Monday, 11 February 1878

Blanc is playing piquet, and from here I send him foolish things — the remnants of yesterday.
I am sorry Cassagnac does not pay more attention to me. It seems to me that I think about him so much only because this detestable family keeps talking about him... and it displeases me so.
The conversation turned to my feet.
— Oh! said Blanc, once Paul has declared himself on the matter —
— He said so?
— Yes. And when the feet are pretty, there is nothing more to be said. Besides, Paul is an idiot — he has not been talking to a woman for ten minutes before he asks to see her feet.
— Blanc! You are harsh.