Monday, 16 February 1880

We call on the Queen, who is very gracious. I am still hunting for a great many things for my picture.
This evening at the Théâtre-Français the premiere of Daniel Rochat by
Sardou. A veritable event. We have an excellent box for six. A superb house: society, and the government. The Jew beside Mme Adam, who is with General Turr’s wife (the sister of Mme Rattazzi), who is received little if at all since she began moving in that world. But we had met the Jew on arriving; he even bowed very low, and then kept levelling his glasses at us. Mme Gavini is with us until eleven o’clock; afterwards she goes to Béhir’s. The box to the right belongs to Countess Walewska, the one to the left to... I no longer know; we looked as if we were together, all the more since old Madame Gavini was chatting with her neighbours. It looked very good. Only I was not dressed up enough: a wool-muslin gown, too much of a day dress. It made me hot and put me out of humour.
Naturally Arnaud is there; he came twice to chat with actresses seated in the balcony just below our box. For a moment I thought he was going to kiss one of them, so far did he lean down, but the illustrious idiot merely laid down his hat, and his head with it, beside the woman. A pretty performance in front of everyone, on such an evening. Besides, it is shabby enough as it is to come and talk to these women; one of them is the one he took driving in the Bois the other day, Mlle Bianca. And I had hoped she was a society woman... a republican one. They really behave in a... strange way, these republicans. Not long ago Gambetta was seen in a box on an opening night with a little woman; in a screened box, it is true, but everyone in the pit could see in passing. As for the play, I must see it again; it seems to me there are tedious stretches, Genevan conversations; it has a Swiss air.
But there was so much shouting, applauding, hissing, approving, and protesting that only half could be heard... The hero is a great orator, a sort of Gambetta, an atheist; the heroine an Anglo-American Protestant girl, very liberal, republican, but a believer. You can see what such a subject may stir up at the present moment.
On the way out, whichever way I turn, the Jew everywhere. I am haunted by him.
It seems Juliette Lamber greeted Maman from her box.
Going down the stairs she was ahead of us, and I manoeuvred so that we should not meet. Arnaud on the way out, but I act as if he did not exist, and in fact he has not existed for me since there is nothing to be made of him.
The memory of the blue fox troubles me less, but it is still vexing that this stupid fop should imagine... a threadbare subject.

Notes

Marie writes en loge grillée [sic] (the editors’ mark). ↩