my room, ill! They come to pursue me all the way to my room and then, through the door:
— Marie, are you coming? — or else:
— She has hidden herself.
Oh want of tact! Oh stupidity! Oh indelicacy! Oh vexation!
Oh Larderei.
(Prolonged sneezing)