Thursday, 17 April 1879

You may think the ice is broken — not at all.
My family are at a concert — I went to Berthe's, I don't know why. Just imagine — that scoundrel had the nerve to write to Dina asking her to come and fetch her without saying she had asked her. It is, as I have learned, more stories of anonymous letters, dirty dealings, and secretive schemes. Her mother says we led her astray and got her married — it was she herself who confessed it to her mother. She is the late Yorke. I had more than suspected it — I was quite sure of it.
Besides, my visit counts for nothing, since our mothers had the kindness to go and see that female and her offspring — and besides, Maman had already been answering letters from Berthe written the day after that disgraceful marriage.
I blame her for Monsieur Georges, for Berthe — she was as weak and as foolish. All of it falls back on me. Well — God bless them!
I detest that girl for the mask she wears — and then there is her disgraceful marriage, her disgraceful escapade, and her entire scheming and vile person.
[Crossed out: within I am in my black moods. It is better to die.]