Sunday, 15 December 1878

The wretch — how she must have fluttered her eyelids, thinking that speech you have just read was addressed to her! Such words, for that woodcock.
Speaking of dreams — Robert Mitchell has been very ill.
It is very cold; the snow has been falling for three days; all Paris is white; I am very cold, sleepy, sad — and I revolt against the stupidity of fate. The only being who was made for me has been given to a nullity, to a Mademoiselle Acard, to another, when all is said!
Princess Karageorgevitch and her son; then Berthe and her husband; Goldsmid and his wife — very pretty.