Thursday, 21 March 1878

Hm...! hm. You know that I no longer write down all my thoughts?
I had asked for tickets to Versailles elsewhere, and as they were slow in sending them I asked Cassagnac for them today — and what was my vexation when, two hours after dispatching my petition, I received word from elsewhere that they would send the tickets.
Berthe came to tell me that the comte Multedo had again asked for her hand in marriage and that since she refused him again, he told her he would go and court "that Russian young lady." Poor girl! For me to believe that, she would have had to hide her pique the other evening and not wear the look she wore in speaking to me today. It is vexing, all the same. Just think — on Sunday she tells me how entirely Multedo is hers, and on Tuesday... oh! fie.
God, how I resent that girl! I do not detest her as such, for whatever good or ill is done to me, my sympathies and antipathies are instinctive and irrevocable. But I resent her. It is her idiotic and wicked action that was the cause and the beginning of what now makes Cassagnac lost... short of a miracle.
She had placed me in a position so false, so strained, so painful that I think of it only with rage, and that rage keeps growing, and I think of it often.