Monday, 12 June 1876

I have finished Collignon's hair — it is truly very successful; today is the ninth sitting. It is the first time I have tackled such a mass of hair. She has it in every colour, and today, as if by design, all the golden locks were on top, so that the overall tone is splendid, warm, and golden.
Again towards evening I was quite ready to write verse — just as poor as yesterday's. I could make good verse if I were not in such a hurry. But I have a mania for writing verse almost as fast as prose. Towards evening my whole mind grows confused, and I repeated involuntarily to myself: I love him, yes I love him. Then it seemed to me that the Duke of Hamilton was dead; and well, my thought continued, all the more reason to love one who is alive and tell him of one's love for one who is dead.
[annotation] It has happened to me since then to say many times: I love him — that is, to think it. It is a confession that addresses itself to no one; it is the overflow of the soul. And as Antonelli happens to be close at hand, one supposes that all this is caused by him.
And then I had an irresistible longing to see Antonelli and love him. Then I remembered what kind of man he was and thought of nothing but the other dominant idea: going into society. I am seventeen, I am pretty, I am frivolous. Understand then my torment. My aunt walked me home and I could not hold back my tears; she promised me a heap of things. — You make promises so I will go to bed and keep quiet! She assured me on the contrary that next winter... My head bursts when I think of these eternal promises. Ah! My God!