Wednesday, 8 September 1880

I take lessons from the Black woman, who is extremely funny with her Spanish-French jargon.
Together we make quite a picture; my library has grown prettier. I have put the desk against the wall so as to free the bookshelves, the divan facing the desk, near the divan an immense armchair in embroidery and blue plush, angled slightly to form a circle with the divan; between these two is a nightstand artistically draped with an Indian shawl and old green plush that serves as a pedestal for a mediocre terracotta, which nonetheless looks graceful in the shade of the immense palm spreading its branches above the armchair; it is a ravishing corner when one glimpses it coming in from the drawing room; and from the divan one sees the desk, beside the desk the fireplace covered with greenery, an easel, etc. Near the palm, the harp, and opposite, near the fireplace, the tea table with the gleaming silver on a dark background; it is infinitely better now. Near the desk an old-style armchair, so that when anyone comes in I need only give this chair a slight turn to find myself facing them (the door and desk on the same wall) near the pedantic desk, with the books as background, among pictures and plants, and my legs and feet in view instead of being cut in two as before by that black wood. Above the divan hang the two mandolins and the guitar.
Put in the midst of all this a blonde, white-skinned young girl with very small, fine hands veined with blue, and this tall Black she-devil showing her teeth and singing.
Unexpected visit. Lise Kondareff, who is here for a few days with a governess, no doubt to settle some debt of Maman’s. She used to employ her for that four years ago in Nice. She is already eighteen.
Monsieur Georges came to the atelier asking for M. Julian, for whom I had entrusted him with an errand when I left for Biarritz. But Amélie knew very well that I knew Julian was away; besides, she knows all those sordid stories from the atelier maid, who has them from Rosalie.
What is one to say or do? Who on earth tells her everything, even our plans! Even poor Biarritz, which I may never see, my dear Maman being in a hurry to come back. If my daughter wrote me a quarter of what I have written (not insolence, but complaints), I would have left at once...
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