Tuesday, 12 November 1878

Yesterday... no, but Today we learn a thunderbolt of news. Mme Yorke is dead. In the full bloom of life, barely thirty-two years old, so gay, so carefree! There is one of those empty-headed creatures whose disappearance makes no more impression than the fall of a leaf. She had slandered us to her family, making them believe that we had had a hand in Berthe’s detestable marriage.
That delightful Berthe is with child and lies ill at her mother’s. I do not believe she is happy.
Poor Yorke died without illness; she never suffered from anything but migraines — it is those migraines, I believe, that caused the brain congestion that carried her off.
This evening, beside my academy figure, I drew in two strokes of the pencil the most extraordinary head in France. Julian came to correct, but instead began slapping his knees with delight; I thought he did not recognise him and was taking him for someone else, which vexed me — but not at all: the likeness is striking, it seems.
— It is curious, it is astonishing, he said.
— What a head, eh?
— The most remarkable one could see. What things that man has seen! What things in those deep-set eyes, in those eyebrows, in that little forehead! And that snub nose and that square head. It is astonishing, it is curious. Those broad Herculean shoulders.
— Is it not?
— Come now! He is a man who, in his way, is one of the most remarkable. I knew him in very difficult times; he was much vilified, much...
— He is a vile brute, I said.
— His son was there, and when one went along the boulevard... Ah! it was painful, I can tell you; he had several affairs of honour on his hands because of:
— There is always some villainy to defend.
— True; a man of letters said that among five hundred people that head infallibly drew the eye and kept bringing it back.
— It is a head at once grandiose and ignoble, I went on; it is Jacques Collin.
At this remark, whose aptness I give myself credit for, old Julian looked at me with respect. The academy figure was set aside, and I had to give him the head for his album. The painter who made a picture of the Jewish girl’s garret, with the Jewish girl bearing Heilbronn’s features and Abbé Herrera modelled on Cassagnac’s father, will have more than talent: he will have genius. It is impossible to dream of a more perfect incarnation of Jacques Collin...
It would be a fine trick to play on them; it would be a dreadful thing, and one I shall do if I have talent... Besides, that noble old man is very intelligent, but all the same I do not think he would be flattered.

Notes

Jacques Collin (alias Vautrin, alias Abbé Carlos Herrera) — the great criminal mastermind of Balzac’s Comédie humaine. ↩