Monday, 11 June 1883

My father is dead.
The telegram came this morning at ten o’clock. That is to say, just now. Those madwomen downstairs were saying that Maman must come back this minute, without waiting for the funeral. And I came up here very shaken but not weeping; only when Rosalie came to show me how a dress was to be arranged did I say to her: “It is not worth the trouble — Monsieur is dead.”
And [I] began to weep, irresistibly.
Have I wronged him? I do not think so. I always tried to behave properly... But at such a moment one always believes oneself guilty of something... I ought to have gone with Maman... but our relations were not tender enough for my going to have made sense... What does it matter — one ought to have done more than was merely right. But he was innocent, I could not stay there... he had hurt me in a thousand ways, and everything must be over before I can forget entirely.
I was waiting with a kind of impatience for an end — without wishing for it, but in this idea of an event, of being in deep mourning... there was an occupation, a novelty...
Should I reproach myself for these thoughts? I do wrong above all in writing them down; so many things pass through one’s head that if one wrote them all...
He was only fifty — to suffer so much!... And when all is said, never to have done harm to anyone: much loved at home, perfectly honourable, upright, an enemy of all shady dealing, and a very good fellow.