Tuesday, 15 January 1878

I went neither yesterday to the mass for the repose of Napoleon III's soul, nor to the Chamber. Le Pays had repeatedly asked its friends to avoid any kind of demonstration. There was indeed no shouting — but the homage rendered to the man and to the party was so striking and so simple in its manner that I am almost glad I was not there; it would have overwhelmed me.
— "At the moment," says Le Figaro, "when Monsieur Paul de Cassagnac descended the steps of the temple, the greater part of those present removed their hats."
There were more than five thousand persons.
The bust that I am to exhibit was brought round. My family does not like it. Faces of discontent — and I sick with vexation.
The poor artist did not know what to say — and Paul, not being in on the secret, asked him what he thought of the bust in order to draw out compliments for my benefit.
There is no money. We accompanied Paul as far as his carriage.
I am on edge, grieved, vexed.
Grand-papa paralysed, Walitsky dead, Paul gone.
It is altogether impossible for me to grasp the death of Walitsky — I am indifferent to it; I sing, I laugh, because I do not believe in it.
I must reply tomorrow to the Swiss.
[Menton, 12 January 1878]
Dear Mademoiselle,
Having received from my friends in Paris the sad news that my New Year's parcels had not arrived at their destination, I very much fear that the cakes I sent you may also have gone astray. It is most disagreeable. Would you kindly let me know whether you received them or not, so that I may lodge a collective complaint with the railway.
Here the weather is superb — what a delight to escape the cold and the snow and find sunshine, blue skies, and flowers.
I wager you are torn between love of art and love of nature? When will you come to Italy—
I am constantly between Nice, Monte-Carlo, and Menton — but I am hardly here except to sleep. I have found a crowd of acquaintances, and I should be greatly entertained if I stayed — but I am going to attend the King's funeral.
The news of his death reached me in Turin. The Italian people are dismayed; everything is in mourning — in Florence, the ladies wear black for forty days, and society seizes upon the pretext to give no fête, no ball. Even the Pergola remains closed this year — it will be desolating. I think I shall not stay long.
Write me a few words to Florence (Pal[ais] d'Hooghworst) if you have time, and believe me always your most devoted servant.
F. de Marcuard
It appears that Princess Souvoroff has so many debts in Nice that she dares not come there.
My warmest thanks for the champagne glass and the biscuit, which did indeed stick — I had a monstrous task pulling it apart and reading the words written on it.