Saturday, 15 November 1879

My painting is going much better. At three o’clock I go to Tony’s, and while looking for his address at M. Boulanger’s (the painter) I happen to pass 10 bis rue de Boulogne, Boulanger being at 6 bis. Tony is really very kind; he did not tell me much more than the other day, but at greater length, and then he showed me round his studio and put himself at my disposal for anything I might want, with a truly charming good grace, strongly approving of my renting the studio. He even promises to come and see about the arrangements, the lighting, etc. When he comes into the atelier he says neither good morning nor goodbye, so I wanted to laugh when he carried the canvases he is giving me to copy down to my carriage and raised his hat.
I am writing with my latest painting before my eyes... it is the first one to stir a certain emotion in me. It is still very weak but there is already something that sings in it...
Dinner this evening: M. and Mme Gavini, M. de Morgan, Count Chaudordy, M. Géry, the Princess and her two sons. Bojidar has just passed his baccalauréat. The dinner is very gay, and so is the evening, during which M. and Mme Berthe arrive. I get the old men to pay court to me, I flirt, I talk of Émile de Girardin, of politics, I insinuate myself, I intrigue... Gavini and Géry make me understand a good many things in Zola’s Eugène Rougon. A woman who has nothing to lose is a powerful creature, and one can do a great deal with men of a certain age... Look, if I wished, and if these two old men were more important, I could twist them round my finger very easily... But... there it is, it would be pointless, and besides I should be risking too much.
Young Gabriel did not come, pleading his examination for embassy secretary, but his father and old Mme Gavini bluntly reveal that he has something on his neck which had to be lanced. A silly complaint, in short; I know the name, but I can neither say nor write those common, repulsive things that everyone says everywhere.
I admire Zola, but there are things everyone says that I cannot bring myself to say, or even to write; still, so that you do not think they are horrors, I will tell you that the strongest is the word purge.
I am sorry to put such a word here; I do not hesitate to say riffraff or other things of that sort, but these innocent little indecencies disgust me.
Poor Gabriel, what an unworthy digression on his account.
Last year Multedo had the same thing, and he came with a little square of court plaster on the nape of his neck to tell Maman that it had been cut that morning and that he had seen his blood flow; and as Maman said nothing, he added fatuously that it was blood “red, brilliant, rich, powerful”. No doubt to persuade her to entrust her daughter’s happiness to him.
What an abominable horror! I was listening at the door.
Chaudordy stayed very late telling stories about M. Thiers and Gorchakov.

Notes

Zola’s novel Son Excellence Eugène Rougon (1876), in English His Excellency Eugène Rougon; Marie gives the title as Eugène Rougon. ↩