Wednesday, 10 December 1879

We went to see Father Didon at the Dominican monastery. Need I tell you that Father Didon is the preacher whose fame has been growing before our eyes these two years and whom all Paris is talking about at the moment.
He had been told to expect us; as soon as we arrive someone goes to call him, and we wait for him in one of those reception cubicles, a kind of stall or cell, all glassed in, with a table, three chairs and a good little stove. I had already seen his portrait yesterday and knew that he has splendid eyes (a beauty Joseph lacks).
He comes in, very amiable, very much a man of the world, very handsome in his fine white woollen habit, which reminds me of the gowns I used to wear. Without the infamy of the tonsure it would be a head rather like Cassagnac’s, but more enlightened, the eyes franker, the bearing more natural though very lofty; a face that is beginning to thicken, with the same something disagreeably crooked about the mouth as Cassagnac’s.
But great distinction, none of the overdone Creole charm; a matt complexion, a fine brow, the head held high, adorably white and beautiful hands, a cheerful air and even, as far as possible, a good-natured one. One would like to see him with a moustache.
A great deal of wit, despite great self-assurance. One sees so clearly that he gauges the full extent of his vogue, that he is used to adoration and that he is sincerely pleased by the stir being made around him. Old Mme Mouzay has naturally forewarned him by letter of the marvel he was about to see, and we speak to him of painting his portrait. He did not refuse, though he said it would be difficult, almost impossible — a young girl painting the portrait of Father Didon; he is so much in the public eye, people talk about him so much...
But that is exactly why, idiot!...
I was introduced as his fervent admirer. I had never either seen or heard him, but I had sensed that he would be just as he is, with the inflections of his voice passing from caressing notes to almost terrible outbursts, even in simple conversation.
It is a portrait I feel entirely, and if it could be arranged I should be a very happy person.
This great devil of a monk is surely no saint, you understand?
Even before I had seen him he frightened me a little... I should only have to blush when people talked about him — that would be so disagreeable: a monk! He is a being who could have an influence over me, and I have no wish for that.
He promised to come and see us, and for a moment I wished he would go no further than the promise.
But that is foolish, and all I wish now is that he should consent to sit. Nothing in the world would suit me better as an ambitious painter.