Monday, 6 May 1878

I worked all day long — something I had not been doing very regularly for the past three weeks. You know I bathe as many times a day as possible, and this evening I had just freshened up and put on something long, white, and clinging (without a corset, which gives one a great deal of grace and a certain dramatic quality), when Blanc arrived, and after a few minutes of conversation he told us that “Paul has told him nothing, but he is convinced Paul is going to marry, because every time one mentions it he looks put out, and the origins of the Acard family are not quite as spotless as one might have wished...”
That wretched frigate captain has hurt me again; had it not been for Tuesday’s follies I should not be so angry... Well! I congratulate his future wife! Either he is a swine or he does not love her.
A girl who conducts herself as wildly as that — oh yes, wildly — must not expect anyone to think much of her. I am sure the other woman plays the saint all the more fervently because she knows what an old rake she is dealing with, and the imbecile is too happy to touch the tips of her fingers or to — horror! — kiss her hand.
When the candles are lit, I veil myself with some Indian muslin or the devil knows what Egyptian fabric, soft and matte — it is almost impossible for me to have my face and head uncovered when something vexes me, something I dare not grieve over openly, but which leaves me cold all over, limp... one push and I would fall like the veil that covers me — without sound and without resistance.
Isn’t it maddening to see this Blanc playing piquet with Madame my mother!! Do I want to see Blanc! Do I want to hear that I am, through art, elevated above mere mortals and their miseries! Yes, I am. I have made a complete break with my past — I shall never speak of it again, I have no use for it. Every word I say from now on must count. It is not that I speak to you like Bossuet, but my expressions, when I have spoken seriously, no longer have anything exaggerated about them.
Mme Baudouin — you know, Jeanne’s mother — came this evening; she leaves tomorrow. I talked all evening about my marriage to Gambetta, and towards the end I began to believe it is a possible thing — and why not? If he wished it I would consent at once. I wrote him an anonymous letter this very evening, reasonable enough for him to take notice of it. It would be superb, dazzling, and splendid.
written across the page
I have forgotten the initials I gave. Impossible to know if there is a reply.
What a stir, my emperor! I would then become President of the Republic
Blanc finds it idiotic. So why?...
Mme Doubelt’s father has died. That lady, after the warm friendship you know of, had borrowed a diamond brooch from Maman which she never returned — never showing her face herself; previously frequently writing little notes of invitation and promise.
written across the page
She brought the jewel back after three months
Let us move on — it is not interesting. So here I am, thinking again of all the beautiful things written during the sitting with Schaeppi. Indeed, what a pity and what a nuisance!.. For a moment I thought it would cause me more pain than one might imagine, but after an hour of those pitiless arguments I have acquired through long practice with adversity in my previous life, my vexation, reduced to its simplest expression, is a confused thing I have not the slightest wish to believe in, which annoys me profoundly and which I find quite atrocious.
Mme Doubelt has just left — it is one o’clock. With all this nonsense I have rescued myself from a useless sadness that would have lasted hours, and it is well muted for this evening and for the days to come. Besides, look here, I shall bravely make my peace with it, although it is very, very hard... but there is nothing to be done... submit to events... Do you know, it is hardly pleasant! Enough of this simpering. There — I make my peace with it... and what if it were not true? If it were not true I would be delighted! But alas, sad things are always true...
And yet I did ask for it the other day — true, he promised me nothing; how can one expect the good Lord to make promises.
If I were an intelligent, subtle, scheming, useful woman, I would be employed — but I am only amusing!!
Come now — these fine rages will pass.

Notes

Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet (1627-1704), bishop and preacher, the model of solemn French pulpit eloquence, famous for his funeral orations. ↩