Friday, 29 April 1881

Mme de Brimont called, and naturally nothing was spoken of but Girardin’s death¹ — every detail. She is deeply affected, distressed.

The evenings are spent in argument — my father talks sense and these women respond with childish nonsense that does not hold together. Maman sets up little nagging provocations against him, innocent ones, perhaps even unconscious... or else she believes it is charming.

In short everything falls back on me — I still wait and nothing comes — and these tormentors complain that I cough “because I refuse to take care of myself, not even with donkey’s milk.”² Just think: it is perfectly obvious that donkey’s milk would cure me at once. Poor Saint-Amand, who went to the Queen’s and came the next day to ask why I was not there — he had been planning to write up the reception for Etincelle’s column³... oh, to be sure! I shall never be reconciled to it, because it is atrociously unjust!!! Yes — a thousand times unjust!!

I breathe badly and weep over my wasted existence. And to think that I live with these wretches who are killing me. No!... it is enough to die of rage.