Tuesday, 25 July 1876

At eleven o’clock we were awaiting our guests in a large salon where luncheon was laid.
I was in white, with red satin shoes tied at the ankle by ribbons of the same colour in grosgrain.
Yesterday, Audiffret spoke to my aunt and told her he would come at one o’clock the following day.
“Go,” said my aunt to me, “go and say they are to show him in here when he comes.”
I went out to give this order, and in the habitual dimness of the Grand Hôtel corridors I saw coming towards me a large figure waving its long arms about in all directions.
It was Cassagnac, who greeted me and kissed my hand — right before the hotel chambermaid!
He showed the same gallantry to my aunt, who kissed him on the forehead in the Russian manner.
“What pretty shoes you have, Mademoiselle — but I prefer yesterday’s.”
There followed a whole conversation about feet and footwear. Cassagnac is a great connoisseur.
This morning he is more at ease, and has shed the gravity that in a tall man always rather frightens me.
Blanc arrived after Mouzay, who was already late.
In the end everything went off in the most natural way imaginable.
Only Cassagnac was in a hurry — at half past one he had an appointment with the Baron de... the devil, I forget the name, no matter... Blanc and Mouzay, who have known each other for fifteen years, were engaged in a rather light conversation, from which Cassagnac constantly shielded me.
We talked of beauty, and he declared that brunettes did not exist for him. Although I have no designs on him, this pleased me by a sentiment natural to all women.
“Do you want to know something?” he said, leaning towards me while, with my most charming air, I was talking to Mouzay.
“Tell me.”
“There is nothing more charming than you.”
“Oh!”
“There are women who are prettier than you, but I know no one more charming than you. And if I say it...”
That gave me great pleasure. My brother Cassagnac is the best fellow in the world — he has been given a reputation as a womaniser, whereas he is merely gallant to the right degree, well-bred, perfectly agreeable and kind, kind as a child; that is why I love him — I love him only in words, for in reality I understand only one kind of love. All those fraternal pretences are unknown to me; I speak of my inner self, for on the surface, in the diary, and above all in words, I love a great many people fraternally — but in reality, if I prefer one to another, it is always with... an ulterior thought.
To return to Cassagnac: he is a man as a man ought to be — tall, robust... He recounted yesterday how he nearly hanged a police commissioner with his own sash when, on his return to France after eight months in a Prussian prison (he was captured at Sedan), M. Thiers’s government had him arrested at the border. So I was saying he was tall and strong — yes, and he has wit; everyone knows that; he is no charlatan. Yesterday he was saying he had to go into the provinces to harangue the voters: “One climbs on a barrel, beats one’s chest, and carries them away.”
Editors’ note
[Annotation]
in the marginAnnotation de Marie
He admits it.
And before me he has presented himself as Cato, but I am beginning to see through it. Moreover I am almost vexed by it — I like a certain prestige to be maintained, a certain mystery, a great superiority, even if it be by charlatanism.
Blanc stayed long after him; we talked of all manner of things.
“Blanc,” Cassagnac had said, “is like all naval officers — a little rough, sometimes even crude — but he has a heart of gold and is my only friend. He is going to find us a house in Paris.”
“She is astonishing,” he said to Mouzay, “astonishing! I’m completely taken with her!”
crossed out[One line crossed out]
He had not thought of going when Mouzay reminded us of our departure, and she left after much protesting (very sincere), kisses, and a few tears.
Audiffret was [words crossed out] informed that we were lunching.
Having seen Mouzay down to the door, I went back in alone, followed at a distance by a young man — but in this wretched hotel I am followed more or less every day, so I paid no attention. And ten minutes later a large bouquet of roses was brought up to me, with a calling card: Eugène Fishhoff — here it is, that singular card. Needless to say I did not reply, I kept the bouquet, and had the man shown out.
It was too late to leave, so I put on my travelling dress and ran with my aunt to Mouzay’s to tell her of the adventure. But she knows the young man — Mme de Mertens too. He is a first-rate scoundrel who chases actresses, and worse than that besides.
He had the impudence to follow us to 29 Boulevard Haussmann (where Mouzay lodges), and while we were at Mouzay’s he was leaving his card at Mme de Mertens’.

Notes

Je la gobe: slang for being completely won over by someone — literally “I swallow her whole.” ↩