Sunday, 10 November 1878

I amused myself nailing scraps of fabric I had to the walls, arranged as trophies with palettes.
Monsieur d’Alt came... and then Lacon, Fio’s husband; he is here for three days. I am sending Fio a little Dresden trinket.
Madame Tarnowsky tells stories about the people back there. They are such curious types, such characters; I should like to write it all down.
Through Mme Gavini one could make connections — but my mother is incapable of it, and I, a young girl, cannot pay calls! What an existence! What an existence, my emperor!
Could it really be possible? If the ex-deputy for Condom were to separate from his wife, he would become again... No — nothing. I should like to love him in such a way — that is to say, that nothing is possible any more. Either it is a wretched banality that passes, and then it is a pity. Or else it is something respectable, in which case there is nothing more to be done, because there will always be a Mme Paul de Cassagnac, and whatever he does and whatever I do, I could never share his life completely.
And I cannot content myself with being a mere shareholder — supposing it were real love.
I think I truly regret not being his wife, and I think that if I were, I would be happy and would want nothing more.
He is a wretched mountebank without substance! A hireling! That may be. M. Rouher is not popular, and the young husband of the fair Julia has, especially of late, taken on a tone of authority that will give him some; it sounds stupid, but that is often how it goes. Whatever he may be, he is the leader — in name only for the time being — of the only party that counts against the Republic, and whatever we may say, we others, foreigners, small people, people of society, we are nothing and he is something. I know people who would answer me with these supremely stupid words: brigands and the like are also more than we are.

Notes

In Latin in the original: in partibus. ↩