Wednesday, November 24th, 1875.
I slept for twelve hours and, while trying on at L——'s I felt ill. True, they kept me two hours with those wretched gowns.
We ordered from B—— a landau with eight springs, dark-blue, five seats, everything the very best, at the price of 6,000 francs; also a park phaeton of the same colour, the phaeton is for me. I already see myself in that little carriage, driving and saying: "Knowst thou the land—"
November 28th, 1875.
I am in Nice. From Paris to Lyon, we were in the midst of snow, but it is strange that I am not so delighted as I was before on reaching my villa.
At Toulon we met C—— and took her with us. Mamma and the S——'s were waiting for us at the station. The grown-ups took a cab, and we entered our carriage.
We went to the opera. I wore a white barège costume made a little like a night-gown—open in front, as if by chance, and confined at the waist by a wide sash like a child's. We laughed heartily in spite of the general dulness.
I returned stupid, indifferent. It is the most detestable condition. I would rather weep. I don't love him. I hate him with all the strength with which I might have loved him. Nothing in the world effaces the resentment I have once felt.
Do you remember all that is wounding and terrible expressed in the one word "scorn"?
I understand, I who remember the slap my brother gave me more than twelve years ago, at whose recollection I am still as furious as if I had received it now; I who have kept a sort of hatred of my, brother on account of that childish affront. It was my only blow, but to make up for it, I have given a goodly number and to everybody. There was so much wickedness in my eyes that, when I looked in the glass, I was frightened by it. Everything can be pardoned except scorn. I would forgive a cruelty, a fit of passion, insults uttered in a moment of anger, even an infidelity, when people return and still love, but scorn—!