Thursday, March 23:
The day passes in preparations for my mother. I sort out papers and read old letters from my father, which show me once again that I had neither a father nor a mother. R. has been everything to me; he alone has loved me.
In Paris the insurgents rule the roost; they demand money from the bank and from Rothschild, and get it! They shoot generals, and people negotiate with them. Napoleonic intrigues are suspected.
I teach the children R.'s Kaiserlied, which they sing very nicely. R. spends a long time considering how to add it to the score, for on no account does he want choral societies and glee clubs to sing it.
Thought a lot about Strassburg.