Sunday, 24 March 1878

I went to the Madeleine with Marie, Etienne's wife. The one-o'clock Low Mass is always entertaining. I was not in white, needless to say; I had on my long otter-fur coat beneath which one could barely see a brown skirt. A grey felt hat with Louis XIII feathers, charming and perfectly distinguished.
Don Carlos, who was seated before us, separated by five or six rows of chairs, looked at me a great deal as we were leaving. Did he recognise the mouth, or was it simply that I was well turned out?
I saw no one else; there was a great crowd under the columns and I could not appear to be searching too obviously. Besides... I am impatient; I should like it to be Saturday so as to see M. Multedo, because it seems to me that something might be made of him.
I was unable to do anything all day — it is disgraceful. One could read, practise my fifty instruments, a heap of things; but I was disposed for nothing except preparing mystifications for Thursday.
Order of the day
There is, as you know, a certain awkwardness between Cassagnac and me, which annoys me greatly. The only way to put matters right and to reassure myself is to leave him entirely in peace, and on Thursday to captivate whomever I wish except him, unless something extraordinarily propitious should occur for some folly. But I warn you that if I continue to concern myself with him at present, nothing will come of it but the most detestable intriguing in the world.
Therefore I must swear, under the severest penalties, not to make him my object on Thursday.
I swear it, and if no extraordinary occasion should
present itself, I swear even not to speak to him.
Either he recognises me or he does not. If he recognises me it is dreadful; if he does not, I shall have passed a few pleasant moments that lead absolutely nowhere, so it is pointless to speak to him.
If that wretched Englishwoman, that triple scoundrel, had not committed this outrage at the masked ball, I should have had a fine time. Strangling her would be too little. But no — one must do nothing to her since it would change nothing; but if it could change something, I would make her life most miserable.
Why did I make this oath? It is to attach too much importance... Here is the fact. It seemed to me — or it is truly so — that Paul de Cassagnac does not respond with all the requisite enthusiasm. It is therefore out of a sort of shame that I withdraw, so as not to get too deeply ensnared.
[Written across the page: He is simply irritated that Mme de Fayet is so foolishly foisted upon him. And that devil of an excursion with Blanc was idiotic too. It was the third invasion. Those wretched Boyds are wretches.
Since when it is not I who spoil things, others spoil them for me, let us at least mitigate the damage.
And let us reassure ourselves by leaving him in peace.]
In reality there is nothing at all.
He has never come more often than once a fortnight, or even once a month. For it to be otherwise, something entirely different would be required.
But my family is so detestable in this respect that one could not take a step without the name of Cassagnac; they affected to speak of him as an intimate, like Blanc, exactly as if this man was to have no existence outside ourselves. I cannot tell you how much this can place one in positions odiously false. I cannot tell you to what point it is revolting.
But enough; since it cannot be otherwise. Let us leave that and do what we can. No matter the cause at this point, since it seems to me that I have bored Cassagnac — let us do what we can to rid ourselves of this sad conviction, that is to say the only thing to be done: leave him in peace, and reassure ourselves by this simple and inoffensive means.
That is admirably put. I hold to it and I stop there. Amen.
bid. p. 227