# Wednesday, 13 December 1876

Wednesday, 13 December 1876

I breathe again, and go out for a walk on foot with my aunt, Dina, and Bihovetz. The others are dancing at the Cercle de la Méditerranée while I endure the dinner you are about to witness. Broussais, from long habit of living with Pelikan who is deaf, shouts at the top of his lungs. I say nothing and think that I am eighteen years old and that the others are dancing over there.
Broussais has vowed a sort of worship to me, and this coarse personage overwhelms me with praise in the form of friendly advice. The talk turned to the consul.
— He is a wretch, said I, and if he wishes to hear it, I shall say so to his face.
— She is right, says Broussais, and yet one must feel for him — what can he do, he has children... but it would be his duty all the same to protect all Russians; I have told him so, and I even called him a scoundrel, and he dared not answer me. Having delivered this supremely delicate remark, he moved on to me, my fate, my marriage.
— I have already told you, Monsieur, that I do not wish to marry. Let us speak of frogs under the microscope, as we did this morning.
— Ah, there's young nature for you, the young bird, look! And I was told she was in love with that... nephew of — I forget who — of Cardinal Antonelli, and that she was even his fiancée, everything was arranged, but that he was fickle and left.
I leave you to judge the effect.
— That is a lie, said I in a calm voice, but very pale. Maman, my aunt, and Dina had no idea how to look at me or what I might do. From that moment I became as if frozen. I remained until the end of dinner and withdrew, cold and silent. To let out a great cry, to fall to the floor and weep all my tears — that would have been the supreme relief, especially if I had gone and made a scene among my own family afterwards. But, as yesterday, I contained myself; my eyes are dry; I scarcely complain at all — yet my rooms are isolated and no one hears me.
My God, teach me what I must do. I had imagined everything — I told myself people would talk; but between the telling of a thing and the living through of it there is a chasm. By dint of imagining what was said, I had grown accustomed to it and accepted it tacitly — but to hear it spoken aloud! You, my God, who see into my soul — You alone understand the full depth of my wound and the full horror of my humiliation.