Sunday 3 February 1878 — continued

It means absolutely nothing to me when he kisses my hand.
— When I kept you back alone in my room for a moment, I felt like doing something...
— What?
— To kiss you.
— And to what end?
— For nothing — I know that, with you.
— It would give you pleasure, then.
— To me, yes. But my respect is so great that I said to myself: it would be wrong — since I know who you are.
— Oh! you are a good fellow, an excellent fellow — a decent man.
— Yes, a decent man.
— A decent man... if you had done it.
— Well then — what would you have said?
— True, there would have been nothing to say — but I should have been so vexed... you know, I hardly know how to explain it... something always remains... it would be... dirty.
— Dirty!
— Yes — dirty.
— Well then, my dear little friend — I shall fear neither for your peace nor for your tranquillity so long as the idea of kissing a man seems dirty to you.
— It will always be so.
— Oh no.
— Oh yes! listen — perhaps when — but when one does not love someone — it is dirty, is it not?
— From that point of view, yes.
— That is what I say.
We dined together and joked and laughed. Mme de Fayet wrote a wildly enthusiastic letter to Popaul.
— Well, my friend — if you are reduced to inspiring passions in old women, I pity you.
written across the page
Cassagnac told Maman the story of the five women, without naming anyone.
I put on my monk’s habit — which I had promised to show him long ago — and while he made his confession which I was listening to under the hood, the tall and noble young man, more and more devout, accompanied his words with kisses... on the hand — funny kisses... with his child’s lips... I have never come across anything but thin lips, and Cassagnac — that is to say my arm was barely wide enough; no, that’s nonsense — he has a small mouth. Yes, my arm — oh good Lord, it is so beautiful — the arm, of course.
— Is all of it like that?...
— Better.
— Nothing she does will surprise me.
There were three of us: the Colonelle, Popaul and I. The mothers were in the large drawing room.
Ah! let me not forget to say that before dinner M. d’Andigné called — and stayed quite a long time, too — and that he is very amiable, and that I am annoyed because he may think Cassagnac is courting me. He is here for Dina, I believe.
— Wasn’t it dreadful, unmasking like that, my great friend?
— It was badly done. But tell me — we must do it again, we must find some scheme...
— I shall find one — without even trying... it comes to me just like that, all at once.
— Wasn’t it a charming evening — tell me, you and the Colonelle? And it gives me certain rights... you know how I adore shoes and stockings: you are always obliged to show them to me now — it is an acquired right, and that’s that.
— You are a decent man.
— Not as decent as all that!
— Yes, yes, a decent man.
Berthe arrives; I run to change back and come into the drawing room as if nothing had happened.
Oh! I played the madcap! While dressing I slipped my fingers through a cupboard door opening into the dining room, and Cassagnac bit my fingers. I said to him very softly you dirty dog — as when he kissed my foot at his house.
We did mesmerism, spiritualism, and all manner of things that Cassagnac knows how to do. Dina fell asleep; Berthe nearly so.
They began putting me to sleep as well, just to see. The mesmerist held my hands, pressing his thumbs into my palms and gazing at me fixedly. After a few minutes I was ever so slightly flustered, which is natural enough.
He refuses to magnetise me in earnest, on the grounds that it would be... dirty, he says.
It is lucky I am not yet jealous... of everything. I cannot even bear to hear a woman praised in my presence, and for jealousy of all kinds I can only compare myself to Cassagnac, who is absurdly jealous — so Blanc says. Berthe is pretty, very pretty. Small, rather badly built, but pretty.
Do you know how I ended the evening, at half past one in the morning? Well — first I asked, quietly, whether a woman alone could safely enter the Opéra.
— Yes. I do not encourage you to do so, I would even advise against it; but if you were ever to commit this...
— ...extravagance.
— This extravagance — you will always find a box and an arm at your disposal, as a good companion.
— I do not wish to count on that; you might have to bring someone else.
— Do not stand on ceremony with me — make use of me.
And then... Ah! upon my word, and then I addressed him as tu, I said the most outrageous things in front of everyone. When Berthe was not there it was amusing; in front of Berthe it was mad.
I go to bed slightly displeased with my conduct. And then there is that Cassagnac, who tells me I am mad, that he feels sorry for my family on my account.
He assures me I am witty and endlessly amusing — I do not know about that, but I know he is very amusing and inspires such mad trust in me that I treat him like a woman or a brother. This good fellow had nothing better to do than to tell me I was mad.
Our escapade gives rise to a thousand amusing bits of nonsense that we say and that the mothers appear not to understand.

Notes

In French in the original: saligaud. A crude term of abuse — literally “dirty pig” or “filthy brute.” In context, an intimate whispered endearment as much as an insult. ↩