Wednesday, 21 March 1883

We dine at the Gaillards'. She was right to marry him — Mme de Quincy, a comtesse who shone in no society, a widow for fifteen years, bored at Nice with her mother Mme de Motessus de Ballore. And then? Gaillard is much younger than she — a Southerner, intelligent, deputy for the Vaucluse. They have a charming little apartment at 44 rue Saint-Lazare. But let us return to the dinner.
Ourselves, M. and Mme Clovis Hugues, M. Laporte deputy for the Nièvre, Anatole de la Forge deputy for Paris, Roche, two others, and Lullier — the Lullier who struck Paul de Cassagnac.
[Written across the page: And this M. Laporte who sings very well offered to bring pressure on the jury members so that my painting would be well placed. He knows many of them. And Clovis Hugues did impressions of the orators of the Chamber. They are of a striking resemblance.]
Anatole de la Forge is the most charming mature man I have ever encountered — distinguished, witty, agreeable, devoted above all to the arts. Lullier has a dark look — something of the madman with his thick eyebrows and white hair. As for Clovis Hugues — he is, as is well known, as ugly as possible, a face like a [blacked-out words: a baby set on] a shelf amid a forest of hair and beard, but charming eyes; and he recites his verses, which are truly very beautiful, in a thoroughly gripping manner.
He recited "Paganini" — what is remarkable is that he says he had never heard him nor seen him; one would swear it had been written in the fire of enthusiasm. It is very beautiful. These Communards are charming — one makes music without pretension; no one goes to sing their little romance at the piano, which is insipid. One sings and plays as artists, stopping to comment on a musical phrase with words as vivid as painting. These Southerners are prodigious. We spoke of Gambetta — A. de la Forge recounted that in a duel affair, Gambetta had absolutely captivated one of his adversary's seconds, a very fierce former Zouave, and that de la Forge himself was obliged to lock up his Zouave to prevent Gambetta from doing with him exactly as he pleased.
Mme Clovis Hugues sang as well — and out of tune. An enormous woman, much taller than her scrawny husband — a large, heavy Arlésienne head. And she would not leave him alone. Seated beside her great man she held his hand or placed hers on his shoulder. We were a very small party, it is true, especially toward the end — but no matter. At two in the morning we were singing "Magali" in chorus and in Provençal dialect. Politics had its share as well, and I championed women's rights. It is the greatest injustice of the present hour.