Monday, 21 November 1881

My first wisdom tooth is coming in, lower left. On the first floor of 36, rue Vivienne there is a club, and it is in one of its salons that the studies and project for the panorama of Lourdes by Carrier-Belleuse — the son of the sculptor¹ — are on display. I asked to buy; the gentleman came, very amiable and pleasant, cannot sell as he needs everything for the large-scale execution. My aunt and Brisbane were there; he came to visit us yesterday [blacked out] to say a great many flattering things… Yet those flatteries touched precisely on the points approved by Tony. But that is neither here nor there! Potain² was sent for on Wednesday; he came today — in the meantime I might have died. I knew perfectly well he would send me to the South again, and I was already, in anticipation, teeth clenched, voice trembling, forcing back tears with considerable effort. Going to the Midi is surrendering. And my family's persecutions make it a point of honor to remain standing at any cost. Leaving is the triumph of all the vermin of the Mouzays and the atelier. She is very ill — they took her to the Midi. If I had another family, it might be done — but these people — look, [blacked out] for three days I have been telling my aunt: yes, I am ill, but if you want to care for me properly and not drive me to despair, please do not shout it from the rooftops. As far as you are concerned I look well and am on my feet — do not disabuse them; what can it matter to you? One often conceals things far graver. It is the plea of an invalid, a touch of madness if you like — but in short, do not go lamenting my health to all and sundry at every turn; care for me, but do not tell everyone. It is not even interesting — do you not understand what it means to me: how sad, how humiliating, how painful! Very well — Saint-Amand came to dine with us yesterday, and in the middle of the conversation:
— "But you look splendid! Your aunt gave me a dreadful fright yesterday! I found her in tears, telling me you had a fever and were very ill — [blacked out] I nearly rushed over, thinking the child was in her death-rattle next door — not at all; out, at the atelier." That is one. The doorbell rings — [blacked out] — to the antechamber to see who

— it is: the Gavinis come bursting in:
— "What! Dear child, what on earth is the matter? Ah! Good God."
— "But I am perfectly well — there is nothing the matter." Then a stupefied look from the couple to my aunt, who had had time to whisper that I was very ill. I warn you — they will drive me mad here. I cannot understand stupidities as malicious as these. I am going mad with rage, asking myself: but why, why, why? Why do they do it!