I have all sorts of problems and feel discouraged.

It is in fact agreed that I am the plague, the cholera of the benevolent and generous men who are interested in art and that, when I show myself with my plasters, even the Emperor of the Sahara would flee.

Last night, two men tried to force my shutters. I recognized them: they are two of Rodin's Italian models. He told them to kill me. I am in his way; he wants to get rid of me.

I am in no mood to be deceived any longer by the crafty devil and false character whose greatest pleasure is to take advantage of everyone.

I don't want to say anything because I know I am unable to protect you from the harm that I see.

Sir Rodin convinced my parents to have me committed; they are all in Paris to arrange it.

I am scared; I don't know what is going to happen to me. What was the point of working so hard and of being talented, to be rewarded like this? Never a penny, tormented all my life. It is horrible; one cannot imagine it.