Sunday, 2 January 1881

In the morning to the Louvre, then come the Mouzays, the Tchoumakoffs, Engelhardt and old Gavini.
The little Moreau girl has spoken to a lady friend of Gambetta’s about my charms, my talent and my wish to paint the portrait of a great man. This evening we were to meet at dinner at the Moreaus’ with the lady who told the little one that Gambetta refuses young girls nothing (how touching!) and that the thing is quite possible.
I hardly believe it; besides, I should not want to do Gambetta yet, not before next year. The Moreaus are not quite the thing — not bad either, but not quite the thing; but since they know a lady friend of the fat President... anyway, we shall see.
Good old Tony. He was got up like a ragamuffin, his shirt ballooning out between his knitted sleeved waistcoat and his trousers, frightful felt slippers, no collar, and smoking cigarettes. But that is precisely what is amusing. This homely, artistic, Auvergnat intimacy delights me. He has the reputation of having been, and of still being, extraordinarily handsome, and yet he has never been a favourite with women; it is curious.
Perhaps it is keeping company with simple women that makes him look thirty-five at forty-two... nonsense, but still, I am fond of them both, Rodolphe and Tony; but Tony is more... that is to say less... Auvergnat than Julian. And then, after all, he is my master, and it amuses me to show him respect, liking, obedience.
I open G. Sand’s Flamarande, and it is a lackey who tells the whole novel. It is disgusting. The first twenty lines are enough for me. I am a republican, and that is precisely the reason why I cannot regard valets as equals. A servant forfeits certain rights by consenting to serve in that way... it is odious to be forever mixing with servants, like that G. Sand.
crossed out[Two lines crossed out]
The thought of her is a source of rages and irritations, of something close to hatred. Mme Gavini has written to her that I was very ill and that she must come back. But, you know, it is neither from want of feeling nor from ferocity that she stays away; it is... one hardly knows why. For the same reason, I think, she covered up her brother’s infamies and left poor Paul for more than six months in the cruellest uncertainty, while receiving heart-rending letters from him every day.
You see, she is a creature one would like to crush!... so revolting is this cruelty through inertia!! When she would not go to Paul’s aid, it was because she was afraid of the lawsuit; now that she will not come back, it is because the lawsuit keeps her there. One day Alexandre sent such a telegram that we all, she included, thought Paul was at death’s door; I was distraught for forty-eight hours, and she waited a fortnight before making up her mind.
Ah! Good God Almighty! There is a woman I would rather see wicked and depraved than as she is!
In spite of my indignation I read Flamarande, which is the best thing the author has done. The servants are in their place and the book is exquisite. The descriptions of children struck a chord in me... the maternal one, perhaps... in any case, for the first time in my life I understood that there is happiness in having a child; I had to close my eyes with tender emotion, and I thought of Cassagnac. But all that lasted only an instant.
I am one of those who must make do with scraps of feeling...
Reading very fast, I have finished this book, which is so charming that I am going to read Les Deux Frères, which concludes the novel.

Notes

Les deux frères (so Marie): Les Deux Frères, “The Two Brothers”, George Sand’s sequel to Flamarande (1875). ↩