Saturday, 7 February 1880

Today M. de Miranda presents us to Queen Isabella in a private audience. She is very unaffected, very good-natured; she holds out her hand and has Maman sit beside her on the sofa and me opposite. For the first time I have the pleasure of saying “Your Majesty” — it is very agreeable. Her Majesty is indignant about an article in Le Voltaire attacking King Don François d’Assise. “For after all,” she says, looking at us and making an ineffable gesture, “he is my husband.”
She is also furious about the Grévy ball: “an impossible set of people, and women in day dresses with the sleeves cut off for the occasion.” We stay ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, I think. The Queen is not so ugly as they say; she even has very pale blue eyes that are pretty.
On saying goodbye she held out her hand to Maman and to me; Maman kissed it, and I bowed very low over it. This Miranda wants to marry. As I shall not marry him, he may well become an enemy. But bah! Whenever some trouble befalls me, my first thought is: I wish I were a fortnight older. Everything fades or becomes bearable.
At our house: Berthe, M. de Rouzat, Mme de Bailleul, Gavini, Dureau and his daughter, the Tchoumakoffs, Turquan, Wodzinsky, Tarente, Soutzo, etc.
Soutzo plays piquet with my aunt in the salon next door, where I had gone to fetch logs; he came to help me, insisted that I wipe my hands on his handkerchief, and then raised it to his lips with a look...
I do not care, and naturally that dog of an archangel does not think of me. Is it silly of me to think of him? But no, it is not silly; it amuses me, but it is a pity... he cannot be a master, he is a comrade.