Sunday, 11 May 1884

After days of bitter cold we have had 28 and 29 degrees for three days. It is oppressive. I am finishing a study of a little girl in the garden, in hopes of the collector's visit.
I forgot to say that we met Hecht on the staircase at the Italiens. He is wildly enthusiastic about my painting.
All the same, it is not yet that. But when Bastien exhibited the grandfather portrait it was not that either. No doubt — but all the same... Since I must die quickly I would like...
Everything suggests that Jules has stomach cancer. So he is done for, then? Perhaps they are mistaken. The poor dear cannot sleep. It is senseless. And his concierge is probably in the best of health. It is senseless.