Saturday, 28 July 1883

Bojidar and Émile Bastien come to lunch. Bojidar believes he is walking on clouds — he went to fetch Émile at his place and was admitted to see the absent one's studio... There will be conversations about this for a year: "Bastien said to me," "Bastien did this," "Bastien was supposed to come and fetch me," "I was at Bastien's when..." etc. etc. These two young men will become great friends, and I am delighted to count them among my faithful. They have discovered that I am horribly coquettish, and that amuses me enormously! Because I come down to lunch in a grey linen blouse with my sleeves rolled above the elbow. "And you are exceedingly pretty" adds Bojidar — "the coquetry consists in showing yourself in get-ups [Words blacked out: that would frighten other] women." The architect claims I shall almost never receive sincere counsel, for all the artists he has seen here are not their real selves with me — that they become flatterers or agreeable... Except Jules and he himself, of course. I speak in such a way that the innocent architect believes in a kind of hatred for Jules. In any case, what he says is flattering but annoying... And yet Julian, tête-à-tête, is genuinely sincere — besides, one so readily distinguishes spontaneous approval from indulgent approval... Words alone can lie, not eyes and voice! And besides, the architect has seen those people at the Salon or at table — not in my studio. Bojidar comes with us to see the exhibition of the sculpture competition — I speak there with Cabanel, who announces that the painting prize goes to Baschet, from Julian's. Émile Bastien says that with a composition like my last I would be admitted to the entrance competition at the École. And he is sincere. Saint-Marceaux with his pretty paradoxes had driven me underground. The sculptures at the École give me back my courage — the wooden armature has been brought over, and I am going to make my sketch on a larger scale, just to amuse myself... Every day there is someone to dinner, but this evening five people arrive: the Engelhardts, la Tchernitsky, Saint-Amand, Bailleul. After dinner we go down to the Pitauchards' apartment, where Rosalie offers us tea and where my godson Louis-Jules-René sings music-hall songs. This illustrious dark-skinned boy went to the Ambassadeurs — we discovered this artistic past some time ago. Much laughter; I did not amuse myself, thinking of glories of sculpture and painting. And Thibaudin got three francs in tips. Thibaudin is Louis — I find it funny to call him after the minister, and the nickname has been adopted by all the regulars. Since there will be fifty years between the present hour and the moment I write, it is well to say that Thibaudin escaped from Prussia and under a false name fought again, having given his word of honour not to make war any more in exchange for being released. You can imagine the attacks from the reactionary newspapers — jokes, songs, etc. about the minister's word of honour. What connection between him and Jules-René? Nesdo. But there are funny things to be made from non-sens.¹