Friday, 16 January 1874

It rains! Miserere! Hail to the rain! I take my white muslin dress to Simone; she will freshen it for Monday. I do not want to wear the blue one, for there will be little pigs without gloves. Then I walk with Hitchcock (conspirator, good); we walk in this heavy rain -- there is not a dog in the streets.
Since yesterday I have had "Louis XIV and His Women" in my head. I shall read it. Moreover I asked Maman openly for "The Courtesans of the World," telling her I have read a volume. And it is granted.
I adore the style of A. Houssaye; I can read him and reread him without ever tiring. Am I strange enough? I blush at the name of Louis XIV. He was a good fellow, and if I lived at the same time as he I would adore him.
In the evening we go to see Helene, dressed for her first ball at Mme Francia's. We rang for ten minutes; at last Fenia opens and I run upstairs. I find the beauty all ready; what I find is that her hair is badly done and she is tolerably dressed. In a word, not as I like, but for her position, her youth, and her pretty face, very well. She is not badly proportioned. I fear to boast, lest, to punish my pride and presumption, a hump or some other horror befall me. She is radiant and inspired. They wrapped her in that woolen shawl Mme Howard came to borrow from us today before dinner -- she had not time to buy one -- and she goes down. I think that as I write this she is dancing and she is happy, the blessed girl! Lise kissed me a thousand times. What a good heart, what an open and pure soul!
I do not know if it is from envy, but I no longer find Helene so very beautiful; a pretty face, and basta.
I had forgotten to say that Centifolia yesterday was the most beautiful, as always, as on the day of the Shoot at Monaco (grey and violet) -- as always, moreover. But at the races she was dressed poetically. An indefinable gown. How beautiful she is! There is a true beauty. Venus!

Notes

In Italian in the original. "Enough."