Sunday, 10 February 1878

Paul de Cassagnac was expected to dine; he had sent word that he would come late, but at around eight o’clock we receive a second letter in which he says that his sister has just given birth and he is going with his mother, who is leaving at once; his father was to have gone with her but has been prevented, so it is he who goes.

I was dressed in an original and charming fashion; my hair was done as well as possible.

A pity. Berthe was already there and, since we had begun laughing before the letter arrived, we continued laughing after — perhaps even too much, to disguise our vexation before Blanc. And straightaway I began shouting out loud, in the most extravagant terms, what I had been thinking to myself in far less violent ones. It is Blanc who bears the brunt of it all; I warned him moreover that, being three disappointed women, we would be violent — and that at the same time we feared he might be violent with us, as he had been with the Hungarian woman. This tune, with endless variations, goes on until midnight.

If Popaul had been there, I could not have been madder.

After some foolishness I refused to speak, and as this vexed me greatly at dinner I went and fetched my mandoline and played until dessert.

“Old Father and Mother Badinguet, two sous for the lot” — and then¹

I was in tears myself.

The tableau was rather pretty, besides — Dina, Berthe and I, especially I, were almost in costume, with fruit, a mandoline, all manner of nonsense.

I write a letter to Coulommiers (Seine-et-Marne):

And then, suddenly seized by a poetic fit, I began to play the piano, to sing to my own accompaniment on the harp, and then to pluck at the guitar and scrape away at the mandoline.

I am either tedious or mad. This surprising gaiety saved me from the disagreeable aftertaste that a disappointment like tonight’s leaves behind.

I also detest, so very much, my mothers meddling in my affairs and inviting my friends. I detest it so, so, so much!