Monday, 9 September 1878

It is sad — very sad, a life like this!
Mme Antonsky writes, and several others. Marcuard writes.
Le Pays is scandalous — it is real brawling that these sub-Cassagnacs permit themselves. Rogat has had it out with Le Siècle or Le Temps, and it is pure filth. Cassagnac's impertinences lose much of their originality and become vulgar coarseness amid the liberties his subordinates take. Whereas if the latter conducted themselves decently, the Cassagnac language would keep its colour. Cassagnac is Cassagnac; the others imitate him and are merely cab drivers in a quarrel.
I am greatly bored in the evenings, as I cannot read — if I read, my eyes are tired for drawing.
Ah! The miserable Berthe is going out again. Who knows where we might be if she had not been so stupid.
A single pebble suffices to derail I know not how many railway cars... No, no — it was not my fault; I could not have done otherwise than invite the five women. It was fate that decreed a Berthe should be among them. How I implored her, and how she promised me.
Everything is like that for me — at home there is my family, who are mad, and out there there was Berthe.