Thursday, 19 June 1879

I had not intended to go, but we obtained tickets through a certain Bichinsky — a Pole naturalised as French, employed at the War Ministry; we met him at the Doubelt's.
And besides, this week there is no work at the studio on account of a model who will not hold the pose — in short, we go.
Dina, my aunt, and I. Obidine meets us at the station and we set off. One does not see a congress every day. (At three-thirty) I am in good spirits. With officers' tickets one must call on friends; I send for Dugué, who sets himself in motion, then Janvier arrives. With all this, the session is suspended for an hour; we wait in the waiting room, the deputies come out — among them the handsome Arnaud; he passes us, sees us, turns back, stops, and looks.
— "He gave me a contemptuous look when I approached you," Obidine tells me.
I do not know if it was contemptuous — but it was a wild and magnificent look, like the man himself.
He is an Arabian steed. That admirable complexion and those magnificent hair cut short but thick and crisped like the hair on bronze busts. And such a bearing, such pride! But an hour was long, and we went (Arnaud had left) to drink lemonade in a café — it was Obidine who paid the sum of 1 franc 20 centimes. Then I encounter Bescherelle, ask him to seat us; he is sweetness itself today! and seats us delightfully with Dugué's assistance. It was magnificent to behold. It seems there had been storms from ten to a quarter to twelve, and then from three-thirty to five — but after the second suspension only a few right-wing speakers come to say their word. But the aspect of the chamber is majestic. Robert Mitchell comes to say he will vote for the return to Paris, judging there is no longer any danger for parliament in Paris. But my first look was for Cassagnac — whose ignoble mother-in-law was eyeing him with satisfaction. Nasty people! Cassagnac was standing a little higher than his usual place — erect, grave, and calm; Cassagnac as handsome as I have ever seen him, as handsome as anyone in the world... He may marry whom he chooses — his mother-in-law's cook, if that pleases him; he will remain no less a being before whom one kneels. What a complexion, what a gaze, what a gesture. And if he lacks the suppleness and youthful charm of the Arabian, he has a charm of his own — an all-powerful charm that puts me at his feet. I am accustomed to his marriage and I find him again — more handsome, more admirable, more adored than ever.
He mounted the rostrum amid the murmuring of the left factions, and was at first overwhelmed by the cruel phrase of President Martel, who urged the assembly to be silent "so that no word of the orator be lost."
An official and dreadful irony against which nothing could be done — so he said nothing, and let the murmuring and the smothered cries calm entirely; then in a grave, disdainful voice: "I thank," he said, "Monsieur le Président for the observation he has just made, which proves that he has no confidence in the impartiality of this assembly." As you see, marriage has not stupefied him. But read the few words he added afterwards, which I have no wish to misquote — words that will become famous and historic if, as everything suggests, the Empire stands at the gates of France.
But let us not launch into serious matters.
We return with Dugué and Obidine. I am glad to be alive; we call on Mother Gavini, who is alone because Gavini has gone to Corsica with all the other Corsicans for Pietri's election. She is astonished that we managed to get tickets — she was unable to. I tell her everything, all my admirations, and it is in this delightful exaltation that I come home, content and gay. Only Gavini thinks me a fool for not having spoken to Victor Hugo, who was on the tram with us, and who, seeing my curious, admiring look, smiled at me and greeted me.
True — he is a genius, there is no... in short... Mother Gavini also thinks her husband is nothing but a fool not to introduce me to Arnaud, who speaks of me to him and of whom I speak... Gavini is not a fool, but he is a Multedo-phile. Blast. We have made it quite clear, including Maman, that we do not want him. So there — let us not speak of this Corsican to be disposed of, it would irritate me. I am gay. Cassagnac is a god, Arnaud is an angel, and I am a madwoman.
But I have no luck. Dina would do well to hook Obidine — he is a good match for her; they say he is very rich. I desire it so much, and the omens are good: getting off the tram she found a horseshoe right at Victor Hugo's feet. That brings good luck.