# Sunday, 27 November 1876

The Mertens woman came in the morning to tell me that young de La Motte had called on her yesterday at eleven o’clock at night to tell her that he had fallen in love with me, and that by showing me to him she had made him wretched. I was in my bath, and in a fit of indignation I let her sully my body with her eyes of a ....ess; the word is harsh.

Why does one conceal one’s nudity? Because one is not certain of being beautiful. If one had the certainty of a perfect and irreproachable beauty, one would have no scruple about showing oneself naked.

I went to see Berthe and the good Mme de Mouzay. I asked the latter for advice: should I accept the Mertens’ invitation, knowing that M. de La Motte would be there this evening?

— You know, I added, it distresses me to learn what you have just repeated to me (the Mertens woman had told them); spurned love makes nothing but enemies. I do not care to have people fall in love with me. All I can offer is a good and honest friendship.

— That is all very well, my dear, replied the Countess, but I advise you not to neglect connections that present themselves to you. If you come this evening you will plant a seed that will germinate and — who knows? — perhaps you will find a tree grown when you return to Paris. The La Mottes are not people to neglect, neither for their name, nor their connections, nor their position. This young man is a brilliant match even for you, and would above all be a lever in Paris.

Why, that is perfectly true — very well, I shall go! But without changing my dress, and in my hat.

Everything went off with incomparable calm and majesty. The drawing room was brightly lit; the Baroness, with her white hair, her young and beautiful face and her rich dress, looked like an old portrait. The Baron, as cocksure as ever — a hundred thousand francs a year. The poor man cannot accustom himself to poverty and keeps up both his habits of luxury and his grand manner.

At nine o’clock the young M. de La Motte, in evening dress, entered the salon and came slowly to kiss the hand of the Baroness, of her sister, and of the Comtesse de Bailleul — wife of the Comte de Bailleul I knew four months ago.

He was presented to Maman, who was in her hat as I was.

All those powdered heads and trailing gowns seemed like shades from the last century. A table was brought in and a whist party made up in solemn silence.

Since yesterday it seems to me that I am playing a part. Do you realise it is a perfectly official interview?!

I examined M. de La Motte, and this examination has unfortunately done nothing to change my first impression. Unfortunately — because this man has a position such as I desire, and I am a woman such as he desires.

Antipathies are not ours to command.

I conversed with composure, restraint, wit, and grace. Which did not prevent people from going into raptures over my “decided air.”

“It is this calm, this assurance — they are marvellous,” people said. “She does not raise her voice, she does not change her attitude while saying the most extraordinary and serious things.”

Without affectation I let it be seen that I had studied and read widely. They dared to speak of marriage, and the “young man” put forward such singular theories...

— “One can be in love whenever one wishes, and I for example — if I find a girl who pleases me as to face, as to figure, as to mind, and as to fortune, I shall marry her. For I cannot marry a poor person — it would be a sacrilege; I am the first man in my county and I must keep up appearances.”

You must admit that is a bit strong. The Baroness exchanged a glance with me and said drily:

— Foreigners all think so and have the worst opinion of the French — they believe French men marry only for money.

I had told her as much yesterday, and my supposition was singularly confirmed.

Things were said that seemed to me the strangest in the world. For that matter, it is all quite above board. He offers me a name, a position, and brilliant connections with the first families of France, along with a most remarkable career. In exchange he asks for wit and money. It is a commercial transaction, a very... natural enterprise, and if the man were not so disagreeable to me I would accept. The face would count for nothing. It is this character — dry, brutal, self-interested, ambitious and tenacious, covered with a triple coat of worldly varnish. Yes, he belongs to the category of the varnished ones.

Charming, supple, very agreeable, attentive and humble in society — in private he must be a hard, disagreeable and wicked man.

I shall quote one remark among others — we were speaking of Alexis.

— He told me I should never be happy, I said.

— That is because happiness will present itself to you, Mademoiselle, replied M. de La Motte, and you will kick it away with that light, composed air I have already come to know in you.

Oh! But he said so many things and far more direct ones. He knew I was forewarned. I said that I did not like republican France and wished to leave it.

— On the contrary, Mademoiselle, you must stay and drive out the Republic.

— And what could I do, Monsieur! Ah! if I could do anything, I would certainly put all my strength into it.

— You could do a great deal.

— And how so?

— For that you would have to do one thing.

— What thing?

— Ah! I shall not tell you.

You should have heard him — it was all in the tone.

When for the hundredth time my “formed character” was spoken of again, I felt rather irritated, and instead of showing it by making faces I said in a calm, carrying voice so as to be heard by all:

— It seems to me that without some firmness of character one cannot live honestly!

It had exactly the effect of an invisible hand planting upturned pins in the audience’s armchairs.

— Oh! how true that is! said everyone.

— Are you romantic, Mademoiselle?

— What do you mean by it, Monsieur? There are a hundred ways of being romantic.

— One must own oneself beaten, said the “young man,” hypocritically or sincerely, when one finds oneself in the presence of such a mind.

Followed by: it is extraordinary, marvellous, etc., etc.

Oh, the fools! They think they can dupe a rich “foreigner” — vain, headstrong, easily carried away.

They all had the bad taste to attack Cassagnac, calling him: the handsome one, the superb, the splendid, the incomparable Paolo.¹

Ah! yes — hang it all — Paolo as you call him. Paolo the gentleman, the mastiff, the duellist, the scarecrow of the rabble — the man who carries pistols and bludgeons on his person, who has in his hôtel a mirror to see who comes to him and a speaking tube to cry out that he is not in.

How dare you, sinister cretins — how dare you compare yourselves to this Paolo whom you venture to ridicule while loading him with excessive praise?!

This noble, loyal, brave man — compared to that vain machine of vanity! Come, you never even thought of it! And if you thought little of him you would not exhaust yourselves in diminishing him.

The varnished young man mentioned that his sister had married at sixteen.

I made a gesture of astonishment and repulsion.

— How early, I said; I shall marry at twenty-five.

I said so much in this vein that he ended by speaking of butterflies burning their wings, of precautions to be taken, etc., etc.

Ah! Messieurs les Français, you thought you would find an extravagant young girl, rich and wilful — a foreigner, in short, to use the big word. But what do you think of us foreigners, then! Pshaw! Let us not be angry. People think of us what they should; only I am the exception to the rule. I am neither Russian nor a foreigner; I am Myself — I am what a woman ought to be, with my ambitions... the moment to satisfy them has come... well then?... let us wait a little.

I was lying on Maman’s bed when the thought came to me... I sprang up exclaiming:

— It seems to me that M. de La Motte is asking for my hand in a fairly transparent fashion?

— Yes.

— He is twenty-seven to twenty-eight years old, and he has a black beard...

— Why yes.

— Well! Remember the prediction la Moreau made for me four months ago: “Soon a man of twenty-eight with a black beard will ask for your hand” — “Well, what do you say to that!”

Ah! From that instant I began to revive. Oh! My God — if even half her prediction came true... She promised me everything, everything one could desire!...

But is it not strange!

Speaking ill of Paul de Cassagnac...

Ah! if only one loved men by comparison.