Thursday, 29 December 1881

Eight days since I wrote — which [blacked out: proves] to you that my glorious existence has revolved around a little work, Mother Gavini, Villevieille and so on. Nothing new — and yet, yes, I am

well — I go out; I went to try on dresses, to the Bois, and to Julian's. Saturday with Maman and Dina... And Sunday to church, so that no one should say I am at death's door as charming Berthe is telling everyone. On the contrary — I am filling out again; the thin and withered arms of ten days ago are rounding out. That is to say, I am doing far better than before my illness. Eight more days like this and I shall have to stop putting on weight — I shall be just right, for I do not wish to recover the rather angular hips of three years ago. Julian, who came last evening, finds me much more harmonious this way. We laughed all evening. I am doing the portrait of Paul's wife; yesterday I had such a return of strength that I wanted to paint Dina, Nini and Irma all at once. [Words blacked out: Irma is not an ordinary model — she is the type] now vanished, they say, of the grisette: she is comical and sentimental, with the innocences of vice. "When you have become a kept woman," I said to her the other day. "Oh! I [words blacked out: am not lucky] enough for that." She poses intelligently; one can make of her what one wishes, for with her extraordinary pallor she is equally well a candid young girl or [words blacked out: an abyss of] depravity, like all these loose women. She asked permission to stay even when not sitting, and spent the afternoon doing crochet before the fire.