Saturday, 29 November 1879

Good Gavini sends me two tickets and we go. I preferred Versailles: one saw people again more easily there, being obliged to leave by the same train.
Here one leaves when one likes, and there is none of the amusing departure of over there. The company is more elegant than at Versailles... but the boxes are rather like those at the theatre, all alike, and the President’s, in which we are, differs in no way from the others.
One finds everyone in the same places; Cassagnac is slumped and spent, Gambetta seems to have grown thinner. Bescherelle is still dashing about. I examine the magnificent Gobelin and the hideous statues. The three secretaries: Arène, Richtenberger and Arnaud. The last is much admired, and he poses, too... when he is not running and darting about. One glimpses him at the tribune, and one has barely had time to glance elsewhere before he has already vanished and one finds him again at the other end of the hall or in the boxes.
Then he disappears and one sees him again bringing some paper or other to the President, then sitting down at his little desk placed behind the presidential chair, and then, without anyone knowing how, he comes back in by the public door and chats with the secretaries or shakes hands with the Bonapartist deputies.
He must be related to the Hanlon-Lees (for readers fifty years from now: most celebrated acrobats). But sometimes he deigns to stop on one of the highest steps of the Gambettist throne, and there, drawing himself up and raising his fine head, a head fit for a medal, he looks at the public and eyes it through his glass. Then one can admire his incomparably supple, slender, graceful and vigorous figure.
A true medal head in its drawing, with his short, crisp hair, whose black goes wonderfully well with the even, bronzed tone of his face, of which one could make a splendid painting as well as a fine medallion. No, but do you notice that I cannot stop singing his praises and that I am exhausting every term of admiration? Really, I am almost afraid of finding this young man... too handsome. I am an artist before all else.
I level my glasses at Gambetta, and Gambetta levels his at me so persistently that towards the end Antonin Proust and Jules Ferry, who are near him, level theirs at me too, and one can see that all three are taken up with me, in my black woollen dress and black hat. Then, as Gavini signals to us to come down, I stand up so that the three may see my figure better, and I lose sight of Joseph; I do not even know whether he saw my figure.
We walk home with Gavini; his wife arrives at the same time and we go in together; the drawing room is quite full. Géry is the most amiable of men. But Gabriel is not there. On Wednesday he goes into seclusion for his examination for embassy secretary. I like there to be a great many people, because then it gets talked about, by the Russians above all, and one gets a reputation for receiving a great deal, and that brings people.
Besides, it is very pleasant at our house: there are two drawing rooms, my library, the dining room, and there is excellent tea and all sorts of good things to eat.

Notes

Marie’s coinage: gambettai [sic]. ↩