Wednesday, 4 July 1877

While talking of Alexandre, of Janvier de la Motte, and of marriage, we came to say — that is to say, I said — that I should marry nothing under five hundred thousand francs of income. Whereupon the great fortunes of France were discussed, and the baronne recounted the marriages and misfortunes of the Marquis de Preaulx, and proposed him to me as a jest. He is sixty-five years old and has six hundred thousand francs of income at the very least. I replied that I accepted him in advance, with the promise of cutting a figure, of running my salon as no one else could, of being wise, etc., etc. And so I would.
No — seriously — here is something to my taste. Old nobility, splendid châteaux, magnificent town houses… stables… jewels.
Ah! if Heaven were ever to grant me such a reward for all the wrong I have done… God, how magnificent it would be!
He is no Alexandre, that one! And how I would abjure all my vulgar jokes, all those common expressions…