Sunday, 17 October 1880

Kiki and Saint-Amand came while we were at the Pasdeloup Concert, from which we had left early anyway (I was not feeling well and was afraid of fainting), so that I had barely had time to slip on a white dress [blacked-out word: when] Gabriel arrived, back from the country and leaving for Rome on Wednesday... We laughed for an hour, we made touching farewells, and he kissed the tips of my fingers, saying:
"You permit me?"
"What would I not permit you!" I replied.
From the way he kisses the hand, or rather brushes the fingers, you would swear he has had deportment lessons. Did they not learn all these things from a dancing master in the last century? Joking aside, of all the young men I have seen, he has the best manners, but I have not yet seen the elegant men of the Petit Cercle and the Jockey Club except from afar, and there are no doubt some as fine as the Archangel.
My aunt teases him and never speaks to him except to ask what atrocity he has committed or is going to commit, or to make suppositions about his "abominable conduct."
I was not ugly during his visit... and then we laughed a great deal. He is very elegant, with truly perfect bearing; fine iron-gray eyes, cold and deep. It is with his eyes as with his voice: sometimes while talking, his gaze rests upon you, becomes almost sad, almost amorous... one seems to understand each other, to be isolated from the others; a sort of complicity establishes itself for a moment, for at once I begin to laugh or I look away, he too, and everything returns to the usual order of things. I repeat, it is with his eyes as with his voice.
It is like Cassagnac, who has tender, soulful looks whatever he does, but with the illustrious one it lasts all the time, and then those eyes veiled in velvet in no way resemble Gabriel's steel eyes. Well, bon voyage. I owe him a few hours of gaiety.
Saint-Amand arrives and we keep him for dinner, after which the whole evening is spent before the half-extinguished fire in the chimney; sitting on cushions we hum all the operas in the world and the romances and the songs; I accompany myself on the guitar. That madman Saint-Amand sings: "Bow down, for love is passing by!" and says that Gabriel and I would make a superb couple.
I already have some flair on the guitar, but you know, for a salon lit in the ordinary way it would be impossible. And for my artistic library, uncertain light, cushions on the floor, the shadow of a palm tree... without that it is awkward and pretentious. Saint-Amand, while singing, says I must marry Gabriel. Ah! That would be pretty. It would be worse than I know not what, for we would accept with pleasure but absolutely coolly. Can you see me saddled with this charming embassy secretary, "a very good-looking young man, very refined, not having much money to spend on ladies but spending what he does with a tact and grace that earns him much success with those same ladies"? No, can you? Besides, it is a fancy of the poet Saint-Amand. What I need is either a well-known man who would enable me to have a salon, or a great deal of money — then there is no need for a well-known husband.

Notes

The popular Sunday concerts at the Cirque d'Hiver, founded by conductor Jules Pasdeloup.