To the Gavinis and to Étincelle, who is charming. There is a long article about our soirée, but as it was expected, no one is satisfied: she compares me to the Broken Pitcher, and they are afraid it may be taken as an insult in Poltava... People are too silly — the article is very good. Only, since she had said two days ago that I am one of the most beautiful women in the Russian Empire, this time she contented herself with describing my dress. Hence, disillusion.

But I am wholly for Art — I believe that along with my pleurisy I caught the sacred fire somewhere in Spain; I am beginning the transition from craftswoman to artist; it is a [words blacked out: most] celestial incubation that is making me a little mad... I compose pictures in the evening; I dream of an Ophelia; [words blacked out: the under-Potain] has promised to take me to Sainte-Anne to see heads of madwomen... Besides, an Arab — an old Arab seated and singing with a kind of guitar — haunts me, and I am thinking of a great thing for the next Salon, a corner of Carnival... But for that I must go to Nice... Yes, but the Arab is in Algiers? Yes, Naples for the Carnival... Very well — but to execute my great thing en plein air in Nice I have my villa, and... I tell you, and I want to stay here, to see Bastien-Lepage... what do I know?