Friday, 17 December 1880

I have not worked, and I wanted to cry the whole time. I make a joke of it, saying that I can cry whenever I wish, and we laugh about it at the atelier. I grow tender over Amélie’s love affairs; she tells me of her worship of Julian... happy woman.
Even if one is alone in loving, it is still something. Perhaps I am too demanding, but... I will not even mention those before Cassagnac — they fill me with horror — but Cassagnac himself...
written across the page
October 1883. And Cassagnac fills me with horror, to use the same exaggerated language.
In short, all that is nothing.
Painting! I must already begin my Salon submission; I have nothing, or subjects that only a man could sign. As for portraits, Julian knows Rane and Proust, but it is not certain... Ah, what troubles! It makes me feverish.
Madame de Brimont and Madame Gavini before dinner.
crossed out[Five lines crossed out]