Monday, 17 December 1877

Today Grand-papa took my hand, drew my head close to his, and kissed me.
I am good only for falling asleep and nothing else. Yet I have just written a note to Blanc.
— Can it be that you are dead? In that case one sends formal death notices! You should have stipulated it in your will as a last wish. Are you following the example of the most illustrious of your friends? But he is an irregular sort of man, whereas you! Have you died of yellow fever, or gone off to Senegal, or has the person you are escorting led you astray along the way? We await your reply with anxiety.