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 Count 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 all that now makes Cassagnac a lost cause... barring 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.
A delightful evening. We went to see Joseph Balsamo, which has just been staged at the Odéon. I know the novel as I know all the principal works of A[lexandre] Dumas, which I absolutely adore.
Two telegrams of invitation had been sent for this evening, one to Cassagnac, the other to Blanc. Neither came.
Ah! Berthe.
Now I should very much like not to arouse suspicion by making certain observations, but first...
Oh! really, this Berthe. It could have been so amusing! We had made a platonic pact, the gentleman having spoken of love in a harmless and charming way.
he had even said it was sad for a man to have arrived, for it takes a moral resilience so rare and so extraordinary for love to last afterwards... And then that he had never been seriously in love, etc. None of this was at all serious, of course, but it was precious material for a delightful anonymous comedy that would have amused us both... And that madwoman, that sheep, that imbecile, that pretty Englishwoman, that devotee of M. Robert Lancaster, who destroys everything! In a single second.
You see, good people, it comes to the same thing! When I do not spoil things, another spoils them for me.
It is discouraging. But the charming Englishwoman... wretch!
I get angry over such a trifle... A trifle! You are priceless, you people! A man who has fought sixteen duels — that is a trifle! And that magnificent character, that courage, that self-possession, that intelligence and that talent to which even his enemies do justice. A trifle! But there is enough to interest and drive five thousand women mad — the... twelve thousand women of whom he was speaking the other evening.
And the magnetism? A trifle! Upon my word, ladies and gentlemen, a trifle! — which is to say it is even very dangerous... And I suppose that if one felt affection for such a man it would be very serious, since that affection would be founded and justified in the most brilliant manner, having nothing in common with the passing fancies one has for men simply because they have a pleasing face.
Besides, what does all this matter? And how can I speak of what I do not know? Why did I tell myself I was in love with Larderel?
Was I even? It is written down. Had it not been, I should not believe it, now that I have only a very limited admiration for my dear Alexandre. His 300,000 francs a year — real or imaginary — were one of his great attractions, though he had genuinely unsettled me the other evening at the station and was afterwards more agreeable to me than anyone else, so that I was forever trying to conceal from myself that his teeth were capped and filled and in a bad state. That one defect is quite enough, for heaven’s sake.
Now — honni soit qui mal y pense — Cassagnac: I speak of him as an example. Well, one may lose one’s head over this man above all others without ever having seen him. I believe too that women other than myself could lose theirs simply by seeing him, knowing nothing of his mind or his life. I hope this is a compliment that will please his descendants!
For me he is not dangerous, and you shall see why. It is because I do not find him perfect. A man who has masters, who does not act for himself, can never entirely captivate me.
If he were a republican he would already be president, and that would be quite a different matter; but being with the majority he would no longer have that interesting situation which consists in fighting alone against all, in never being intimidated or frightened, in keeping the upper hand and mocking the rest. Bah! He would arrange matters so as to lose nothing while being with the majority — that is, at its head — and it would be the minority that was mocked and horsewhipped instead of being, as it now is, oppressed by numbers.
I can no longer have fancies and loves, not even like the one for Alexandre.
As for true Love, I see no one. Don Carlos is too stupid.
written across the page
I have said everything I think.

Notes

In French in the original: honni soit qui mal y pense, “shamed be he who thinks ill of it”, the motto of the Order of the Garter; Marie uses it as a proverbial “no offence meant”. ↩