Sunday, 17 March 1878

I was too well-dressed and too charming for it to have turned out otherwise. Nobody came except Berthe, who dined with us. As for me, it was barely eight o’clock when I wrapped myself in a dressing gown and slept, or nearly, while Berthe chattered on.
I shall never forgive her for the mask at Paul de Cassagnac’s. Never in my life.