Sunday, 29 September 1878

The Coubés dined with us; we recalled Soden and laughed a great deal.
I prefer the most atrocious griefs to small humiliations. Everything that torments me belongs to the category of ignoble sorrows. Misfortune ennobles. Humiliating intrigues debase. There are two ignoble things from which all other wretchedness flows: money and social position. Illnesses, deaths, even a thorough and complete ruin — these can be borne, provided one has heart and faith in God. But the small, odious, ignoble miseries, elusive as one might say, cannot be borne.
As for love sorrows — they can be atrocious; they can kill; but they fall in the category of amusing griefs.
They will say I prefer other torments because I do not have them. Well then — ask a man who has suffered greatly, who suffers greatly, whether he would exchange places with me, and if he is not the most depraved of wits, he will not want to.
Then my situation is the most dreadful in the world? Certainly there are people who die of hunger, who work to live... yes, yes, I know — but that occurs in another sphere, and one would need to pitch one's voice at a different key to speak of it. You understand me; do not therefore pick a quarrel over words.
It is two o'clock; I have been reading through a pamphlet about the Prince Imperial, recounting touching traits designed to move people's hearts. I wept for almost all of it.
He will return, the little one — were it only to make me very unhappy.

Notes

The Prince Imperial (Napoleon Eugène Louis, 1856–1879) was the only son of Napoleon III and Empress Eugénie, then in exile in England. He died in the Anglo-Zulu War on 1 June 1879, ending Bonapartist dynastic hopes.