Wednesday, 27 August 1884

I work a little on the painting, but it is not going well.
I am not even a woman to that monster Bastien. This evening he takes my hands, claps me on the shoulder as one does a good old comrade.
And then he says: this child is elegant — she has chic.
Brute! And yet he is fonder of me than of Maman, my aunt, or Dina... Though even that is not certain.