Wednesday, 12 March 1873

A grey day, a little rain around two o'clock, then fair enough but grey; there is wind.
Maman is better but remains in bed. More people came to inquire after her health — how kind they are. To the promenade (black dress, grey jacket) — in the carriage we saw Boreel pass in a cab, not coming toward us; but at that moment I happened to turn and I saw him — he was adjusting his hat; he saw me.
He was going very fast toward home. His hat was crumpled like the Duke's. Markevitch asked who he was and spoke to me about him without touching a nerve; I did not blush. Then I saw his cab waiting near his door. Then he passed again, but facing us, around five o'clock, heading for the station. He conducts himself exactly like Hamilton — he even dresses somewhat the same way; he copies His Grace's pose and leads the same life, except for Gioia. But he has not the means. All this suits the Duke — I will not say even very well, but Boreel? No. I could make him suffer; only as he was before, because when one is not extraordinarily rich and titled, one must live as a man of society — as he used to live.
What indignation — to compare this grotesque creature to Hamilton! It is ridiculous that I speak of him every day.
He truly grieves me — that naughty boy Boreel I am very sorry for him and his life manner must be very painful to his mother; I am indeed very, very sorry for him. I never thought I would come to wish to see him — what is lost is not preserved with tears — it is the truth; it was so ordinary a thing to see him every day, and now he shows himself so little. On one hand, he is right — he makes himself desired.
To the devil with Boreel! I clearly had nothing to write about.
He was looking very fine today. Returning home, I was alone with Dina and Emile. I stopped near No. 25, where the lady who laughs lives; I asked the concierge about apartments to let, then who occupied the apartment on the first floor to the right. I was told: "They are Americans, Vicomte Pristitieff."
The concierge is certainly an imbecile and knows nothing. At home I recounted this exploit. In the evening, unexpectedly, to the Opera — "Lucia di Lammermoor" with Mlle Franchino. Sophie, Dina, and I (black silk dress, white fichu, blue and pink bows). Not bad — quite well.
There were a few people of society. Beside us, Mme Bravura with her daughter, with an impossibly low neckline. The opera very good thanks to Mlle Franchino. Then we did not wait for the ballet, "Nelly," and went to the Français to join my aunt and Mme Walkevitch: "A Ball of High Society."
Mme Dumas recited scenes from "The Miser's Daughter" and something else which we missed? Not many people, but good. A considerable crowd at Lewin's. Rather amused. There — my second book finished, Wednesday 12 March 1873, at one o'clock past midnight.
Nice, Promenade des Anglais, 51, Villa Acqua Viva. Marie de Baschkyrtseff [sic]
1874. The end of this book is stupid.

Notes

In English in the original.