Monday, 16 June 1879

So I shall give you an account of today’s memorable and scandalous session, which, as an outpouring of violence and stupidity, will certainly go down in history.
I go with Maman, and we have as escorts Levert and Janvier de la Motte (who has a second son to marry off, of whom Madame de Bailleul has spoken to me! Bother!). On arriving at Versailles we take the tramway, and I have the pleasure of seeing that my feet are known and appreciated by the honourable Deputies...
Really, you know, I heard some of them whispering it to one another. So these gentlemen lead us to our seats and the session begins. I have on a hat that suits me, which gives me the nerve to look at the whole universe, and at Cassagnac, as though I had just married a Grand Duke. Madame Edmond Adam is in the box of the President of the Republic; I look in vain for Madame Arnaud. In one of the galleries one can see Madame de Boishébert (Cassagnac’s supposed new mistress), recently separated from her husband, the Marquis de Boishébert, and living under the protection of a very rich old uncle. We are in Gambetta’s box, which is why I did not find the Acard girl, who was in the diplomatic box. I should very much like this liaison to be true... but the marquise is tall, angular, inelegant, her shoulders a little crooked and her face like a sheep’s. Painted eyebrows and a complexion quick to redden. On the whole, a certain je ne sais quoi that can please. It concerns, as you know, the Jules Ferry bill.
Mirabeau mounts the rostrum slowly, with more composure than ever, and having waited until the most complete silence has fallen, he begins slowly, as Mirabeau is said to have spoken. Despite all the disparagement heaped upon him, he is listened to remarkably well.
But at the second sentence the speaker gets carried away and an enormous uproar breaks out. Gambetta is very hot-tempered, and from the very start, for a word that in other circumstances would at most have earned a call to order, he inflicts the maximum. There follows such a din that the spectators in the galleries rise to their feet, breathless... the spectacle is unique. The deputies rush into the hemicycle and insults turn to blows; I see with my own eyes elbowing, punches and perhaps slaps exchanged; some of the madmen are carried off, led away; people throw themselves between the combatants. A regular brawl. Meanwhile Cassagnac, pale and motionless, contemplates the battle from the top of the rostrum. Then the President rises, utters a few words that cannot be heard, gesticulates and puts on his hat. No, never have I seen anything so horrible as that man in that hat, which was too big for him. It gave the man an indescribably sinister and frightening air, this action, so simple in reality but owing to the meaning attached to it, it is of striking effect. The battle continues and the galleries are cleared.
The public rushes into the corridors and, as chance would have it, we find ourselves near Don Carlos.
The agitation is extreme (I shall keep tomorrow’s newspapers for you, you will see everything in them, but I shall tell certain things, because I fear the scenes of fisticuffs, for instance, may be cut out for decency’s sake). Cassagnac’s father, rather distraught, is walking up and down the corridor, where several deputies of the Right also appear. Janvier arrives, promises to go and find out, and comes back to say that the session is about to resume; at that moment Margaine the quaestor and Bescherelle come running up, shouting that the corridors must be cleared as well.
— But what for? asks Janvier de la Motte.
— Come, come, Bescherelle, Margaine goes on, have the orders carried out; ushers, clear the public out!
Half of them obstinately stay, and while the ushers beg the public to leave and the public drags its feet in obeying, Janvier goes halfway up the staircase leading to the third galleries, stops there and shouts at the top of his voice that he wants to be shown the article of the regulations requiring that the public not remain in the corridors.
— But my dear friend, Margaine answers him, also at the top of his voice, do let me enforce the law!
— There is no such law! The public has the right to stay in the corridor; the galleries I grant you, but your galleries are locked, so one sees nothing.
At last it is decided that we are to be penned in the waiting room. Don Carlos, handsome as a god, had remained seated, and the usher, who did not know him, went up to him and almost touched him on the shoulder to make him leave; then I saw the royal blood rise in revolt: the prince stood up and frowned as only a king can. He said nothing and went out with the others, but that movement and that look struck me. The crowd being considerable, Janvier gave me his arm and Baron Haussmann escorted Maman.
At last the session resumes and we go back to our seats.
