Saturday, 2 November 1878

To the Exposition with the Gavinis. Mme Gavini finds that I have a charming character — the easiest in the world to live with — that I am perfectly well brought up, that I am neither stiff nor forward; in short, that I shall be a cheerful, virtuous woman. As Maman and my aunt are in the habit of shouting a heap of nonsense about my manners, I am almost surprised to hear it said that I am well brought up.
This evening I made myself very pretty to hear Les Amants de Vérone by the Marquis d’Ivry at the Italiens — at the Ventadour, that is. But the Marquis de Casa-Riera’s box turns out to be two ground-floor boxes knocked into one. All that trouble for nothing. M. Casa-Riera is a Spanish millionaire, blind and a little deaf, who has subscriptions at every theatre and puts them at his friends’ disposal. I explain this to you because in fifty years, when I am dead, no one will know what it is any more.
With us (myself and the Gavinis) was the Comtesse de Balincourt — a formerly ravishing woman who has enjoyed herself as much as she could. Daughter of Marshal de Castellane, and married first to M. de Contades. The Marquis de Casa-Riera, her escort, and the Marquis de Rocherenard, Mme Gavini’s cousin. A company of old ruins. M. de Rocherenard gave his cousin his arm on the way out, and I heard him ask who I am and say that I am sweet, charming and “a perfect woman”.
My whole demeanour consisted in being tormented by the fear of not having tickets for Monday or Tuesday to the Cassagnac session. I have just written to Princess Karageorgevitch — her son knows useful people — and to M. Turquan, the one who saved me at the last session.
That beast of a Gavini — if he does not get me tickets, I shall hold it against him for the rest of my life. Why, you will say, go and work yourself up at this session? How silly you are!
What do a few hours of agitation afterwards matter to me? At least I shall have enjoyed myself like a queen, like a goddess. And if it truly moves me, I shall not be sorry; instead of this wretched muddle in my brain I shall have real regrets, mad rages, the blood rushing to my head — in a word, sensations that are more definite, more complete. And I prefer that.
And besides — you cannot understand the happiness of seeing Paul de Cassagnac at the rostrum, defending his election once more! An election he knows is lost, and which he will make use of to say everything. To have him there before you, to look at him as much as you like, to listen to him, to see him in all his glory... you see, you do not understand that, you! It is finer than a race won by a head; it is finer than anything in the world.

Notes

Title in French in the original: Les amants de Vérone (“The Lovers of Verona”), the Marquis d’Ivry’s opera after Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. ↩
In French in the original: baignoires. ↩