Sunday, 26 January 1879

I am going to console myself by re-reading those happy days.
Cassagnac was there and I could have spoken to him and I did not.... And now — nothing! No, you see, I cannot get it into my head!
And it is Mademoiselle Acard who has taken him from me! If she could die in childbirth! No — if that is not a woman for you! My God! A railway accident — anything, really....
I adore this man — merely remembering his voice I am ready to weep — and I pray God to kill a woman.
I want nothing from him — only to hear his voice and nestle close to him, rest my head against the pocket of his coat and feel his arm fall heavy about me as though to protect me...