She is far better than her portrait — a woman of sixty who looks forty-five or fifty. Her hair is a rather pretty blond with almost no grey; a pleasant smile; in sum, a very agreeable woman who carries herself well in her black-and-white dress, and who does very pretty embroidery from designs she invents herself.

Bastien has the two upper front teeth set apart, just like mine.

Why go looking for any number of hidden causes of illness — he has what he and his brother said he had: rheumatism and kidney trouble. If it were stomach cancer he wouldn't be getting better, and if it were... foolishness, that's simply not possible. He has never led a reckless life — besides, I'm not quite sure what people are supposing, it seems that by going to bed at ten and living very quietly one can still come to that point, one woman is enough... It is none of my business.

The thing is I am afraid of boring him, of not pleasing him enough, of being a burden! He must not love me, if I feel this way! And how can I think I am so disagreeable to him? It is not possible. I do not feel that he takes pleasure in seeing me, though he is very amiable. There are fleeting glimpses, something indefinable that puts one at ease... And that I lack. And yet I cannot think it is really lacking.

That man is very spoilt, very accustomed to people who prostrate themselves at his feet. So... I too am accustomed to everyone making an enormous fuss over my amiability.

And so... But he is such a great artist [Words crossed out] — a being altogether above the others.

He knows that I understand and adore his painting...

None of it matters! I do not please him. He is perhaps glad to see me, as he is glad to see fifty others. But I am nothing more. And there is nothing to be done about it. This feeling will make me stupid with him. Heaven does not treat me kindly... I would be so...

Ah! No.

And then everything! everything! everything!