Friday, 8 November 1878

Yesterday, then, we went to Versailles with the tickets from that cherub Gambetta. Gavini meets us at the station and takes us all the way to the questors’ box.
I am keeping the day’s newspapers for you. Read them. Have you read them? Well, the first part is weak but the second superb, and so M. Rouher went to congratulate his young enemy and co-religionist:
— Great talent and great energy! he said to him. — That is the most flattering tribute I have ever received, replied the husband of Mlle Julia Acard. (I have this from Gavini and from Rouher himself.)
It is odd, though: I am not enthusiastic; I would have wished him better. The fair Julia was in Grévy’s box, next to ours. Pray believe that I scrutinised her through my glass, despite the short space between us, and so thoroughly that, barely home and without taking off my hat, I drew her likeness in a little sketchbook. My poor Cassagnac! She is ordinary! She is faded — or perhaps not even that, but so dark, so swarthy that the skin around her nostrils, chin and mouth looks withered... as in the awkward places of the body... (see the descriptions in anatomy books); her lips are neither red nor pale, they are brown. A strongly marked nose, fairly straight and long rather than aquiline; thick blue-black eyebrows, rather close together and set high above the nose — eyebrows of a charming line; the distance from brow to eyelid enormous, a heavy eyelid, the eye large and beautiful, tired and dark underneath. Everything that is brow or eye is adorable, and when her eyes look at the deputy in suspense they are truly enviable. The upper lip juts out; the mouth is nevertheless fairly graceful, but too masculine; the chin small. The face long, the forehead high, and the hair, smoothed and held tight by a black velvet band, looks thin — the upper part of the temples especially seems bare. A chignon of plaits falls on the nape of her neck. It may be her own. A few regular, sparse, false ringlets escape from under the hat on to her forehead. The hat is a toque with a black velvet band and two grey wings at the side. An ordinary dress embroidered with jet. Big bones, to judge by the hands in grey gloves, with thick, bony fingers. I know nothing of the neck; it was wrapped in a black gauze that came from the back of the hat. But do me justice: I have not yet said a single word about what is deplorable in this face, so interesting to draw. It is the cheeks, which enjoy a skin that looks flabby and — pardon the word — scurfy! The bosom low (Caroline said she could not wear a corset, having an extremely weak stomach; she said it to defend her against my attacks). This daughter of Hermes and Aphrodite (I insist on these Greek names in this instance) was holding a cookery book perhaps, for she was coming out at the same time as we were, and I heard her speak of the household’s pot-au-feu. When I was not training my glass on this singular Juliet, I was training it on the great Romeo; at moments he seemed very handsome to me, but pray believe that I am — no one knows why — reassured and calm. Gavini met Gambetta in the lobbies, and that great man answered that he was delighted to have given pleasure to these ladies and that yes, he would gladly make their acquaintance (Gavini had said that the next time they met he would introduce them; that is what Gambetta was answering).
There is a man who is very able, though relatively unknown — Clémenceau. I bought his portrait and recognised him in the Chamber. Physically he is dreadfully insignificant.
The return journey is made in the company of MM. Abbatucci, Amigues, Jolibois, Baron Eschasseriaux and the Comte de Bouville, who are introduced to us by Gavini. I leave them to their conversations and put in only a few words, to remind M. de Bouville, who is a fat old fool, of our journey with Cassagnac and of details of the election of M. Vinay, which Bouville was defending.
They say Popaul is to be opposed by an enormously rich rival, and that the funds of the National Lottery will be used besides; that is natural enough. It is only at the Gare Saint-Lazare that we find old Rouher, who was charming to me and to whom I recounted how I had bonapartised the grocers’ wives and apple-sellers of Nice. We take him home. It seems I paid him the most delightful compliments; he boasted of it to Gavini, who told his wife.
written across the page
The Bonapartists praise him to the skies.
We dined at half past nine. And today I went to Mother Gavini’s and from there to the Exposition, where, with my family and the said Mother Gavini, who called over the commissioners among her friends, we stay and buy until five o’clock, long after the public has gone.

Notes

Georges Clemenceau (1841–1929), at this time a Radical Republican deputy; later Prime Minister and “The Tiger” of the First World War. ↩