Wednesday, 13 March 1878

All through dinner I keep repeating like a parrot that Cassagnac has been killed. By dessert they believe it and are moved. As for me, I would gladly give Cassagnac’s life to see Pincio again. Think of it — Pincio was mine, was for me, I did with him as I wished, and he loved me above everyone. Whereas Cassagnac is not mine, and the more charming and remarkable he is, the more weight this consideration carries.
Madame de Fayet spent at least an hour with us after my guitar lesson. We had as much fun as two madcaps — I had her jumping to the ceiling. She wants to disguise herself as a maidservant and go to the rue de Boulogne. And so this very evening she runs there at eight o’clock to find out whether the illustrious Creole has bitten the dust, and it is through a little note from her that I learn he is dining at his father’s after his pistol encounter with M. Andrieux the deputy. Thirty paces and a ball at the word of command. It is absurd!
I would fight all day in that fashion. That is what one calls risking one’s life... Ah, my emperor. All the same, none of this brings my dog back. I have written to Rome to have a similar one sent to me.
Dina was moved as though it were one of Maman’s fainting fits. Cassagnac is, it appears, such a likeable creature.
Julian jokingly admired my stoicism, and Amélie remarked that people who work coldly will produce only ordinary things. As for herself — she puts so much passion into it that nearly four years of working night and day have not enabled her to put together a head or a figure study, for all her excellent gifts for laying in paint thickly. But alas! That would be enough only in landscape. If I were a man I would not want to marry her — she produces only disjointed works...
La Fayet had come solely for news of him. A little later Mme Yorke sent to ask whether he had been killed; and this evening at Mme Mouzay’s, where Maman went, M. d’Andigné spoke to her of Cassagnac — as does, for that matter, the whole of Paris.
Mouzay met d’Andigné in Rome nine years ago when he was an officer of the Pope; and it was by speaking to him of that period that she lured him treacherously to her fifth floor — by means of a most brilliant letter.
He will not be caught there again. This evening he made himself Maman’s companion in misfortune — particularly for going down the slippery, carpetless staircase.
My uncles themselves — who know nothing of friendship as it is practised between people like Cassagnac and me — suppose that I am tenderly interested in him. Everyone knows they do not quite understand.
For to place one’s love in Cassagnac is to wish to build a home on... the bridge of Avignon.

Notes

Empâter: to lay the paint on thickly (impasto). ↩
The Pont d’Avignon (Pont Saint-Bénézet) breaks off in the middle of the Rhône. ↩