Sunday, 12 January 1879

Well, I am having wild fun as usual. The whole Sunday passes at the theater. A matinée at the Gaîté, rather dismal, and in the evening at the Opéra Comique — Le pré aux clercs, the favorite and cherished opera of Monsieur Paul de Cassagnac, known as the Deceased. I understand his taste. The music is delightful and needs no repeated hearings to please; it is simple, naïve, refined, and enchanting. I seem to have always heard it — it is like a childhood memory, though I was hearing it for the first time. I would pay dearly all the same to have heard their conversation on the boulevard.
Madame de Daillens, who was with us, said that in that period it would have been charming but that it is ridiculous in ours.