Friday, 25 October 1878

We had our little placement competition. A life-size head in one hour. Everyone did reasonably well; it will be difficult to judge.
I called on the Gavinis; Madame gave me a piece of English glassware from the Exposition, but she cannot come with me tomorrow — Mme Belletti from Nice is here for a fortnight and has monopolised her. Belletti and Randouin led the prefectoral set in Nice three years ago. As long as no one steals my old dears away from me. In the meantime Mme Gavini gives me little presents, kisses me, and tells me she is very fond of me. I said “my old dears” — but they are not old at all. Gavini is still very vigorous, and his wife is one of those Parisiennes with hair still black, skin roughened but fairly fresh, and a figure threatening to expand considerably; elegant, all the same; a harsh way of speaking — Bordeaux-bred. A common look... and yet this woman is received everywhere and liked everywhere.
I am bored... we have no money.
Mouzay comes in the evening and recounts a dream she had about Cassagnac. He was a travelling salesman in corsets. “Monsieur,” she told him in the dream, “is it possible to have made such a vile marriage as yours! Do you know that this disgraceful marriage costs you dearly in society, and that everyone thinks as I say!” “What do you expect, Madame,” he replied, “I did it because Mademoiselle Moussia mocked me — I married to spite her.”
Oh! Whether or not he enraged me — he has certainly vexed me, and not only in a dream but in reality as well... The wretch!
It is foolish to speak of what is finished, dead — but I cannot help myself. This marriage is idiotic, idiotic and disgraceful. Not one paper said a word about it: friends out of politeness, enemies out of fear. It all passed off as though it were something shameful. The little semi-official note in Le Figaro came afterwards like an excuse, an explanation. if this silence were If the young and pretty comtesse Stephano-Acard-Julia-Clément-Laurier were a respectable match, his friends would have said something; they certainly trumpeted the death of the abbé de Cassagnac, Paul’s uncle, and printed extracts from other papers.
Imbecile, idiot, clumsy oaf, fool. Poor man, poor great Newfoundland, poor black pearl.
I am ready to forgive him, sometimes — and sometimes I think the superior being I had imagined ought to have been incapable of...
“I was offered a charming girl with a dowry of six million, and I refused her,” he said once when we were speaking of marriage.
“And why is that, Monsieur? The girl was charming, you say.”
“Yes, but there was a stain in the family — and for me, that is worth no treasure on earth.”
And this was said with that great face tilted upward, that raised nose, those disdainful eyes. Fie! The filthy beast. Oh! Upon my word, the filthy beast.
Daughter of a priest and of a cocotte or of an adventuress, a household that received only men, bold manners, dubious acquaintances, and the mother a... private kept woman. A bad reputation! And this is where he went to find a wife! Good Lord — after all, it seems Paul de Cassagnac is entertaining at the rostrum, but elsewhere he was simply a gentleman, a journalist, son of a writer, of a poor family, who — thanks to the adventurous life of his whole family — would find it hard to marry. Such is the word of Mme Gavini, who is the echo of all the world, of all Paris. So be it.
Here is something I shall always regret, and with good reason.
And to think, to think that it is my own fault!!