"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.


December 28th, 1875.

I don't want public pity, but I should like to have one creature to
understand me, compassionate me, weep with me sincerely, knowing why
she was weeping, seeing with me into the farthest corner of my
heart. What is there more dastardly, more ugly, viler than mankind?