Saturday, June 3:
Still cold. The cask of wine has arrived from the King. Also letters, one from “Bureau Peters”; he is willing to pay 1,000 thalers for an overture.
Then a letter from Lindner the engraver, who reports blissfully that his plate of R.’s portrait was sold immediately in Berlin for 1,400 florins and has, as he reports with much gratitude, brought him many orders. Pity that the portrait is not better.
R. is pleased; he says, “So one sees in the end what one is worth.” The news from Paris is horrifying; I can no longer bear to look.