"She began to laugh.
"'There is no mistletoe, my friend. Ah, if there were only mistletoe!'
"'Would you go under it with me?'
"'In Paris your drawing-rooms are so small.'
"My exaltation of the Autumn has quieted itself, or rather has become as the red leaves inlaid in a Galle vase that I gave her as a souvenir. That which I thought impossible is materializing little by little. A lasting tie ill-defined and somewhat uncertain is binding us. I prefer her glance to her eyes, her voice to her lips, her friendship to my desire."
"January 2nd: Dr. Heaume died yesterday, regardless of so untimely a date. I saw him in his bed. He had regained his stature. His face was impressively calm, with a serenity which startles one—yes, startles and attracts—on features that have only appeared sorrowful and tortured.
"In reality, he adored life. It was his only faith. Instead of finishing his treatise on nervous diseases, he had begun a study of the development of the passions. He multiplied the reasons for prolonging his life and did not fear failing his masterpiece as everyone had failed him.
"At his side, his wife was weeping as if she had always recognized the rare force of that spirit now fled.
"Overcome by the realization of so much lost power, I went to share my reflections with Anne. Even our silence is the echo of our thoughts. At home mine have no echo."
"January: Visited the Conciergie together. One of her ancestors was killed in this court on the first day of the September massacres.