Thursday, 18 December 1879

Here at last is the long-heralded Fête of the French press for the benefit of the flood victims of Murcia and the poor of Paris. We go in a band: Mme de Bailleul, la Mouzay and de Daillens, Maman, Dina and I; Paul (arrived from Russia this morning), Blanc, Alexis and Daniel, la Mouzay’s nephew. Dina and I are very chic. I have a short dress of black satin with panniers of black Spanish lace, a pointed bodice of black damask; a dark chestnut wig, a black mantilla with a sun pinned at one side. Diamonds in my ears and on my arms (bought lately, and which our friends do not know), pearls at my throat and gloves above the elbow. Openwork stockings and black shoes. A velvet half-mask. We lose one another as soon as we arrive.

The Hippodrome is very well arranged; it is a real little town. It is midnight when we go in. But kindly acquaint yourselves first of all with the numerous invitations we sent out. And then learn, readers of fifty years hence, that this fête was announced as one of the wonders of our time.

I take Alexis’s arm and we do not part again, going everywhere and running about with friends of his and people I know only by sight. There are few women in masks. Maman and the two old ladies are unmasked and help to get us recognised by the Gérys, Courtès, etc.

As for me, I was looking for Joseph and was already beginning to be bored, in spite of my guests, and the little trifling jokes, and the remarks tossed off here and there during our pilgrimage.

At one moment, reaching Antinous with my fan over five or six people, I saw him turn towards me, but I no longer know who carried him off.

I tug my escort about in every direction; at first he begged for mercy, asking me to go less fast, then he grows used to it. We call each other tu, and from holding each other by the arm, talking nonsense and being thrown against each other by the crowd, we are perhaps a little light-headed. It amused me to tease this boy’s youth, and when the crush grew too great I pressed against him, bosom forward, so that he should have this marble, unique in all the world, against his arm, and although there is cloth and damask in between... men are so depraved!

This boy is very well brought up, and besides, to him I am the Virgin Mary in spite of the nonsense I talk. That must have made him uneasy, for that very reason, and then the singing, the music, the crowd, the hot air, the half-naked stall-girls and the swaying hips of the Spanish dancers whom we go to watch by way of a rest; it was then that, half from mischief and half from madness, I beg my escort to put his arm behind my waist to protect me from the crowd, which was pushing us against the guitarists sitting in a circle. The respectful child then says to me those two words which we afterwards turn into a catchphrase: where? Where, my little one? Why, there — and I place his arm so that the hand must needs rest on my right hip: go on, then, do not be afraid, it is because of all these people, it means nothing to me, go on — and I found myself almost in his arms; had he put in a penny’s worth of his own, I would have been there. It is altogether droll when one is sure of one’s man.

But my evening was spoilt without Joseph — what an opportunity to see him close to and talk to him, even if I am recognised; at the Opera that is improper, but here it is merely amusing. We find Paul and Dina again and go and drink champagne in the stables, in stalls decked out with palm branches. Paul calm and bored, Alexis very merry, and Dina and I asking him: where?

— Ah! so that is how it is; well, you will see next time! Besides, it was very disagreeable to me...

— What!!!

— Very disagreeable and agreeable, and that is exactly why it annoyed me, because I cannot tell you why!

At last we were about to leave when I find Joseph near Sarah’s stall and can at last see him close to and talk with this famous young god. What strikes me first is that he looks old. I am quite willing to allow that it is four in the morning, that he is tired and dull; all the same.

Distance, at the Chamber of Deputies, had hidden many things from me: first, three crow’s-feet at each eye, then something like a wrinkle or a dimple in each cheek beside the mouth. The eyes are deep-set, chestnut brown, the socket of medium size. The nose a trifle large, and instead of a young beard along the jaws, thickening and twisting into curls at the chin, a plain beard cut à la Mephisto on the cheeks and trimmed to a point. And then a calm, serious air. He takes his duties as private secretary to M. le Président of the Chamber of Deputies seriously.

— What, Joseph, and here I have been looking for you for three hours! And what have you been doing all this time — chatting with painted old women? Fie! how vulgar. You received my letter... it must have given you a great deal of trouble, poor friend; you went through all the Chief’s dictionaries to look up the mythological names..

— I know mythology.

— Ah! so much the better.

— And you, do you know it?

— I do too, but first learn this, dear Antinous: I shall not ask you to pay for nothing at all; I am rich, young and beautiful, I have everything in the world, except you... — But then I count for a great deal, do I? (with a knowing look).

