Saturday, 21 June 1879

It is nearly thirty-six hours that I have scarcely ceased weeping. I went to bed exhausted yesterday. We had two Russians to dinner — Obidine and Sevastianoff, gentlemen-in-waiting to the Emperor, and Tchoumakoff and Bojidar.
But I was good for nothing.
My sceptical and bantering spirit had departed. It has happened to me to lose relatives and to have other griefs, but I do not think I have ever wept for anyone as I weep for one who has just died. And it is all the more striking in that, all things considered, it should not touch me at all — I ought rather to rejoice at it. Yesterday at noon I was leaving the studio when Julian whistled for the maid, who put her ear to the speaking tube and said to us at once, visibly moved:
— "Mesdames, Monsieur Julian sends to tell you that the Imperial Prince is dead."