Thursday, 12 July 1877

Georges has not yet left — I am so vexed to expose this wound before our guests!
We have visited townhouses in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. That is where I should like to live, for there it is not the scheming Paris I detest. One feels at home.
Is not Alexandre "a good fellow, often trivial but fairly witty and amusing"?
And am I not "a somewhat fast young girl with whom he sketched out a little risqué romance"? Having read these two definitions in a nasty feuilleton in the Figaro, I am terribly afraid that this is exactly it. No — fie!
Shall I never, then, be able to keep myself out of the mud! These writers,^5 my dear ones, arrange everything just as it pleases them. One and the same person can be poeticised or soiled with equal facility. Just as one often reads phrases like this: "But her beauty, her grace, her distinction, her noble and modest air triumphed over the weakness of her position. Men fell in love with her, women loved her as a sister, and in a short time she acquired real friendships, powerful protections, and was regarded by those proud families as one of their own world, their own caste" — and at other times, in analogous circumstances, one reads: "But her beauty, her grace, her distinction, her noble and modest air could not triumph over the vile milieu in which she found herself. All those charms which in other circumstances would have raised her to the skies could earn her only the obsessions of impertinent men, the contempt and envy of women. And she lived submerged in the trivialities of her condition — ignored or slandered." It depends, as you see, entirely on the caprice of the author, who manipulates all of this in order to arrive at effects, emotions, etc., etc.
I am going to try looking at Alexandre's photograph — I have not done so since Nice. I cannot remain free, and though Alexandre is indifferent to me, I shall occupy with him the corner of my thoughts reserved for such things — as a matter of memory.
[Crossed out: Friday, 13 July 1877]
Why do certain names strike one? One hears an unknown name pronounced, and it sounds strangely in one's ears; one remembers it, it returns several times to one's memory — without rhyme or reason: just so. At the Capitoline ball, Antonelli spoke to me of many people, named almost all the gentlemen present, and I paid attention to not one of those names except Larderei — then I forgot it. During Carnival, Antonelli spoke to me of him again, and the name still made an impression on me.
— Here is Larderei — do you know Larderei?
At the masked ball he led me before him, and pointing him out said:
— He is too ugly, your Larderei, for me to know him.
That manner of speaking resembles Alexandre's — dry, polite, and familiar.
And I went away too preoccupied with Antonelli himself to retain of Larderei any other memory than a very long nose and a bewildered expression. I have no doubt encountered him, but I have never recognised him.
And then, arrived at Naples, I found his name on [a torn sheet] the racing programme. Altamura pointed it out to me.
I also remember that in reading in a newspaper, concerning the Mirafiore and Fanny Lear affair: "The Comtesse de Larderei has addressed a letter to His Majesty, etc., etc." — on reading that, it seemed to me that the Comtesse de Larderei was somehow something to me.
This has the air of imagination — but I assure you it is quite true.
Take these reflections as I give them — without commentary and without consequence. I recount as it comes to me.
[Crossed out: Friday, 13 July 1877]
Besides, every name that has subsequently had some influence on my life has produced the same effect in me.
Do you remember when we were walking down the Toledo on foot with Alexandre on Good Friday? Maman asked him whether it was true that he had fought a duel.
— My God, Madame, he replied, what does it matter? It is neither the first nor the last time, is it not so, Madame? — and as she continued saying I no longer recall what, he interrupted her several times to say that it was neither the first nor the last time, so that the effect of that phrase was affected and rang like a rather childish piece of braggadocio. I recall it with displeasure, because he was lying in saying "not the first time." By such a [Crossed out: like] lie one diminishes oneself so greatly!
[Two lines cancelled: One has the air oneself of finding it would have been better.] Was he then ashamed of having fought for the very first time only — so that he found it necessary to invent?
One should lie only when the lie cannot be discovered. Otherwise it is a very bad effect. I am lying down and writing the inanities that pass through my head. This is better than writing: I tried on dresses at Caroline's, the bodices are etc., etc. — or: I am bored, I see no one, having succeeded in neither hats nor gowns I do not show myself! — or: I am moldering; I am impatient to set seriously to painting. I am ashamed to be squandering myself. Perhaps it is better to write nothing at all when there is nothing to recount — but it is a dear habit.
Posterity will make cuts if it finds me too long.