Friday, 15 February 1878

What ravishing feet he has — but I cannot help laughing when I think of yesterday.
That blue flannel and that red piping.
I shall not go to the Opéra tomorrow. That will redeem yesterday.
I understand his passion for feet, looking at his own. You know he is very tall and rather heavily built, so it is all the more remarkable that he should have feet and hands like his.
When we tell my aunt how yesterday’s scene was staged, she says — of Cassagnac, that is — that he is a depraved scoundrel.
I draw as usual, which does not prevent me from being very displeased with myself. I said as much to Robert-Fleury some time ago, and last Saturday, as he was correcting our life studies:
— Did you do this?
— Yes, Monsieur.
— You hadn’t drawn whole figures before coming here?
— Not at all.
— I believe you are complaining?
— Yes, Monsieur.
— That you are going too slowly?
— Oh! Yes, Monsieur.
— Well, in your place I should be very pleased.
It was said with very kindly good humour, and was worth a good many compliments.
Yes! But when shall I be able to... paint portraits... In a year... at least I hope so.