Friday, 12 March 1875

Oh, quick! To write, write, write — I shall unburden myself, I need to; for a long while, for want of time, I have not sung my lamentations, and all my pent-up troubles are choking me!
There is news, but I shall begin at the beginning. While I was playing the piano, the door opens and to my great surprise I see Maman come in — but that is not what matters.
We are scarcely in her room when Mme de Mouzay arrives, showers us with a thousand kindnesses, like the excellent woman she is, recounts her quarrel with the grand marquise and asks the cause of the break with the Howards. I am so agitated that I keep stopping to look at myself in the glass, or to take a turn about the room, or to read a passage from Les Femmes célèbres, or to smoke.
To resume: Maman, embarrassed, says that we no longer see each other, that there was no unpleasantness, nor any cause at all. I blush. Indeed, Mrs Howard’s pretext is so base that one does not readily repeat it.
Then Mme de Mouzay takes offence.
— What! I tell you all my affairs and you say nothing. They say in town that the Prodgers woman is the cause of it, that she made it one of her conditions.
That idea had occurred to me at the very first, but I do not know why I did not dwell on it. Oh! my uncle, what curses upon our head! If you could see what bitterness there is at the bottom of my soul and in my face as I write this, you would certainly be frightened. If you could know my anger and my hatred for you, stupid as you are, you would stop us. If you could see what harm you do me — my tears, my heartaches, my humiliations, my rages and my despair — heartless man, without faith or law as you are, you would have pity on me. (Pause and tears, sobs.) I had done my hair prettily, I looked fresh, my eyes were shining — and now here I am, red, tearful and sad!
Ah! my uncle, my dear uncle, fool or coward, I curse you none the less!
I am no longer crying; I am a little pale, and indignation and anger have made me beautiful again! Yes, but only for as long as I am indignant and roused; in a moment I shall be pale. I shall have rings under my eyes, and in the future one wrinkle more.
That is not all: we go without dresses, we do not build the house we need, I sleep with my aunt, in my own house I have no room, we have only one servant, we are in debt — and a villa is bought for Georges!
Oh! My God! My God! I stop; I am going to Maman. Nothing I can say will ever be what I feel!
May the good Lord forgive him, but as for me, I have neither pity nor charity, and I curse him.
But where does this weakness come from? Here I am repenting, pitying him. O my God, have pity on me, then.

Notes

French title: “Famous Women”. ↩
In Italian in the original: pausa. ↩