Saturday, 28 September 1878

Doenhoff dined with us. Five minutes before his arrival, Maman receives a telegram which I read almost by force and confiscate, for it is from that scarecrow.
"Well then," I said, "you may be sure I shall report him to the police."
Whereupon a disgusting scene unfolds. She leaves the salon and locks herself away. I go to find her and tell her to return to the salon and not commit the impropriety of leaving Doenhoff entirely alone. Then she throws herself on the floor in fits, screaming, howling.
May heaven strike me down if I had uttered a threat or a coarseness. Simply seeing these convulsions, I crossed myself, saying: this is an appalling scandal — but what can there be between you and this monster? You are a frightening woman. Do you know what she did? She threw herself at the window, and had I not seized her by her clothes it would have been a pretty business. I never cry out as women do — but the graver the situation, the calmer I am.
"If it comes to this," I said, "I shall have you locked in a madhouse. You know this exceeds all bounds. You are mad."
Then she began howling that: "she will smash my face with her fists" (verbatim) — "I am afraid, ah! my God, I am afraid!"
The charming Nicolas was listening behind the door — and any man who had heard such things, what would he have thought of me?
Voluntarily or involuntarily, they work so assiduously at my ruin, with such refinement of perfidy, that I believe it the effect of some profound stupidity. I am revolted.
I do not know whether I am surrounded by madmen or by atrocious people. I do not wish to excuse them, for if I begin excusing them, people will think dreadful things, and my apparent generosity will burden them ten times more than any attacks I might make, which would be attributed to my ill temper.
Ill temper — here, in this hell!!!
Doenhoff was still there; we eventually returned to the salon and remained quietly there until eleven o'clock at night.
The Coubés came to see us.
What a wretched life. One must nonetheless accept one's lot in this hell of petty, mean, odious torments.
Robert-Fleury was again very pleased with me and asked whether I had done any paintings.
"No, Monsieur."
"Ah! Mademoiselle, that is not right — you know very well it was agreed. You are truly at fault if you do not work a great deal."
And if you knew how sparing he is with praise — a "not bad" is already very high, and I have had from him: good, well, very well...
But is it worth living for that alone? There are moments when I would die with happiness. Look — I shall pretend to take up chemistry again, I shall take two lessons a month; that will give me the opportunity to obtain poisons. A drop of prussic acid and all will be well.
Mme Abaza writes to me from Florence. [Missing]
I am not sufficiently versed in political intrigues to prophesy from evidence, but I sense that the Empire will return soon, and I affirm it to you in despite of all that may be said. It was not then that one had to "stop one's ears, close one's eyes, and wait for this hurricane to pass" — but now, and in earnest.