Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Wednesday, 23 January 1878

The Prince de Bourbon brought me his painting to look at.
Fortunately there is the atelier. With the atelier I fear nothing.
This evening Blanc dines with us. I am very pretty — more than ever — charmingly dressed, because this evening we are going to an English soirée with Mme Yorke and Berthe. I believe these ladies have other interests than dancing — there were two partners; Berthe is a little in love. It is none of my affair, and it bores me.
But let us first say that we went to collect from the rue du Luxembourg post office the following letter, addressed 1,2,3,4,5:
— My dear five ladies, there is indeed a letter for you at
the Madeleine — you set your mysterious appointment for tomorrow Wednesday. That is understood. I need not repeat that you are under the safeguard of my word as a gentleman.
I shall send away all my servants and open the door myself.
Your respectful.
Paul.
One can see that he recognised us this time.
Now here is the letter we sent him today in the same handwriting as the two preceding ones — and consequently different from the last, the one addressed 1,2,3,4,5:
— You are more modest — does that mean you are frightened, or at least feel some anxiety?
Thank you for the honourable suppositions — despite Nini and Popaul; so rest easy as to our honour as good women as well as pretty women: we promise to spare your legitimate sensitivities.
You have not the least right to be stupid — since we are coming to your home to amuse ourselves. We shall therefore try to talk as little as possible. As for having wit... in one's feet?
Add to the tea some pralines from Siraudin's, iced orange slices, and confits from Boissier's for one of us — for Sunday from eight to nine in the evening. If the day and hour do not suit you, change them — we are always free.
[Annotation: Keeping a tomb-like silence having recognised us has nothing to do with your breeding — you say it in order to make us believe you have recognised us and are being magnanimous. Do you consider yourself so universal that there cannot be found five — only five — women unknown to you?]
The Boyds come to fetch us at ten o'clock instead of nine. How I seethed during that hour!!
I tell you I am pretty — all four of us are in white, with white masks.
The door opens mysteriously — Cassagnac stands near the door. We enter, we sit down on the sofa; he relieves us of our cloaks and says very politely that he had already despaired of seeing us arrive — then, showing us opera tickets:
— Here, ladies, is what I promised you — now you may unmask.
He stops and looks at us for a long while. Then all four of us burst out laughing and unmask. I was quite sure of it.
— But Monsieur, we took the idea of the five women.
— But it was you.
— Not at all — the last letter only; but you replied to the others? That is what comes of telling us your secrets.
— I replied to none of them at all. (The liar!)
— Very well — otherwise we might have met them.
From that instant all is lost. I become a fool while remaining beautiful. He shows us his home — which has gone to my head — you know the kind of interior: a Joseph Balsamo of some sort, a man of many conquests, mixed with politics, devotions, all manner of marvellous and ravishing things. A simple luxury, portraits of the Napoleons, and a thousand things all interesting, discreet, curious, and amusing... Weapons, and I no longer know what else.
The Boyds, who were hurrying to meet their Englishmen (who arrived well after us), become insipid. Dina has a headache; as for me, I am absurd — and you shall see it. I jump on Cassagnac's bed; I wash my face in the largest of three enormous basins; I say stupid things that are neither funny nor amusing. In short, a complete fiasco. And as a finale I overturn all the silverware from all the boxes — whereupon Cassagnac tells me not to do it, as his servants will think he has received cocottes. I am exceedingly shocked, speak to him no more, and on leaving make a scene during which he calls me his child, reassures me, assures me that I am wrong, and finally tells me that if I leave angry he will never set foot in our home again — whereupon I say to him: "I forgive you." He replies: "One does not forgive him."
We part on tolerable terms.
It is that idiot Berthe who got me into this — what was the point of
this second visit — were the five anonymous women not enough?!
This ogre — with his indulgent Balsamo-like manner, with his soft and calm tone, with those emperors. He takes himself seriously — upon my word of honour! He was rough with me because he supposed, no doubt, to have paid me a sort of court on Saturday. Imbecile!
I arrive at the English soirée and am terribly bored — despite many partners, several of whom I know; I have a certain success, but they are almost all English. Five ask me for the cotillion.
It is that Yorke who put me in a fury. The devil knows why — at the moment of leaving Popaul's chaste and pure abode, she suddenly said that as a married woman she risked nothing, but that if it ever came to be known that we had been there, we would be ruined. It was most ill-timed and most absurd.
Throughout the whole evening and during a full hour at home I was very disturbed, and kept telling myself that the atelier was a good thing — as a... refuge.
So I cannot remain at peace! It vexes me so!
I have just drafted thirty-six letters.