Monday, 8 November 1880

Here is a letter from Madame Mouzay and here is my reply:
Your letter, dear Madame, has vexed me greatly. Fortunately for me I am frightened only by illnesses that disfigure; otherwise the appalling things you write me would certainly make me ill with fear. But let us move on.
What I want to tell you is that with the best intentions in the world you act like an enemy and do me the greatest harm by spreading legends about me that become gossip repeated by everyone you tell them to. You attribute to me eccentricities of which I have never dreamed! When you tell them to me, it irritates me a little and that is all, but others believe them, and truly, since you love me a little, you ought to think that I do not gain much by passing in the eyes of the world for a sort of wild madwoman who is the misfortune of her poor parents. Your affection for me and your excellent heart make you see things too dramatically. From a word escaped in a moment of vexation by Maman or my aunt, you build edifices that confound my reason. Let us be natural:
I have a cold and I cough; this happens to a great many people. I am being treated by a very great doctor and very well, I assure you.
Besides, no one has my interests more at heart than I myself. So, it is agreed, is it not — more calm. If you love me and if you do not wish to cause me the keenest annoyance, do not take for themes of conversation, with our common friends, me, my illnesses, my extravagances, and my approaching end.
I understand that as a great friend you are worried about my health, and I wish to reassure you: Dr. Potain knows what he is about, and he is not at all frightened.
But if all this does not calm you and does not sway you, think of my poor girlish vanity, which suffers cruelly at seeing myself treated as an invalid, an infirm person, a cripple, a consumptive, and consequently as rotten — excuse the word; Monsieur Gambetta dared to pronounce it in open Parliament.
With that, I embrace you as well as your dear daughter, whom I believed more sensible. Your poor dying Marie.
Madame Gavini came.