We go to the Comédie-Française — house full of strangers except for Mmes de Jolly and Thouvenel. And Julian came in our absence; if only the play had been amusing.

[Words blacked out: We sent Gabriel] a telegram in which I address him as a subordinate diplomat and a man of integrity, and which contains a whole series of ice cream jokes because he did not offer us any the other evening after the theatre. He replies that, being subordinate and timid, it was for us to invite him to supper, and that he has a heart consumed by chilblains — a little glycerin, if you please. I have some sent to him from the pharmacist, and he retorts with a box of sweets and the following card: Gabriel Géry thanks Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff for the pharmacy she was kind enough to send him. He has added to the bottle what the charming donor neglected to write on it: heals all wounds but those of the heart.¹ P.P.C. Well, bon voyage — he may well be fond of me, for he bores me; that is generally how it is with me. The moment I have inspired [blacked out: — I note that I am not speaking of Géry specifically, but in general —] the moment I have succeeded in inspiring some good feeling, I feel a distaste for the person affected, and sometimes aversion.