Tuesday, 24 August 1880

I have received a slap in the face that I probably can never return. They bring me a letter with the London postmark, and I find in it an obscene photograph. The infamous scoundrel who thought to soil my eyes did not succeed, for I tore to pieces envelope and contents with surprising speed.
But having reflected, I glued the pieces of the envelope back together to have the handwriting. The address reads: Mlle Bashkirtseff, 35 avenue Montaigne (in her studio), Paris.
There is obviously someone well informed. I know no one who could want to insult me in this way... and if a name comes, it is Berthe's. It very much resembles her; she has always excelled in vile hoaxes. But... what is frightful is that the coward who did it believes I looked at that filth...
What a shameful thing to do! What infamy, what cynicism! What an outrage to a young girl! I cannot imagine that there exists someone who would have the idea of insulting me thus... It can only be a prank of Berthe's.
What cowardice; it is like an anonymous slanderous letter!
And now here come atrocious suspicions; I regret not having looked at the photograph... what if the woman's head was mine? You know one can put whatever head one wants on these photographs... But no, that would have struck me... I tore it up so quickly!
There is a horror to do! I could live a hundred years and I would never have such villainies to reproach myself with... and the people who commit these villainies are probably happier than I am... No, I cannot get over it... That is... infamous!
But I have the envelope, and as soon as Alexis the clairvoyant returns to Paris, I shall go to him and he will tell me at least who wrote the address.