Saturday, 30 November 1878

So if it is true that I am “in love” with him, it may be shouted right in the middle of the boulevard!
He cannot be in any doubt as to who wrote those letters, and yet [illegible] it was so extraordinary... I do not know what he thought, but if he had the slightest suspicion of the truth he ought not to have [illegible] soiled it by bringing in Blanc. Yes, there is the fine ideal, the man of delicacy, the superior soul. Knowing nothing! Perhaps he thinks I am [illegible] in love with him but that the letters are not mine. [illegible] In that case let us be honest folk, you pack of rogues — is it right [illegible] to do as he has done?
All the same, come now..? I had imagined the man and the thing quite differently. I strive to find something to say and I find nothing. Only, if he is the brute I think I at last understand him to be, I would not even want to meet him. It seems nothing, does it not, it seems quite simple, that scrap of conversation yesterday — well, there is in it an utter lack of that extreme delicacy of feeling which one brings to everything when one possesses it. He wants to show that he considers those letters an absurd invention... and even so, it is barely forgivable... and yet, yes, that is how I explain it to myself; perfectly. He failed in nothing, he spoke of it as a piece of madness he does not believe in. Very well — and Blanc, then? Was it necessary to let that individual into this “calumny”?
Yes, I shall end by understanding that he is not the brute I thought him for a moment; only, only, only, I am not pleased with my Cassagnac... One cannot put one’s finger on it, but a shadow hangs over this being, whom I cannot manage to rate at his true worth.
He is devilishly bourgeois, Cassagnac, whereas to hear him talk!
When it amuses him, when one pleases him, he is perfect, but otherwise he is an animal. That is the truth. But if he were as I thought, he would not have been so bourgeois.
To drag Blanc into it! Why, even if he felt the profoundest indifference, the greatest contempt for the woman of the letters, he ought not to have soiled her, out of respect for himself. I see what he is like, and if I had reached the regions of love I would not... that is to say, were he half perfection and half brute, or perfection entire, I should only love him the more for it. Do you follow? Bad things begin by shocking me, then I grow used to them and adore them... I will not even say as qualities; one does not love qualities; at first I was disappointed to find only an actor instead of a hero, and then I wondered whether it was not more chic that way, and whether nobility was not tedious. These are dismal ideas.
He is capable of selling letters. Mine are doubtless worth nothing, so he gives them away. What — so this could not earn even a little respect, a little of that great and magnificent respect he makes such frequent use of?
So Blanc, the unworthy Blanc, knows everything when he sends me his wretched doff of the hat and his nasty smile in the Bois?
I still have a young imagination — human filth revolts me.
I go back over my memories... three years ago in Rome. I was very young; I wore my mind out over a piece of folly in which, after all, I did not play the bad part. When I went after Larderel I was half mad with the humiliations of Nice. Now, since I accept responsibility for my actions, I have thrown myself at Cassagnac’s head. It is odious, but... if I had not tried, what remorse!! It would have tormented me more than Cassagnac’s baseness and the foolish figure I cut can wound me.
Bruschetti and the people in Russia paid for Antonelli; Antonelli — I laugh at it and I rage at it.
The conquest of Count Mergejewsky at the age of fifteen turned my head, and I believed myself mistress of the world, whereas in reality I was not destined for much success.
This baseness has stunned me. A fine merit it is, to be great and delicate with those one adores!
But immediately after this reflection I glimpse famous people of past centuries who were great only in that way and who were, on the other hand, frightful scoundrels, and then I think it is quite all right. Frightful scoundrel is an exaggeration; there is nothing more than the absence of that certain something — an absence that shocks without one’s being able to say how. Everyone is made like that; there are always the wings... As a matter of fact I do not see what more I reproach this man with today than on the evening of our last visit to his house. He is utterly without it, so one cannot accuse him.
You will tell me that he does not care a fig for me. That is no reason — at least it would be no reason if he were as I thought. And again I wonder whether it is... elegant to reproach him with it.
If only I do not get into trouble over those letters.
You are filthy, my dear Paul.
Listen carefully to this:
If one grants that he regarded me as a contemptible woman, with whom the most delicate minds do not stand on ceremony, his conduct is not shocking...
But if one grants that he had for me one tenth of that respect he talked of so well, well then... however elegant and mocking I may wish to appear, and whatever famous personages I may invoke... Cassagnac will have nothing to gain by it.
Am I worshipper enough of the amusing? and devoid enough of moral sense not to understand that one should revolt against a nature as vulgar as that of the illustrious Deceased.
When I speak of feelings of honour it seems to me that I am speaking an unknown language, that everyone is going to laugh at me, and that in demanding loyalty, in general, I am making war on the romantic, graceful, mad, gallant, amusing sides of human character. Whereas the chief concern of these men of success is to parade everything I am trying to render useless, and this same Cassagnac does nothing but boast of his chivalrous feelings, of his loyalty. Yes, but what I mean is that while parading these fine things they are playing a part, and that it is no disgrace — that is what I mean. I can understand people thinking it fine. It proves that I am not worth much myself, which is no doubt why I fraternise so easily with other people’s villainies.
I fear I am being extravagant in asking too much. these lofty ideas here one would have to treat an extremely delicate and abstract question, and I am not equal to it. Should one demand ideal sentiments, or be content with loyalty in the Popaul style and revolt only against acts that can be called cowardice, theft, murder?
First of all, do such delicate minds really exist that are at the same time amusing — do you understand me, with my far-fetched French?
Understand, then, wretched perverted creature, that it is neither ridiculous nor insipid to be honest in one’s innermost heart.
I am not speaking of Cassagnac any more; I have nothing big to reproach him with — a lack of delicacy at most; true, for me that is the biggest thing in the world.

Notes

In French in the original: à la Popaul. ↩