# Sunday, 18 February 1877

Sunday, 18 February 1877

Tomorrow it will be eight days since Bijou-bouzouk left.
The weather is heavy, interspersed with rain; we merely go in with Altamura to watch the poor people’s dinner in the middle of the square where the Festival stands...
We have moved down to the mezzanine, where in any case we are more comfortable — the first and second floors are reserved for Prince Charles of Prussia, who arrives tomorrow or the day after.
At the Skating Rink, the same company as yesterday — no one knows us, which is rather interesting. The one who skates and makes such comic gestures to amuse everyone is the Count of Mirafiore, Larderel’s brother-in-law. I blushed with pleasure on learning that it is someone connected to Alexander of Macedon.
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Above, the ceiling; on all four sides walls; a lamp with a shade that gives the room a sickly air — and then Maman and Dina and silence.
Imagine this life — this torment of Tantalus: I go out, I see people, and I attain nothing!! Not one living soul, not one word from my own kind! The solitude made still more unbearable by an hour or two spent in the street. In short, to tell it all, I stay lying down. I, lying down by day and in the evening, without sleeping!
— What sadness! I cried for the twentieth time — and this is how the finest years of my life are passing!
— Oh! yes, sadly, said Maman.
It is the first time she has not told me we live very gaily and like everyone else; I point this out to her, adding that had she always spoken thus we should never have had our scenes. And faced with this submission and the pointlessness of longer speeches — which might perhaps have sustained me by making me impertinent — I feel my whole life slipping away, and I weep without anyone suspecting.
I have attached myself to Larderel as the shipwrecked man clutches at a straw; I have concerned myself with him in detail, just as tonight I studied the flowered pattern of the sofa I was lying on — from boredom, from sadness, from desolation.
That is why I do not myself know what I think. Were I like others, affections would hold their usual place in my life; but I am unhappy — I am like that prisoner who attaches himself to a spider as to a human creature; the smallest folly delights me beyond measure and then plunges me into pain. Larderel’s coachman has left. That is one sorrow.
But Larderel said he would return in twelve or fifteen days. I am nothing to him; he is little to me — but for the moment he was everything. He amused himself with me as I amused myself with him — only for him I was what a play is to someone who goes every day, whereas I am the provincial who once a year goes to the Opera with pink ribbons on her hat and talks of it until the day she goes again next year.
I do not want to go to Paris — that would nonetheless be an ending — but I am waiting for Larderel; that is how I want it. Why wait for him? I do not know — it is a caprice... I shall wait. And my pride says: this is wretched — had he wished, he would have stayed; why attach oneself to people instead of waiting for them to attach themselves to you? And I reply to my pride: I am of your opinion, but I never claimed that Larderel was mad about me, and once this truth is established, my self-respect has nothing to do with it, and I bear no one a grudge. I am simply following my fancy, I expect nothing — so you may rest easy and not worry about consequences. And this dialogue concluded, I shall tell you what provoked it: it was my character which said this: You see — I do not understand all that! I would do everything at once. To love? Then to love completely — to stop at nothing, to see nothing but one’s love. Extremes everywhere, rapidity, violence.
In my opinion... I interrupt it, for it was going to say what Larderel ought to have done — it was going to say something foolish, since Larderel has said nothing, promised nothing, given no false impression; he has done as he wished, and there is no reproach to be made to him. You understand, then, that it is I... who., and not he?
We understand — but since you imagined, Mademoiselle, that this man was going to love you...
Yes, I imagined it — which is why I let the characters you have just heard speak, and above all the last one, who declared that if there was to be love, he could conceive of it in only one way.
Antonelli’s name was mentioned — it had the effect on me of squalid wretchedness, like everything connected to him, cardinals and Pope included.