Friday, 2 July 1880

Whether I love Cassagnac or not, what I know is that when I imagine myself saying "I love you," he is the only one to whom I could say it, and he is the only one I would not be humiliated to treat as an equal in love.
Madame de Quincy and Gaillard dined with us. These good people love each other. In the evening the happy [cancelled: three lines] fiance treated us to improvisations, a reading, and finally sang in the exuberance of his joy. The beautiful Louise, so faded, was at the piano. It lasted until one o'clock. She has a fine figure, but her face is quite past its prime.
But he is so happy that he wants to learn to sing, to play the guitar --- what else?