Thursday, 8 July 1875

Editors’ note
[One line crossed out]
Trifon, on the orders of my grandfather, has killed Mops. This wretched dog had been given to Ambroise to be looked after; he kept it tied up; and the poor creature broke the rope and came running here to me — and they killed it without mercy. Tell me, good people, if your heart is not revolted, if you are not outraged!
Such an action needs no commentary.
And to think I was so well disposed toward that dreadful old man.
It is such a vile and atrocious and cruel and wicked action that I cannot say all I think of it. I set it down, and let it be judged.
Nina and Smirnoff come; I tell them of this atrocity. They are astonished and grieved.
At the concert our gentlemen come to speak to us and ask how I am.
Badly, very badly — and I recount my grief. Girofla makes me laugh a little, but I am dazed and furious, for there is no way to avenge myself. He proposes to thrash Trifon; offers to come himself as a replacement for my dog, provided I look after him and stroke him as I did the dog; and promises to send me a little cat tomorrow. But none of this consoles me — I cannot avenge myself.
I am in frightful spirits.
I have told the miserable old man — calling him what he deserves — that I will come to the pavilion no more, that I will speak to him no more, that I do not know him any more.
I want to dine at the London House. I say so — but Girofla is engaged with Saëtone and Danis. As if that could prevent him from dining with us. He is a wretch; everyone is against me. Dreadful day.
When I summoned Trifon to scold him, he answered me with an insolent air that I had no power over him.
True enough — he belongs to my grandfather. Oh! but I would embrace on both cheeks whoever would give that villain a good thrashing for me!
So long as revenge is possible, there is no anger that does not give pleasure. But to be in my position — that is the height of fury!
It is enough to give one jaundice. I did not shout, I did not flush — but I went white with anger. It is terrible; it is an unspeakable impertinence, a murderous affront! My God!
I dine without uttering a single word, beneath the orange trees and palm trees of the London House, and come home utterly crushed and wretched. Devil take it!
Two minutes after learning of the base murder — for it is the murder of a poor defenceless creature that loved me and was killed as it came running to me — two minutes after learning this atrocious and cruel thing, I write to Maman:
— Dreadful things are happening here. Your father has had Mops killed.
I am unfortunately too good-natured to kill Renard — but if they exasperate me, I will do it. I am furious, and I swear to you that I am not laughing.
And there — I send it just as it is, without a signature.
I am crushed and to be pitied — and in recounting this atrocity to Girofla, I nearly wept.
And yet there is room for another thought.
Yesterday, looking at the portrait of Princess Marguerite, he said:
— She is very sweet, this princess.
— Yes, I say, she is prettier than her portrait.
— All the same, she is very pretty — she has a certain something about her that...
It was said with conviction. I do indeed acknowledge in her that little tilted, noble, charming air.
I am jealous of her beauty.
A queen — and beautiful!
I understand men’s devotion to queens like her. She is not short of partisans. It is not that I wish to say anything unkind. No — but the reverence for beauty joined to the religious and proper reverence that every right-minded man must have, and does have, for royalty, produces a senti-mentalism. I myself have this reverence, and I regard kings as sacred persons chosen by God.
Tell me — is one not moved, inspired, and elevated to something divine by this beautiful sentiment?
What does the republic inspire? Ferocity, arrogance — the republic is produced by the selfishness and greed of the rabble.
The monarchy, by elevated, noble, great sentiments — ones that enlighten and soften the soul into which they penetrate.
For my part, I feel seized by a holy dread. Are kings not the representatives of God on earth? I bow before them. There are good ones and bad ones — but the worst of them are better than the best of republics.
The republic is the degradation and downfall of everything delicate and elevated.
Nothing is lost in this world. Since I stopped caring for Galula, I have begun to care more for Saëtone. When one stops loving one person, one immediately transfers that affection to another object without knowing it.
And when one thinks one loves nobody, one is mistaken — one always loves. If not a man, then a dog, or a piece of furniture, with the same force, only in a different form.
When one loves only a single person, one loves far more intensely than when one loves several. This is understandable, for in the other case the share of affection given to the man is divided. When one truly loves a man, one loves no one else — and nothing. If one loves, however little, another person, one encroaches on the great love. And I know that if I loved, I would love exclusively. Everyone else would disappear.
If I loved, I would want to be loved as I would love. I would tolerate nothing — not even a word spoken to another.
Such a love is not to be found. And so I shall never love. For no one will love me as I know how to love.
Dessin à la plume : à gauche une voiture couverte où sont assises deux personnes, un homme en chapeau debout, au centre un gros chien coiffé d'un chapeau, au fond des passants, à droite un homme portant une roue
Scène de promenade : une voiture, des passants en chapeau, un chien Mon Journal, t. 5 (fac-similé) — tome05.docx image 6 (après ¶2762)

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
London House: a fashionable café and confectioner’s in Nice, one of Marie’s favourite haunts. ↩
In French in the original: Ventre Saint-Gris ! — the famous oath of Henri IV, a euphemism for Ventre de Dieu! (“God’s belly!”). A literary archaism that Marie deploys for comic-dramatic effect. ↩
Marie hyphenates senti-mentalisme in the original. ↩