Saturday, 5 January 1878

Berthe came to the atelier and called in the evening. This girl never stops speaking to me of Roman society as though I knew it — and then of Paris, of everything in short, of everything that overwhelms me.
Since her sister's marriage she goes everywhere more than ever — beginning with the English court.
I always feel that someone will tell them we made a fiasco in Rome, and I am on pins and needles. I do not think, however, that she or her mother can have spoken of us to Sommier and to any number of people who go to Nice and everywhere. She is pretty — the face alone (which is too large for the body). A charming complexion, beautiful hair, superb eyes that seem to protrude slightly, as though she had just swallowed something difficult — but that is a peculiarity of her own and harms nothing.
Balls, society, successes... Oh, the wretchedness of wretchedness! So I am neither dead nor asleep.
Berthe said that the gentleman who was at their house the last evening we were there was mad about Dina. And I — am I then nothing!
I feel as though I am insignificant and no one pays the slightest attention to me...
And in Rome — in Rome she was plain and did not dress as well.
And Art! I am like a woman — fie! No, not fie. I want to remain a woman; I am too much one to be otherwise.
The Prince de Bourbon sent his card and asks whether we shall be at home on Monday. It is perhaps for Dina as well.
It is time passing, passing, passing, passing!