Thursday, 24 January 1878

During the rest periods I continue to wear out sheets of paper and finally manage to compose the following letter, which, for all its labouring, looks none the less spontaneous and well turned.
— I beg your pardon for having led you, by ill-placed extravagances, to be wanting in delicacy toward me, before all those ladies. I was, I know, as unseemly as a child of five, which at my age is nothing charming; but I should be very sorry to be thought an ill-bred madcap by you, though I did everything to earn it.
Au revoir, and no hard feelings.
Do not think ill of your sister, who is quite ashamed of her conduct. And of yours as well.
Marie Bashkirtseff
I have the vexation of blushing at Cassagnac’s name. I say all manner of ill things about him and mock whenever anyone calls him young or handsome or anything complimentary.
Having gone to bed at about five o’clock, I rose this morning at a quarter to eight. But it is all the same to me. If Cassagnac were to be angry I would beg his pardon — out of cowardice, because I am not in the wrong... Or perhaps I am. He was embarrassed by my madness in front of the Boyds and feared they would think I am in love with him and all manner of nonsense. Am I really mad then?
But what have I done?
If Cassagnac had not assumed his solemn air I would have behaved better.
In truth, I assure you I recall nothing — except something disagreeable, one cannot say quite what.
And then... do you know that Cassagnac is... intoxicating — he goes to one’s head. Everyone knows it, besides.
Oh, how mad and absurd I was yesterday. And it is always so. I always spoil something.
But what did I do?
I do not know — but I feel a little ashamed.
The great Cassagnac kept saying: cracked, cracked, I tell you — she was born that way and she will die that way. I threw his Swedish matches on the floor saying they were filthy things. His Hungarian wife is Swedish.
He was embarrassed for me in front of the Boyds.
When he put us in the carriage — hatless, in his evening coat and white cravat — people were beginning to gather in the street. Le Tintamarre would only have to print a joke about it.
He was in fact perfectly polite and beginning to be charming when I went mad — and during my attack he tried to mitigate my nonsense. You know that Popaul is a serious man and that he is somebody... at any rate. Only since he is not dry, nor pedantic, nor grumbling, he is taken for a madman, and the stiff-starched imbeciles mock him when they dare. I am doing my competition and disguises in the same week — and Popaul is congratulated by all the right-wing deputies in the full Chamber, M. Rouher, whom he handled so roughly last summer, applauding him himself. And on that very same day he replies to the five women.
If we had not been such fools, we could have had such fun yesterday.
Thanks to that miserable mulatto, I was icy with my partners yesterday. That was wrong — it is how one repels people.
I return to Popaul, whom I shocked yesterday... I must watch myself a little — at least in front of women. Otherwise one makes nothing of anything and lets pass unnoticed Popaul going to fetch hot water from the kitchen, Popaul handing a face towel, Popaul helping me climb the furniture... The poor man must think I am genuinely cracked — and I know it, I fear it.

Notes

Le Tintamarre: a Paris satirical weekly (1843–1899). ↩
Eugène Rouher (1814–1884), the leading minister of the Second Empire and afterwards head of the Bonapartist party; in the summer of 1877 Cassagnac had attacked him in Le Pays. ↩