Friday, 5 December 1873

In five days.
I rise at eight. Hitchcock is the height of disgust, and arrogant. A peasant, stupid, ignorant! Fie! I go out first by carriage (brown dress, not bad), then we walk with Hitchcock; there are many people. It is beginning to turn cold -- a great pleasure for me. I love to feel my cheeks cool and rosy from the cold.
Some days ago Howard S.T. introduced Edy to Maman at Monaco. Today I met them both on foot.
La Delaroche puts on airs; it works, but she will never please me as the other one does. As the Duke of Hamilton is for me the ideal, the perfection of man, so Gioia is the perfection, the ideal, the divinity of woman. Everything about him pleases me, down to his name, as does everything about her. Every time I come across the word Gioia I pretend not to understand, so as to read it several times -- always three times -- and the Italian teacher explains the passage, which I understand perfectly.
I am so indifferent to everything now. I did not look bad while walking, for they looked at me not as before, but as I very much wish.
I go very rarely to the promenade -- so much the better. Scarcely once a week, or two. But he, the duke, never leaves me.
Alcibiades is a name that has become dear to me. I call Gioia Lais -- it is pretty, and I can speak of her before everyone.
I read everything I can find that speaks of Hamilton -- even of a duke, even of Alcibiades. Every time I read in Bouillet of the Hamiltons, of Arran -- which I found by accident this evening -- my heart pounds; I feel cold; I nearly faint. I was looking up Aspasia and I came upon Arran; it was unexpected and powerful -- they speak there of the Hamiltons, that divine name. No, truly, the name too is very beautiful -- ideal, superb, ravishing, adorable.
I am mad; I adore him like a god. But truly he unites all qualities; one may without scruple worship him on one's knees.