Monday, June 14:
Fell asleep in the middle of Cardenio's adventure and did not wake up until six-thirty this morning. Saw our boy at once. I dreamed again of R.
When he came to me, he said he now knew which little bird it was which, as I had told him, invariably started to twitter all by itself at three-thirty in the morning at the first sign of daybreak: it was Siegfried's bird, which had announced his arrival and now came to inquire after him.
R. brought a Chinese novel, sent to him by Mme Mendes, “temoignage d'inexprimable admiration,” which I have now almost finished. At one o'clock he comes with his sketches in his hand, inscribed “properly delivered.” He says our son is now truly born. It is again divine, this act!
The only thing that distresses me is when R. says he will not live to see our boy's manhood and laments that we did not discover each other fifteen years ago. The weather is nasty today, foehn atmosphere, and R. is affected by it. Telegram from Hermine, the children in good health; in the evening Don Quixote.