Saturday, 20 April 1878

Last night, while putting this notebook away, I opened the 62nd and read a few pages, and finally came upon Antonelli’s letter. It set me dreaming and smiling for a long time, then dreaming again. I went to bed late, but it is not time lost; one cannot have such lost moments whenever one wishes, one has them only when one is young; one must make the most of them, appreciate them and enjoy them, like everything God gives us.
The young do not know how to value themselves, but I am like an old woman who knows what all this is worth and does not want to lose a single pleasure.
Because of Robert-Fleury I could not go to confession before Mass, which puts off my Communion until tomorrow. The confession was an original one; here it is:
— You are not without some sin, said the priest after the customary prayer; are you not given to sloth?
— Never.
— Given to pride?
— Always.
— You do not abstain from meat?
— Never.
— Have you offended anyone?
— I do not think so, but it may be. A great many little things, Father, nothing serious.
— Then may God forgive you, my daughter. Etc., etc.
The feet are finished; they are atrocious. We are looking for an apartment; I am very tired from climbing twenty different staircases, and here I am with a headache for which I seek moral causes but find none.
Dash it all! Has he got some nerve, coming on Holy Saturday — that is what Rosalie said when Multedo arrived.
Madame de Fayet was in the drawing room, and I was in my room without a dress on. I dressed, and then d’Alt and Goldsmid arrived.
Never have I felt so much at ease as these last few days. Before, all those carriages in front of the Palais de l’Industrie, where the horse show is now being held, would have made me want to go there and see all those people; and from that to envy, to tears, to rage. Now, as soon as such a feeling arises, I set against it arguments so close-knit that there is no holding out against them, and I keep my impassivity. Before, I would have blushed over Cassagnac, would have [felt] awkward speaking of him because he has abandoned me (Maman was already beginning to put on that air which means that she is tactful and notices nothing); now I speak of him when the occasion arises, without affectation, and call myself neither mad about him nor disgusted with him. And it is the same with everything. I have my wits about me — I proved it this evening by conversing rather than bantering; I am calm and afraid of absolutely nothing, morally or physically... As you know, I have twice come home alone from the Opéra ball in a cab, once at five and once at six in the morning. I often say: I was dreadfully afraid to go there or to do this. It is an exaggeration of language common to almost everyone, and it means nothing. What pleases me is that I am getting into the habit of talking with everybody; it is necessary if one wants to have a proper salon. Before, I would take up one person and leave the others alone, or nearly so.
As for Multedo, I did not say a word to him in private; he was included with the rest, and so that he should not make too much of anything, I said aloud how sorry I was not to have been able to introduce him to Schaeppi the other day at the Louvre. He left early; he was not supposed to come at all — he had said a week ago that he had some family celebration or other. I avoid him, he tries to contradict me, but I at once go over to whatever side he is on.
My conduct irritates him, and he often tries to contradict me, but at once, instead of arguing, I come round to his opinion, which annoys him and makes me laugh.
I say, that scoundrel Cassagnac... You know that out of veneration for him I am definitely a Bonapartist, but solely on his account. So that scoundrel Cassagnac really ought to come on a Saturday. Really, it is ridiculous.

Notes

In French in the original: Sacré-non ! ↩