Saturday, 10 December 1881

Sunday, 11 December 1881 I am better — almost no more fever. Julian came this evening. He is truly good, and very amusing besides. We have the terrible plan, as you know... But I don't much believe in all that, though it would be good for Dina, who with her hundred thousand or a hundred and fifty thousand francs dowry cannot hope to marry in France. But the horrible Amélie — if the matter depended on me, I hesitated; on the one hand to make one woman wretched, but on the other to saddle Julian with that bone structure, those seven-league legs... Dark hair grows on her bosom like a man's. Nevertheless, observe my sense of justice and generosity: I believe I would release Dina — who is charming but really could not care less — to protect this love, as Spanish as it is ardent, and

wretched. Shall I tell you something — we are talking, are we not? And what I say I say as an analyst, as a seeker of documents humains — when I find myself among my kind I cannot help but probe them as far as my perspicacity allows, and when my suppositions are confirmed, which happens often, I am not consistent enough. Which is by way of announcing that, if I wished, I could bring dear M. Julian to my feet with a single sign, a single glance. Indeed we always understand each other in half-words, and I believe this man [Between the lines: he has read Balzac attentively, and Balzac greatly refines the sentiments of those already intelligent] — this almost superior man — appreciates in all its particulars the strange nature of your poor invalid. I regret I cannot verify the hypothesis; on his side there is nothing to fear — he knows there is nothing to dream of, and he is a man of iron. I tell you all this without fear of ridicule, for in the end it is a matter of [words blacked out: perfectly equal save for] the little tickle of vanity that such things occasion... It is amusing, is it not — one thinks: here is a much-sought-after man to whom I would need only give a sign... [words blacked out: illegible, deceived]... one looks rather foolish. I was wrong to share these flights of fancy with you; no doubt there are dull people among my readers who will no longer see père Rodolphe and me as before, and who will attribute my assessments of his horrible inevitable future wife to some sort of feminine jealousy. Which brings me to tell you that the feeling stirred by the sight of Cassagnac at the Chamber a good month ago has weakened — that is to say, the husband of the Acard girl (Julia) has retreated into his cloud. But I look no less forward to the moment when, according to Julian's predictions and above all my dreams, we will find ourselves face to face. It is well understood that it will be I who shall dominate the situation... He has just turned thirty-eight, the creature — on the 2nd of December. A fit of modesty! The poor man is thinking of nothing; in me he values the artistic side, as an artist values it, and that is all. I swear that is my sincere belief.