Maurice Leblanc

“ I suddenly realised that, in order to remain the beautiful Mme. de Gimeuse, whom the poets sang and whom the world had accepted as an article of faith, I had sacrificed all my tastes, all my preferences, all my dreams, my very life, which, after all, I could easily have begun anew after the death of my husband. I was beautiful—that was enough. Beauty, in those far-away times—and yet so near!—seemed to me a function that must needs be fulfilled, a vocation to which one is obliged to yield. ”

“ I was the beautiful Mme. de Gimeuse, and I proved it by attending every party, and every first night, and I proved it by remaining beautiful whatever happened, whatever my mood might be from day to day. Do you see the torture of it?”
“Is it a torture?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“It is a torture,” she declared. “At least, from the years when the lies begin. One triumphs at first, because one is the stronger, and imposes upon people. And then comes doubt, and then despair. ”

“ And then comes the struggle—the constant, daily, crafty struggle—the struggle with one’s figure, the struggle with one’s wrinkles, and we worry and cast about and haunt the masseuses and the beauty specialists, and we try newspaper receipts and drugs advertised by every sort of quack, until one ends by becoming nothing more than a painted, plastered doll, and by lying and having to lie more and more every day. ”