Sunday, 8 June 1884

I looked as well as I can ever look — as well as I have ever looked. The gown had a ravishing effect. And my face blooming as at Nice or Rome — people who see me every day stood there open-mouthed, the Engelhardts for example.
We arrived a little late — Mme Frederiks was not at the ambassadress's side, with whom Maman exchanged a few words. I am very composed and very much at ease. Quite a few acquaintances — Mme d'Arayco, whom I meet at the Gavinis' and who never used to greet me, greets me most graciously. I take Gavini's arm — he cuts a fine figure with his ribbons and decorations — and he presents me to Ménabrea, the Italian minister; we talk art. Then M. de Lesseps tells us a long story about a wet-nurse and children and Suez shares. We stay with him quite a while, always for the sake of the distinction; Chevreau gave me his arm. As for the other chargés d'affaires, attachés, and secretaries, I abandon them for the old men covered in decorations. A little later, having duly paid my respects to vanity, I talk with all the painters who were there — they had themselves presented, very curious about me. But I was so pretty and so well dressed that they will be convinced I do not paint my pictures alone. There is Cheremetieff (who does horrors), Lehmann — an elderly man, very agreeable, some talent. And Liphart — sickly, malicious; he exhibits something there that is detestable, banal, repellent, all cheap sweetness. He is the one who said Bastien did my painting. Envious, wicked — it enrages him that people talk about me.
And finally Edelfelt (presented once by Cartwright) — some talent. Good-looking fellow, rather vulgar — a Russian Finn!
In sum, it was very fine — you see, the main thing is to be pretty. Everything lies there.
The grand prize and the homeward journey are drenched in torrential rain.