Monday, 7 August 1882

I dreamed that Cassagnac told me he has always loved me.
We spoke of him yesterday — Tony says he despises Cassagnac above all on account of his early duels, where he risked killing people to make himself known. Pure and gentle Tony!
I adore Cassagnac — there was a dreadful actor with a moustache like this playing the noble hero... Well yes, Cassagnac is boulevard melodrama, and one must believe I have vulgar taste, or rather that he is a type men decry out of jealousy, for all women adore him. Oh, what an ignominy! When I think of it! You cannot imagine — he has never had a decent thought of me! Do you recall, when Dina and I went to his house in disguise. And he asked us how we had managed to leave the house, so I invented that we had said we were going to friends from the studio, and that if anyone came looking for me, Rosalie had orders to arrange everything, as she is accustomed to our escapades in Italy. Could an enemy, a villain, a traitor have devised anything more damaging, more compromising, more besmirching.
What has he thought of me? It is with genuine despair that I ask myself this. My God, you can see well enough that I must be able to... But how.
And besides, he will never believe me.
Even if I make a magnificent marriage, he will still think no better of me for what I told him about myself... And yet I ought to hate him, hate him, hate him... Which is why I must have my revenge.
The street! On the way back from Tony's we drove along the avenues around the Arc de Triomphe — it is about half past six, in summer, the doorkeepers, the children, the errand boys, the workers, the women, all of them at their doorways or on public benches or chatting in front of the wine shops. But there are admirable pictures there! Simply admirable! Far be it from me to aim at parody of truth — that is the way of the vulgar; but in this life, in this truth, there are admirable things. The greatest masters are great only through truth. I came home marvelling at the street, yes — and those who mock what they call Naturalism don't know what it is and are imbeciles. It is a matter of catching nature in the act, of knowing how to choose and how to seize it. The choice makes the artist.
My portrait will be incontestably commonplace. I am seated in a large armchair, in a white muslin gown with a moderate décolleté. The pose is fairly lively; I look as though I am talking; I face front. It is very ordinary.
I return to the street... One could mine it for all it's worth... I would not want to touch the countryside — Bastien-Lepage reigns there as sovereign — but for the street there has not yet been a... Bastien. And in our garden one can paint almost anything. I am in one of those days when one has thirty-six things to do.