1876-11-28

I hate Paris. Perhaps if I stayed here for some time without going to the shops this hatred would pass. At half past seven I went to dine at the Boyds'. Berthe had invited me yesterday. The Boyds are a sort of Famille Benoîton.¹ Besides, I have already spoken of them. Mme Boyd paid a visit to Maman. Berthe belongs to the society of the heart. It is the first time they have had a long close look at me, so I received about my figure, my arms, my hair, the compliments they deserve. As for Berthe, she speaks of nothing but the daughter of Princess Lise Troubetskoy,² whose salon is well known in Paris. It is long since I have seen people so gay, natural, and well-bred. The evening refreshed my spirits and I returned to our "superb first floor" at the Grand Hôtel more calm and better disposed.

There I found Georges, who brought me the parliamentary handbook, Silhouettes à la plume.³ Here is what is written there of Janvier de La Motte fils, after J. de La Motte père — who is spoken of with respect and consideration, his services to his department duly acknowledged: Louis Janvier de La Motte Twenty-eight years old. Segré (Maine-et-Loire) — 7,313 votes. General Councillor, unmarried; his nomination is said to be bound up with the success of a very wealthy marriage. Intransigent Bonapartist, relying on democracy — in a word, his father's son. Face of a plump seminarian, upon which a moustache and pince-nez have been affixed; always has under his arm a ministerial portfolio that never leaves him: he is serving his apprenticeship.

And now comes Adolphe Granier de Cassagnac — [words blotted out: father and son] "Attention — he is a colleague and a man of letters in the fullest sense of the word. Granier de Cassagnac belongs to a family of Gascon gentlemen. His title of nobility was long disputed, but without reason: his parchments are in order. Etc., etc..." Paul Granier de Cassagnac fils Thirty-two years old. Condom (Gers) — 9,818 votes. Journalist, bachelor. His entire fortune is his good Toledo pen. A literary d'Artagnan.⁴ Tall, strong, nose in the wind, moustache curled, hair very black and very abundant, dark-complexioned, bright-eyed — a true Gascon in gesture, accent, and bravery. Served the Empire with the devotion of a soldier and still serves it as a reckless, undisciplined, wrong-headed child. Very rigid in his polemics — too rigid for a man with political ambitions. Great reliance is placed on his fire and youth to create scandal in the new Chamber. He is hoped to be the d'Artagnan of the tribune as he was that of the press. M. de Cassagnac may well give the lie to these predictions. Now that he has left the adventures of journalism to mount the stage of serious politics, we should not be surprised to see him imitate those young men of family who gather their friends for a last supper to bury their bachelor life — and who then become excellent husbands and... model fathers. M. de Cassagnac has been a Chevalier of the Légion d'honneur since 1869; he fought at Sedan and was a prisoner in Germany. He has had many duels, of which he repents. He makes amends willingly to his adversaries — but only after the sword-thrusts.

This reminds me that Maman took me to Dr. Fauvel,⁵ that the said doctor examined my throat with his new laryngoscope,⁶ and declared that I suffer from a catarrh, a chronic laryngitis, etc. (which I do not doubt, given the bad state of my throat). And that to cure me I need six weeks of vigorous treatment. Which means we shall spend the winter in Paris. Alas!

My father is charming indeed. To begin with he made me spend money while I was with him, then he did not pay for my journey; and ashamed of himself he called Alexandre over, embraced him, and assured him he would reimburse my expenses. He need not have said so — no one had asked him for anything. Then he allowed his Kousma to accompany those wretched horses. I paid for the journey and for Kousma. And now here is Maman opening a letter from this man to Bashkirtseff. "I await your orders, Monsieur, stranded in the middle of the road. As for Chocolat, I have, as always following your orders, sent him back to Poltava." Not to mention that my dear father forced me to give five hundred roubles to Kousma, which Kousma is busy eating up along the way. There, upon my word, is a fine gift! As for Chocolat — ah! wretched brigand, I shall reclaim him through the police. Oh! what a coward he is! His entire generosity consists in calling for a bottle of champagne:
— "You kept everyone away from your daughter so that people could say she had not been wanted. You hid her, because you did not want anyone to see her as she is — you who never gave a penny towards her education," Maman was saying. And he responded with petty, flat, revolting little jokes, without ever denying anything or explaining himself. Lord Jesus, what a man my father is!