Sunday, 16 January 1881

The princess sends me a Serbian blouse and a fichu.
Mme Mouzay dines here and we talk about my illness; I wanted to have it out once and for all so as to put an end to it. Ah! yes, indeed. She told me again to my face that I am lost, but that there is still hope. She was in a state of great exaltation.
This woman must indeed be fond of me to be as importunate and tiresome as that. All the same, she has a peculiar manner. Two or three years ago, when Maman was very ill, she used to come and weep over her and cry out to her: “Ah! my dear friend, your nose is already quite white!” How pleasant it is to see oneself buried like that. In short, I have told her a hundred times that it is not charitable to say such horrible things to me!
— You are convinced that I am at death’s door?
— Yes!
— Well then, in writing to me what you write to me you are killing me, it being granted that I am as ill as all that. You know I shall not listen to you, so why this persecution? Do I commit the indiscretion of coming to meddle in your private resolutions? Let us be clear: I take an interest in them, but not in your way!
— You love no one!!
— That is possible. But M. de Choiseul murdered his wife because she loved him too much.
I tell you, one could kill oneself at her feet and it would not make her let go...