Monday, 21 May 1877

Yesterday at Monaco Torlonia told Maman that Antonelli is dying. I did tell him he had only two years to live; fourteen months have passed, he has ten more, and then... he will rot. Then the hideous drunkard asked after me and said abruptly:
— I have had a letter from Larderel. He is in Vienna.
Ah! he is in Vienna. As a matter of fact, it is all the same to me.
Yesterday Audiffret had to dismiss his coachman Nègre, who had been with him for fifteen years.
— Ah! Mademoiselle, said Rosalie, how sad it is when you leave a house because the masters, they cannot keep you on any longer! Just think of poor Monsieur Audiffret, in furnished rooms after so much wealth, after the tower, the palace! Nègre had tears in his eyes, and Monsieur Emile went straight to his room and shut himself in, very quickly, without saying a word. Ah! Justine is very sad, and it gave me a pang too. Wretched man! he... will rot.
The theatre they will close, Of the effects they will dispose, Emile a wig will wear And rot away, and rot away.
It has all come true, point by point.
All this time I have been singing to the tune of Malborough that:
Monsieur le Comte is dead, Is dead and buried.
He really ought to have... bitten the dust, that is to say, put out his gas-jet.
I have undertaken a great work: a chronological and historical catalogue of all the writers in the world, starting from Moses. It will take a very long time; I want to read everything in order. I am whimsical and yet mad about order, symmetry, mathematical exactness. I should like everything to be labelled and numbered.