Saturday, 25 January 1879

I am back from the Opera — no one came. Only at the end did we find two and then one more who were proper gentlemen; after the other trash they seemed to me admirable and not at all dull.
One of them is the gentleman who always used to follow me — and the other day at Klein's — a wealthy Hungarian, Monsieur Frieman, married to Mademoiselle de Persigny who has just given him a son.
In short it was not too bad — Frieman was wild about my foot, which appeared of a ridiculous size in comparison with the bosom I had arranged for myself with cushions. That foot has won over many. If Cassagnac had truly been in love with pretty feet, he would have stayed with mine.
Blanc was there; I avoided him — I was afraid. We did not encounter a single witty man, not a word, not a phrase. And to think that a year ago Cassagnac was there, that I could speak to him, that he even spoke to me... and I was such a fool!