Tuesday, 22 July 1873

I sat for the portrait — it is a pretty head, but it is not me. I am dismayed; I had been counting on having something pretty. This morning I read that book again. Maman opened the door. I thought she would come in and I would be caught, but no — she asked me the time. So as not to be discovered, I put the book in the drawer and read in such a way as to be able at every moment to pretend I am searching for something. Despite these precautions, I was very afraid, and red, and anxious.
What a pity to have only the second volume of Les courtisanes du monde. There are four divisions, each in four volumes: Les courtisanes, Les grandes dames, Les Parisiennes. [Crossed out: Les femmes dechues]
It is a little explicit, but very well written. In the afternoon I finished it. My curiosity is awakened; in this volume they speak of preceding events, and I have not read them.
In the evening, the Princess and I went for a turn on the Promenade. While waiting for Dina, we spoke of Baden, of the society of Mme Paskevitch, Carlos Hamilton and the old maid. There I was at my ease — I could give myself over to my greatest pleasure: speaking of him. She asked me whether Lord Hamilton is handsome — tall, dark, a regular broomstick, but good-looking.
— Does he resemble the Duke?
— No? That is good, for this one has an ignoble face. The fool!
— What! On the contrary, the one here is better-looking.
— The red one — the one with the reddish face?
— But yes.
— Gioia's?
— But yes — he is much more handsome.
She likes them thin and dark. I forgive her.
[In the margin: Maman, my aunt, Walitsky, and Paul at Monaco.]