Sunday, 24 August 1884

This morning at half past six we went to take another photograph, and poor Emile finally tells me in detail what this illness is. Inflammation of the intestines and kidneys. On one side. And since it is in an inaccessible region... it has no bearing — that is to say, he can eat what he likes. The doctor says he fears a tumour. One knows what that means. It cannot be cured. Besides, he is too weak to undergo the necessary treatment. And without that treatment, there is no hope.
— It is a vicious circle, says Emile.
— But... Good heavens!
Oh! there is no doubt.
At noon we went to the funeral of De Nittis, a painter I did not know personally but who had talent.
Then to the Bois, and on the way back these ladies wanted to go up to Bastien's — I remained in the carriage, and what do I see! Jules's head at the window, his two arms waving for me to come up. Emile comes to fetch me and I go up.
But all that... why?
The architect comes this evening to fetch the photograph for Jules, and Dina, who plays the ingénue as always, asks him whether the lady who came in to see Jules the other day was Mme Mackay.
General consternation.
— You could not have seen Mme Mackay at my brother's! cries the architect — is it not so, Madame, that you have never seen Mme Mackay at my brother's?
Whereupon Dina persisted in playing the innocent; I tried to change the subject by exchanging knowing looks with Emile... In short... It went...
And we know nothing at all, in the end...
All that, all that, all that... What is the point, what good is it? Disgust with everything and everywhere. If he dies, a few tears from the brain; if he lives, an indifferent friend. But I want nothing any more.
Everything is repugnant and horrible. And above all what I write — full of: all that, of because, of and then, of in short — I could weep with irritation at all these that's, that's, that's.

Notes

Giuseppe De Nittis (1846–1884), Italian Impressionist painter based in Paris, celebrated for his street scenes. He died on 21 August 1884.