Friday, 22 August 1873

In the morning they bring my grey boots; they do not fit very well. They will adjust them. We took a landau and went to Worth’s to try on my dress. Before that, we went into the Trois Quartiers department store, where I do not know what, and my aunt bought three
unbleached embroidered garments, for Maman, herself, and Dina. That imbecile of a shopkeeper, for some reason or other, spoke to me in English.
At Worth’s, my dress is good; this time I am satisfied. The young lady who always serves us, Mlle Augustine, suggested to my aunt that she come downstairs and see the outfits: they are truly ravishing. My aunt ordered a dress of silk and black velvet, trimmed with jet and lace. A very beautiful dress: nineteen hundred francs. I am beginning to feel at home at Worth’s; I am always ill at ease the first time I go to any establishment. I am also beginning to show what I am; they still take me for a simple little girl, but they shall see what I am. I want to display my taste in all its splendour, etc. They shall see that I surpass everyone in dress — at present I cannot make use of my genius for myself, but later I shall be the queen of the house.
Henceforth I shall dress only at Worth’s; all the others beside him are grotesque peasants.
crossed outI do not yet know Chevreuil; one must try him — they say he is if not better, then as good as Worth.
I must have at least eleven hundred roubles a year — just the income from the small estate at Orel. I shall try to obtain that. For one cannot dress on less than three thousand three hundred francs, and even that is modest.
Today they gave me the address for hats: Mme Mantel — I must see her tomorrow. It is four o’clock; despite my protests that it is too early, we go to the Bois. Until today I had only been to the grand promenades on the main avenue, in October and November when there are crowds, but today we went through the whole Bois, the Jardin d’Acclimatation, and the Trocadéro, from which we saw the whole of Paris. Truly, in all my life (grey linen dress, good) I have never seen anything as beautiful as the Bois de Boulogne. It is not a wild natural, sublime beauty — no — but it is elegant, graceful, rich. It is like a — I am ashamed of the comparison — it is like a cocotte of the finest quality. The art is so perfect that it becomes nature.
It was only towards six that we returned to the main avenue leading to the lake. But there were not many people; one minute rain, the next fine weather. We had the hood opened and closed six times. Towards seven, many carriages men. Among them there were some in
very elegant carriages — the rest were courtesans.
We were leaving the hotel in the morning and we met Mme Bravura’s prince; we saw him again yesterday. On our way back along the Champs-Élysées, my aunt says:
“There are the Boyds and Berthe.”
I hurry to look, but the carriage passes quickly; I have time, however, to see that it is indeed Berthe. I do not know if she recognised me. She is just the same — not changed at all. I had our carriage turn around, but they had got out near a building, and when we came level with them I could only see Berthe under the doorway in the darkness. I should so like to speak to her! Does she still have her duke? She has grown uglier — though I did not see her well.
I wonder where that scoundrel can be? I see everyone except that creature — where on earth can he be? In Paris, it seems to me, one ought to see him. He is a scoundrel who cannot stay in one place; he must travel, that imbecile, as if he could not remain in Paris. He has perhaps run off after his beautiful doe to Russia — who knows? From a madman like that one can expect anything! I do not see her, either.
This evening we were waiting for our keys when a gentleman passed and, as is always done, raised his hat, for we were blocking the way.
“He is at least polite,” I said.
“He is a Frenchman,” said Dina.
“No, a Russian.”
“An Englishman would do just as much and more.”
“Oh no — Hamilton, would he do that? And Hamilton is your favourite.”
“First of all, you do not know Hamilton, and besides, you have never found yourselves with him in such a circumstance. Perhaps he would do the same thing — and even more.”
“Who, Hamilton?”
“But you do not know him — one cannot judge people without knowing them.”
Here I said too much — but in reality only just enough. I could not help smiling as I spoke.
Dinner at the Russian restaurant; at seven we dine in a small private room. Towards the end, when one has eaten, there is room for conversation. I immediately took the floor — I never fail to. With my aunt we are like something out of a vaudeville: there is always an aunt or an uncle, and nephews.
In the evening we took a walk on the boulevards and the rue de la Paix.