Friday, 22 November 1878

I am frightened by Breslau’s future. It irritates me, casts a shadow over me, saddens me. Is that not wretched! I have been painting for seven weeks; she has been painting for eighteen months — that is to say, seventy-two weeks.
She has more than ten times as much as I have. But that is not the whole of it. She composes, and there is nothing feminine, banal or misshapen in what she does. She is already an artist, and she is only twenty-two. She will be noticed at the Salon, for besides the execution she will bring to it, she will not choose an ordinary subject. I am truly mad to envy her: I am a child in art and she is a woman. To crown my vexation
It appears that the wealthy merchant who had offered 50,000 francs for the Condom election does exist, and that Acard’s husband has been made heir to his fortune, which amounts to nearly 2 million. He is named: a M. Julien, who had at first made a will in favour of the Prince Imperial; now it is for Cassagnac. People laugh a great deal at this rich benefactor, but the details given by the Gazette de France are really very precise. After all, it is no doubt a lie; Acard is a woman and he loves her.
No — my painting comes before the Acards, for the moment. I am having a bad day; everything seems dark to me.
I went to see Gavini; she was playing bezique with the canoness who witnessed my follies over Cassagnac.
I am tired.