Thursday, 12 February 1880

I lunch at Mme Gavini’s, and we go together to the Chamber. The Amnesty: an exhausted question, but despite that, a great session; a first.
I had a note from Krishaber for M. Margaine the quaestor; we go to the hall of lost steps where we find the said quaestor, Janvier, Hamille, etc. At last, after many ups and downs with Bescherelle, Margaine, etc., we find ourselves seated in the front row of the ministers’ box, and this thanks to the amours of Janvier, who, unable to put his cocotte in the same box as his friend Mme de Marcilly, and having for the said cocotte only a ticket from the President of the Republic, is obliged to seat her elsewhere and return the President’s ticket to Bescherelle, who turns it into two for us. On the whole, this Margaine is an amiable man; in my haste I had opened Krishaber’s note, in which he said things so flattering about me that it was impossible to hand it over in an open envelope; I had to imitate the doctor’s handwriting. Now you no doubt want my opinion of the orators. Well, L. Blanc’s flowers of speech do not please me; he harps on the same thing at length. As for A. Proust, he began very well, but his concision and eloquence having won him great success, despite the majority’s hostility to the amnesty he was demanding, he ended up bleating at the end of every sentence, which rather spoiled the whole. Casimir-Perier, a poor Clemenceau, although opposed to the Amnesty. Freycinet seemed at death’s door. But the Right is not brilliant, alas! Haussmann, who greets me with head and hand, has aged greatly; Rouher is drowsy; and Madame Gavini sends them all to Sainte-Perrine.
Arnaud tried several times to ogle me, but I would at once raise my opera glasses and look elsewhere to hide my face.
The Jew was in Gambetta’s box, which he never stopped ogling, hoping for a greeting that I did not see granted. We saw each other without greeting.
The droll thing is Courtès coming to beg me to defend Tarente and to be nice to him. Not to defend even a guilty man, when one can, is cowardice; but to compromise and ruin oneself for nothing is stupidity.
“If people speak ill of him before you, Mademoiselle, defend him.”
“All I can promise you, Monsieur, is not to speak of it. I scarcely know him; I can neither defend him nor attack him.”
And how am I to defend him? Can you see me taking up the defence of this gentleman whom I have seen a dozen times, whom I do not know, who is blacklisted, not for uncertain things, but unfortunately for being posted at the club, swindles, etc., etc.? What would people say, and what would they have the right to say? An old man, it would be possible, but a good-for-nothing of twenty-five who makes a profession of hunting for a dowry?! And then, what could I do about it?
Nothing. The thing is, you see, I am explaining all this because we are attacked a great deal and I feel obliged to defend everyone.
The Pure and ineffable Gabriel has decided to send me a box of toys. A lacquer ball containing two heads that stick out their tongues and roll their eyes when one pulls a string.
A Chinese monster on a fishhook, titled in his charming handwriting: “freshwater vibrio (Arnaud)”; three bronze crabs of various sizes... A shoe containing a canopy, a snail, a frog, a serpent that hangs on a needle and turns, minuscule. A vase full of tea. A music box that plays the Marseillaise, a book of Homer in Greek with a Latin preface, and his photograph with these words: “Most respectful and devoted souvenir from the prompter to the baroness.”
He has rounded his beard and parted his hair on the side instead of his old style, which was à la Joseph Arnaud, the hair cropped almost to the scalp. He is too pretty in this portrait; in reality he is better than that. I wish the things had not come on the very day I saw Arnaud; they took the edge off each other.

Notes

Sainte-Périne: a Paris retirement home, at Auteuil since the 1860s (AP-HP, «Hôpital Sainte-Périne»): Mme Gavini sends the old politicians to the old people’s home. ↩