Monday, 18 February 1878

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 ordered my favorite 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 again in February that I was so with Antonelli; and it is still in February that I have become so
with Alexandre. In my position I would take care, since it is the month of 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.
^1^ 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. Lancaster [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
^1^ ^1^ Ibid. p. 182-183
enthusiastic terms, and will be delighted to paint your portrait on your return. He had six photographs — he has kept two, I have solicited 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 the 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 Tanska, who rules the weather. 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 colorless 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 a previous one — 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 fear seeming to bore people and to court 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 removed mask is 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 truly expose me to 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.
This afternoon the model is bad — a poor excuse which I seize upon to give this week to Schaeppi, who will paint my portrait.
Instead of working, we go with the Boyds to Alexis. What can I tell you but that it is astonishing. I gave him a letter from Cassagnac, took him by the hand and thought very hard about everything I wanted him to tell me. He told me this is a tall, stout, dark man with a remarkable face. That he is in love with me, that I frighten him a little, but that he has no thought of marrying me. That I love him too.
— Like a brother?
— Oh! No, far more.
— Am I in love with him?
— No — or only moderately so. But you think extremely well of him.
Then he tells me that on Thursday at six o'clock I came to see him at his home, that there were two people with me and the third had separated from us at his door. That he was in undress and was expecting two men who were to come in evening dress. That recently there had been a sort of shock — that he was jealous, or hurt in his friendship. That he has for me a great affection and genuine friendship, and not much beyond. That on Saturday he did not go to the Opéra ball by deliberate choice, from fatigue — nothing definite. That the fair-haired woman who was at the front of the box meant nothing to him and that he had enough of his mistress, with whom he has nearly broken... that he thinks extremely well of me and will probably come this evening.
I asked him whether the woman in the box was in a magnetic sleep. No. Why did she not speak to me? Because she did not dare.
We also questioned him about my brother Paul, and Berthe about her Englishman, etc. etc., Mme Yorke about her husband. I would like a private session, and for the man not to be worn out and pestered with any number of questions.
I asked whether the gentleman in question occupied himself with politics.
— Yes — it is his profession.
— And his name?
— Is double.
— How double?
— His name is never spoken alone; one always adds his given name, which consists of four letters.
— Come now — since you see him, say his name; you must know who it is, and the name as well.
— His name is Paul.
— Good.
I gave him some of grandfather's hair; he described his illness and the causes of his illness.
And now I feel that I helped him along with my questions. He said that Cassagnac was surprised and hurt on Thursday evening. I believe it.

Notes

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.
Alexis: a celebrated Parisian clairvoyant (somnambule) who worked by psychometry — holding objects or touching the hands of his clients.