Sunday, 27 April 1884

Yesterday Rosalie brought me a letter from Guy de Maupassant from the poste restante. The fifth, and the best. So we are no longer at odds?
And he has written a ravishing piece in Le Gaulois — I feel myself softening towards him... It is all very amusing.
This man whom I have never met has occupied all my thoughts for twenty-four hours. Does he think of me? Why does he write?