Wednesday, 25 April 1883

Exhibition of famous portraits made from 1783 to 1883.
Maman and I go. I am in black wool trimmed with a broad, heavy black braid — grey felt hat with a grey veil all around, and a grey turtledove. In short, the main thing is that we encountered Saint-Marceaux ten times, and that he talked to me a great deal, and consequently it seems to me I am overwhelmed with happiness.
I blushed a great deal — a great deal, and each time — and since it suits me to perfection, so much the better.
We also chatted with the Jides, Mme Randouin, and who else? Hecht, who gives us a catalogue. I need not mention the architect — when we arrived someone was saying to him: Is Jules here? You see, Mademoiselle, you are not the only one. Then we lose him, only to find him again towards the end and talk to him about Saint-Marceaux — whom we are watching from afar, or rather whom we are not watching, since I am so afraid he will think I am looking at him or looking for him that I keep turning away and try to appear to be avoiding him. And he seemed to be looking for us — not quite… but in any case.
In the end I go and sit on a bench — [words blacked out: and he] came again to chat for a moment before leaving. The architect and he stood before me, and then we all three laughed. The architect and I [words blacked out: illegible — we had to discuss] the addresses I had asked for a few days ago, and perhaps because he had detected a little of the manoeuvring… For the things that
…we were saying gave no cause for laughter.
In the end he leaves us to go to his pastry shop, whose address the architect asks him for. He must be flattered, this man — Émile must have told him in his letter that this young person adores his talent. In the end we bring Jules's brother along with us to have someone to talk to on the way about Jules and the General. Ah, I am entirely gone — it is adorations and childishness without end. No, I tell him, you know: Jules is friendship, Saint-Marceaux is love. I love Jules madly with friendship — to be loved with friendship by him would be precious, precious, precious. Whereas the other one…
And you — you are my confidant.
And as for the two of them — they are so small that stacked one on top of the other they would barely make one proper person… Then the model brother protests: Jules is not that small! Come now — he is tiny.
But he has hair! That is true — and the General has none! That is equally true. When the architect helps me to laugh about Jules I am delighted — for then it seems to me that Jules is somehow complicit in it.
But if my silliness is received with a certain reserve it distresses me, for I then think it means Jules does not want me to take an interest in him.
In the end: tell him — make sure to tell him that it is the other who is love — but that he himself is the dearest friendship; and that tomorrow evening we shall be thinking of him at the moment when he enters Paris.