Friday, 22 March 1878

Berthe walked with Dina and told her that Multedo is not to be trusted.
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, of whom I am absolutely mad.
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.
[Words blacked out: he had even said it was sad for] a man to have arrived, for there is required a moral spring so rare and so extraordinary
that love may endure 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 take offence at such a trifle... A trifle! Very good of you! 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! By God, 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 Larderei?
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 single defect is sufficient, good lord.
Now — shame on him who thinks ill of it — Cassagnac: I speak of him as an example. Well, one may work oneself into a frenzy over this man without having ever met him. I believe too that women other than myself could work themselves into one 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 love affairs, even such as with Alexandre.
As for true Love, I see no one. Don Carlos is too stupid.
[Written across the page: I have said everything I think.]