Sunday, 17 February 1878

It is five o’clock in the evening. M. Franceschi — a singer who drags himself round 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 get ourselves ready and dash off 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 prize imbecile, but more respectful and obedient than any I have ever 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 everyone for Cassagnac in every possible tone; 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 recognised 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 put her into a magnetic sleep.
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 insisted I was Russian; no one would believe me.
— You’re a proper sort of fellow, aren’t you? I said to my escort.
— Yes, Madame.
— And I ain’t no chambermaid.
— Oh! Madame!
— Are you capable of behaving yourself?
— With a woman of your wit, Madame!
— You’re stupid — come along.
It was after this dialogue that the false Cassagnac’s arm was entirely at my disposal.
It is poor Kolémine, a Russian, who was duped. My imbecile too...
First they bought us champagne, and then at around six o’clock we sent them to the Café Anglais with a rendezvous in ten minutes. They put us in a carriage, perfectly convinced; I told them to order my favourite dishes and went quietly home. Kolémine, led like a dog all evening, will be left with a supper in the Grand-16 and a snub in front of the waiters.
Republicans have their good points sometimes; thus, as I was speaking of Cassagnac, I came to speak of feet, and stepping back two paces I let my own foot be seen up to the ankle. Well — hats were removed and deep bows were made. What a strange ball! I do not know whether we encountered monks, but it was quite extraordinary and quite respectable.
Yorke and Berthe dined with us and have just left. I put forward the idea of going to Naples for a fortnight — Mme Yorke as chaperon and the three young ladies. I genuinely believe it would be amusing.
It was in the month of February that I was most in love with the Duke; it was also in the month of February that I fell in love with Audiffret; it was in February, too, that I was in love with Antonelli; and it was once more in February that I fell in love with Alexandre. In my shoes I would be careful, since it is February. Fortunately there is no one. Paul de Cassagnac does not count — since I first saw him I have always thought of him with pleasure, and it will be so for a long time, but it will never become a passing infatuation. On the contrary, I fear it may become an idea shaped by time, over which caprices have passed and will pass, and which will only grow — becoming a serious idea, like all those that come slowly, yet no more violent at one moment than at another.
Eighteen months ago in Russia, and a year ago in Naples, amid thoughts of Antonelli and then of Alexandre, I said to myself suddenly: no, I believe it is Cassagnac who will be the great passion of my life.
Do not attach to what I say any more importance than to anything else; I record my thoughts as I record everything I say and hear, without attaching any exaggerated importance to it — especially now.
I have written to Marcuard — it has been over a month since he wrote to me.
Florence, 24 January 1878. Dear Mademoiselle,
Having arrived three days ago from Rome, where I had gone for the King’s funeral, I found your kind lines and thank you a hundred thousand times. The death of Walitsky grieves me greatly, and I beg you to present my condolences to your family. Devoted friends are rare these days, and their loss all the more keenly felt. Fortunately your grandfather is better, and on that score you are calmer than when I last saw you in Paris.
Here everything is perfectly dismal — no receptions, no Pergola, nothing; even the skating rink is deserted... it is a time of rest. A great many people are away, either in Rome or in Nice for the grand pigeon-shooting prize and the races.
I saw Alexandre and Melissano in Rome. The latter is staying at Torlonia’s and is expected here within a few days. I do not know M. Lancastre [sic]; Pertusati, on the other hand, is a friend of mine and is at Nice as usual — I saw him there and even lunched with him at the London House. Is he by any chance the darling of some lady of your acquaintance? He is a good fellow, but too much in the demi-monde.
Rome was unbearable — such a crowd, such confusion, that I escaped immediately after the ceremonies. My apartment was moreover near the Piazza di Spagna, very damp and injurious to my health, whereas here, though it is cool, I feel perfectly well. I saw Gordigiani, who has in hand several pretty portraits of Russian and American ladies — he seems to be making further progress. He speaks of you in the most
enthusiastic terms, and will be delighted to paint your portrait on your return. He had six photographs — he has kept two, I am asking for two for myself, and will return the remaining two, should that be your wish. I also caught a glimpse at Rome (from a distance) of Signor Altamura — “Mademoiselle Dinaa” — he is a creature who sets my nerves on edge. As for young ladies, there is in Florence a Polish girl, Mlle Tanskà, who rules the roost. She is sixteen and is engaged in sculpture. She is more or less the only pretty person. Then Mme Needham, an extraordinary Englishwoman who has bewitched young Prince Strozzi. Not the slightest scandal, not the slightest gossip — dead calm. Come cast a ray of sunlight into our dull and colourless existence; we shall thank you on our knees.
A thousand good wishes to your family. If you have a free moment, you would delight me greatly by writing two lines.
Believe me in the meantime your most devoted.
F. de Marcuard
Cassagnac has not... come. It is true he had not been invited, and he has said he would never come without an invitation; last Sunday he failed to honour an invitation — and that is why I shall not invite him again until he comes of his own accord.
And that is for my sake more than his. I am afraid of seeming to pester people and pay court to them; after Alexandre, there would be no room for any such apprehension, had not this hundred-times-accursed Berthe unmasked herself, and had Mme Yorke not said that foolish thing at table.
But I swear to you that this unmasking has caused one of the greatest and longest-lasting rages I have ever felt.
The more time passes, the more I seethe.
Cassagnac was not at the ball (see page 125 of the same volume) — was it deliberate? That would really put me in too critical a position. He may have been there until half past two. Or else he could not go; perhaps he was sure I would not come, or perhaps he forgot. The Hungarian woman was in his box — and what if I had gone? What would he have done? People will tell him two women came looking for him, but there were more than two, no doubt, and those I asked about him — two of his friends especially — will say a Russian woman came expressly to see him, never having seen him before.
written across the page
And since this woman claimed to be Russian, she was doubtless not.
They may tell him nothing — it is such a common thing to see masked figures making faces and asking for Cassagnac. I was too much at ease for him to think it was me. But I managed well; a thousand d’Abzacs! You did not even touch me. That is lucky.

Notes

Marie says she spoke to the woman in Swedish; the diary text itself is in French. ↩
Marie’s French: j’suis [sic] — the speaker’s colloquial contraction, reproduced as spoken. ↩
The Café Anglais, on the boulevard des Italiens, was one of the most celebrated restaurants in Paris, famous for its private dining rooms. ↩
The Grand-16 was the Café Anglais’s most notorious private cabinet, associated with assignations and high-society intrigue. ↩
King Victor Emmanuel II of Italy died on 9 January 1878; his funeral in Rome drew mourners from across Europe. ↩
Teatro della Pergola: Florence’s oldest and most celebrated opera house. ↩
In English in the original. ↩