Tuesday, 30 June 1874

Yesterday we talked a great deal with Mme Basilevitch; I do not find her enormously witty. I gave her news of Nice and the people of Nice.
We dine at the Marquise Viviani’s. Mme Basilevitch comes with us, on foot. We were received by a servant in livery, then by the marquis and the marquise. I was in white, with my hair down my back; these past few days I fall in love with my hair. I find it golden, curly, silky.
I reconcile myself to the marquis’s manners: he is Italian! And on that account one may forgive him much. This Kirch bores me; I believe he dares to admire me. I have never looked him in the face; he is not worth the trouble. If at least he kept his distance; but he wants to be an equal.
I am glad when we stay in the marquis’s study: myself, Mme Basilevitch, the marquis, his wife, Dina, and Paul. Maman stayed in the drawing room with Kirch; that was a great blessing.
I find that men blasé worn out and whatever else you like can never say as much as two women together. Maman and Basilevitch chatted and said so much that we were sent off; then Kirch came to say that, old and blasé as he is, he cannot bear to hear what those two ladies were saying. At the marquis’s we laughed the whole time; it was about our ages, mine and my brother’s. He wanted to prove that he is the elder; the marquis could not understand how for two months every year we could be the same age. I explained it to him and we laughed. I find him charming, and as well-bred as an Italian can be. The marquise had me show my foot; her husband took it in his hand and saw, to my great satisfaction, that my shoes could not have been roomier.
In the heat of a discussion he touched my cheek with his hand, as they do in Italy. I was surprised.
-- Oh, Marquis, I said, not knowing what to say.
-- What, I cannot do that to you, a child?
I was not cross; it was funny, and he kissed me on the head as one would a child.
Mme Basilevitch was rather bored; there was no gentleman paying attention to her.
During a conversation, or rather a discussion, on the ages of woman, I had to hold back a hundred retorts and smiles. My fifteen years were there before me, like a deus ex machina. The marquis said that a woman is truly a woman only at thirty; the marquise said that there is nothing but youth.
-- But just look, he said, at these two young ladies and Mme Basilevitch: they are charming, I would put them in a frame and they would be adored like divinities, like flowers; but, but the woman of thirty, oh, the woman of thirty! At that age she knows how to please, she wants to please, she knows how to attract a man by her conversation, she is fully formed -- ah, the woman of thirty, the woman of thirty, he kept repeating, rubbing his hands with an altogether... Italian air; youth is poetry, but at thirty it is prose, and what prose!
-- And yet, I ventured, before having loved poetry you cannot love prose.
-- No, he said, addressing everyone rather than me, come now, one cannot always have a rose under one’s nose.
-- Nor can one always have a peach between one’s teeth, I thought... only. I cannot speak; it is stupid.
The dinner, and above all the evening, was pleasant; that peasant Kirch was not there -- everyone says he is the flower of Belgian cavalrymen; I find him atrocious. He is well bred, but I cannot abide him. We go to the Casino again; the ball is still going on, Macainne is there, Basilevitch takes my arm and places herself beside me, but the Englishman is cool.
We danced -- I, Body, Basilevitch, and Paul -- a fancy quadrille with extraordinary figures; it was amusing.
I behave very well, and everyone knows me. So do the few carcasses of men who are here.
We are the only ones with a circle around us: Body, Kirch, Walitsky, and Paul -- that makes four; a sorry lot, but pleasant to the eye.
Kirch slips away, and after having played billiards -- this billiard room is the meeting place of Basilevitch and Macainne. Until her turn comes she chats with him. I never turn my head towards him; he comes up and talks, I very little. Let us leave him to that poor woman who is looking for someone. He is handsome, but ordinary. We all go home together, Basilevitch and I arm in arm, Paul, Macainne, Dina, Walitsky. But near the Pouhon we stop; we wake the woman, who appears at the window quite frightened, in a nightcap, holding a candle. The spring is opened and we take some water.
Paul fell, by chance, on his knees before Basilevitch. She begged us not to talk loudly so as not to wake her husband. We laughed. On leaving she shook hands with the Englishman, but he did not let go at once -- only little by little, sliding, and ended by pressing her fingers; it was dark, but I saw. Throughout dinner there had been talk of nothing but him. Puns and witticisms hardly spared him.

Notes

In English in the original. ↩
In French in the original: comme il faut. ↩