Thursday, 24 March 1881

I discover a pot of tar under my bed. It is a tender gesture by Rosalie for my health. On the advice of a fortune-teller!
My family finds this mark of devotion admirable in a servant — Maman is quite moved by it. I pour a bucket of water on the carpet under the bed, break a pane of glass, and sleep in my study, from sheer fury.
It is like that perpetual refrain about wearing warm clothes. My family imagines I have some particular interest in freezing myself, and it irritates me so much that I often refuse to dress warmly just to prove the uselessness of their remarks. Oh — these people make one burst with rage.