Monday, 28 January 1878

As for yesterday evening!.. We are five. Dina in black velvet, black lace sleeves, black hair, mantilla and mask. Berthe, Yorke, and Mme de Daillens in black — silk, lace, jet, masks. I in the Capitole gown, very long, trimmed with silver lace — my aunt's bodice stuffed with four large face towels. Black hair, black gloves, mask, tulle and an immense Chantilly mantilla, black embroidered open-work stockings, small black satin shoes with silver lace.
At once Dina speaks in her natural voice. Ouf! Recognised on the spot, naturally. But he pretends not to have recognised us, and we take advantage to set ourselves completely at ease and talk as married women would. If there were someone to describe the evening it would be a curious and charming memory. There were nuances, reflections, and tangible things... Good God, yes! Our feet and — alas! — our legs up to the calf. It is terrible to relate — but Paul is so... respectful!
We showed them ourselves...
What I do not understand, however, are the Boyds, who at the Bal de l'Opéra were pinched, touched, embraced... and all while recounting this yesterday (Sunday) before dinner they were dancing the cancan...
Our Paul — since he calls us his five and his dear
women — therefore our Paul spent most of the time on his knees or seated on the carpet at our feet... it was ravishing... only since that evening I am constantly wanting to say foolish things. There was a moment when I laughed and made Cassagnac laugh — but I assure you I understood neither what I said nor what he said to me; yet I believe it must have been something funny. Whereas he had seemed bored the other evening, this evening he was charming. One must say that for a man in such a situation to be neither stiff nor improper and yet to be amusing, he must be — and must have — a great many things.
Berthe was witty and funny; Mme Yorke, taken for Berthe, played the novice; de Daillens held the floor until we had grown a little more at ease.
It is over tea that we permit ourselves the most — I amused myself like a madwoman at being able to say everything, and Cassagnac no doubt amused himself at these childish antics... tolerably risqué. I ask for champagne and smoke half an exquisite cigar.
What a ravishing home has this Turk who has given the preference to my foot. We institute a monthly tea — it is agreed that no one shall unmask. The Colonelle Dina, Georges Berthe, Yorke the novice, and de Daillens who the devil knows why wanted to be called Colette — she tells us while arranging her costume that she was going on my behalf to a man she detested, and she came back enchanted. Dina, very well made and very beautiful in her mask, struck poses for seduction — which prompted Cassagnac to say the most amusing things. We let him perform all his effects with faded flowers and boot-soles; to be sure, by way of compensation he told us he had an entire book entitled The Women One Has Not Had: a book from which he reads us a page — a woman of fifty who, instead of saying yes, launched into a whole speech during which the young Bonapartist had time to recover himself and excused himself as best he could for having caused her anxiety.
Cassagnac knows how to say nothings so tenderly and with such care, such respect and such swagger, that one comes to believe those accents are inspired by oneself alone — when alas they are the fruit of long experience and deep study. Yet I do not deny the natural disposition; without that there would be many of his kind.
The ravishing bedroom of this Turk, who took me aside and said in that voice of his — you know it, there is no other like it, thick and charming at the same time: I am rarely mistaken, you know — well, you are the only one I should wish
to see — and later:
— If I had to choose, it is you I would choose — or rather, coming down from this marvellous room (since it is the first man's bedroom I have ever seen, and it is neither austere nor effeminate).
— Give me your arm.
— You are mistaken — I am not the Colonelle.
— Give it to me all the same.