Wednesday, 10 July 1878

The company is augmented by Monsieur and Madame Afrossimoff. I for my part read my Livy. Maman writes that Multedo comes to see her, complains of Paris being empty, and says he is going to fight a duel with a journalist who insulted his father. All to imitate the other one. I have often told him that to reach the age of thirty-two and never to have fought was rather strange in these times.
It is raining. I cannot even imagine marrying Multedo without a feeling of disgust. If he had three hundred thousand francs a year, it would still be possible — there would be an excuse, and at every revolt of the heart or the body I could give myself some good conclusive reason. But without money, without love!
He is ambitious, the wretch — he knows I am ambitious and he wants my money. What horror!
I have answered Berthe and some others.
Multedo says, laughing, that I am heartbroken by Paul de Cassagnac’s marriage. — You cannot love anyone, he says — it was ambition speaking! To marry the leader, the future leader of the party... In my foolishness I had forgotten ambition — I thought only of the man. That is why I let it happen! I believed this man was nothing but a ladies’ man; I believed he only appeared to be something in my eyes! Every time I hear him spoken of with consideration and respect... I rage! The other day Tchernicheff, the old irresistible one, called him an enfant terrible.
— He is very clever, I said; you will see, he will turn his marriage to great advantage, and he will be very well regarded in Paris.
— But, he replied with a knowing air, there is more than Paris. Of course I know he is clever! The point is, one has to be shrewd to establish oneself in Europe as this enfant terrible has done.
All this comes back to me just as I was going to sleep!
Mercy! Could it be true! Could he be a great man?!! If he is not, he will be...
Mad, idiotic, criminal fool! I saw only Popaul in him... Good heavens, Popaul can be found again, but the other!!!
Out of laziness, out of prudence, with all my fine reflections, my experience, my resignations, I have committed the most appalling mistake there is. I let it happen and only woke up at the last moment! I am dying of vexation. You will smart for it. Ah! and smart I do!
I used to cry so easily. Now this horrible, this irreparable mistake has not made me shed a single tear.
I have wasted my life... I have scarcely any wish to start afresh...
If Cassagnac is Deceased, I am dead... for everything that may come to me, glory, honours, money, will no longer be it; it will be fine, superb, magnificent perhaps, but it will not be what was made expressly for me.