Thursday, 14 February 1878

After the atelier I went to consult Mlle Alberti, a card-reader. She repeated Edmond’s prediction to me as exactly as possible, almost word for word. And then she kept repeating: What an extraordinary existence, what struggle, what a life, what an incredible, extravagant, baroque character. I have never seen anything like it!
I showed her a letter from Cassagnac, carefully wrapped so that she might touch the cards to it and tell me... she talked nonsense. This man is supposedly in love with me and thinking of a union with me — but that will not come to pass. What will come to pass is the gentleman as Edmond described him.
— You are crack-brained and violent.
These two words make me wildly merry, and I come home roaring with laughter. We find Blanc, and then Berthe.
I had promised to bring my mandoline to the atelier this evening, so at eight o’clock I prepare to leave. Berthe and Dina come with me, and Blanc too, carrying the instrument to the carriage.
We were supposed to leave it at the Italiens. But what happens! What happens is that once in the three-seater cab, squeezed together, jolted, shaken about, with Blanc opposite us hugging the mandoline, we shriek loud enough to alarm the constables, and someone — myself, perhaps — cries: What if we went to Popaul’s!
Blanc, who asks for nothing better and whom, besides, I can push into anything, orders the coachman to go to 10 bis, rue de Boulogne. It is half past eight; when we arrive it is nearly nine. Blanc, somewhat agitated, tells us:
— He is at home — there are lights — but Paul at this hour will not be alone...
— Blanc! Where are you taking us!
— We shall tell Maman everything!
— Calm yourselves, calm yourselves — I shall go and see.
— We’ll huddle down in the back of the cab — go, quickly.
Good heavens — I am a little embarrassed.
Here Here is the beginning as Blanc told it to me. The valet says that Monsieur is expecting someone.
— Announce Monsieur Blanc.
— I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but there are the two little Russians and the little Englishwoman whom you know, and they absolutely insist on seeing your lodgings.
— But they are mad!
I must tell you that at dinner we had played innocent on the subject of these lodgings.
— Blanc, I am expecting someone.
— It will be two minutes — no more. written across the page The same valet who, on the evening of the five women, stood in the pantry before a table on which there were two loaded pistols. And when Cassagnac, on entering, asked what this meant, he replied that it was all very strange and that one never knew what might happen.
We enter nevertheless, with the mandoline, but instead of the salon my legs carry me to the kitchen, where I encounter the valet and the cook, who send me fleeing to the salon, where I hide behind Berthe, then behind the curtains. Amid a scatter of new and serious pamphlets, newspapers, and trifles, Paul is walking about in trousers and a blue jacket trimmed with red, and suede ankle-boots... But heavens, what a ravishing foot he has. The other day I was nearly in despair, telling myself that even if I were to find a man to my taste, he would have feet with a protruding big toe and corns! I am cynical, but the fact is, it really is appalling. Cassagnac has admirable feet, and I would swear they are as clean as mine.
You can imagine the effect of his blue-and-red flannel on us; I declare he is very handsome — and that it suits him very badly — and then we make a little noise, some trifling misunderstandings... At any moment the Hungarian woman might arrive. Popaul was uneasy, and we left after five minutes in this delightful place. Only, at number 36, rue Vivienne, Blanc manages to extract his arm holding the mandoline, but it is impossible to disentangle ourselves — and the pharmacist who sees me arrive three times a day was watching this scene.
We manage to tear ourselves apart, and the three Graces make a sensational entrance at the atelier. Work stops; Julian arrives; I settle myself on a high stool and the concert begins. I can play anything one likes on the mandoline. Then I sing. Several students were there — those who do not work in the evenings — who had come expressly to hear me.
I was enjoying myself, and in the end they pressed Julian so much to show a sketch of us he had made while I was playing that he turns out the gas, everyone gives chase, he runs — and it does not end until half past ten.
Whereupon (rather displeased with myself) after Berthe’s departure I comment on this evening’s visit, and my mothers and Dina share with me a thought I have already had.
That Blanc must be in love with me. As I do not desire this at all, I have no fear of being wrong about it. Besides, in my case it would be the natural order of things. Girofla and Galula — it is Galula who becomes what the other was meant to become. Alas!
Apart from the laughter and the shoes, if I were to translate my thoughts with the brutality that characterises me, I would say: how I long to be married so as to become M. de Cassagnac’s mistress. Abominable, isn’t it? Not as much as it seems. With another man it would be shameful, dirty, and tragic. But Cassagnac has such wit, and he is a man so amusing, so charming, who knows so well how to set one at ease, that it would seem... an... amusement... quite natural. Tomorrow perhaps I shall be horrified by these insanities.
Alberti told me I shall not have what I am waiting for within six weeks — the medal. She has assured me, however, that I shall be married at twenty, as Edmond predicted.
I turned nineteen in November. Count it up. Pah!... It is a strange calculation... No, no, I would not do it (I say this because I fear God might be angry with me).
I am a little embarrassed by this invasion. He will believe, and rightly, that I am its instigator. But I erase this... disagreeable thing — disagreeable because I... I seem to be... pursuing him. In short, I soften its effect by not going to the Opéra on Saturday.
And with that, reassured, I go to sleep. Not without pointing out to you that Blanc — to borrow the expression of Le Pays concerning an imperialist turncoat — Blanc, I say, licks Cassagnac’s boots. Seeing us so familiar with him, he was uneasy, as though the great man were made of glass and in danger of being broken. Come now, my dear — no foolishness, no Opéra on Saturday, no invitations, to the atelier, to the atelier, to the atelier. Do not fear neglecting people — you will not neglect them, and you have done enough. Work, imbecile, work.

Notes

Tireuse de cartes: a fortune-teller who reads playing cards or tarot. ↩
Giroflé-Girofla (1874): comic operetta by Charles Lecocq about the twin sisters Giroflé and Girofla. In this diary «Girofla» is also Marie’s nickname for Émile d’Audiffret (030/1875-03-27: «Girofla ou Terffidua, comme on voudra»; 034/1875-06-15: «Girofla et Giroflé»), and Galula is Audiffret’s friend (glossary GALULA). ↩
Le Pays: the Bonapartist daily of which Paul de Cassagnac had been editor since 1866. ↩