Friday, 5 September 1884

Haunted by all these feet, I sent Rosalie to fetch Jules’s shoes to try on. And Emile replied that Jules’s shoes are so small they could not be found, but that he was sending me his own hunting boots, in the hope that I might perhaps manage to wear them. The result was a walk in the Bois with chocolate boiled at the water’s edge; I arrived wearing three pairs of shoes, one over another, with Emile’s boot on top. First an Oriental slipper, then a shoe of my own, then one of Maman’s, then the boot. I could have fitted in still more, but the heels would not allow it. This limping arrival makes everyone double over with laughter.
We bring him back with us, and I have him tell me how he killed a Prussian and how they lay flat on their stomachs for half an hour, caught by surprise in a burst of gunfire. After which we go up to his apartment and I obtain a pair of his evening shoes — very small indeed, but I swim in them. Besides, it is enough for him that he can get into my ankle boot; he claims nothing beyond that. At the Bois we found him in company with the wife, his doctor, and their baby.
Yes — but what does the doctor say?
The brother looks like a man in despair who is trying to seem just as usual. I have stopped teasing him since his brother arrived, and he told me that in the last two months my character has improved in the most surprising way. I am indeed very kind to him, and to Jules as well, which made Emile say the other day:
— Why, she is no longer a sister, she is a mother!
I have always told you that my feelings for him were a mother’s... I answered, laughing.
Yes — but will he get well, or will he not?
After the fitting of the boots this great man complained bitterly of his maid, who breaks everything, who is vain of her looks, and who serves him horrors...
For my part I am pleased, because the maid is a friend of Mme Mackay’s cook.
But... it is no use, it will never be. So I have taken on a youthful manner that cares about nothing. I take off my hat and put it on again, I do not powder, I sprawl or sit as I please, as if I were six; I tell him everything without simpering, while all the same... You know — that fine frankness. And whims we share.
Today at the Bois I put a black shawl over my head; it was raining, and there I stood in the downpour with the assurance of a girl of sixteen showing myself, the hair on my forehead losing its curl. And that black shawl cost fourteen francs; I got it on a whim at the time of Mme Gavini’s bereavement. He thought the pauper’s shawl suited me.
Ah! no pretensions, none whatever.
At least this way I shall have nothing to regret, whether he lives or dies! [One line crossed out]
At dinner Bagnitsky, Tchoumakoff, Tchernitsky.