Sunday, December 26th, 1875.
We went to hear the band. G. M—— came to talk to us and, among other compliments, said to me: "M——, I would like to give you some of my experience, I love you so much! No, really, Madame,"—addressing my mother—"she has such an extraordinary mind, so developed, so broadened. But it lacks experience. M——, my child, I will give you some advice."
"Give it, Monsieur, give it."
"Well, never love seriously, for there not in me whole world a man worthy your love."
"Yes, I know that. I know that men are not equal to women. You are not equal to your wife, I can tell you."
"You are right, M——."
He is right. I shall never love wholly. I shall worship, I shall rave, I shall commit follies and even, if opportunity offers, have a romance. But I shall not love, for candidly in my inmost heart, I am convinced of the villainy of men. Not only that, I do not find any one worthy of my love, either morally or physically. It is useless to say and think all I want. A—— will never be anything but a good-looking member of the fashionable society of Nice—a gay liver, almost a fop. Oh, no; every man has some defect that prevents loving him entirely. One is stupid, another awkward, another ugly, another—in short, I seek physical and moral perfection.
Now that it is two o'clock in the morning, that I am shut up in my room, wrapped in my long white dressing-gown, my feet bare and my hair down, like a virgin martyr, I can give myself up to a throng of bitter reflections. I shall go, carrying in my heart all the sorrowful and wicked things that can be contained there.