Everyone is shaken.
Cassagnac returns to the rostrum, and this, I believe, is the first time one has seen him sincere. He is utterly overwrought and speaks very fast, in a voice in which one can feel anger. While he speaks, Arnaud poses so naturally and with such grace, at once ancient and modern, that in spite of myself I watch him and admire all his movements, so supple, so masculine and so graceful at the same time. It is impossible to have more charm and vigour and if his Arab’s head leaves something to be desired, his body and all his movements are of incomparable beauty. No, his head goes well with his body, and my eyes are absolutely mad about this creature. It is so rare to see a man who is fine all over.
Fine heads are to be seen, distinguished men too, but to find that distinction joined to so much strength, youth and beauty: that is rare, and for my part it is the first time I have seen it. To begin with, he is perfectly well dressed, but setting aside that worldly quality and looking at him only with an artist’s eyes, I am charmed and delighted; each of his movements, every pose (set aside the unkind sense of that word) would be something to copy. It is not for nothing that he is the son of the adorable woman I saw.
But Mirabeau, pale and thrown off balance, recovers a little composure and finishes on a note of superb disdain. Despite his retractions the exclusion is pronounced; then he hurls a supreme insult, comes down from the rostrum and goes to sit in his seat instead of leaving. The President threatens him with the public prosecutor, puts on his hat again and goes out.
So, despite Rouher’s intervention, despite Cassagnac’s explanations, the penalty was not commuted. Cassagnac was in the wrong, as on the other days, but Gambetta was violent and incoherent. He made up for it by striking out my poor Mirabeau’s last words, thus doing away with the offence at common law and the intervention of the public prosecutor. I learn this at the station, with Gavini and Dugué. The Right is displeased and embarrassed, and all these fellows blame Cassagnac’s violence, accuse him of lacking wit (sic) and say what they would have said in his place. Cuneo went up to see the Acard girl, who in her wisdom thought fit to tell him that she disapproved of the course her husband was taking. Cuneo came down and repeated it to Gavini and the others, who all said: even his wife is displeased with him. That is fine indeed, and this woman, who is unworthy to say my husband of Cassagnac even in a dream, permits herself to cast this shadow over him by withholding her approval.
To throw fresh fodder to jealousy, and to be so lacking in wit as not to feel the imperative need for a solidarity that ought at the very least to show itself in silence! Dirty beast. There are no cleaner words for this tactless creature.
What! When people are only too inclined to blame him and to find that he was flat and foolish, must his wife, his own wife, come and cast on him the discredit of her idiotic wisdom?!
So that people may have the right to say he displeased even his wife?
What did she mean by it?
For that daughter of a dirty adventuress certainly had something in mind... no, really, my dear wife of your husband, you are far too clumsy.
Back in Paris, Monsieur Rouher comes up to say good day to me.
That girl ought to have held her tongue, for her praise would be as ridiculous as her magnificent disapproval. Disapprove, Madame, but at home, but in your heart, but not in front of the vile Cuneo.
Cassagnac was all the more disconcerted because he had prepared and approved a speech of four to five hours (à la Mirabeau), and now he finds himself unable to deliver it, for he will not be able to debate the Ferry laws, which will pass or fail while he is out. It is a disappointment and a heartbreak.
Maman gives the Deceased back all her tenderness, and so do I, in the face of Gambetta’s brutal conduct, the conduct of a drunkard, which has left me with a dreadful impression.
Not that the Deceased showed himself angelic, no; he was as he always is, but knowing the hostility that exists, he ought to have said it to them more politely. He was quite astonished at the severity of the President, who had no doubt lunched well and was delighted to fly into a rage and thunder. This speech he had to swallow has crushed and humiliated him; all in all, I think he did not come out of it well. That parting shot after the exclusion, above all, is deplorable. I tell you, all his friends looked embarrassed. At first I thought the President’s injustice would be a good thing for the Bonapartists, but unfortunately they do not seem to have turned it to account.
In my absence Multedo came and said that Cassagnac’s wife is nice but too shy because of her extreme youth. Had I been there, I would have thrown him out.