Tuesday, 13 November 1883

Dinner: Mme Gavini, the Gérys, Julian, Bojidar, Safonoff, Ekarque, the Princess, Villevieille. I was not very charming, did not enjoy myself... Despite Gabriel, who is pleasant and has very tender eyes. But to conceal it I adopt a disjointed, fluttering way of talking that destroys all charm and has probably irritated Gabriel. I confess that towards midnight he was not without appeal... And on that subject permit me an immoral reflection. What if, in believing myself pure, virtuous, and a woman-of-one-love, I were mistaken? I have always looked with horror on loose behaviour, and I wondered, and still wonder, how women are not ashamed to be frivolous... For men must despise them prettily for it. It is above all for that reason that it seems impossible to me — otherwise... I say, therefore, that I may be mistaken and that I may in fact be predisposed, on the contrary, to... great variety in my... Affections. Gabriel looks at me as at the most mockingly icy creature in Europe... and has a very high opinion of my principles... For I must tell you that ever since I see that this is not taken for granted and well understood, I now and then launch some aristocratic, strait-laced, innocent prudery. I disconcert him with my profound and real indifference... But I try to be coquettish. In any case, towards midnight I did not hate him in the least, and here is my immoral reflection: how do you explain that towards those hours, after an evening spent with people, in conversation, one should desire or be inclined to misbehave... Not exactly, no — but suppose it had been appropriate, or simply that no one were ever to know of it and the man were to forget it. Well, suppose that, and it is evident that in such a case... how admit the possibility of such things without daring to write them down? Write what? I do not even know how far it would go. I should allow myself to be kissed — and that would be all; I should lean on the shoulder of a Gabriel who was genuinely enamoured himself (sine qua non)¹ — and that would be everything. And it comes from the hour, from weariness, from the contagion of feeling that one inspires, if one inspires it... Must one believe, on account of such foolishness, that I am inclined to be a Catherine II?² And even if I were? And my great feelings, then?! Oh! I am not abandoning them — I am merely registering impressions. [In the margin: An hour after writing it, I no longer admit it.] And Jules Bastien-Lepage? Am I being unfaithful to him this evening, then? Oh! No. And yet I should like to know what little Géry thinks... If only I could not always look as if I could not care less about anyone... But there it is — I have that air, and it disconcerts him... Otherwise he is well disposed, oh! Yes, very much so! In any case... I shall fall asleep thinking of... anyone at all... Of my future glory... If ever I should become an... inconstant person, it would be out of kindness... So as not to cause pain by refusing. That sounds like a comic caricature — and it is, it would be, it would have been, very true. Come now — I am telling myself horrors; I insult myself. My God, let Bastien be in love with me!