Wednesday, 15 August 1877

We go to Saint-Augustin for the one o'clock mass — it being the Emperor's feast day. Everyone seemed to have come rather for Paul de Cassagnac than for Napoleon III or IV. He was spoken of all around me with tender familiarity; his entrance was awaited with impatience and anxiety, and when he entered, moving quickly as though there were nothing in his path, there was a general affectionate movement — as at the appearance of a favourite horse. And then people spoke of Napoleon, of "our Emperor."
"He is our Emperor," people said — "if the father is dead, the son is living!"
I no longer know what pleased me more — the well-dressed people or the common people, in their Sunday best, with bunches of violets and violet ribbons... I too was wearing a few violets hidden in some... lace, only I was thinking of the violets of Naples and tormenting myself with regret for my idiotic behaviour — at table, at Sorrento generally. The violets! Alexandre... I should love to see him popular, acclaimed, celebrated.
Say what one will, it is Cassagnac who is the attraction of the party — everyone allows themselves to be influenced by beauty and by force.
Beside us sat a small blonde woman, rather pretty, in a white percale gown over a skirt of bad black silk, a black hat, and a gold lorgnette that was too fine to go with everything else. I would have wagered she was something to Cassagnac — and I would even swear it was he who gave her the lorgnette. At the end of the mass she moved to my right so as to be in the path of the man of the day; she had a certain air that made me guess all this. Indeed as he passed, Cassagnac greeted her with great coldness — but you won't make me believe otherwise... if... nothing in the world, after all.
He did not want to see me. That is very pleasant of him. I am beginning to wonder what this means: if, as I have supposed, Blanc is no longer his friend, it is simple enough. Blanc, no longer seeing him, has not transmitted our invitation — and Cassagnac, having met us two or three times in the past month and receiving no direct communication, may believe it is deliberate.
Otherwise I can explain nothing; the first time he stopped short as though the carriage ought to pull up.
But I shall do nothing in the world to find out:
1 — because I have had so many troubles of every kind that henceforth I want to remain quiet; and
2 — because I am in Italy and think of walking to Rome.
At the exit it was a crush that must have delighted every good Imperialist. People pressed around Cassagnac, and as he was prevented from leaving, no one could leave. Then cries, applause, immediately suppressed by the prudent or by the jealous...
I love gatherings like that — one was in the church and all around it on the square like one enormous family; the few violet flowers each person wore on the breast meant one did not look at strangers as strangers, and another moment one would have taken hands. But I know not how to describe things; two years ago such a spectacle put me in an inexpressible enthusiasm... I love to see a crowd gathered around the same idea, for the same thing, and above all for the same person — it has something very great, very beautiful about it. Those people want their Emperor... and who knows? Perhaps it falls to him to restore peace and glory to the most brilliant country in the world.
Cassagnac was there, naive and happy as a child. Only the general sympathy with which one knows oneself surrounded can give that expression — good, confident, proud, and tender.
It is a pity it turned out so badly... for me nothing matters, but it is that stupid baroness who irritates me and before whom I am humiliated.
I was reflecting that it was a pity Alexandre was not four times richer, or else like Cassagnac.
Marcuard does not write to me! Cassagnac avoids me.
Marcuard is a false man; Cassagnac is whom I should want for a friend. No, no friend can console me. To whom would I dare confess that I am unhappy because society refuses to receive me? To no one — and so everyone looks at me, shakes their head, and moves away, understanding nothing, or else thinking I am in love!!
Today at church, as some months ago at Versailles, I thought that Paris can be pleasant — but only on condition of being in that world.
[A page removed]
The square was crowded with people... but something was lacking — I do not know what — a quality of holiness... It seems to me that with [Crossed out: if they assemble for a legitimist feast] the Legitimists it must take a different character.
My aunt took me to the Bois almost by force. I detest going out here.
No matter — I can only esteem what is different from others. Alexandre, for example — whatever the Torlonias and Antonellis may say — will never be their like, and for good or ill he will never be spoken of as they are, as Audiffret, or Monsieur Janvier de la Motte, or even Prince Torlonia... There is something in him that resembles — from very far and all askew — the great men.
Do you think Cassagnac is a great man? Not quite — but in any case he is a... celebrated man, and that is close at hand.

Notes

Saint-Augustin: the fashionable church in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, completed in 1871 in a neo-Byzantine style.
The feast of the Assumption (15 August) had been declared Napoleon I's name-day in 1806; the Bonapartist party continued to observe it as a political as well as religious occasion.
Paul de Cassagnac (1842–1904): fiery Bonapartist journalist and politician, editor of L'Autorité; one of the most combative figures in French political life.
Napoleon IV: the Prince Imperial, Louis-Napoleon (1856–1879), son of Napoleon III and heir to the Bonapartist claim; he would die fighting the Zulus in South Africa in 1879.