Monday, 25 June 1877

Enghien, Fauvel, shops. And in the evening: Mouzay, her daughter, the baronesses, the barons, all together. Mme de Daillens likes me, which means I like her too. We do not say so, but one can feel it… besides, she and her mother are both such good creatures — clever and well-read.
I am at this moment excavating through my journal; I want to unearth the foolish things said lightly under the pretext of Antonelli. I deny them and should like to erase all of it — not because I no longer feel that way, but because it is not true. I have changed in many things, but at least I remember having once seen them as I wrote them down — but this Antonelli! I do not recall a single moment of having found him entirely right.
A heap of accumulated despairs had composed in me a deplorable state of mind, and not knowing how to explain myself I kept saying: I love him. Antonelli is handsome, interesting, all one could wish — but I did not love him. I defend myself with all my might — and why? Why? Because I should be genuinely vexed if anyone thought I had loved, for a single moment, anyone other than that devil of an Alexandre. It is not because he is the newest, for at present I no longer think of him. But I remember — as I said at the time in a supplementary note — that I received "a thunderbolt." It was not, however, on the very first day that I received it entirely.
The first day I found him merely a handsome young man — to the point of looking for him in the theatre and in the street. It was on the evening of the departure, in the train, while he was on the platform. Having placed his brother at some distance away, he came back to stand before our compartment and remained there until the moment of departure… and I only realise now, at this very moment, that instead of staying near his brother, he had come and stationed himself before us — God knows why. I looked at him then, and all at once, I do not know how — these things are inexplicable — I went mad, literally mad about him, without working myself into it and without thinking about it: that is to say, truly. Refer to book 59, at the departure. This lasted until Rome, where clerical preoccupations no longer permitted me to dwell on that impression — so brilliant and so agreeable.
Every time I saw him again after that, it was with indifference — save for the memory of that electric shock at the station.
And even at Naples, at that point, I occupied myself with him only in memory — for that first moment, and then for that other moment, more devastating if possible than the first: when after the duel, his arm in a sling, he entered the reading room in a way so wholly unexpected. And now… there is nothing. But I remember that there was a great deal. That is something I cannot say for Antonelli.