Sunday, 4 November 1877

I went to see Berthe.
Cassagnac had almost promised to come to dinner, around seven o’clock, if he could return by that particular train from the place he had gone to shoot. Instead of him we have Blanc, the frigate captain, who had telegraphed to warn us that Cassagnac would not come. I fail to see the necessity of this dispatch, since yesterday it had already been said he might or might not come and that we were not to wait for him specially.
I no longer remember in answer to which phrase of invitation Cassagnac said to us yesterday, with that frankness, affected, and that false simplicity which are habitual with him... or is he genuinely natural? I cannot quite tell — at any rate, he said that:
— You have all been so truly kind and gracious to me that I should be worse than an ingrate — I should be an imbecile — if, etc.
Edmond has promised me a mischief-maker, a plate-smasher, a braggart who is to cross my path. Could it be Popaul?
And why?
I have embarked upon this friendship with the great man, and if he were to neglect me I should be vexed on behalf of my own people — as for myself, I am far too preoccupied with the atelier.
I still do not know on what footing I stand with him. Does he take me seriously — do I take him seriously?

Notes

In French in the original: matamore. A blustering braggart, from the theatrical stock character of the same name; derived from Spanish Matamoros (Moor-slayer). ↩