Friday, 7 June 1878

Charity kermesse in the Orangerie garden, given by the grandest ladies in Paris. We go there rather elegant, thank God. To have been what I was among all those ladies — that is a point in my favour, I assure you.
The tickets do not come!
I was driving in the Bois (we have our eight-spring carriage) in the grip of cruel anxieties... And then? A landau passes with a lady who bows to us. Mme Gavini. M. Gavini was prefect of the Alpes-Maritimes under the Empire, a deputy now. We had met her once at the Doubelt’s.
At the Orangerie, Blanc came to speak to us — rather cold and very altered in his manner. It is a strange thing.
Rosalie could not get any tickets — there is a real frenzy for this sitting.
Maman had not yet paid a call on Mme Gavini. No matter — at half past seven I go there myself; but as she was at table with company I leave word for nine o’clock. At nine I arrive and explain the purpose in a manner as persuasive as it is incoherent. I am received with open arms. There are three deputies of a sort present who, watching me heap upon them cajoleries, entreaties, jokes, and grand phrases in the Popaul style, take a lively interest in my fate. M. Gavini, to whom I am presented, says that only yesterday it was still possible. Yes — yesterday I was counting on the others!... Wretches.
In short everyone is ready to help me, and Gavini advises me to come to Versailles — he promises nothing but will do the impossible to get me in. That wretch Blanc, whom I abominate with my whole soul for his vile character and his false, cowardly morals — Blanc has done me a pretty ill turn with Cassagnac.
I should like to know what Mme Gavini’s social standing is, for... you know, a week or a fortnight ago I was thinking of her. What a coincidence. She was so kind that I fear she may be — improper...
She regards us as old friends from Nice.
In any case Rosalie will be at the distribution of the twenty-five tickets for the public gallery, and if there is any way I shall go there in grey hair and spectacles. They say the Cassagnac question may not come up until Tuesday. That would be superb. With all this we left Yorke in the lurch, whom we were to take to the Orangerie that evening. We only went in, and came out again at ten. On the way out, Marcuard. I reproach him for his negligence and laugh as usual.
Besides, all of this — with this Versailles business...
Do you know what Cassagnac really is? Do you want my true, sincere opinion of him — as with politics the other day? Here it is. Paul de Cassagnac is an enormous buffoon in general and a scoundrel in particular. With me he has been simply boorish. I shall not forget it. But his session will be flamboyant — he is virtually the leader of the Empire’s buffoons, and the honour of upholding that honourable cause falls to him. To tell you the truth I am beginning to feel a certain aversion for the magnificent mulatto; let him not be in love — very well — but let him at least be polite. Other people’s neglect — that comes and goes and comes back; it is the same with everyone, with princesses as with me. But Cassagnac is a friend — a brother... I know perfectly well it is a joke, but what does that matter? One asks nothing serious, but even in a joke there are certain courtesies one cannot dispense with. So all my admiration for the Newfoundland dog is done for, and I would be vexed if I found myself esteeming him again.
If I could find my way into Bonapartist society — while despising it — am I truly sure I despise it? I may prefer the Republic in the depths of my soul, but what is the Empire to me? I shall belong to whichever party serves me best. I do no wrong, since this harms no one; I commit no act of cowardice, being a foreigner and personally counting for nothing.
Let Cassagnac marry twenty-three times if it pleases him.
I no longer enjoy speaking of him. He is not what I thought... That is to say, he is like me — as moody and capricious as the devil! As he pleases. The fault is mine — I had only to please him and he would have been at my feet. I do not wish to complain of him; it is detestable to rank oneself among the offended. Only, for a moment I thought I would take a great interest in him. A profound error! Thank God I am no longer at the stage of adoring people who do not adore me. I only hope the brute does not redeem himself too much, or I should start regretting his friendship again.

Notes

In French in the original: huit-ressorts. ↩
In French in the original: à la Popaul. ↩