Saturday, 13 January 1883 – 1 January

First thing in the morning I sent for the architect to arrange the studio, but instead we ended up talking about Gambetta — being from Lorraine, you can imagine how carried away he was. It was he who arranged the veil at the Palais Bourbon.

Well, this evening is our ball. Coquelin and Reinchemberg perform À la porte,¹ and then a little operetta which they sing. Everything goes very well — a large crowd, young men in abundance, and very chic ladies. The Duchesse de Fitz-James, the general and Mme de Charette, Mlle de Charette, Mme Johnston (a friend of the Charettes) and her daughter, then the Gavinis, Comtesse Duros, Princess Bonaparte, and so on. A grand evening altogether, a beautiful cotillon. But it is all so empty for me — there was not a soul who could hold my interest. I had intended to be very agreeable to everyone, and as luck would have it I give myself a sort of sprain just before the ball; I am obliged to move as little as possible. At three o’clock we go up to supper in the studio, and I take a table on the platform with Saint-Amand, Alexis, Dusautoy, Emile Bastien. There were more than two hundred people, despite cancellation letters sent at the last moment by some malicious idiot or other. Soutzo was suspected — Alexis at least thinks so. I believe it is more likely Bojidar, who has quarrelled with my aunt. In any case it did not do enormous harm, fortunately. We stay on towards five o’clock as a family, with Michka and Emile Bastien, who is truly the best of beings.

And today, Soutzo’s tragic entrance — green, white, pale, tears in his eyes. He had no idea there even was a reception yesterday; never, never could he have been capable of such an infamy as those letters, etc. etc.

In the end he wept, and then nearly lost consciousness. In any case it is all dreadful enough — provided that my composure of the moment does not afterward dissolve into fits of despair, as happened at the death of the great, the noble, the slandered, the brilliant Gambetta.

Well then... Let them say I am eccentric — I have been; let them say I am cracked, that I throw myself into the arts too much, that I smoke, that I get tipsy, that I draw from the nude — all of this hangs together in certain people’s minds — that I was in love with Cassagnac, that that I was Mlle Acard was preferred over me, that in Rome the Antonelli family opposed a marriage, that... In short, all these things more or less true, which I feared people would say and which seemed to me lies and atrocities so humiliating — and which I am now prepared to believe true by comparison with what is being said now. But that, and about me!! There are young women who go out, who flirt, who see young men constantly, in society and outside it, and who are talked about, who even happen to make assignations, and then there are the stories... But I, shut up in this studio — in short, I have nothing to tell you; you have followed my life...

I no longer know what to say, what to believe, how to be — and before every fool I shall tremble like a guilty person before a judge.

And this world was created by God, and this takes place with his authorisation, and he is everywhere...

He does not exist! Or else... Or else he is the Supreme Being who is not a being, who is the supreme essence — whose practical utility is not apparent to me.

And Julian — he believed it like the rest of them, on the basis of other people’s tales, a heap of infamies. Just the other day he was talking about Dumas and told us with a smile that he often spoke of me with someone who talked of me at Dumas’s, and that I am decidedly much talked about, and that thanks to what he says of me, Dumas takes an interest in this strange, interesting creature... So this fat peasant whom I thought so perceptive and so warm speaks of me in such a way as not to... One only grasps the nuances in passing — when someone tells you something, it is no longer quite right; you must catch it on the fly... You know that often Julian and I talk very intimately, I in complete confidence as with someone who knows me by heart and before whom one makes a show of worldly shrewdness — I boasted of being strong, sceptical, of speaking freely about everything, of laughing at it all. So the other day we were led to speak of my heart, and he said to me:

— We can say anything to one another?

— I should think so — go on then.

— You will take it as it must be taken... You know how men talk among themselves.

— Go on then.

— Well, the other day I ran into one of my friends who had seen you and heard talk of you, and he said to me: who is this Mademoiselle Such-and-such that you know — has she had... adventures? You understand what I mean. Well, I answered him: my dear fellow, there is only this (pointing to the head) — the rest doesn’t exist.

So he was not indignant — he did not say: but you’re mad, don’t you know who she is, etc.? He simply gave his opinion: that I lived only through my head, and that the heart and the... rest did not exist for me. There is nothing to add... Nor shall I add anything. I am crushed. All of this is irreparable.

But what revenge would be needed merely to console oneself for so much injustice, so much atrocity, so much unhappiness... And since there is no God, I have no hope.

One must not suppose that poor, naive Soutzo permitted himself to say this without my having pressed him with irrefutable insistence, while Maman was in the next room.

And so I, who thought myself so proud, so pure, and who in order to astonish often let it be understood that I am very knowing about the world... This did not astonish anyone — it seemed entirely natural... So when I say that I adore Saint-Marceaux and someone repeats it to him, he sees in it not at all the enthusiasm of a young girl, of an artist, of a spoiled child — he sees perhaps provocations, invitations... in search of adventures... But that would be horrible! That would be enough to make one weep for a thousand years! But where is God?!!!

And when, out of love for theatrical and romantic things, I shall have said this to Julian or to Bastien-Lepage — engagingly, of course — and they believe me sincere, and they are indignant on my behalf — and then what? It will change nothing. There will be two or three of us indignant, and that is all.

My God, I want to believe in you — not to believe would be... to die of despair in such circumstances. My God, make it all come right — or rather, let me be reassured, let me deceive myself, let me be... consoled.

For a moment I had the idea of seeing Cassagnac, or of writing to him.

But what for? On what pretext? People are saying infamies about me — you know it is a lie — defend me.

He no longer knows whether I exist. He may have occupied my thoughts for five years, but I do not exist for him — we have never exchanged ten sentences alone together in any serious way. He believes these infamies — why not? — for more than four years we we have lost sight of one another, and when he saw me I was seventeen, romantic, wild, and encouraged by my own people — weak and stupid creatures with no civilisation whatsoever.