Sunday, 17 February 1878

It is five o'clock in the evening. M. Franceschi — a singer who trails himself through every salon — Yorke, Berthe, and de Daillens have been here.
Yesterday we dined at the Boyds'. I wore the same outfit as last Sunday, in case Popaul should come in the evening.
Madame Boyd and all her daughters seem to admire me enormously, and Maman admires Berthe.
At ten o'clock we return home, and shortly afterward d'Abzac, d'Alt, and de Daillens arrive. At one o'clock there is no one left; at two o'clock de Daillens reappears, we put ourselves in order and run to the Opéra ball. Aha! We are very elegant and impenetrable. It was nearly three o'clock when we arrived.
Cassagnac was not there — you see I was right to do what I did. His absence serves me; I ask everyone about him and pretend I have come expressly to see him, having never seen him before. I am presented with a false Cassagnac, whom I pretend to swallow for ten minutes — a proud imbecile, but respectful and obedient as I have never seen. It must be said in passing that if the Opéra ball is always like this, it is truly too respectable. I am delighted by it, but those who go there for other purposes would be sorely disappointed. One is safer there than on the boulevard. Many men followed us — all the more so because we said nothing and appeared to be searching for someone.
I enjoyed myself. People addressed me as vous and Madame, and at the slightest inclination to take my hand I said:
— Take care — if you bring your hands into play, people will think you excessively stupid. Bad manners are the resource of imbeciles.
I asked about Cassagnac on every possible tone and of everyone; my imbecile leads me to his box, where I retrieve my rose which we had left there at the start of the night — when the Hungarian woman was in that box, along with another woman and two men. Her beauty was shabbily dressed in frayed black silk, and she was reclining at the front of the box with her feet on a chair.
I recognized her at once by a particular movement of the neck which I had only seen once, but which I had noted well.
I told her in Swedish that her dress was very nice. Mme de Daillens added in French that she, the woman, was quite ill and would do well to go to bed.
The neck movements redouble, but she says nothing, remaining in the same languorous pose — perhaps Popaul had hypnotized her.
I spoke seriously about politics with some republicans, after which my imbecile said to his friends, take care — you will not speak ill of Cassagnac in front of that one. I assured everyone I was Russian; no one would believe it.
— You're a proper sort of fellow, aren't you? I said to my escort.
— Yes, Madame.
— And I ain't no chambermaid. [sic]
— Oh! Madame!
— Are you capable of behaving yourself?
— With a woman of your spirit, Madame!
— You are stupid — come along.
It was after this dialogue that the false Cassagnac's arm was entirely at my disposal.

Notes

In Swedish in the original.