Friday, 11 June 1880

I am in agony. In the afternoon Soutzo came, and I picked stupid quarrels with him because he is not one of the “refined” and we are not alike.
How can he help it, this child whom I reduce to stupidity?
We went out with Mme Gavini. And now it is nearly eleven o’clock; I am suffering. I read to compare Aristotle and Plato, because a new book by Victor Hugo made me think of all that.
I would give much for someone — Soutzo — to be here holding my hand and saying sweet words to me. He is to go to the festivities at Rouen. When I think of the void this will make in my existence tomorrow, Sunday, and Monday, I am truly anxious. I would be capable of sending for him this evening — I am so unwell... I hide it from my aunt by putting everything down to fatigue and my sore throat...