Monday, 28 January 1878

As for yesterday evening!.. There are five of us. 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 of it to make ourselves quite at home and talk like married women. If there were someone to describe the evening it would be a curious and charming memory. There were nuances, reflections, and tangible things... Heavens, 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, though, is the Boyds, who at the Bal de l’Opéra were pinched, touched, kissed... 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... they were 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 full of banter 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 at tea that we allow ourselves the most licence — I enjoyed myself madly at being able to say anything, 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 house he has, this Turk who gave 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, with her fine figure 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 Les femmes que l’on n’a pas: 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 trifles 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 else, 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.
— I tell you I am not the Colonelle.
— Oh yes you are, yes you are — you are the Colonelle to me; come — and he led me gently aside, letting the others go first. Well, here are several nothings that prove that execution is almost everything. Let us not seek grand compositions for our pictures; let us represent anything at all, the least of things — but let it be true, and it will succeed.
I suspect our Paul of having said as much to the others.
— As for your name, I am going to whisper it in your ear.
— Say it.
— But you must give me your word of honour to say yes if I guess correctly.
— Yes.
— Marie.
written across the page
Here is what I have just found in Balzac: Love is not merely a feeling — it is also an art. A simple word, a precaution, a trifle reveals to a woman the great and sublime artist who wishes to touch her heart without withering it. This resembles what I have written here. April 1878
I began to laugh.
— I shall give you no other.
As he was asked at table to make three wishes, he said that above all he wished to be in love — not as he had been, but truly... whereupon Mme Yorke remarked that he was said to be in love with a young Russian girl.
— With a Hungarian woman! I cried.
— With a Swedish woman, cried Dina.
It was stupid and malicious enough to be Mme Yorke’s doing. But you cannot guess the conclusion.
We arrange to meet at the next Bal de l’Opéra, and I promise to sup with him and join him in his box. Which I seriously intended to do. Do not shudder — Cassagnac inspires in me a confidence so absolute and so amusing that I would go anywhere with him.
We were all on the salon divan, and Popaul seated at our feet — at mine, which were kissed several times... and I have no shame??!
— You, he says to de Daillens — with you there is only one thing to be done: here is my hand.
— Gladly, she said, with a fair amount of spirit for a republican.
— You, the Colonelle — you are good: good at home, good everywhere, gentle, calm, and indifferent. None of this matters much to you.
— You... Georges — you have what you need; you are replete, you have found your man; you are sceptical, satisfied, mocking, and teasing.
— Do you not know, great Paul, I said, that women who are in love and satisfied are teasing, mocking, and sceptical?
— Indeed I do — and look at her: she is content, she is digesting her love; nothing to be done with you, Georges — you have found your man.
— As for you, the novice — you are entirely innocent, or else you have reached the furthest extreme of perversity, which much resembles it... candour, or hardened vice.
— And you — you are the only one with whom there would be something to be done; I am rarely mistaken... well, with you we shall try a liaison. She is the only one who is free, my dear five women, is she not? Look at the Colonelle — see those arms; well, if I were a wholly material man, her arms and that fine figure might disturb me — but for my part I prefer a pair of feet to twelve thousand naked women; believe me, my women, there is nothing more tedious for a man than...
— Being loved...
— Precisely — and for my own part I have had enough of those loves where one... arrives...
I could tell you so much more! What I am recounting here is not the best of it.
— Guess quickly who I am, said Berthe — I am very hot. Cassagnac approached her, still on his knees, and she was so enraptured that the madwoman, the fool, the idiot removed her mask.
I confess I did not expect so vicious a piece of stupidity. To be recognised with some doubt — very well; but to unmask!! It was like a cold shower. I rise and go to sit at a distance; Mme de Daillens proposes to leave; the other three imbeciles unmask entirely. Poor Paul thought, I believe, that all these women were about to come to blows — he went from one to the other kissing hands and consoling everyone.
The escapade had entirely changed its character... To unmask! I approach the writing-desk and write these words, which Cassagnac takes and reads: this is what comes of choosing stupid women for companions. — There is one, he says, indicating me seated apart from the others in an armchair — there is one who is not pleased.
— Go to the devil!
— Oh! that is her favourite phrase. Well then, he added, as if to console me in a low voice — was I not right to say that you were the most gentille of the five!
written across the page
only gentille now
— Oh! right, right, I said.
— No doubt right, he resumed, in the most fraternally tender of voices, kissing my hand with that ingenuous and caressing air that is so agreeable.
This man would lead me to the ends of the earth — and I am seriously tempted to try a liaison... More than a brother and less than a lover. It would be amusing.
To whom should I send the number of your box?
— To no one.
— Whatever do you expect me to do with it!
— But... I thought you would find some arrangement...
— What number?
— 38.
He is so conceited that he will never think ill of it, believing — with reason — that one does it for him alone.
I arrived home and delivered terrible speeches on the stupidity of women — before Blanc, who knows we were in disguise but does not know for whom.
Then I undressed entirely, lay down on a mattress on the salon floor, and did not wake until seven in the morning. We stayed nearly two and a half hours at our Paul’s. I gave myself the satisfaction of studying his face at leisure — which is impossible in a drawing room. He is not more handsome than... anything you please — but there are not two faces as remarkable and proud, nor two figures so raffish, so easy, so solemn and so... distinguished — that is not the word as one habitually employs it.
That wretched Popaul — I told him he would wear out his lips with all this kissing of hands and feet. It would be a pity, on my word as an honest woman.
All the same I had a good time, and I am not displeased with myself.
The competition will be judged tomorrow... I am so afraid of being ranked poorly.

Notes

Literally, The Women One Has Not Had. ↩
In French in the original: collage. 1870s Parisian slang for an informal liaison or cohabitation outside marriage. ↩