Saturday, 1 April 1882

Alexandre is here; he went to Paris on money matters with the ineffable Georges, and he is here on money matters with Étienne. What a lucky fellow. Dina has stayed in her room on account of this business of letters she wrote to her father in which one could read that Alexandre is a thief, etc. Her dear father communicated these letters to Alexandre. But all that bores me. I would rather speak of a more amusing Alexandre — the one from Naples; we saw him yesterday at the station, for I had gone to Monaco to make sketches and win 160 francs. He was leaving for Paris; besides, we never greet each other. No matter — it brought back Naples, the elegant, Italian life... It is ravishing, and so a plan at once for a December trip: Spain, Morocco, Tunis, and Naples for Carnival. Tony had a wish to go to Morocco; the plan is immediately studied between Bojidar, me, and Savine; and once everything is all settled, it is to Jerusalem that I want to go. This evening, on account of Alexandre, the family dines at home — but the somewhat chilly evening ends all the same with the noble game of puns and tails.³ Bojidar-n/ca; Dina-mythe; Mari-veau d'âge.

The exasperated Bojidar ripostes with Sarah-gosse, Babanine-tat. I go to bed shouting through the door Bojidar-brisseau, Bojidar-thur. And as Bojidar-tifice goes to bed it is Rosal/e-llumination who shuttles between the two rooms with Romanoff-à-la-coque, Alexis-vitalisation, Sarah-tapoil, Bojidar-gneux, Félicie-tation. Bashkirtseff-leave me in peace.

I have finished my picture more or less, Bojidar is making me dreadful landscapes and I amuse myself teaching silly things to the urchins and to my little model, who will go and say them to him. As he told us that Sarah... I must tell you that we badgered him to tell us what was going on with his amours with Sarah, and it seems that once she had a fit of tears in her dressing room in a tête-à-tête with Bojidar, and that he, instead of taking advantage of the great actress's willingness, took fright thinking it was a fit of nerves and hastened to call Félicie, the faithful lady's maid. We have seized upon this, and it will henceforth be known only as calling for Félicie — just as the mortally favoured one can only be called the officer on account of another running joke.

Let us say in this connection that the illustrious Sarah telegraphed back warmly thanking us but not accepting. As she will not come, we could move to our villa — but I do not want to; here we amuse ourselves far better; one can walk about in a dress stained with colours, sing in the street, hang onto carts, and follow the carriages of MM. Morgue and Coustans like a cortège (see the Triboulet of the time)⁴ — yesterday we pretended it was a civil funeral and walked bareheaded behind it for ten minutes (a note for those who may read me in fifty years: in a stormy session Marque pronounced a word that sounds like his name, which has since replaced that unpleasant word; as for M. Coustans, it seems that before becoming Minister of the Interior he was at the head of a firm of pumps... not fire-pumps).