Saturday, 24 May 1884

Just a year ago it was done. But this year the Salon does not reopen until Tuesday, so today corresponds to the 21st of May last year.
Today they voted on the first and second medals. Tomorrow, the third-class medals.
It is hot and I am tired.
La France illustrée requests permission to reproduce the painting, and a man named Lecadre as well. I sign, I sign. Reproduce it.
But after all, they will give medals to things less good than my painting — it is obvious. Oh! I am quite calm; real talent makes its way in the end, only it is a delay, and it is annoying.
I prefer not to count on it.
The mention was a certainty, but the medal is doubtful. If there were any such assurance as last year, Julian would have said so.
But it will be unjust!! Obviously.
Mme Mackay has a townhouse and four horses in the stable. It is a man named Spencer who pays for all that. And Jules? She abandoned him for money. He may be ill with grief — at least in part. He must be half mad if she showed him the door. She is very pleasant — she must be well made. I give her thirty-six years; her son is eighteen or nineteen. They say she is forty. Since I have a sympathy for her I give her only thirty-six. She is a very depraved woman. I suspect her of having been too intimate with la Cartwright, not counting her ordinary adventures. She has pale blue eyes. A square face, a rounded nose, dyed hair — yellow — and an air of stubbornness, very calm, very sure. The has made up her mind, as they say in English.
And Jules has been — is — wildly in love with her; I try to see in her whatever it is that pleases him so; I try to look at her as he would, so to speak, to understand how she pleases him. I do not know if I make myself understood. It is an artist's impulse that makes me identify with people and things in order to penetrate them to the very bottom...
The air is so oppressive, and there is lightning in a deep blue sky.
This Jules Bastien — one cannot say I am mad about him; I have forgotten him — so why this quickening of the heart at the sight of la Mackay? It is that I love him very little, but on the whole I love no one more.
I have forgotten him, but there is no one else — so it is still he who is the shadow of that love object women always have, according to Goncourt.

Notes

In English in the original. (Marie's French text switches to English here, though the phrase is slightly garbled: she writes "The has made up her mind.")