— That is my opinion too, which is why I came masked on purpose to see you; it is not enough for me to admire you in your carriage, and fidgeting like a monkey at the Chamber, always busy and never doing anything — you very nearly make me squint over there, you are everywhere at once, in the galleries, on the left, on the right.

— But why masked?

— I would much rather see your face.

All this in that very proper, very staid manner of the republicans, who affect an extreme politeness along with their coarse exterior.

— Why? Because I belong to a clerical and Catholic family and I would be cursed if I spoke to you in front of people, young Alcibiades. You have an ugly hat, your ears are too big and your name is Joseph, but that does not stop me being mad about you. Besides, I only came out of the convent yesterday, I am very innocent, and all this bustle, I confess...

At that moment he called over his cousin Guichard (Guichard?!!).

— That proves to me that you never receive declarations — you need an audience at once! Still, this fair-haired one looks every bit as... as you.

— Here is a lady who has been properly caught out, he says to Guichard; she does not intrigue me in the least.

— That trick is well known; besides, I have not come to intrigue, I have come to go slumming with a new stratum.

— I am convinced that you are charming, but why this mask.

— What, at your age a hand like this and a foot like that say nothing to you?...

— Pardon me, the hand is charming... you are not just out of the convent, since your nails are well kept, he says, taking my hands and feeling the fingers through the gloves; the wrists are delicate...

— Come now, you are the handsomest of men, only you look odd... still, I admire you all the same...

— I have seen a foot like yours, but it is in America.

— Ah! yes, the two wet nurses in blue dresses whom you seated in the Chief’s box with such solemnity the other day?

— No, those were Dutchwomen; but do you know, it is a charming occupation, seating the ladies — people kiss in the corridors...

— With the republican women! You do not know the others, and I am told you are all ill-bred; you, though, look like a prince.

— Where have you seen me?

— Why, at the convent, of course! when you came to visit the establishment with Monseigneur Cardinal Guibert...

O joy! that cheers him up, he deigns to laugh; perhaps he thinks he has made a conquest.

— Look, all I can do is show you my ear.

— And was it at the convent that they bought you those diamonds?

— Of course — the Jesuits.

— You do not look like someone just out of the convent, not in the least.

That way of taking things! He only woke up when I told him that he drove his horses badly and that his carriage was badly turned out. Oh! that touched him! I no longer remember anything I told him, it is too long; they were waiting for me and watching, Alexis was amused that I had found him at last, and as I was telling that idiot Antinous that I was leaving the convent as a governess, Gabriel brought Dina over to us, saying, as if on purpose:

— My dear Arnaud, allow me to introduce a young governess from London who gives English lessons...

— Everyone, then!

— I am a stall-girl too, I said.

— What do you sell? Joseph deigns to enquire.

— I sell wit to those who have none.

— You have as much as all that? Wit to spare? I had not noticed.

— That is because you are too stupid to notice other people’s wit.

He is giving a supper for the Comédie-Française, and we say goodbye.

— Allow me, Madame, Gabriel says to me, to set upon your hand the kiss that Joseph ought to have set there.

— Oh! republicans do not know how to kiss the tips of ladies’ fingers, I said.

— Oh yes they do, all the time.

I ask you whether that is a proper creature!

So he is stupid!

— What have you done? Gabriel says to me. He was dazed already; now he is done for.

— He is an idiot.

— Oh, quite — he is not bright.

After all, perhaps it was because it was late, he was tired, and besides, no one was intriguing at all; I was perhaps the only one, along with de Daillens, who was strolling about on her own and saying too much, as at the Opera.

The place empties towards half past four, and Dina, Alexis and I, arm in arm, in our fur cloaks, go round the whole thing once more, asking every passer-by whether they have not seen Joseph go by, with big ears like this... and when they said no: How I pity you, Monsieur!

Paul, arms folded, looking limp and sad, followed us, dragging his feet. He is in love and absolutely wants to marry. We were waiting for our cab when I see a landau drive up, and out of it gets Joseph!

— Joseph! What are you doing here?

— I lost my footman and went to fetch my carriage.

— My dear... a footman!

What a specimen. Well, here is Monsieur le Prince Karageorgevitch and here is Monsieur J. Cernaud, both burning to make each other’s acquaintance.

Exchange of cards, and at last we go home. It is five o’clock.

Well, he is not brilliant.

Géry tells me, and Dina tells me, and Alexis tells me that I dumbfounded him, that I killed him. Very well; I have a ready tongue, and what I say there bears little resemblance to the stupid phrases I set down so clumsily in writing; if I report them, it is to give you Joseph’s, and who knows. Was I stupid, perhaps? Well, then there are two of us... He is not bright, he is not handsome, and his coat fitted him badly; perhaps he is badly made.