# Friday, 25 November 1876

Friday, 25 November 1876

Until the evening things went tolerably enough, but suddenly a very serious, very measured, very honest conversation began about my future. Maman expressed herself in suitable terms in every respect. You should have seen my father then! He cast his eyes down, he hissed out hypocrisies, and as for answering... not a word.
There is a Little Russian dialogue that characterises the nation and may at the same time give an idea of my father’s manner.
Two peasants:
1st — We were walking together on the high road.
2nd — Yes, we were walking.
1st — We found a fur pelisse?
2nd — We found one.
1st — I gave it to you?
2nd — You gave it to me?
1st — You took it?
2nd — I took it.
1st — Where is it?
2nd — What?
1st — The pelisse!
2nd — What pelisse?
1st — But we were walking on the high road?
2nd — Yes.
1st — We found a pelisse.
2nd — We found one.
1st — I gave it to you?
2nd — You gave it to me.
1st — And you took it?
2nd — I took it.
1st — Where is it, then?
2nd — What?
1st — The pelisse!
2nd — What pelisse?
And so on to infinity — except that as the subject was not very amusing for me, I was suffocating, and something was rising in my throat that hurt me dreadfully, above all because I would not permit myself to cry.
I asked to go home with Dina, leaving Maman and her husband at the Russian restaurant.
[Two lines crossed out]
For a full hour I sat motionless, lips pressed together, chest constricted, knowing neither what I was thinking nor what was happening around me.
Then my father came to kiss my hair, my hands, my face, with hypocritical, cowardly laments.
— The day when you truly need help or protection, say but a word and I will hold out my hand to you.
I gathered my last strength and, forcing my throat steady, said:
— That day has come. Where is your hand?
— You don’t need it yet, he hastened to reply.
— Yes, I do need it.
— No, no.
And he spoke of something else.
— Do you think, sir, that the day will come when I shall need money? Oh! how impertinent you are! When that day comes, I shall become a singer or a piano teacher — but I shall ask you for nothing!
He did not take offence — it was enough for him to see me so miserable that I could bear no more.
— I am having my revenge! he said to Maman.
Oh, the coward.
written across the page
By attributing a spirit of vengeance to his conduct, I ennoble him, I justify him. He was not taking revenge. No. He was vile and wicked as always.
I had just enough strength to take everything off and get into bed. It was not yet nine o’clock.
The next day I woke very early and fell to thinking about yesterday. I remember going to a marvellous embroiderer and designer named Duchod. I went there with Mme de Mertens, who made me a singular proposal. Nothing less than a proposal of marriage.
M. Janvier de La Motte, former prefect and Bonapartist deputy, wishes to marry off his son — a young man of twenty-seven, mayor of his department, general councillor and deputy like his father. This M. February — no, January — wants a dowry and a mind capable of making him a political salon.
This struck me as outlandish, applied to me, and I replied that I had no desire whatsoever to marry; the Baroness insisted on the charms of the two La Motte gentlemen.
— In any case, she said, I assure you that you ought to meet them.
— Meet them? Gladly.
— They are friends of Cassagnac, rabid Bonapartists, and you who love “conspiracies,” politics...
Old fool.
My grief and humiliation of yesterday were made up for this morning. Maman woke me with a note from Mouzay inviting us to lunch today, with a note from Cassagnac enclosed.
That dear, excellent woman!
Monsieur my father, who had meant to leave during the night, did nothing of the sort after receiving the invitation (yesterday, Thursday); on the contrary, he put on a frock coat with the buttonhole decorations he wears and betook himself with admirable docility to the fourth floor of 420 rue Saint-Honouré. He will return to Paris and Cassagnac will bring him along. He who does us nothing but harm will have this connection — thanks to me!
Well, what can one do?
On the stairs we meet the faithful Blanc... why faithful? I do not know, but the adjective suits him. The faithful Blanc relieved me of my pelisse and my hat, and we went in together.
My dear Cassagnac was already there, filling half the drawing room.
But he intimidates me... which I believe makes me more reserved, more proper.
The introductions took place. My father behaved like an honest man — small merit in that! First, he values Cassagnac, and second, he fears him. Cassagnac... I adore him.
We were served a luncheon I was far from expecting — that is to say, superb. I sat between Cassagnac and Blanc, and it was with the latter that I spoke chiefly, while wishing to talk to the other. But the other is so grave that I must assume the airs of a Virginie on pain of appearing insolent.
He knows that Maman was in Paris two months ago.
And as the talk turned to photographs —
— I have prepared one for you, Cassagnac told me; but, he added, I shall allow myself to offer it to Mademoiselle only after having asked the permission of Madame her mother.
— Lord, how proper Cassagnac is! said Blanc in his mocking tone.
— That seems to surprise you, I said.
As I ate nothing but grapes, he kept putting them on my plate. I upset my carafe, which knocked over a glass of Pommard, which brought down in its fall a small glass of Syracuse wine and another small empty glass — all of it onto Cassagnac’s place setting.
— That brings good luck, sir — and it is a triple chance.
— I have all the luck I need, and need no more.
What a coxcomb!
As we rose from table, he knocked into a lamp and a heap of other things on the mantelpiece; Mouzay had a moment of alarm, but the enormous deputy put out his arm and gathered in everything that meant to fall... Ah, if only it were the same with the Empire.
He offered to get us tickets for the Chamber.
— What, he said — having me at your disposal, you said nothing to me about it!
— I hate to ask.
— It is the only way to obtain anything.
— Blanc! Wire my father that I absolutely must have four seats for tomorrow’s sitting — absolutely.
I sat down in a ray of sunlight that gilded me entirely. Cassagnac is leaving tomorrow evening to hunt wild boar in Bavaria. He is no doubt lying, and it is not to Bavaria that he is going.
I took his letter and went to Alexis with Maman and Dina.
Alexis took it, sniffed it, told me it was from yesterday and that the person who had written it had seen me this morning and was leaving tomorrow on a journey.
As for Pietro — it is extraordinary. He told me at first that he could not see the person and that the person was no doubt dead.
This filled me with joy.
— Really, dead?
— Wait.
He went through his manoeuvres again and told me he could see him at last — but far from Italy, whence this letter came. This letter was written long ago; since then there has been a great upheaval in this person’s life — a death in his family; relations broken with me.
— I can see him now. He is a young military man... he is far away, he is a soldier, he is travelling... and not by railway — oh no! On horseback, yes, on horseback; he is surrounded by foreign men, there are no women — he is in the East.
That sounds like Serbia — Departing for Serbia... This gallant stripling Wishes to devote his life To punishing the wicked. One day therefore he sets out, Pious as a verger, Noting the signs of heaven, Taking his slender luggage:

