Saturday, 14 / Sunday, 15 September 1878

In the way of news: yesterday Alexandre escorted a cocotte on horseback, which fills us with horror and causes me to dub him Monsieur Twenty Francs an Hour. And this evening he walked out with his brother. A compensation system.
The Mouzays to dinner. At the end of the evening the talk turned to Cassagnac and his inexplicable marriage to the daughter of the Comte and Comtesse Stéphano Acard. I ask you how this "Stéphano," "Acard," and "Comte" harmonise together! De Daillens is perfectly right to say that when one is Paul de Cassagnac one does not marry in a cellar (like the early Christians). One does not marry off one's mother-in-law a week before oneself; one does not serve as one's own witness; one does not hide the marriage; one does not have the ridiculous notice published in Le Figaro; and one does not permit M. Clément Laurier to be the bride's witness. Good Lord! When one plays a rôle one plays it to the end.
Consider this Clément Laurier, who is witness to the young lady Paul de Cassagnac is marrying: there he has sunk low — hack journalist at six sous a line, adventurer, wretched braggart. When one speaks as he does of the Republic and the men of 4 September and the Morgan loan, one does not allow M. C. Laurier to meddle in one's marriage — M. C. Laurier who, more or less directly, has been treated by him as little better than a thief. This marriage is a derailment, an anomaly; such a marriage in Cassagnac's adventurous and chivalric life is like a sheep's leg grown on a man.
That brings the edifice down, his articles and his grand phrases included — one can no longer read or listen to them with pleasure, for one believes he is lying. When one has bluffed and blustered all one's life, when one is a public man, one does not slap one's own principles in the face.
Well then, yes — that is precisely what is a pity: by taking me he would not have derailed. I no longer regret him, but I regret a man who provokes one to cease regretting him. It is a barbarous expression, as M. Victor Dury would say.
I am beginning to practise drawing little figures from memory.
There is one thing I have never admitted, and which would explain everything: Love.
And it is precisely because I cannot believe it that it may perhaps be true... she is common, faded... they say she is charming... No, I do not believe that is the woman loved by Cassagnac before the derailment... oh! After it he is capable of anything, of being a twenty-francs-an-hour himself — no, at least forty francs.
"If I had believed that Marie would want him, I could have arranged the matter — all the more easily since he would have asked nothing better. There is indeed a considerable difference between Marie and a Stéphano Acard!"
That is what Mouzay said to Maman as she went down with her to walk her dogs.
"I do not know whether she would have wanted him," said Maman.
"But," Mouzay continued, "every time I mentioned him to her she would answer: Fie! What a horror!"
"True — I also heard her say: what a horror!"
I have heard myself too. You know how I thought then, and how far from me was any thought of a commonplace arrangement. Ah! if I had known.

Notes

Cocotte: a kept woman or courtesan; a woman of the demi-monde.