Tuesday, 10 June 1879

The excellent Karageorgevitches dined with us and until ten o’clock in the evening we stayed in my room admiring my drawings, studies, skeleton, etc. Bojidar finally danced a waltz with Amélie (the skeleton) — a reward I owed him for having arranged my books.
The weather is beautiful; I am a little tired from last night’s ball. I was dressed delightfully and quite pretty, but on arriving we did not know a soul. Monsieur de Plancy drew me from my corner where I was hiding behind a curtain; I danced with him, and the cotillion came immediately, which I danced with Monsieur d’Hauteville and with many others of course. On the whole I think I amused myself a little towards the end, although I had heard the Duchesse d’Abrantès say she was coming from Versailles... What a session! I am keeping Le Figaro and La République Française for you.
I am annoyed not to have been there... and the name of Madame de Cassagnac plunged me into an “ocean” of diverse feelings.
The article in La République Française pleases me — it is sufficiently truthful, and one can easily recognise Cassagnac as he is shown there. No matter.
Multedo came during the day, and as my aunt had stepped out of the drawing room for a moment he spoke to me again of his devotion, his love, et cetera. So I told him simply and honestly that in my estimation he suffered neither rise nor fall — being a friend, someone indifferent to me, agreeable very amiable and nothing more.
— I know I am not important enough, I know I am nothing and that you are very ambitious...
— That is true, very ambitious.
— You will never love?
— I do not think so.
— Then you will not value the qualities of the heart, devotion...
— Devotion!... — that is a word used to designate... what you know very well.
— I am incapable of appreciating it.
— You are dreadful... Do you know that I have almost come to say goodbye? We shall not see each other again until next winter.
— Dear me, yes: one comes, one goes, one is very good friends, it can last ten years — is that not the ideal of existence?
— And what if you do love, a little, someone as unimportant as I am?
— Why speak of impossible things? One can neither foresee nor reason about miracles... and besides, that happens so rarely in Europe...
Truly, yesterday’s ball almost gave me pleasure, and I think that if I went often I should even like dancing.
But I was frightened and embarrassed... as if I were fifteen.
At supper these good republicans served ham!! There were other things too, but those badly carved pieces of ham had the place of honour, and it looked shabby.
I came home at a quarter past three; Madame my mother overcame her illness to take me “into society”, as she thinks of it.
Well, the weather is fine, it is nearly eleven, I am going to sleep — only let us not hide it from ourselves: I think often and a great deal about Cassagnac, who, for that matter, does not behave in a way that lets one forget him.
I listened to the things the others said to me or to one another, and I arranged a life apart for myself. Cassagnac was coming back from the session to our house, and then it went on, in spite of those excellent Karageorgevitches, to whom I replied politely while being somewhere else entirely.
Yesterday at the ball, as people were talking of the session, I asked Monsieur d’Hauteville whether he knew Cassagnac personally.
— Yes, Mademoiselle.
— Is he pleasant?
— Hm... yes, we are on good terms, but he is rather gruff.
— And is his wife nice?
— She is a second-hand clothes dealer or some laundress or other, I believe; I do not know her.