Sunday, 26 July 1874

Princess Marguerite was at church, and all elegant Spa with her.
It rains nearly all day. I have a new hat, very pretty black felt.
I walk down the avenue with Walitsky; the count accompanies us. I met everyone I know, even Baron Forger and the Spanish duke, who greeted me for the first time since the sort of introduction through Basilevitch. And even de Neufarge greeted me -- he who, since he was banished from society, had been pretending not to see anyone.
Gericke has disappeared; one no longer sees him. What is the matter with him? That is the question. His change began a few days before Basilevitch's departure and has since gone crescendo. They say it is because of Tanlay. And Maman frightened me terribly by saying her supposition: that the baron has changed because he thinks I am in love with him and, not wishing to encourage a hopeless love...
[Written across:] This Maman never tells me anything but disturbing things. One moment it is to put into my head that fifteen people I do not know are in love with me, the next...
This wretched idea had already crossed my mind. If it is so, I am in despair and I torment myself. The Greek comes; I was at the piano. He pokes his head through the door and forms a smile. Maman is in bed; I could not send him away. He comes in and stays a very long time, hums, plays, talks. Each of his visits costs us a broken chair -- he is a Porthos.
I am alone again; there is a knock; it is the Pole with roses, which he holds out to me:
"What, these are for me?"
"Could you doubt it?"
"You are very kind."
And I put those roses in a candlestick. He too stays a long time. I wanted to tell him that it is a lost cause, that I do not love him.
We go to the evening music; Monsieur de Jahal walks with us until we go home.
In the evening Maman sings an elegy. She says the count loves me, that such a love at his age is dangerous; she cited a fatal example and all sorts of things. She said finally that this young poet told her that one of these days he would have a terrible grief, one he might not be able to bear, that it would take great strength and courage, etc. They claim I turned pale, and then blushed.
It is always agreeable to hear that one is loved. As for... I do not know why I said: "Of course it is agreeable; if he dies, even that will please me and establish my reputation."
Only, no matter what they say, I shall never believe that I could have inspired anything, I, a miserable little creature.
One would say I think highly of myself, and yet, you see, I have not the courage to believe that a man loves me. I dare not have the audacity to believe it, for fear of being mistaken and ashamed afterward.

Notes

In English in the original.