Sunday, 22 June 1879

I read the Figaro on waking; it made me weep again, so much that my pillow was damp and my hair wet. It is funny if you like, but I am sad and furious with the English, who murdered him or handed him over. We are still at table; Bichinsky and his wife have been invited, to thank them for Thursday’s tickets and to encourage them to render other small services.

I am stunned and heartbroken at the Prince’s death — but I do not think I would like to learn that it is not true.