Tuesday, 29 April 1884

The Vernissage¹ is the day after tomorrow; tomorrow at first light I shall see Le Figaro and Le Gaulois. What will they say? Nothing? Something good? Something bad?

I am deeply agitated by it all, and occupy myself in the meantime composing a reply to Maupassant.

It takes me an enormous amount of time.

But I could not have done anything else — I am awaiting tomorrow with such dread.

Literature is truly invading me — and to what a degree! Stand aside, Dumas, Zola, all of you. Here I come. My hand aches from it. And I am making a short story out of my letters.

But it is Le Figaro and Le Gaulois that I shall open trembling. If they say nothing, it is a disaster. And if they do speak, what will they say?

My heart stops at the thought, then beats wildly.