We walked in the Bois after dinner — the Marshal, Claire, Alice, little Louis Canrobert (he is ten). A beautiful evening, at least. There is a hostility between Alice and me now that nothing will heal; the relationship is permanently tainted without anything visibly having changed. A lost day. Thursdays and Sundays are impossible: the children cannot model, they scatter as soon as school releases them. Jules — Jules is nothing now. He has become a habit of the mouth, a name I say without thinking. I no longer mention him to anyone; I affect a moderate criticism of his talent when pressed. Now he talks about Henner to everyone, eclectic. He is not adorable as he was before. More correct, less compelling — and because I will not pursue him to justice by adoring him, the thing dissolves by itself. Why this one and not another? The Marshal passes without looking; another passes and looks. Why Jean and not Jacques? It is not a question of pride, not exactly. Wanting Bastien-Lepage's friendship gives the thing too much importance, makes it false, puts it in a disproportionate position. And I am a little ashamed, thinking of the private life — it is not glorious enough. Not like Wagner. Only admissible under such conditions, and the conditions are never met. I had a project for a weekly dinner salon — society on Thursdays, artists on Saturdays, the great names — all water now. But I shall restart next year. Calm, strong, patient, eternal, persevering, encouraged.