Sunday, 15 May 1881

And yet... in a word: I am going to Russia, if they are willing to wait eight days for me. It would be dreadful to attend the prize-giving.
That is a very great grief that nobody knows but Julian. So I am going.
I went incognito to consult a great physician, Chairon. My ears will heal. The membrane of the right lung has been diseased for some time — pleurisy — and everything in the throat is damaged. I put it all to him in such terms that he was obliged to tell me the truth, having examined the illness thoroughly.
I must go to Allevard and follow a course of treatment. Very well. I shall go on the way back from Russia, and from there to Biarritz. I will work in the countryside. Here I am too unhappy. Open-air studies — they do one good. I write all this in a furious temper.
I dare not believe that my ears will heal.
But here at home the situation is tearful. On one side Maman, desolate about leaving; and I, crushed at the thought of remaining with my aunt — some foolish superstition. And on the other side, my aunt, who has no one in the world but us, but me — who says nothing but is wounded to the heart to see that I would suffer staying with her. I am at the end of my strength: I stay there all day without opening my mouth for fear of weeping, throat tight, ringing in my ears, and a strange sensation — as if the bones were about to pierce the flesh that wastes away and that I cannot feel. And this poor aunt, who would like me to be content, who wants me both to leave and to stay with her, and who is already crying out inwardly — I know her well: “Marie is leaving too; they will never come back!” Everything is possible. I tell you I am at the end of my strength, I believe in nothing and believe everything possible. Neither staying nor going does me any good, but it seems to me one will spend less time with me in the end. Besides, I know nothing.
It is Breslau’s honourable mention or medal that is driving me to leave. Ah — I have luck in nothing!
So I shall have to die miserable. I who believed and prayed so much.
So after the most nerve-wracking of conflicts, departure is fixed for Saturday. I have time to see whether Breslau’s medal...
Mme de Brimont has just left — it is eleven o’clock. We spent the evening practising mesmerism, trying on costumes, and telling stories — including Girardin’s will.
This morning I went to the Gavinis and to the Princess, to take leave on Maman’s behalf. Am I going to leave?

Notes

The Salon prize-giving ceremony — la distribution des récompenses — where medals and honourable mentions were formally awarded. ↩
Chairon: a Paris doctor whom Marie consulted incognito. ↩
Allevard: a spa town in the Isère, in the French Alps, with sulphurous waters prescribed for respiratory complaints. ↩
Émile de Girardin (1802–1881), the press magnate, had died on 27 April 1881. ↩