Tuesday, 5 August 1873

At the Exposition (white dress). I am beginning to feel a little at home at the Exposition. There are many people but almost no English. I am bored without English people; they give life.
We finished the main pavilion and began the fine arts galleries. There are some pretty paintings, but there are also daubs. Nothing sends me into raptures like the arts. They are the most beautiful production of the human mind. People stare at me — I do not know why. Am I ridiculous or attractive? That is the question!
At the Russian restaurant where we lunched, the bouillon and caviar are excellent; the rest, rubbish. At five, home; they come to try on my dress; then I dined at the hotel with Paul, then dressed. We are going to the theatre: Fantasca, a ballet at the Grand Opera. The Shah is to be at the theatre (blue dress — I do not like myself in it); we have a box on the ground floor.
When we entered, the Shah was already seated in the imperial box with the Emperor, the Empress, and a few persons. He is not the same one who was at the races — we had taken one of his suite for him. He is rather handsome; I am not going to amuse myself describing these personages. That is not the purpose of this journal. There were innumerable people. The theatre was more than full. The ballet is pretty — it is more of a pantomime; there is little dancing. The scene changes, the costumes, etc. etc. are very fine. I looked about for the Duke of Hamilton, but he is not here. Where is he? Where is she? I believe I shall wait until winter in Nice to see him. He was probably here earlier, in May or June. But let us leave this ungrateful beast. I will speak of him no more. I have humiliated myself too much for him.
I shall repeat, as with Boreel, that it is for him to greet me and not for me. I want at last to be proud. May the devil ta— ah! no! May the Good Lord protect him. Well, how strange — I do not love him at all tenderly; I cannot think what I have just said. When I do not see him, the devil take him! I do not know him well enough to have tender feelings. I love him because his appearance suits me — as does his character too, if I am not mistaken about his character.
But I cannot love him tenderly, because he does not love me. I love him in secret — even from myself. I have discovered why I do not love him to the point of devotion: it is because I am not loved in return. I cannot be a sublime heroine who adores her rival — or at least, I have never tried.
I thought all red-haired men would please me. But no — they are all disagreeable; he alone pleases me. He is a particular individual.
But enough for tonight. All this reasoning will not bring him here. Ungrateful beast, go! Fat animal, barrel! I detest you.

Notes

In English in the original.