Monday, 11 August 1884

I went out at five in the morning to make a sketch, but by six o’clock there were already people about and I was forced to leave, furious. There were twenty of them around the cab, though it was closed.
In the afternoon I go through the streets again — nothing holds any more!
Maman went to see Bastien alone; apparently he told her he would devote a quarter of his life to pleasing me if he recovers. To begin with, I am convinced Maman is inventing or embellishing — and besides, if he did say that, so much the worse.
There is Mme Mackay; as for me, he will prove his gratitude by helping me obtain a medal.
That is bitter.
And now the very words I longed for make me feel a very sharp unease, a great jealousy... Almost grief.
Perhaps he thinks we want a painting for nothing. Ugh! How horrible. He will give us one. But...
Mme Mackay or some other woman.
Today he was reading an English novel — she is English or American, at any rate she speaks English, and he reads an English novel. That means he is thinking of her... And then everything his good mother and he and Emile can say in friendship — none of it matters, it is beside the point. I have spoken elsewhere of my greed in matters of feeling. I have even once compared Bastien to great capitals whose approach filled me with disquiet, with anxiety, with sorrow. Well then — how can one, when one is jealous of mere friends — for I am — how can one... After all, here too they are friends, but with something more.
Now that he is grateful, it is very disagreeable.
I go to the Bois.