Saturday, 9 June 1883

Cassagnac passed by the house yesterday, along the garden, with his wife; he had passed the same way the day before yesterday. My aunt and Dina, who have nothing to do, saw him the day before yesterday and pointed him out to me yesterday; I saw his profile through the crack of the door.
And it means nothing to me.
And today I had a visit from Mme Bertaux, president of the association of women painters and sculptors. You will remember that in March I went to this lady’s house with Maman to ask her leave to exhibit at the women’s exhibition... thinking that Breslau belonged to it.
She answered then that it was too late, there were only five days left, and we saw no more of her.
And now she comes, most amiable, stays an hour and showers me with compliments: she had not thought, she could not have supposed that I could have so much talent already; my Salon picture enchants her, it is a great success etc. etc. etc.
In short, talents are so rare, women have such need to unite in defence of their interests, the name of a woman of talent is so considerable a contribution, that she has come to beg me to allow her to enter mine among her members.
In short, it is a complete public apology, and I grant the permission.
They ought to — and they must — all come back like that.
My aunt, Dina, Bojidar, Engelhardt at the circus.
If Cassagnac had been alone I would have sprayed him with the garden pump... That would have been funny. He means nothing to me any more, nor does anyone.
It bores me; one must always have someone one can think of with pleasure, more or less... Sometimes people barely glimpsed... Saint-Marceaux, but he means nothing to me... And Jules — Jules, I feel hostility, and then Mme Massalsky, Mme Mackay, all that vile gossip... And then Jules... after all, yes, one can think of him... only think of him, and even then...
Yes... No... For want of anything better...
I did imagine that his brother, the false Bastien, came into an inheritance of forty millions and laid them at my feet. That served to put me to sleep one evening. Every evening I make up stories for myself; sometimes the stories last several evenings. And now nothing, since the real Jules saddens me — for he does sadden me; people tell him horrible things, and his brother too.
Atrocities, infamies. That I am the daughter or the mother of murderers... But it is enough to make one kill oneself!!
Ah, it is altogether too ridiculous, and yet it is said!
Ah, misery! And God lets them say it!
I dreamed that my hair had caught fire and was in flames. And Rosalie put it out, and I still had some left down to the middle of my back.
It must feel good, fire on one’s head.

Notes

In French in the original: amende honorable. ↩