in terror.

Prudence is giving her New Year's presents with those I have received.

There is a thaw, and the doctor says that I may go out in a few days if
the fine weather continues.

January 8.

I went out yesterday in my carriage. The weather was lovely. The
Champs-Elysees was full of people. It was like the first smile of
spring. Everything about me had a festal air. I never knew before that a
ray of sunshine could contain so much joy, sweetness, and consolation.

I met almost all the people I knew, all happy, all absorbed in their
pleasures. How many happy people don't even know that they are happy!
Olympe passed me in an elegant carriage that M. de N. has given her. She
tried to insult me by her look. She little knows how far I am from such
things now. A nice fellow, whom I have known for a long time, asked me
if I would have supper with him and one of his friends, who, he said,
was very anxious to make my acquaintance. I smiled sadly and gave him my
hand, burning with fever. I never saw such an astonished countenance.

I came in at four, and had quite an appetite for my dinner. Going out
has done me good. If I were only going to get well! How the sight of the
life and happiness of others gives a desire of life to those who, only
the night before, in the solitude of their soul and in the shadow of
their sick-room, only wanted to die soon!

January 10.

The hope of getting better was only a dream. I am back in bed again,
covered with plasters which burn me. If I were to offer the body that
people paid so dear for once, how much would they give, I wonder,
to-day?

We must have done something very wicked before we were born, or else we
must be going to be very happy indeed when we are dead, for God to let
this life have all the tortures of expiation and all the sorrows of an
ordeal.

January 12.

I am always ill.

The Comte de N. sent me some money yesterday. I did not keep it. I won't
take anything from that man. It is through him that you are not here.

Oh, that good time at Bougival! Where is it now?

If I come out of this room alive I will make a pilgrimage to the house
we lived in together, but I will never leave it until I am dead.

Who knows if I shall write to you to-morrow?

January 25.

I have not slept for eleven nights. I am suffocated. I imagine every
moment that I am going to die. The doctor has forbidden me to touch
a pen. Julie Duprat, who is looking after me, lets me write these