Wednesday, 28 January 1880

[Word blacked out: Filippini] sat, in the afternoon. He is rather amusing to paint: small, blond, a round face, a yellow moustache, a good-natured and martial air.
My archangel Gabriel is slow to reply. And my discretion, I earned it well, and nothing. What does it mean? You know that since his departure, there are days when I think of him a great deal, to the point of being sentimental... this evening, for example. He is an adorable being. It is good that he left. After our visit to the foyer, it might perhaps have turned out foolishly for me; it was a good moment, [Crossed out: almost as good as] even better than all the time spent with the pure, the immaculate one. I hope never to see him again so that there will be no shadow... And there already is one. He left us for "cousins I must accompany," and after putting the said cousins in their carriage, he met us while going to fetch his carriage just as we were leaving. It had the look of a lie.
And then he seemed to be as I was, I know not how... dejected, agitated. I claim nothing for myself, be assured... besides, if he returned to me what I gave him in regrets, it would not be so immoderate after all. Only, then one is all I know not how; one loves the presence of someone and seems to look elsewhere; one has benevolent thoughts and says near-impertinences; one would like to chat and says nothing; one remains there in a sort of torpor, cold in appearance and almost weeping within.