Tuesday, 10 December 1878

I dreamed that Robert Mitchell, dining at the Grand Hotel beside me, said: "Mademoiselle Marie—"
"How do you know my name?" — "It is a mystery." — "That it is better not to probe!" said I, in a sepulchral voice.
Indeed he had shaved off his fine black beard; all the same the dream was amusing, for the sub-Cassagnac knows me well — always in dreams.
I do not know why I write this stupidity, which I thought about while dressing and in the carriage during four errands.