Saturday, 27 January 1877

There are things so odious that, however brave one may be, one hesitates to write them.
We were at the Anitchkoffs’; I painted with Olga, and after taking a drive to show off my livery (made in twenty-four hours, and very handsome) I came home to get ready to go to the Opera this evening and hear Faure in The Favourite.
The post came as usual, and this is what I read in the report on the races by Robert Milton, the journalist of Le Sport.
Newspaper clippingLe Sport, compte rendu des Courses de Nice par Robert Milton, janv. 1877
“The sensation among the turnouts was that of two little ladies belonging to the very amiable world; their basket carriage was white, in imitation of Leghorn straw, their ponies were white and they were dressed in white: a real cream puff.”
It is obvious that it was written with malice, for everyone knows us, and besides, in ordinary circumstances one would not use such expressions. The odd thing is, is that it is the cream puff that wounds me most.
As soon as I had read it I passed the paper to my mothers, and then I went to put on a dress and a hat, crushed and heartsick.
Is it possible to carry malice so far? For it is obvious that poor Robert Milton was neither misled nor driven to this by any wish of his own to harm us.
A hasty council is held in my room; Maman is choking, my aunt speechless, Walitsky looks for soothing words.
Maman and I get into the carriage and rush to the chambers of M. Malaussena, our lawyer, the leading lawyer in Nice, an intelligent man who played a great part in the annexation of Nice, and very well known besides.
His advice is what I had put forward beforehand: pass it over in silence, or else have a quiet word with M. de Villemessant. For there is no question of dragging this into court. No one was named, and besides, it is so delicate a matter that to touch it would be a terrible thing.
— If that had been written about my daughter, said M. Malaussena, I should pay no attention to it. And why should you worry about what journalists say? Was I not accused of stealing twenty-five million from the city of Nice?
We go to the Hôtel du Luxembourg. One of M. de Villemessant’s coachmen tells us he is at Monaco.
Tomorrow, if not tonight, the paper will be all over town. This is a truly desperate situation. But we must go to the theatre. We go while Maman takes the train to Monaco.
I am so stunned that I do not know how people looked at us. Collignon was with us; we had to look as we always do beforehand, so as to feign ignorance afterwards.
Faure sings admirably well, but his voice seems a dead one.
Gautier, who spent a long time in our box and saw us into the carriage, is putting on Audiffret’s airs; I shall tell him so next time.
This sudden dash to Malaussena’s, and then the theatre, have considerably softened the blow.
The most terrible thing is that tomorrow I shall have to go to the races with the same carriage.
God, take pity on my soul and deliver it from human miseries; I ask it of You in all sincerity and with conviction.

Notes

Jean-Baptiste Faure (1830-1914), the most celebrated French baritone of the day, singing in Donizetti’s opera (1840). Kernberger (2013) likewise identifies him as Jean-Baptiste Faure. ↩
“Robert Milton” was the pen name of the racing writer Albert de Saint-Albin (1843-1901). Le Sport, “journal des gens du monde”, was a Paris paper of racing and society news. ↩
“Le monde très aimable” (the “very amiable world”) was a euphemism for the demi-monde of kept women; a chou à la crème is a cream puff. ↩
François Malausséna, a Nice lawyer and the city’s first mayor after its annexation to France in 1860 (in office 1861-1870). ↩
Hippolyte de Villemessant (1810-1879), founder and director of Le Figaro, who spent his winters on the Riviera. ↩