Wednesday, 22 January 1879

I agreed to dine at Mouzay’s on condition of leaving at eight and being the only guest besides my aunt.
Not at all! Company!
I am bored, I am posing; my Cassagnac airs make me seem old — there were two young women there, aged nineteen to twenty-two, who said to me: “You, as the eldest, begin.”
True enough — my hair was dressed like a married woman’s, I was bored, I was cold, I had dark circles under my eyes.
There were men... call those men!
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And besides, what does it matter — I am ugly and faded. It is not surprising, after all. I should not have railed so against Mademoiselle Acard. I am lost. I want to die.
It is only that I do not know how to say it, but I swear to you that my life is one of the most atrocious torments there are.
Pinpricks, mosquito bites, burns over a slow fire, the whole interrupted from time to time by one of those fine avalanches I have had the pleasure of receiving on my head.
Well! What can one do?