Monday, 19 May 1879

I went into Julian’s confessional to ask him to change the composition model — Saturday at four o’clock does not suit me; and I would have taken care not to ask in front of everyone, for if he agreed they would cry ... n[é]ipostime — the word is imprecise, I have no time for it. So I went in and stayed nearly two hours, which seems fabulous; to begin with he set about firing me up to work harder, saying that if I had any blood in my veins I would begin next year. And then I spoke of models, saying of one gentleman: he is tall, dark, very handsome.
— Always the same type then! And on this... Julian had (spied on me) and read in my... as in a book during the Bonapartist period — it was not difficult, and besides I have the praiseworthy habit of letting everything be guessed and of making one suspect things that do not exist. In short, I thought it better to tell the story. I told only the truth in saying that I had lived on friendship, that I had thought him a knight of the Middle Ages, and that it was only in the face of his last trick that I had perhaps thought otherwise and had my head turned. That is more plausible. Then I recounted the five women, to give an idea of what terms we were on.
Old Julian imagines that this man is my master forever, that this first love is indelible, and that however artful I may be, he duped me — along with a heap of other ideas that may be just. I explained above all that he came looking for a dowry, and that I had been thinking of things in a Don Quixote fashion. And as that Jew Julian continued to paint for me the agitation that had so powerfully affected my work, I gave him my word that nothing more had occurred, and that it all ended with a letter conceived as follows: “At first I had thought that you were not for sale; then I decided you merely cost more.”
— “It would have stung him like a whip,” Amélie’s cunning ideal told me, “if you had not devalued yourself in his eyes by what you yourself call ‘follies’ — childish behaviour. No matter — see how, despite what you call your experience, you are a child in the face of men of this sort.”
I amused myself talking of all this and displaying my elevated sentiments. It is only now that I see that no one had been ignorant of my distress, and that — “What!” said Julian, when you let slip phrases like — and he cited things I had thought quite simple and which are outrageous enough that people had thought me mad about Cassagnac. The good fellow concludes that I am his slave, his possession, and that if I am mad about someone else it is merely noise I am trying to make in my head that never reaches the heart. So I told him I would paint his portrait.
— And it is not over.
— You think he will court me. He will never dare!
— No, it is you who will court him. You will not seek the opportunity, but you will make use of it.
— Fie!
— He will ask your pardon.
— For what? Nothing happened; it all came about in such a way that nothing happened.
— All the same, that is what is called having it out.
— But it is I who am the stronger now.
— Aha! You see how cunning you are! You have grasped that; but what does it matter — there is still the feeling of your humiliation. You have allowed me to be frank: you will say to yourself, there is someone who was stronger than I. Do you know what he needed? A woman who would not be in his way.
— Yes.
— Will you allow me to say something wounding, since we are speaking seriously?
— Go on.
— You would have been in his way, and perhaps he told himself so.
— That may be... but I can assure you that he would have gone to the highest bidder.
— You would not have wanted him on those terms.
— One never knows.
In short, it is quite understood that I was too wild, that it is never right, and that henceforth I shall be sensible. I thought so highly of Cassagnac that I imagined he would not take it amiss, that he would understand it was because it was he...
— “This extraordinary creature, who is at one and the same time a child of six and a woman of forty, needed to find somewhere in the world a gentleman like me, as extraordinary and as cracked as she is, who understands her and who takes things as they ought to be taken. And so I am very fond of her.
Look here, I give you my word of honour that I adore this child and that she will never have a more tender or more devoted friend than I.”
I am no longer surprised. I have just leafed through my journal!
Cassagnac may well despise me, believe me! And that fine tirade meant nothing... and yet! Oh! no “and yet”! If I could rehabilitate myself — my God, if only I could.
Rehabilitate myself — because he has been vile and contemptible?
Not rehabilitate myself — but humiliate him!

Notes

Marie uses the casual antisemitic epithet “ce juif de Julian” — Julian was not in fact Jewish. The phrase is a period vernacular insult preserved here as part of the historical text. ↩