Tuesday, 2 September 1884

I am working on the drawing for Le Figaro, but with interruptions of an hour — rests...
A dreadful fever; I can bear no more. I have never been so ill — but since I say nothing, I go out and I work. What is the use of speaking.
I am ill — that is enough. Can chattering about it do any good. But going out? It is my illness that allows it, in those moments when one feels better. Besides! Ah! misery!