Friday, 24 January 1873

Today is my birthday. I have just turned thirteen.
We went with Maman to the Howards’. I stayed with the children in the garden.
Tomorrow I ride.
On my way back, I went out onto the terrace. What a beautiful view one has from this terrace!
Suddenly, just as I was about to go back inside the villa, Mlle Collignon called to me:
— Come, Marie!
At that moment, the Duke of Hamilton was passing on the promenade.
He wore the same outfit as the other day. He was very handsome, but he did not see me. They prevented me from seeing him again. He disappeared without having been able to see me, pretty as I was in my green skirt and grey jacket. What a pity!
How many times I have come to this terrace all alone.
One day, it was dark, the sky was sad, a thick fog covered the sea and part of the city. It was very damp. The Duke of Hamilton, on that very day, passed at the moment I was leaning on the terrace railing.
He was bent down in his carriage to light his cigar, and no doubt he did not see me.
It was then that I made this reflection:
“A man of thirty, a man who knows nothing but races, horses, shooting, hunting, and who adores fine wine and loose women, goes to his mistress’s, lights his cigar with a calm and satisfied air, and I, fool that I am, I watch him and imagine that he cannot even see me!” I thought all this, and I also thought that despite everything I was very happy, since that day I had seen him, and that at bottom it is the great thing I desire.
I still had the vision of the Duke of Hamilton when I came to nestle my head against Mlle Collignon’s bosom and kissed her several times, so deeply happy was I.

Notes

Marie was born on 12 November 1858 (Old Style), seven months after her parents’ marriage. To hide this, the family celebrated her birthday on 12 January, claiming a premature birth (Kernberger 2013, Chronology); 12 January Old Style is 24 January in the Western calendar. Marie was in fact fourteen. She learned the truth from her father in 1878, and the false year 1860 was later engraved on her tomb (Kernberger 2013). ↩