Sunday, 24 October 1880

I went to the Louvre. I always go alone, knowing well I shall meet no one I know there on Sunday before noon. One sees properly only when alone. I am enchanted by the paintings of the last century; they have an inimitable and exquisite grace. What a charming epoch! Do you believe me born for the laborious, studious, or heroic life? I should like to give myself over to the softest idleness, buried in the gauzes of Watteau and Greuze and in the brocades of Rigaud. What an exquisite century! All the ancient prestige, and already with English-style water closets. Whereas before, people hardly washed, or little; and so that spoils for me all the fine adventures of olden times.
At three o'clock we have an appointment with Miranda at Dr. Potain's — the celebrated, the great. But you know how discouraged I am; I no longer believe in recovery. If I still manage to conceal my affliction from friends, my aunt has noticed it, and I tell her I had an earache and it has remained blocked.
No! It is dreadful.
Gavini came to bring citrons from Corsica.
Saint-Amand and Madame Cerny at dinner.
As we could not get a carriage in this rain, it was Madame de Brimont who took us to number 37. She is a charming woman, and I do not go to her house for fear... Ah! I am too unhappy.

Notes

Pierre-Carl Potain (1825-1901), an eminent Parisian physician.