Sunday, 22 January 1882

Yesterday evening we went to the Opéra-Comique — Étincelle had sent a box. We had sent her the day before a Saxony porcelain jardinière full of flowers. Maman, Dina, Nini, Paul, myself, Géry, and Montgomery came to talk to us.

And today again visitors, and Father Géry. This [blacked out: noble] old man has a villa in Nice and offers it to us if we go there this winter, with such insistence that one can accept. As for the famous Gabriel — not only do I not want to find myself in cosy corners with him, but he bores me outright.

I feel as though I were ashamed of something. Of what? I have no idea. The Gérys, the villa... the trip to Nice... I shall see Bastien's canvases again on Thursday, and Thursday evening I slip away to Nice where I do a study in the open air, then back to Paris and resumption of the succès mondains and above all of work... But it is better to do than to say or write. I am possessed just now by the Carnival; I am making charcoal sketches — if one had talent it would be beautiful to do.

I rubbed my hands on Bastien-Lepage's dirty palette, and he made me a gift of two brushes: I shall plant them in my studio and laurel will grow from them.