Wednesday, 17 November 1880

Today Roland Bonaparte, son of Prince Pierre, the assassin of Victor Noir, marries Mademoiselle Marie Blanc, daughter of the man who ran the roulette at Monaco.
You should read the screeds in all the newspapers.
How sickening.
We went to the Gavinis’, who wheedled an invitation out of us to see Michael Strogoff at the Châtelet. Old Denis has asked me to paint a picture from the photograph of an old portrait of a Monseigneur, a bishop, his uncle — well and good. If it were a matter of getting me some celebrity to paint for the Salon, that would be different.
How sickening!
Paul de Cassagnac writes in defence of the murder of Victor Noir, hails Mademoiselle Blanc as a “valiant woman,” and attends the wedding in the front row. Coming from him, who married the daughter of Countess Acard, it is natural enough, but how sickening!
Since I have been on good terms with Amélie and company, we chat and laugh during the model’s meal breaks, and well, today, judging me close enough to them, and to make the fun better, they said dreadful things... I am not a prude, you know, but really, heavens!
How sickening!
Maman writes that she is leaving for Petersburg to settle her affairs so that she can come, and asks me for an affectionate letter to show the minister.
I have just written it; it begins: Dear and well-beloved Maman. It is accompanied by another letter in which I say: here is my letter to show; I hope it is as nice as Virginie’s, etc.
How sickening, how sad, and what a hopeless situation!!
Maman’s letter, in which she does not complain and says only a few words, makes me cry because she seems so desolate. The handwriting is the way it is when she is unhappy and crying; I can barely see to write through my tears. Her handwriting is beginning to resemble Grand-maman’s. It is horrible to know she has gone off like that, all of a sudden, and is kept there by force.
I have fits of mad exasperation.
And to think that in front of everyone, starting with my chambermaid, I am madly cheerful — it is not a mask, it is a habit now.

Notes

Prince Pierre Bonaparte shot the journalist Victor Noir in January 1870. François Blanc (1806–1877) ran the casino of Monte Carlo. ↩
The Châtelet’s stage adaptation of Jules Verne’s novel. ↩