Monday, 24 December 1877

Good models on hand, but the Swiss girls are absent, so I telegraph them these rather characteristic words:
Why do you no longer come, women's stable? Many empty stalls. Straw, donkeys, cows. Cheesewoman (a maman who wants her daughter to draw) changed trade, now sells hay, buyers take note. I await you this evening to murder the corpse.
Princess.
Blanc to dinner.
Wretched Cassagnac... there is something in it, the Hungarian woman and Blanc. Alas — I am almost never wrong.
I cannot even write a letter to Marcuard — the words will not come.