Saturday, 9 November 1878

A shameful defeat! No medal at all. Which will let those imbecile women, who are strong and did not compete, crow over it. I am first all the same. I believe I would have been first even against Breslau’s painting; they would have awarded a first medal. But this private conviction counts for nothing. The fact is there. They did not compete; there is no medal. At bottom I do not care; Breslau is the only one I respect, and even she has three years of study at Julian’s and two in Zurich, nearly five years in all — I am deducting her illnesses — while I have only eleven months altogether; and if one takes my earlier attempts into account, they come to a month, counting the copies of engravings, the six heads painted in Rome and elsewhere at different times, the four heads copied in Nice and the eight drawings from the most elementary casts. All this scribbling makes one month of study (eight hours a day), I declare it on my honour — six weeks at the most.
So — we have one year. All this to announce to you with great pomp that I draw academic figures as well as Breslau; the masters told me so.
Do you know what people are saying? “They say they are marrying you off”... that first; and then that Popaul is separating from his strange wife. Moreover, some infamous articles about his nuptials have appeared in Nice. I have nothing to do with them.
But it must be a canard; Mme Gavini says everyone is saying it. To begin with, according to the code one cannot separate after seven months of marriage, unless one declares that one will not answer for the consequences of that cohabitation.
I also heard this news at the atelier from a Bonapartist lady who does not work much. I must confess that I am perfidious with my insinuations, and with that protective tone and that air I have of defending the Deceased. It is not very honest, but it is fair game, I think.
My poor Cassagnac, you will get out of it, but you have made yourself some quite needless trouble there! These gentlemen asked me whether Cassagnac’s wife (how funny that is!) is pretty.
— Hmm... not exactly — but it is an interesting face.
— Rather faint features, I believe, said Gavini.
— On the contrary, said M. de Bouville, very marked — Italian.
— Very Italian, I added.
— She looks like Cardinal Antonelli, Gavini went on.
— What a wicked tongue that Gavini has! exclaimed Abbatucci, who is an odd fellow.
— Why so? said my aunt. She is his niece.
Everyone smiled.
— How old is she, then? asked Gavini.
— Oh! She is not old, said I, twenty-eight or twenty-nine at most, perhaps less; you know how quickly Italian faces fade.
The Exposition again, and Mme Gavini. We are constantly exchanging little presents. This evening the Mouzays and M. Bikowsky (the one from Naples) to dinner. I am always pretty when there is no point in it.

Notes

On dit que l’on te marie («They say you are getting married») is a song Marie sang at Soden on 20 July 1878 and still hummed in May 1879; she quotes it here of the gossip about her own marriage. ↩