Sunday, 23 March 1879

With my usual wisdom I set to painting at half past five. I had thirty minutes of daylight left, which allowed me to sketch myself on a size-4 canvas, standing, turned sharply round upon myself, the long train surrounding me and outlining my figure, dressed like Robespierre, like a revolutionary, head high and with an air of defying the universe; the left arm cannot be seen and the right hangs straight down, but the body is so arched by this movement that there is a space between the waist and the arm. To begin with I had made two or three sketches in the album, in front of the looking-glass. Tomorrow I shall arrange it without finishing it; it amuses me very much, and besides, it will immortalise my usual costume for home and solitude. A long skirt, black, a black bodice and a batiste chemisette with cuffs and a jabot of gathered frills. And then... I have almost republican leanings, thanks to young Arnaud’s pink tickets.
Arnaud, A Arnaud, Alexandre, Alexandre Dumas, Antonelli, Audiffret, Auguste Hohenlohe, Alfred Multedo.... Antoine Blanc. When a name begins with an A, there is always a chance that he will take an interest in me or I in him, that he will do me harm or good, whether through love or otherwise.