Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 1 April 1879

To begin with, I announced at the studio that someone had shot at Gambetta. It worked. And then I told them that a beam or a cornice having fallen at the Palais de l'Industrie, three or four canvases had been punctured. That worked even better — I was helped by the five or six on whom I had already done the Gambetta prank (at eight in the morning); the others arrived after half past nine, and Zillhardt was so taken in she was preparing to rush there — but I gave four sous to the paint merchant (a fellow from the building) who shot off like an arrow to get information; the maid ran after him down the stairs to save the poor man pointless exertion. He was shouting — "Let me go, let me go!" — and only came back when they had told him twice over that it was the first of April.
But for example after five o'clock — the harp lesson taken, the installment of Duruy read, other books read, instruments of every sort played — there is nothing left to do; to read more would ruin my eyes, which I need early tomorrow. And besides I have a cold and am tired from yesterday. In any case... it no longer affects me; I tell you only because it strikes me as a singular existence — at my age, with our fortune, in the heart of Paris.