Friday, 6 September 1878

Today is the last mass beside the coffin; the priest throws a pinch of earth on the lid to simulate burial — and all is said.
There were de Balorre, Mouzay, Barnola, and some others I could not quite see in the underground chapel. I am detestable... I placed myself behind Maman, well in view, slightly to one side to show myself off properly, very upright — in a word, I played Cassagnac. Already six days ago I imposed a penance on myself for having taken too much pleasure in my mourning.
Afterwards, it was necessary to walk Maman through the quieter paths of the Bois; she was very overwrought. Before returning home, we encountered Larderei.
"I am going to stop our carriage and speak with him," said Maman, "so that he does not think we were pursuing him when he was a bachelor, and that now he is married..."
We stop, and the Charming One hurries toward us. He is already in the company of horse dealers; one of these mornings we shall see him on horseback on the Champs-Élysées, right before our building, since he is staying at the Hôtel d'Albe. Besides, he is no more married than I am. There have no doubt been some troubles, in consequence of which he has come to settle in Paris; he has left Italy, he says.
Poor dear Countess — what troubles he must have caused her. It is all quite indifferent to me; I am as indifferent as it is possible to be.
This little... no, let us not disparage him too much — what is the use. What I said the day before yesterday I repeat: it was a caprice, and you understand how foolish it would be to believe me subject to such a man, though he is not an imbecile. In short, you understand — I do not wish to draw comparisons; there can be none. The Deceased is unique, and then... it is not a question of Love; I do not love the Deceased — I could have, if, etc. What a detestable verb, to love! I do not even need to explain to you the difference between the influence exercised on me by M. de Larderei and by the Deceased. Unless you are cretins, you understand that any comparison is not merely an insult but an absurdity.