Saturday, 29 December 1877

Monsieur Robert-Fleury was very pleased with me. He spent at least half an hour before a life-size pair of feet I had done; asked me again whether I had ever painted; said that I evidently wished to take painting seriously; asked how long I could stay in Paris; expressed a desire to see my first work in colour; asked how I had done it. I replied that I had done it for amusement. As this went on, everyone came and gathered behind him to listen, and in the midst of it all — I dare say it — to general amazement, he declared that if I wished I could paint. To which I replied that I was not dying to do so and preferred to perfect my drawing, a resolution he applauded warmly. I then added that I begged him to treat me very severely, which he promised to do, saying he would do so all the more since it was worth the trouble.
This scene left me very pleased, and then serious — I no longer know why.
This evening at tea: the Comtesse de Fayet, the Baron d’Alt, and Monseigneur. For the time being La Fayet is an almost necessary evil. She has a dreadful manner; I felt affronted at having to endure her — but I hope to be rid of her now that the prince has been introduced and has called on us. At any rate, that makes one more gentleman to escort us. He is small, dark, fresh-complexioned, with a long black moustache, a large and mobile lower jaw, and a forehead that often furrows. Good manners, unassuming, not too stupid for the present, a calm and unremarkable air. He helped me make my chocolate and seems a decent enough fellow.
He has a high opinion of Popaul, which suits me.
But good heavens, I forgot to tell you that Paul — my little brother Paul — arrived this morning at six o’clock. He is on excellent terms with his father and will leave again in a few days. He is plump, big; beside him I look like a little princess. At eighteen, a man — and an immense man — a proper gentleman, and this gentleman went to see “La Tzigane” at the Renaissance.
He is not disagreeable, and I hope he is not lying when he says he adores the country and desires no other existence. Let everyone find happiness where they may, and if this boy could truly become a gentleman-farmer, it would be a good thing.
Poor Grand-papa was very happy to see him.
All the rest of the time I have been prettier and better dressed than when Cassagnac came. Is that not vexing!
This evening I wore an ideal dress — chaste and decent but too simple to wear in Paris anywhere but at home; my hair was done as Blanc likes it, the last years of the Empire or classical style, complexion white and faintly pink... In short — it is absurd.

Notes

La Tzigane: the Paris version of Johann Strauss II’s Die Fledermaus, with music from his Cagliostro in Wien, first given at the Théâtre de la Renaissance on 30 October 1877. ↩
In English in the original. ↩