Saturday, 2 March 1878

Robert-Fleury was very pleased with me this morning.
M. de Beaurepaire came with all his stupid arrogance, affecting to treat me like an ignorant little girl, a foreigner. I affected to treat him like a schoolmaster and put him admirably in his place. It was truly necessary; I may have been curt, but he is so impertinent — and old into the bargain — with a wit that consists in saying improper things.
Berthe and Yorke, M. Franceschi and Mme de Daillens.
Good heavens — let us not forget la Fayet, who came in the afternoon, and whom I led to believe that Cassagnac was mad about her... She is going to write to him again. The mad creature is... mad about him.
— He thrills me! To see him at the tribune, saying all those extraordinary things with that insolent, calm, haughty manner. It is enough to drive one mad!
Poor old dear... I understand her.
At night, the Opéra with Dina, Marie, and de Daillens.
I had found a marvellous way of disguising my voice and was preparing to mystify Cassagnac — but he fought a duel today at three o’clock with M. Thompson. M. Thompson was wounded. They say Cassagnac is doing his party harm; they say what he says is not suitable for the Chamber.
As for me, I am only a woman, and I judge him neither as a Bonapartist nor as a republican. All that matters little to me — and so I am thrilled by yesterday’s session. It is delightful — the aptness, the verve, the bite, the force and the mockery, rising to the sublime if one may use that word. Had he shown less wit yesterday, his speech would have been found serious and solid. Truth and candour and the defence of right have no need to be expressed so wittily.
What is heartbreaking in life is a handsome man — very handsome, and not with common beauty, but with a splendid, royal beauty — such a man when he is stupid. I speak of Don
Carlos, whom I mystified — whereupon d’Andigné, who was with me, found no other role than that of... servant to His Highness, who had abandoned his wife, who kissed my hand and was very respectful (I had asked d’Andigné to obtain his word of honour as a prince), and with whom I have fixed a rendezvous for the day after tomorrow.
I showed him my hand and the lower part of my face, which made him want to see the rest. We went with him to smoke and take lemonade. I have been wanting to see him for two years now. I recognised him at once — he is divinely beautiful. D’Andigné did everything in his power to ensure the legitimate sovereign was not kept waiting; he is not amusing, but after all Don Carlos is not just anyone, and as a curiosity I am not sorry to have walked about with him. It was the first time I had witnessed the part men play between a prince and a woman. They were keener on it than he was himself.
No one recognised me — least of all those who do not know me. De Daillens is in love with a sculptor who had paid me court before Don Carlos and who called her a yapping little cur. I had my gloved hand and my foot in my favour. The poor woman trembled, could not say a word. She is a respectable woman — it is unfortunate that she should be in love. I made an appointment with the sculptor to visit his atelier, and I promised d’Andigné to name the day when he might see me... even though I belong to His Highness, he asks something for his good offices. They all believed me — I played my part well — but I regret that Cassagnac was not there.
I do not regret this night as I did the one in Italy. I did not compromise myself, and no one recognised me — not Blanc, not d’Andigné, not anyone.
He is a strange one, this Don Carlos. I watched and studied him the entire time; I had thought about him a great deal, and this wandering king charmed me infinitely... But he is so... good-natured... I am quite asleep — I think it is six in the morning.
I write with my eyes closed. I am sleepy.

Notes

Don Carlos (Carlos VII, 1848–1909), the Carlist pretender to the Spanish throne, living in Paris after his defeat in 1876. ↩