Saturday, 31 August 1878

At noon everyone was gathered, and Georges prevented the ceremony from taking place; it was put off until six.
At six o’clock the body was transported to the underground chapel, where it will await the arrival of the sons and whatever arrangements are made. The vault made an impression on me — but I did not weep; I wept only on the first day.
My aunt can barely stand; she has had to restrain that monster’s rages and has received boot-kicks to the side and to the stomach... To give you some idea, listen: Mouzay goes to the concierge and makes a scene; the concierge replies that he can do nothing, and that the police commissioner merely told him: “When one of them has been murdered, we’ll come up.” He nearly had cause to come today — for but for someone (I can no longer remember who) entering the dining room, my aunt would have been strangled.
Now everything is over.
— Before our father’s coffin, I beg you never to come to our house again, Maman said to him in the church.
— And I, before the same coffin, forbid it.
There is no need to name the author of that sentence, is there?
The Deceased little suspects that he has attended all these ceremonies. That man is the man for funerals. There is no one in the world like him for arriving buttoned up in his frock coat and looking solemn, grave, gentle — admirably suited to the occasion, in short.
I do not know whether he is or will be a great man, but I know that no one can carry off a public appearance as he does; that, besides, is what gives him such sway over the crowd. I remember his entrance at Saint-Augustin: he used to come in by the small door and pass through very quickly, elbowing his way to a place in the front row. And then, if you knew how heads turned, and how people repeated to one another: “It is Cassagnac, Cassagnac — oh! he does not beat about the bush — there he is,” etc., etc. It was like a ball of fire going by, that black head and those broad shoulders... Why, then, did he not want his marriage spoken of in the newspapers? And why does he not show her... in fact he has not had the time, but... How bourgeois it must all have been... the cocotte world mixed with the bourgeoisie.
The day the Shah decorated him (Le Pays, which used to treat the poor Shah very roughly, has glorified him since) — no, the day after — he must have gone to see Mlle Acard and tell her the news. Mme Acard must have said: “Do kiss your fiancée, Monsieur Paul”; or else, since the fiancée affected boyish airs, the mother said nothing, but the daughter held out her hand to M. Paul, blinking — she is very short-sighted; otherwise her eyes would be very beautiful, black. I have said all this because Cassagnac is admirable, like no one else, at funerals.
He has sullied himself; he is an actor, a great poseur; his airs of kindness, which make one want to go down on one’s knees to him... (and yet they say that one loves only the wicked and despises kindness — nonsense!) are nothing but affectation... and yet he ought to be kind, being strong. If you knew how kind he looks! above all because one sees that he wants to be; this great devil frightens you, and you are struck by the gentleness with which he speaks to you. Such kindness coming from so great a swaggerer has something touching about it and, let us say it, something humiliating: he treats you like little puppies in a basket.
Grand-papa used to say that in a gathering of dogs — poodles, spaniels, pugs — one finds them handsome and charming, but let a Newfoundland come in!... So it is with a drawing room in which Paul de Cassagnac appears. Poor Grand-papa — I shall not send a funeral announcement to the great Newfoundland.
Victor is dead. I shall buy myself a black Newfoundland. You know, it is absurd, but to make writing more of a pleasure I imagine that he is reading over my shoulder. Yesterday they came to fit my mourning dress; Caroline sent me the same fitter who went to Mlle Acard for her wedding dress.
All these ceremonies are going to keep me from my atelier for a few more days.
I shall always use the word Deceased, but be well assured that it will never mean anyone other than Paul de Cassagnac.
To do it properly I ought not to name him in any way at all.