Friday, 12 October 1877

— You know, Monsieur, I said to Julian, I am utterly discouraged. A lady was telling me again only yesterday that I ought not to work, having no talent whatsoever.
— She said that, this lady?
— Why yes, and in all seriousness.
— Well then, you may tell her that if in three months — three months is not very long — if in three months you do not paint her portrait, full face, three-quarter, or profile, as she wishes, and a portrait not badly done, do you hear? Resembling and not badly done!... Well! She shall see. I say it in three months, and if I say it here so that all these ladies may hear me, it is because I am not saying something particularly colossal — only certain.
Those are his own words, spoken with that remnant of Marseilles accent which twenty years of Paris have not quite managed to efface — and so much the better. I am fond of a southern accent.
The little Portuguese is in the drawing room. I genuinely do not know whether I ought to go in. I shall not know what to say and am so... discouraged on that... side. And then that scoundrel Worth neglects me, so that I am... vexed.