Monday, 20 September 1880

Monsieur Kaverine — a civil servant from Akhtyrka, a small town where we spent a year twelve years ago and where Monsieur Georges committed every sort of monstrous act — is passing through Paris and comes to see us. Kaverine is cultivated and intelligent; we talk of the past, of the children; his daughters are seventeen and eighteen. We played together as children. He recalls how the whole family lay at the feet of dear, wretched Georges — and how once that dear unfortunate, dead drunk, had fallen in the middle of the drawing room and Kaverine helped to undress him and put him to bed. I put him fully in the picture. He had hoped to find Georges reformed, drinking no more, and so on.
"To think," he cried, "that I myself pulled off his boots."