Sunday, 2 September 1883

Slight muscle aches, the aftermath of yesterday morning's ride, and an atrocious cold; I make Louis's portrait in pastel — it seems to be coming along.
Then a small family drama — Marcel slips off to Paris without permission. He is a future Marquis de Tarente, resembles him, wants to do nothing, and pays no more attention to the poor Maréchale than if she were singing to herself. It is truly unfortunate to have such a scamp in such a family. Fate made a mistake — Claire and I ought to have been the boys, and Paul and Marcel the girls. Everything would be perfectly arranged.