Saturday, 16 November 1878

Yesterday we went to see Mme Gavini, who had sent me sweets the day before.
And today Robert-Fleury was very pleased with Breslau and urged her to do something for the Salon, adding that she would be accepted — he would answer for it. As for me, this week I had old Granvoinnet beside me, the scourge of the atelier, a good soul but mad and maddening!
I have equalled Breslau in drawing; what she has beyond me is practice. Now I must give myself so many months to paint as well as she does — for if I cannot manage that, I am nothing extraordinary. Yet during the seven or ten months I am giving myself she will not stand still... so I shall be forced to run hard enough to make up the eighteen months already gone within the seven or ten months in which we shall be running together. That seems to me most improbable, most extraordinary... Well, God’s will be done.
You see, it has to be. I have just come back from Versailles, where I was with Maman and Dina and Gavini; I am up to my neck in politics, which is foolish, but that is how it is. I read the Republicans, who calm me by denigrating Cassagnac; I also read the reactionaries, who irritate me by glorifying him. Here is La Jeune Garde, a nasty rag in which the superb Captain Blanc crosses swords; read this nonsense, for it gives a very exact account of the session.
And then here is a number of the Patriote Niçois, which I sent for, containing a letter from Versailles over which Cassagnac, they say, has brought a lawsuit. It is a horror — but a possible horror, given the looks of the strange Juliet.
It was the Pontivy election that came up today. The Comte de Mun is a drawing-room orator — gentleman-soldier, God and the King. A handsome man, moreover, but he speaks a little fast! And then his hair looks like a wig. An enormous forehead, and a tongue [of] close-cropped hair runs down the middle of it.
First I met the furious Bescherelle, fairly calm (we were on our own, having missed the first train), who would not give me a third ticket:
— Let these ladies go in and wait a little; I will find you a seat.
Though treated as a regular, I do not accept, and go through with two tickets, saying I have three. We go up to a horrible gallery; Gavini arrives and puts us in the box of the President of the Chamber, in the very seat of Cassagnac’s wife.
What dreadful mockery of fate! Why am I a woman! Displaced, useless, absurd. Paul would make such a charming girl — and I would make a celebrated man.
And the refreshment bar! I have been to that famous deputies’ bar, and people watched us go in with envious eyes; how many times have I not been like those who were watching me!