Thursday, 30 January 1879

This evening at dinner we were talking of entertaining, of going into society... Paul urges me to marry, and I reply that my mothers are waiting for some accident as picturesque as it is unexpected to deliver a prince to me — to which my aunt responds seriously, with complete sincerity and conviction, that it is the most possible thing in the world. That gives you the measure of it. I was describing their ridiculous hopes to her, as a caricature; and she answered in earnest. They believe in it, they expect it, and what is dreadful is that they count on it and do not find that there is any need to think of anything else or to do anything at all.
So, say I, my cab bolts and collides with a carriage on the boulevards; a man steps out, saves me, or carries me to the Café Riche; the prince falls in adoration before my weary face, my paint-stained jabot, my black fingers — and there is the husband! And the answer I get is that it can very well happen — more than that: finding herself so well guessed, she only believes the more in these dreams!
When I think of dresses, of salons, of horses, of the Arts... of life, in short, I sometimes... heave one of those sighs which, if all the grief, impatience, rage and resignation they contain could be given material form... would lift rocks and shatter fortresses.
You know how old I am? Twenty, you will say — you believe it, and I believed it too.
I am a good thirty-five, my friends, and in saying thirty-five I am being kind to myself.