Friday, 15 March 1878

While we were at dinner, M. Georges crossed the room to go to his father’s. He might have chosen another moment. At first I was stunned — then, furious, I went to lock the door, intending to reopen it — but they thought I was “imprisoning the wretched old man,” and since I did not want them to have supposed it for nothing, I kept the key. They opened another door, which settled everything — but Madame my mother began to scream and to make a scene in which I of course played the most monstrous role, since I was sequestering a dying man and refusing to let his dinner be served. In short, I was overwhelmed with the most odious abuse, to which I replied in a horribly cold and insolent tone: another woman would already be dead for what you say, but you are my mother and I owe you respect. I am glad there is someone to see what you say to me on account of Georges — and how you seek to create a quarrel between us; you seek to have me insult you so as to distort the affair.
Then I am told that everyone already knows me as a wretch, a brigand, a horror, and that it is for this reason that one cannot introduce me into society.
What I particularly admire is a mother screaming such slanders against her daughter before people who are almost strangers. I truly cannot believe she wishes to defame and destroy me — it is a fury, a madness, some kind of illness that carries her away.
I am almost glad to be so miserable in this, because it entitles me to pray to God to have pity on me for the rest.
You know what M. Georges screamed the other night — heard by the doctor, by Blanc, by everyone:
— Your daughter is a trollop who trails about every low haunt in Paris.
And when they tried to silence him:
— Yes, she... etc. etc. And then he said:
— Very well, send for the police — the commissioner will establish that you (Maman and my aunt) want me for your husband.
But between the way I render it and the way he said it there is an abyss — it was so hideous that I cannot remember it, and even if I could remember I would not soil my pen — to say nothing of my lips — with such horrible atrocities.
Yorke and Berthe in the evening.