Monday, 23 April 1883

I am furious. Maman has arranged with Princess Jeanne and her husband to go to visit some sculptor or other after luncheon at our house. So I am obliged to talk for four hours on end and abandon my painting.
In any case, whatever happens, I am plunged in a black melancholy from which I emerge only in moments — and then with violent gaiety.
For to my great misfortune are added the eternal petty irritations with Maman over this necessary matter of securing embassy support — she will not understand it and always believes it will sort itself out on its own.
But all of that would be nothing if I were as I was before. I am going to see a doctor again.
Krishaber, who crippled me, has just died, he and his wife. They say they caught the plague from the monkeys on which this man of science was performing his experiments. It would have been better, my God, for those people to live and for me not to be so unhappy.