Wednesday, 26 June 1878

Yesterday Caroline tried on the wedding dress. Mademoiselle Acard has never in her life worn a corset; for a Parisienne who is no Venus to abstain from that harness so indispensable to our wretched fashions, there must be serious reasons. Indeed, Mademoiselle is very thin-flanked, flat-chested, and her stomach very delicate... She is charming, Caroline assures me, quite charming — though she is certainly no figure of fashion and not in the least coquettish; she has the air of a girl who has spent a great deal of time among young men, a tomboy, always very badly dressed...
This gives me considerable satisfaction. In the evening we talk of Blanc's strange conduct — a man I care little for, but whose behaviour is quite extraordinary — and above all of the Cassagnac-Acard affair. I cannot explain this delight, this eagerness at every encounter, and then all that secrecy about a marriage he had announced to everyone. They say also that I could have married him. I believe it, and that is why I am overwhelmed by a mass of confused feelings. It is so hot that one can only breathe in the evening, in the drawing room with the lights out and all the windows open. Maman, Marie, Dina, and I stretched out on divans and armchairs.
I spent nearly two hours like that — half sleeping, half regretting, raging, and calming myself. It even occurred to me to do away with Mademoiselle Acard. I see no harm in it; I see only myself, Cassagnac, and her standing between us. Especially when I picture the Acard household at this moment... all in festivity. She must be radiant... they are preparing.
There was only one man in all the universe for me. That was Paul de Cassagnac. I cannot be a queen; I will not deign to snare some small gentleman who will gain me entry into society — society, you understand, which is [words blacked out: perhaps my] ultimate aim. It is my natural element as water is the fish's and air the bird's; it would be a means as well, and that is all. I could tomorrow, if I wished to go there, by means of the fortune I have, with some gentleman or other — but that would be an insane sacrifice for nothing, and landing in the box of society women, more or less pretty, more or less fashionable.
And it is Mademoiselle Acard who takes him from me. She will not know what to do with him. That great Newfoundland-dog good-nature of his will bore her; as for his wit, she will not understand it... not entirely, not to the end.
I could have had him. I do not know whether it drives me to despair or simply disgusts me... the man who has married like that is no longer himself, since I had only to want him — I or any other... he had perhaps some affection for me... not enough to prevent him from settling down with just anyone...
Maman and Dina reproach me, with justice, for certain abruptnesses, certain acts of bravado — a mass of affectations that always drove me to appear mocking, cold, unapproachable. Which would have been very well if the object were to prevent anyone thinking me in love; but no — one ought to have shown that one was possible... Yet who could have thought of such things! I believed I had to be loved, I did not dare desire it, and I made myself wild and cold so that he should not think I wished to throw myself at his head. But let us settle one point: knowing everything, should I have wanted him? Yes, yes, yes — if not for love, at least for vanity. To make a marriage of convenience with a man like him, or to sell myself very dear in marriage — in marriage, of course. I have nothing else to do. As for buying a gentleman, I have already told you it would be of no use to me.
And then who knows — even knowing that he had not absolutely needed to be in love in order to marry, that he was making a transaction, even knowing all that, I could have loved him, provided I were the transaction. When one loves, nothing avails. [Words blacked out: The miser renounces] money, the ambitious man his honours, the frivolous person his vanity — not [word blacked out: that one] changes one's nature, but because [words blacked out: the beloved takes the place of] everything, and in them one sees everything. And that is precisely the miracle. At moments... I believe I speak from experience this time. What I say must count, for I am neither in Nice nor in Italy; I am recovered from my griefs and humiliations, I am not at all in despair — quite the contrary; I am occupied, and even diverted. It seems to me therefore, at moments, and vaguely, that I would renounce everything for this man — for outside of him and without him, neither money nor honours would be of any use to me; if I wanted them it would be to please him.
I will not dwell on this; I note a state of mind very [Crossed out: strange and that is all, different] from all that has preceded. It is odd, but I cannot write at all as I think — all this is approximate, heavy, disfigured by the pen.