F---- is severe and just.

I am afraid to say all that I think of my voice; a strange modesty
closes my lips. Yet I have always spoken of myself as if I were
talking of some one else, which has perhaps made people think me
blind and arrogant.


Friday, January 21st, 1876.

I want to have a gown like the one worn by Dante's Beatrice.


Saturday, January 22nd, 1876.

Still another proof of the falsity of the cards. Yesterday I had a
sort of sorceress come and she pretended to give me good luck. She
told me to call the person I wanted. I called A---- and that woman
told me he could not live without me; that he was dying of grief
and jealousy, and he was especially jealous because a wicked woman
had told him that I loved another man.

May all the witches die! May all the cards burn! They are nothing
but lies!


Sunday, January 23d, 1876.

I am making a large white garment for the house, for the spring, in
Nice. Nice, miserable city, why cannot I live there as I like? In