Thursday, 28 November 1878

The very name of Cassagnac fascinates women — these excellent women!
Nadine is dying to hear about him and talks of him as if she were infatuated with him. “You are mad,” she says, “not to have married him.” Upon my word, no one need say a word to me, and to tell you my feeling today — well... I shall stay in Paris because he is in Paris, and I shall love him like the beast that I am.
I was alone when the most Marcuard of all the Marcuards came to see us. Naturally I receive him, and we talk for a good while before my family come in. They keep him to dinner, and upon my word it revives me. I am coquettish, I let myself go, I have... style, in short! He gives me my cues, and talks in such a way and reasons in such a manner that, on my word of honour, nothing would surprise me.
Already the last time he had asked me whether I could commit to loving him as he loves me... I answered with a jest. This evening I laughed at everything, and he said I had nothing in my head but my paintbrushes. Ah! everything gets on my nerves! That Marcuard! I talked furiously! I made eyes!
I am bored! I am weary, weary, weary! These are horrible thoughts.