Sunday, 12 August 1877

I sketched the portrait of the house chambermaid, Antoinette. She has a charming face and blue eyes, large and brilliant, of an exquisite simplicity and sweetness. There it is — the sketch always succeeds, but to know how to finish one must have studied.
Hall dined with me and we did not part until eleven o'clock. She drank only lemonade; we spoke of nothing but Florence and Larderei. And a charming intimacy resulted. She told me of her first passion — she was fourteen, he wrote that he was marrying another, and she poisoned herself with laudanum.
She loves Italy so.
Above all one must have money! A great deal of money. A wealthy marriage, in the end. There is nothing so good. One is free, one is honoured, one does what one wishes, one has what one wishes. And love... well, it turns up of its own accord — and then... and if the one person one will love does not love back? Well then, one will nourish one's self-esteem on those who do love, whom one does not want; and one will permit oneself to humble oneself before Him, to be rejected by him, scorned, hated; one will weep, and by force of love, of devotion... who knows?
If only I had five hundred thousand francs of income...