Tuesday, 31 December 1878

The manoeuvres my father employs to take Paul away — whom I wish to keep until the end of January — are beyond description.
He torments him and holds out the prospect of a year of pinpricks should he disobey... disobey! There can be no disobedience, for he does not say “I want” but “as you wish”. And then endless spite and treachery. I listened at the dining-room door while father and son were conferring.
Coming home from the atelier I fetched de Daillens to see the new year in together. My family was at the theatre. We told fortunes, then had champagne and tea.
I have bought a pair of braces and a two-penny cigar to send to Mme P. de Cassagnac. This little infamy will only poison things further.
The defamation suit has been decided — naturally the five or six newspapers that spread and commented on the story were condemned, but what a scandal! Le Patriote Niçois is lodging an objection to the judgement and declares, with useless moderation, that it hopes to prove it acted in good faith. No, you see, no, you see, no: the more one does, the more noise it makes. Perhaps it would have been better not to prosecute? The chief offence is that a lawsuit was announced, therefore false news. Anyway, here is the report.
Editors’ note
Le Figaro of Saturday 28 December 1878, in its “Gazette des tribunaux” column, gives a copy of the judgement handed down by the 8th Correctional Chamber: The Court./ Whereas in the articles complained of allusion is made to an alleged civil action brought by the plaintiff against his wife; whereas no such action exists, and consequently the offence of publishing false news is established../ Whereas, moreover, in making known the circumstances of which they speak, the defendants have indulged in the most outrageous and odious comments, of a nature to disturb the peace of a household, so worthy of respect./ On these grounds./ Sentences each of them to fifteen days’ imprisonment and a fine of one thousand francs.
A very sad lawsuit indeed. He would have it so. There is no smoke without fire... why would anyone have invented that rather than something else? She lends herself terribly to suppositions of that kind, you know. In any case it is impossible that he should love her. She is a companion, a housekeeper, a stockpot. There comes a moment when a man is tired of his freedom, which becomes isolation, and when he needs this bourgeois ending. Besides, who is to say that the late Monsieur Julia was ever a poetic being? Anyway, he does not love her; that is something already. He has never really been in love, that too is certain; he has said so, and Blanc never knew him to have anything but everyday mistresses who lasted two, three and four years, or else ladies of society here and there. A fine ideal, that.
He is not my ideal — I only thought I could, that I was going to love him: that is all.
I still think of it... not of him exactly... but I make myself a second existence in which he comes just as I imagine him, and I will frankly confess to you that I would be dreadfully bored if I did not arrange for myself, in this way, another life alongside the real one. There I am always happy, and nothing can destroy my dreams.