Sunday, 16 March 1879

Coco, killed — crushed by a cart in front of the door.
When I called him to dinner, they told me. After the grief caused me by the loss of the first Pincio — replaced by the current Pincia — this one seems less... but if you have a dog born in the house, young, foolish, playful, ugly, good, sweet, coming to jump at your neck and look up at you with two anxious and unconscious eyes like those of children, you will understand that the loss of mine does hurt.
Where do dogs' souls go? That poor little long, white, bedraggled creature — for he had more hair on his hindquarters than on his shoulders — one enormous ear always pricked up and the other drooping; in a word, I prefer ten times over an ugly dog like that to those horrible animals that cost a great deal.
He resembled a beast of the Apocalypse, or a monster carved on the rooftops of Notre-Dame.
Let us move on to cheerful things. We went to spend an hour at the Gavinis' in the midst of a crowd of Bonapartists.
Chevreau, Menge de Louanne, Randouin and his wife. Vicomte Pernety and Madame Sarlande. These Bonapartists — half disheveled, half elegant — smell somehow of Dumas's Musketeers.
Monsieur Pavon from the embassy of Chile, Argentina, Cacao, or Zanzibar came to bore us to death for an hour.
Pincia does not seem to notice that her son has been killed — it is true she is expecting a new litter. They will all be named Coco or Coquelicot. I believe they say dogs have no soul.
And why is that?