Tuesday, 26 March 1878

At half past seven I drank half a cup of milk, then worked, and as it was only just time to go to the station when I had finished dressing (after the atelier), I set off with Etienne, his wife and Alexandre without having lunch.
We did not return until eight o’clock; I had insisted on staying to see the end of M. d’Egremont’s speech, which he read from a million disconnected pages — and the more he read, the more of these pages there appeared to be. I wager no one heard a word.
My impressions are summarised in this note:
Barbarian! May these daily letters cause you a tenth of the fatigue that today’s session has caused me! What have I done to you, cruel man, to make you choose such a day to send me tickets?
My little aunt, who was with me, was so exasperated at watching a deputy hold the tribune for nearly three hours without budging that she came close to being seized with a raving fury and getting into an unpleasant altercation in the railway carriage with two old senators.
May these words find you in the middle of the night, disturb your rest, make you dream of the most dreadful things — of today’s deputy, for instance — and may you inherit his eloquence!
Yet let me not forget to thank you, for after all you might have sent me nothing at all, which would have vexed me just as much as today’s session.
Berthe comes to chat in the evening.