Friday, 28 February 1879

I dreamed that Cassagnac, having come to visit us, burned up entirely like the carnival effigy last Tuesday. I was quite perplexed and did not know how to conceal that he had come, so that no one would think we had exterminated him.
Would you believe it — this morning Paul received a letter from Mademoiselle Eristoff in which she heaps all sorts of insults on him. If I had written such a thing, would they not tear me to pieces in my good town of Nice?
To this letter, dictated by the Tutcheff woman, here is our reply.
Mademoiselle, I am keenly and deeply grieved that you should have been compelled to write the letter you wrote me. But at the same time I am glad of it, for it gives me the means of proving to you that I am a gentleman. In the hands of another, that letter might perhaps have gravely compromised you, despite your sacred title of orphan. As for the successes I may have had thanks to my “snout”, as you put it with such charming originality, I respect you too much to enumerate them to you.
Accept, Mademoiselle, the expression of my highest consideration and of my homage, which I have the honour to lay at your feet.
Paul Baskirtseff
This letter was sent back to us.
Bihovetz comes and we tell him about the affair; then he tells us... my predictions have come true. The Tutcheff woman spends the whole day at the consul’s, and together they go to the public prosecutor and to all the devils in Hell...
So we write to the consul. Paul would gladly go and see him, but since Patton knew him as a child and would not fail to take a high tone with him, there would be yet another sort of fuss. Bihovetz advised writing:
Monsieur le Consul, You are no doubt aware of the affair I have had with Prince C. Eristoff.
I had personal grievances against Monsieur Eristoff, and I insulted him verbally at the Préfecture grandstand last Tuesday.
Editors’ note
[Missing from the manuscript, pp. 96 to 98]
We dined at the London House with Bihovetz and then we go to the Théâtre Français, where there is yesterday’s audience, the whole of travelling Paris. I hide behind Dina; I feel ugly. I am very tired and I have a fever — for I think it is fever when one is cold all day and feels quite weak. Paul has written to Scotti and to Des Pierrière asking them to come to his rooms. Des Perrières has not yet replied — perhaps he had not come home; and Scotti excused himself, writing that he was truly sorry, that he could not go to him and that he would tell him why. I do not quite understand. Paul assured me several times that these gentlemen had been very kind and had eagerly agreed to help him if he needed it. Now. How to proceed, what to do? I am at my wits’ end. If it were me, I would have gone everywhere, and then I would have seen, understood, spoken. But it is Paul! He knew how to begin, and now he is quite at a loss. Now that he has thrown himself into this, he must go on — and I do everything in the world towards that end. But the poor fellow is dejected.