Sunday, 9 February 1879

I was in the mood — we went to the Opera. I had given myself an enormous bosom and adopted Baron's voice from the Variétés. It was rather funny throughout. De Daillens mystified Multedo; I mystified people I know only by name. The appalling voice and accent I had assumed defied suspicion. I very much wanted to speak to Blanc, who was strolling about, but I was afraid. With Paul Le Roux — little Paul — it was a rather extraordinary conversation. I talked about arts, sciences, literature, politics, all mixed with coarse remarks, which led him to tell Multedo I was a woman of the streets — and when Multedo expressed doubt, little Paul leaned still closer to his ear and declared he was quite certain.
What liars and stupidly conceited these men are.
The ending is epic. We encounter Paul, my brother, with a young Corsican who, seeing him beset, was trying to lead him away toward the fashionable women in tights, assuring him that these two black dominos were "a couple of little street girls from the Helder."
We laugh like two madwomen and drag them to a café to have champagne, and we tease the poor fellow to whom Paul whispered that one of us was his clinging mistress and the other a friend. Ladies, in short. Julie and Annette. The Corsican puts on a knowing air and proposes we unmask, since he knows us. He was so credulous that we laughed the whole time, and Paul played his part well while de Daillens played his to perfection. But the little silly Corsican who, believing us ladies, was falling over himself apologizing for his first remark — he was delightful.
A silly nose and silly eyes! We go to the Café Mazarin, pick up another Corsican there, and the five of us go to sup at the Café de Paris. These sorts of students or journalists were not dangerous. The white hands and small feet were outside their experience and awed them; and then Paul was there whispering in their ears about his connection with one of us, assuring them we were society women. They swallowed it whole and we made an appointment at the races for the next day.
These good children swallowed everything — believed we were ladies and made declarations, asking for rendezvous at the Grand Hotel. It was absurd but very innocent. I do not think I would venture so with worldly men who wear their decorations — they have too much nerve. But this candor that [word blacked out: us] begged to forget about the Helder girls and entreated us to unmask at the Opera buffet — admit that such innocence refreshes the soul.
All of this is not very proper. Oh! I know — but no one took my hand or my waist; I only gave my hand twice to be kissed by the two Corsicans. That happens in a drawing room, and they showed such respect for it that, upon my word, I shan't die of it just yet.
I shall die of sadness — that is possible — if this cloistered existence continues.
I wept like an animal two days ago and the day before, and in a word it is time this came to an end.