# Saturday, 26 November 1876

Maman is so ill that there can be no thought of taking her to Versailles. M. and Mme de Mertens came to fetch us. I was dressed in white as always, but had a black velvet bonnet that set off my fair hair admirably. It was raining. We were already in the train when there arrived a decorated gentleman — still young — one of those Frenchmen par excellence who are half rascal, half gallant, agreeable in appearance, cold in reality, pleasant to all, coarse and malicious at heart. Vain and envious, witty and stupid.

— Permit me, dear child, said the Baroness, to present M. Janvier de La Motte, the leader of his party and consequently your friend.

I bowed while introductions were being made around me.

— Is there a seat? said a sharp voice suddenly from outside.

— Ah, it is my son, said M. Janvier de La Motte — yes, there is a seat; get in.

The son was introduced like his father, whom he resembles enormously. A young man made of milk, blood, and ink. Moustaches and an imperial. Twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, as had been said.

M. de La Motte père let his eyes wander from me to Dina, not knowing which of us was the one. I did nothing to enlighten him, as I had disliked both of them at first sight. The young deputy fell to conversing with me about political matters.

— That is what M. de Cassagnac was telling me yesterday, I said in reply to some phrase.

— You have seen Paul de Cassagnac, Mademoiselle?

— Yes, sir.

— And... where?

— At our house (I said “at our house” for the Baroness’s benefit, since she was not supposed to know about the luncheon).

— At your house! Father, Paul de Cassagnac had the honour of being introduced to Mademoiselle yesterday! — this was almost shouted, and he seemed to be asking: Why did you drag me into this, since Paul de Cassagnac...

— Oh no, I said coldly — not yesterday. Four months ago.

This train-load of deputies reminded me of the pigeon-shooting trains at Monaco — only instead of guns they carry portfolios. The La Mottes placed us in the front row on the right, above the Bonapartists, so that we were directly facing the republican benches. The chamber — or at least the president’s chair and the podium — reminded me again of the pigeon shoot; only M. Grévy,¹ instead of pulling the cage strings, plied his bell for all he was worth — which did not prevent the Left from interrupting several times the excellent speech of the Keeper of the Seals, M. Dufaure.² He is an honest man, and he fought bravely and skilfully against the infamies of the republican curs.

The budget of religious affairs was being debated.

With attention, and remembering what I had read in the newspapers, I was soon abreast of it all. M. de La Motte père came to see us twice and pointed out all the celebrities in the chamber.

If there is an ignoble and repulsive face in the world, it is Gambetta’s.³ The illustrious rascal, the celebrated grocer, did not speak, and not a gesture betrayed his thoughts; he closed his eyes and seemed to say: carry on.

Had no one explained the sides to me, I should have recognised them myself. On the left, a pack of fierce, dirty dogs, the worst-bred in the world, shouting, howling, barking. Some held their knees between their arms and seemed to say: Oh, I cannot bear it! Others covered their faces as if to say: Oh, good gracious. Others still made inexplicable gestures signifying perhaps: that’s a rich one, eh?

The centre-left, like the centre-right, is a mixture. The right begins with handsome, well-built, well-dressed men of fine bearing and fine manners — these are for: God and the king; at the extreme right sit men almost as fine as the first: my own people. All these parties drive me to despair!

Make no mistake: this is a genuine marriage interview. And the father’s cynicism... appalled me. He leaned over to Mme de Mertens’s ear and told her a heap of things as if I were not there — among them:

— My son is far from disliking her, I am quite sure of that; only we should need to know what she thinks of him.

The blood rose to my face and I wanted to turn around and size him up with a look to make clear what I thought.

Instead I turned my opera glass on the Comte de Mon, a handsome and likeable legitimist: a deeply religious and honest man. The session was in any case very calm.

It was still raining, and instead of seeking a cab we took the omnibus.

The return was as shocking as it was strange.

The Son, detained on serious business, left us with the Father, who behaved as I have never seen anyone behave. He spoke of waists, calves, feet — he took my foot in his hand, and Dina’s, and the Baroness’s.

— I wager you are admirably made, he said.

— Oh, sir, you are going a little far, it seems to me, I said, laughing so as not to be forced to make a scene.

Then it was worse: the old fool and the old idiot talked of my constitution, my blood, my flesh... as though I were a mare for a stud farm.

These curs think I like Cassagnac, and are clumsy enough to run him down.

Cassagnac does not lie — he did not go to the Chamber yesterday and he has indeed left this evening.

The result of this session for me... yes — Rome, ever more adored, gives way to the impure, mercenary, materialist city. The beautiful vision... I shall punish myself with Paris.

I found a photograph of the Cardinal when he was younger, and... the resemblance to Pietro is so striking that... it gave me great pleasure... Did I truly love him?

I went home indignant, cursing the La Mottes and all Frenchmen... except Paul... de Cassagnac — but then he is a Creole, and a Gascon.

Maman found him charming, and we chattered about him until nightfall.