Wednesday, 18 August 1880

We went on too long a ride; five hours on horseback with this weakening treatment, and I am broken, in the exact sense of the word.
I fear the treatment will prove that brute of a spa doctor right, who claimed I was weak... it is true that when I had finished, he assured me that to have withstood twenty-one baths so well, one had to be very strong. Medicine is a sorry science.
We climbed to the summit of the Sancy; the mountains that hem in the horrible Mont-Dore appear flat from this height. The spectacle from the top of the Sancy is truly grandiose; I should like to see a sunrise from up there. The distances are of a bluish tint that made me think of the Mediterranean, and that alone is beautiful. The ascent on foot is very arduous, but when one has arrived, one seems to tower over the world.
There was a crowd of people who had come, like us, and who spoiled nature.
Potin likes Mlle Devick, I believe; they met here once before, two years ago, and went riding together. Potin has been a widower for twelve years, and I should put him at forty-two or forty-three. As for the young lady, she may be around twenty-five, but under a veil one would give her eighteen. Her figure helps to make her look younger --- the bodice of a fifteen-year-old --- yet if one made her a well-fitted bodice, I do not think she would be too thin...
Besides, she is charming and absolutely distinguished. Beautiful light chestnut hair, very white teeth, well-kept hands, and feet shod with taste, that is to say the foot has the same width throughout, which is exquisite when it is narrow --- and hers is narrow. Her riding habit suits her no better than mine (which suits me badly), but she is graceful in it, and when she arranges herself, the folds fall well over her long, elegant legs. A young girl’s voice, and she speaks a little through her nose, swallowing words like a child wanting to laugh.
She reminds me of the Princesse de Sagan, in a word.
I understand why Potin likes her, tired as he is of a long widowhood and wanting a companion, for he feels that soon he will be worth nothing.
And to think that this is the calculation many men make.
Yesterday they served me chicken soup as every day, but, oh horror! It is too disgusting for me to tell you; content yourself with knowing that I shall take nothing but milk during these three deadly days I have left to spend in this dreadful Mont-Dore where one is hemmed in as in a coffin. One must tilt one’s head back God knows how far to catch sight of the sky, and all around, wherever you turn your eyes, walls of greenery. But it is very beautiful. Well no, it suffocates me.