Monday, 23 June 1879

I am still under the painful shock of this atrocious event. The public, having somewhat recovered from its stupor, asks by what criminal imprudence the hapless child was delivered to the savages. They accuse Chelmsford — there is a man whose name speaks for itself: chelme. And how can one not accuse him — not accuse these infamous people, these sinister reckless men, these dreadful bunglers!
The English press is roused by the cowardice of the Prince’s companions. And I, who have nothing to do with it, weep as I read these lamentable details; I feel my breath fail me and the tears rising to my eyes. I have never been more unsettled, and the efforts I make all day long not to weep oppress me.
They say the Empress died last night — but no newspaper confirms this dreadful and consoling news. The rage in my heart when I think how easily this crime, this misfortune, this infamy, could have been prevented!
One still sees stricken faces in the street, and there are newspaper-women weeping. And I do as the newspaper-women do, while admitting that it is neither explicable nor natural. I would so much like to put on full mourning with crêpe. It would suit my state of mind. Coming home from the atelier I found Obidine, but I have been far from amiable since Friday. I cannot say how deeply I am affected...
“What does it matter to you?” people will say. I do not know what it does to me — but it hurts very much.
There is no one here; I am shut up at home, I have no need to put on a show, and I dissolve in tears — which is foolish because it weakens my eyes; I felt it this morning while working. But I cannot calm myself when I think of the fatal, horrible, appalling circumstances surrounding this death, of the villainy of his companions. It would have been so easy to avoid it!
I grow ugly and bored with weeping. But it is an event beyond description.

Notes

“chelme” — Marie puns on Chelmsford’s name and the German Schelm (rogue, scoundrel). ↩