I cannot continue to write, my sobs stifle me.
This morning something very strange happened.
When the doctor announced to me that Catherine was worse, I came back here in the chalet; I wished to write down what I felt, for I cannot and will not confide to any one my joys and sorrows; so, when my heart overflows with grief or happiness, it is a great relief to me silently to confide to this journal.
When I heard of Catherine's renewed danger, my sufferings were so great that I wished to write, that is, to pour out my anguish.
This was impossible. I could only trace with a trembling hand the few lines at the head of this page, but was soon interrupted by my tears.
Then I went out into the park.
There, for the first time, I regretted—oh, bitterly regretted—that I possessed neither religious faith nor hope.
I might have prayed for Catherine.
There is certainly nothing more heartrending than to recognise the utter futility of addressing prayers to Heaven for a beloved being whom you fear to lose. In prayer you have some minutes of hope, you are fulfilling a duty, your sorrow at least has a language, which you believe is not quite barren.
But not to be able to say to any human or superhuman power, "Save her!" It is terrible.