Tuesday, 12 February 1878

They misled me about the time so as to take my place, and then Amélie and two other wretches maintained that they had told me nothing and that I had made the mistake myself.
This lie, like all lies, revolted me — all the more so since, I must say to the credit of the human race, those whom I had defended in the affair of the Swiss girls did not so much as utter a word to say I was right.
I say this so that it may be known; otherwise I have no need of protection, since I only raise my voice when I am in the right.
This morning I could not work at all; I could see nothing, and in the afternoon Berthe came, and I gave myself leave. She is mad about her beau, and I believe that one of these days we shall disguise ourselves and follow him, to find out whether he is deceiving Berthe. We would be accompanied at a distance by Popaul... the pretext for bringing him is excellent. I have the fine (?) part — my friend is in love, she wants to make sure of this man’s word, her happiness depends on it, I risk myself out of devotion, etc., and at the same time I have an excuse to write to Cassagnac. But... that sly creature Berthe is quite capable of getting herself recognised and telling everyone that she is the one sacrificing herself for Cassagnac and me. After the mask, I distrust her, and I will never forgive her — never, never, never, never. In everything I somehow manage to spoil matters; well, this time I have at least the satisfaction of telling myself it is not my fault, and that is a relief.
At around seven o’clock I telegraphed Cassagnac to come if he could this evening to the Italiens — we have things to discuss with him.
Signed: Suzanne, Georges.
We went to the Italiens, and he did not come, naturally. But I have a sheet signed by Berthe which I can make use of; she has authorised me to tell Cassagnac everything and to do as I please with her signature.
They were singing La Traviata — Mme Albani, Capoul, and Pandolfini. Great artists, but I did not enjoy it; yet in the last act I had not exactly a desire to die, but I said to myself that I was going to suffer and die at the very moment when everything might come right. It is a prophecy I treat myself to. I was dressed like a baby, which is very becoming when one is slim and well made. The white bows on my shoulders, my bare neck and arms made me look like a Velázquez infanta.
To die... It would be absurd, and yet it seems to me that I am going to die. I cannot live — I am not made in the ordinary way; I have a heap of things too many and a heap of things missing, and a character that cannot last. If I were a goddess, with the whole Universe at my service, I would find the service badly done. One cannot be more capricious, more demanding, more impatient — though sometimes, or perhaps always, I have a certain foundation of reason, of calm.
But I do not explain myself well — I only tell you that my life cannot last. My plans, my hopes, my little vanities, all in ruins... I have been mistaken about everything — or else is it... right, the way it is?

Notes

Velázquez painted the young Spanish infantas in stiff court dress with wide skirts. ↩