Saturday, 10 November 1877

Monsieur Robert-Fleury was in a bad temper, tired; he barely corrected half our drawings. No one received any compliments — myself included. I am somewhat astonished by this, as Julian thought well of what I had done. Yes, but inwardly I was displeased with it myself. I am vexed.
We then made sketches; one of them, slightly caricature-like, was a success — Julian had me sign it and placed it in his album.
If I go on working as I have this week, I shall produce nothing worth having.
How much more powerfully disagreeable things strike one than good ones!
For a month I have heard nothing but encouragement — except once, a fortnight ago; this morning I am scolded, and I remember nothing but this morning. It is not just me, nor just in this — it is so in everything, and always. A thousand people applaud; a single hiss or whistle, and one hears it more than the thousand.
The evening and afternoon académies were not corrected. Ah! But I have my excuses! You will recall that the models displeased me and that we did not begin until Tuesday — on Monday there were disturbances because of the models — and above all, I had been placed directly opposite the man, very close and below. The most difficult pose. No matter — it is a bad sign, Bijou, when one goes looking for excuses.
This afternoon I take the opportunity to run a host of errands in town; I would rather lose this day than one in the middle of the week.
Gascon, vain... and Stupid!
Blanc, Berthe, and Popaul to dinner. Nothing is so disagreeable as waiting when one is not sure someone will come.
That tiresome Paul de Cassagnac! I was pleased to see him arrive, because he never puts himself out for anyone, and nothing in the world will make him go where he finds no pleasure. While waiting for him I was anxious — I was asking myself what I wanted from this man and what I was going to say to him.
Anxiety immediately dispelled. This man put me at ease at once, and from the first moment to the last I was frankly and greatly entertained — perhaps because I was entertaining company myself.
Not a single moment of awkwardness, and I am fairly pleased with myself — which is rare, and above all... precious. Having established that, let us proceed cheerfully.
I do not quite know how to go about announcing to you that I was witty — chiefly that sort of wit, I believe, which consists in stating the most extraordinary things quite simply.
— You will be blamed for many things, Cassagnac told me, but never for being a fool.
Oh! My dear man, nor will you be — I assure you that if I had to invent a charming, amusing, witty man, I could invent nothing more original or better than you. I did not say this to him, but what I did say throughout the evening was in that vein — not as flattery but as a manner of speaking.
At dinner I was making faces to avoid showing my hands; my brother fed me from his own hand and then gave me his white gloves to put on, then his pocket handkerchief — he would have given me... the rest as well, at the rate we were going. What I like is the exquisite respect and the perfect measure in his words towards one.
We had two or three private conversations, an assignation behind the harp — which is perfectly transparent!
We reviewed the past, and a sort of pact was concluded... of pure and holy friendship — on my honour. But he managed me admirably, declaring that he was master of his feelings, that I had disturbed him only once — the very first time — that the path of love was very dangerous with me; one could not know where it might lead, for I had not only the perfections of the woman who charms but who also disturbs. That I had, however, a lining of masculine nature, and that my friendship was the most precious of gifts. We swore to be brother and sister. This is perfect.
— Listen, Monsieur, I said a moment later, a perhaps strange idea has just come to me. Why did you speak to me of all that just now? Could it be that... wait, anything is possible — could it be that you thought I wanted to choose... the other path? — I was laughing.
Naturally he showed indignation, and I:
— But why not? It might have happened — there are so many foolish women — did I seem like that?
He showed himself more and more indignant and scolded me in that good-natured way of his.
I am not afraid of his mocking me, because I told him as much, adding everything I thought of his effects, etc., and saying that I was the first to mock myself.
Friendship offered quite simply might in some sense wound — but it was so well wrapped, so blended, so dissolved into everything else that it had the appearance of being itself merely an envelope. One of two things: either it is true, or it is a trick from his repertoire to make himself prized, desired, overrated and regarded as a conquest before which gratitude throws one down on both knees. I rather think it is the former. What enchants me is that it is clear, and that there will no longer be anything strained between us.
To initiate you into our ways with Popaul, I will tell you that when the three of us, Berthe, he and I, found ourselves in the drawing room, we talked about feet; that Berthe and I took off our shoes; that she slipped her foot into my shoes and I slipped mine into hers; and that I then told him how I had sat on the sofa this evening, without seeming to, so that my feet would make the greatest effect when he arrived.
I must talk to him about Alexandre, but he tells me that I have had only whims of the head, for the affections of the heart do not pass.
I believe we take each other rather seriously... I am afraid to say it; people would only laugh at me. Ah, bah! The fools, the false Diogeneses, what can that matter to me? To tell you the truth, the very truth, I can never persuade myself that those friendships and those feelings, of love or otherwise, that one sees in books are serious.
written across the page
That evening he had told me that I would love only a man more intelligent than myself, and that I would not find him easily. And then that I would not love him straight away; I would grow used to him and would understand the extent of my feeling only during an absence, a departure; that this would (happen) in one or two years, which it would take to conquer me. Perhaps he was speaking of himself. August 1878
Blanc, who reigns alone, serves Cassagnac as his Galula, so that I understand well enough, and the frigate captain’s air all but confirms it, that the aforesaid captain is rather keen to remain alone in a place where he enjoys himself.
If you could form some idea of the wit with which that confounded great man mocked his Hephaestion, you would laugh as we laughed, like hunchbacks, since hunchbacks are said to laugh with such gusto.
As for me, I was merry, droll, a child; it is devilishly convenient, and besides, I believe childhood is in fact my natural state when I am not in the midst of a drama. My brother maintains that I am part child, part young woman, part virgin and part man.
An extraordinary mixture...
Oh! yes, my emperor.
Madame York came in the evening to fetch Berthe.
I had wanted to have things out with Cassagnac, and it came about a hundred times better than I had imagined.
What a pity (and perhaps it is just as well) that there is something comic, something ridiculous about him. When he casts one of his studied glances and keeps his eyes fixed on you with all the magnetism imaginable, the effect is singularly spoilt by one eyelid that droops more than the other, and by the whole of him, which has something of a Newfoundland dog about it.

Notes

No diary entry describes Marie’s later Caricature de Rodolphe Julian (oil on panel, 85.5 × 38 cm, c. 1878), a full-length caricature of her teacher; it is in a private collection and was sold at Drouot, Paris, on 24 April 2025. ↩