A pair of drawers, Some darned socks, A very old pair of trousers And two worn handkerchiefs. His horse stumbles beneath him, He is quite out of breath, His waistcoat is of plush And his nose... is frozen, pickled.
Phew. Alexis claims he is exceedingly unhappy.
My father has gone! For the first time in four months, I can breathe!
— You have everything needed to be perfectly happy physically. But your spirit suffers and you are not happy. Oh, what a nervous system — it is frightening. You are too lively, you want to live too fast. You have (all too truly) an excessive need for affection and... you lack it. You are extremely susceptible in... affection above all, and nothing is easier than to wound you. Your nature needs... to be loved, and you are not loved enough — or so you imagine. — Alexis.
Ah! What a pity that Paul and Virg... no — Paul de Cassagnac is leaving tomorrow.
This superb Creole had an anxious air, and Alexis told me so. How could he have known? Eh?
He leaves tomorrow; what is more, he said he would not go to the Chamber today... We shall see...
He is so droll.
— What a pity we shall not see you at Versailles, Maman told him.
— What does it matter?
— It matters because we should so enjoy meeting you.
— What can that possibly matter to you?
— Come, M. de Cassagnac, I said, so you don’t want people to say nice things to you?
— Because I don’t believe them.
He is so tall... so broad, so stout, so dark.
He had barely closed the door when a concert of praises broke out — and immediately he came back in like a hurricane to fetch his gloves. It was dreadful; fortunately I had said nothing.

Notes

Petit-russien — the nineteenth-century term for Ukrainian. The following folk dialogue about a lost pelisse serves as an analogy for her father’s evasive circular speech. ↩
Marie’s pointed joke: she calls him “M. February” (Février) to mock the name Janvier (January). ↩
Blanc — a political associate at Mouzay’s table; luncheon at 420 rue Saint-Honouré, 4th floor. ↩
Fat — conceited, self-satisfied (1870s French); not “fat” in the physical sense. See TranslationMemory. ↩
Alexis — the famous Parisian somnambule (clairvoyant) consulted by fashionable Parisians. He conducts psychometric readings using objects. ↩
In French in the original: “Paul et Vir...” — Marie breaks off the title Paul et Virginie (see 20 and 22 November). ↩
Cassagnac was from Gascony (southwest France), of a family with roots in the colonial world; Marie calls him “Creole” — a term sometimes used loosely for people with southern or mixed ancestry. ↩