Sunday, 30 March 1879

— without too much vanity... besides, the boy must be conceited, and it is not his fault. Everyone courts him. The Duc de La Rochefoucauld-Bisaccia climbed the steps to the president's perch to speak to the young secretary — as though he could not wait to find him in the corridor or about the hemicycle, where this young millionaire passes and repasses — for I have rarely seen anyone bustle about so much: mounting, descending, greeting deputies of every shade and principally the aristocrats of the Right, opening and shutting drawers, moving papers. It is true that all this shows off a tall figure and a young body's suppleness — yet I do not think he is sufficiently the artist to have calculated it. The forehead seems low — but that is partly the way the hair is dressed. As far as I could see, the face is very handsome, without any insipidness or weakness. I do not know whether it is that I think my aunt looks at him too much, or that I am occupied with him inwardly — but I avoid looking at him, as though it were a misdeed, so afraid am I that he will think I am looking.
This vexes me somewhat — for I cannot properly see his face and know whether there is anything to spoil it.
Besides — what good does any of it do?
We went to fetch Madame Gavini for a drive in the Bois.
My aunt had a fit of joy on seeing little Arnaud, and I flushed scarlet — as in the old days when I fell for names or fortunes, or the faces of young men met on the promenade or at the theater. You know perfectly well that it has never happened to me to look at a man without knowing who he was — and even if it happens to me one day, I am sure it will be a gentleman. My poor aunt is jubilant, telling herself privately that all my torments are over, that I am going to marry this Prince Charming — and she is happy, for though fairly obtuse, these ladies vaguely sense what I suffer.
As for me — I should be sincerely, naively, truly and profoundly astonished if the smallest agreeable thing were to happen to me.