Thursday, January 13:
Unwell, chest pains; delight in Fidi, who visits me in the morning. R. is having breakfast beside my bed and says he would like to be a painter, to paint me with the child.
Amusement over the doctor's reply when R. shows him a tumor growing on a finger. "Good Heavens," he says, "how productive you are!" R. works a little; in the afternoon he writes to his friend Pusinelli, announcing the birth of his son.
Letter from Frau Schuré; Paris is literally in an uproar over the murder of Victor Noir by Prince Pierre Napoleon. In the evening began on Plato's Theaetetus, great and heavenly delight in it.