Sunday, 16 March 1879

Coco, dead — crushed by a cart in front of the door.
When I called him to dinner, they told me. After the grief that the loss of the first Pincio caused me — replaced by the present Pincia — this one seems to me less... but if you have a dog born in the house, young, silly, playful, ugly, good, sweet, who comes leaping up at you and looks at you with two anxious, innocent eyes like a child’s, you will understand that the loss of mine hurts me.
Where do dogs’ souls go? That poor little creature, long, white, moth-eaten — for he had more hair on his hindquarters than on his shoulders — one enormous ear always cocked and the other drooping; in a word, I like an ugly dog like that ten times better than those frightful animals people pay a great deal for.
He looked like a beast of the Apocalypse, or a monster carved on the roofs of Notre-Dame.
Let us pass on to cheerful things. We went and spent an hour at the Gavinis’ among a crowd of Bonapartists.
Chevreau, Menge de Louanne, Randouin and his wife. The Vicomte Pernety and Madame Sarlande. These Bonapartists, half slovenly, half elegant, somehow smack 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 that she is expecting a new family. They will all be called Coco or Coquelicot. I believe it is said that dogs have no souls.
And why is that?