Wednesday, 1 September 1875 — continued

At three o’clock I go out to get into the carriage, still in my dark costume but with a fairly fresh face.
Downstairs we encounter Gonzales and son. The father launches into his lyrical praises — the son follows at some distance.
After five minutes of this childishness — what charm, what wit, and so on and so forth.
— Do you know, Maria, he says — I have been told you are to marry; and do you know whom? D’Audiffret, he tells me, without giving me time to say anything, answering his own question.
— Oh no, that is not true, I say, as naturally as can be, without blushing and without agitation. I know who told you that — it is Mademoiselle Durand!
— It is a young lady.
— Yes, says my aunt, it is Mademoiselle Durand — she was with us the other day at the Bois.
— It is he I am marrying — he, my friend, I say, pointing to Rémy.
— I accept, says the young man, bowing.
— But you know, Maria, he is a charming fellow, d’Audiffret — a charming fellow, says Gonzales, hoping to draw out a confession.
— No doubt, Monsieur — he is very nice, but that is no reason. One cannot marry every charming fellow, I add with a laugh, and I find a great many charming.
I no longer wish to think about our failed acquaintance with Madame de Gonzales. I know Monsieur, I know Rémy — they are charming to me; as for the ladies, I do not know them.
I treat them both as comrades and am simple and frank with them. It goes without saying that this is put on.
When he told me what he told me, I was not even surprised; I had been expecting it, I don’t know why. But the fine thing was that I was not in the least disturbed. It was natural; there was nothing unexpected for me, nothing surprising in what he was telling me.
Ah! the Durands! Fie! Petty human miseries.
I am astonished. As a rule I am so easily agitated, so easily moved, especially by things of that sort. I am truly astonished at how little effect this petty revenge of the Durands has on me — Carmen de Ballen de Guzman de Durand, as the hero says.
Really, it is curious: I, who flare up like gunpowder at the slightest spark, remain unmoved by this Guzman firework display.
I insist on this, because I want my meaning to be clearly understood. How good it is to invent every romance imaginable for oneself, with heroes possible and impossible! One is prepared, one expects anything, and one receives bombshells more calmly than confetti at carnival. And how much better it is to be calm and serene than upset and blushing at the least thing.
For my part, I feel a kind of respect for calm people who take everything naturally and seem to be moved by nothing.
Well, I feel a great respect for my own person after the conversation with my two Remys. The son is eighteen; I knew him at thirteen or fourteen, when I was eleven or twelve. That was my happiest time. I was perfectly at peace, apart from the agitation caused me by the receptions given by the Empress of Germany, Queen Augusta, who lived next to the gaming house on the Promenade.
I trembled at the sight of the gilded uniforms and the resplendent gowns going into the palace.
With the door open, one could see the antechamber, and I was breathless at the sight of that grandeur, at the scent, so to speak, of majesty one breathed there.
Then there was the palace of Princess Marie of Baden, Duchess of Hamilton, sister of the Grand Duke of Baden and mother of my duke — above all when I saw Madame Veriguine’s sister going in.
I envied her, and I had a presentiment of all the torments of that kind that lay ahead of me.
Did I not say somewhere in this journal, after our walk with Girofla: The whole town will say he is in love with me, and in a week that he is marrying me.
We go to Binder’s to look at carriages; he asks six thousand three hundred francs for the most beautiful things in the world. Afterwards we drive about the Bois, along a great many shady and almost deserted avenues. At five o’clock we go to the main avenue; there is a crowd, but no one worth seeing.
Lucie Durand greets me with her most charming smile.
She has launched her piece of news, that girl, and is pleased with herself. My aunt and I exchange only a few words with her; the poor woman is quite sad at my fiancé’s absence. She peers into every carriage, casts her eyes about on all sides, examines every tree. This absence has quite deflated her, and all of it on my account. I myself am embarrassed; I go about with my tail between my legs, no one knows why.
In my evening prayer I prostrate myself three times over this affair. Beaten, so miserably beaten! My proud temper rises up against this humiliation and clamours for revenge!