Monday, 23 February 1880

My usual existence seems quite out of joint. There is nothing new, but I feel something disagreeable coming, I know not what.
The Karageorgevitches have not come for a long time; the princess is stupid and mad, it is true, but I suspect her of being the author of the anonymous letters full of insults that Maman has been receiving. Why?
Yes, there it is, why??
Madame Tchoumakoff comes to tell us that Berthe is throwing herself into society a great deal, even compromising herself, especially these last few days, with Mmes de Bechevey and Chevrion, two near-cocottes, and with young fellows; suppers, parties, etc. Moreover, this charming young woman speaks ill of us: “she is doing you a great deal of harm.”
What harm, I do not know. The Russian colony, with which we have no dealings, takes a great interest in us, and naturally all sorts of things are said at random, stupid, senseless things, as always when people talk a great deal about what they do not know. Doctor Michel, the one who came to treat Maman during grandfather’s illness and the horrors of... the other, told Mme Alexandre Dumas, who is Russian, no doubt some of the scenes we went through. Mme Dumas spoke of it in front of Soutzo, who took our part, saying it was not true and that Doctor Michel had invented everything. And it is quite simple: people who know us well will never believe that such horrors are possible. Yet they were. And no doubt things have been further exaggerated, inflated, embroidered.
Life weighs heavy.