Saturday, 8 August 1874

I do not go out; it rains. Father and son Merjeewsky pay a call; I do not come to the drawing room.
At four o'clock we go to the Redoute, where the music plays because of the rain, but no one is there. In the reading room the count asks me to play dominoes; I refuse. He plays with Dina, who is his confidante, to whom he speaks of me in half-words, and who understands and shows herself kind. It is a very great happiness to find a person who listens and understands obligingly.
At last I am assured: he loves me. I pity him.
It is the first time I am loved, and how. This poor count -- he loves with such courage, such silence, such distinction. Never a word too many; never has he tried to touch my hand, to draw near me. While I, once while dancing, deliberately brushed his cheek with my head; once, getting up (at Remonchamps, when I jumped a ditch), I pressed his arm harder than I should have when he offered it.
Only sometimes, when I was not looking, I felt him watching me with such love that I blushed; and every time I touched his hand I felt that he did not touch mine as he did the others', because this contact made me shiver. Seeing myself so loved, I am grateful.
Saturday, 8 August 1874 -- continued
I always had the idea that I would not be loved.
He stays up late; he does not eat; he writes at night; he has nervous attacks. His mother complains about it every day to Maman. I have always treated him worse than a dog -- it is true that sometimes I looked at him. But I suppose my looks did nothing. He loves me because he loves me; I could make all the eyes in the world and he would not love me if it were not meant to be.
And besides, one should only look at people when one sees they are disposed to court you.
[Annotation: 1875. Proof: Girotta I]
Walitsky said I made him fall in love with me. I must also say that every evening at home I would recount my daily progress, and then Walitsky said I was at fault, that I made eyes at him, and that is why... But it is not true at all. It is because it is. And besides, I do not feel the slightest remorse.
The rain stops and we go to the promenade, where all day one sees the men worth seeing. We dine on the balcony at Baas. The count was with us the whole time, and now he comes to dine beside us. From a distance he put an enormous crayfish in his mouth to parody the pike; he believed it, the little simpleton.
He no longer has the manners I reproached him for, but on the contrary, for some time now, has been attentive, calm, even supplicating. Poor fellow -- I say "poor fellow" because it is the custom in books and the theater, but I have not once pitied him, and I do not pity him still.
I was about to forget to tell a curious story.
Since we have been at the Cour de Londres we see all the men pass. Gericke too, but today during the Poles' visit he was prowling about particularly, coming and going, looking as though he were entering every house and entering none, seeming undecided. Dina was inspired; she watched through the shutters and could not contain her joy, even putting on those little airs I do not like in her. She kept wanting to speak to me about Gericke. I was rather unwell and I put her in her place every moment, finally saying:
"Dina, I beg you, leave me in peace. I am not in a state today to endure all your pleasantries. You are happy to talk about it, but I am not disposed."
It was too much. When one is too severely scolded, one digs in, and instead of being abashed, one wants to show that one is not. That is what she did.
Suddenly Gericke looks at our windows several times, passes and repasses, looks again, finally asks something of a woman passing by, and heads for our door. Then Dina jumps from the window to her bed, laughs, screams, shrieks, and blushes so deeply that her back was red while she performed toward the back of the room an extraordinary dance step.
I was disgusted by it; for to me this Gericke is of little account, and if I did not know him personally he would be nothing at all. Since he fled, I no longer concern myself with him.
Seeing him come in, I guessed he was coming to leave his cards, P.P.C., as he had said several times he would depart on the 9th, and it is the 8th today. That is what it was; he left three cards. P.P.C. Here is one:
Requiem eterno Rogue and devil, Bold and amiable, Adroit and affable, A laugher at table, Light, everywhere feted
Is a spoiled child Submissive to beauty.
After dinner I take a pretty carriage with two horses and bells like the duke's, and Dina, Walitsky, and I go to the Morteau, the Promenade des Francais, and the Promenade des Anglais -- the latter because Monsieur de Biesme always comes from that direction; it is he who draws me there.
Maman was at home and greets us with:
"Doria Pamphili!"
It seems this name has not left her for a day; it is a second Plobster.
Seeing him, we have joked about it ever since. At ten o'clock, the ball: Maman in an apricot-colored dress embroidered with roses, wheat ears, and leaves; Dina in black Worth and I in white, the same. Hair down my back, fastened at the top by a bow like those on the dress, like a child. Marguerite is at the ball, Doria behind her chair; she is surrounded by her ladies and gentlemen and those of the Princess of Prussia.
We are fairly alone, and besides there is not a single fine crowd, which consoles me. Jurybarren, Walitsky's idol, and del Puente have left. The Robenson girl no longer has those two who did everything at her house. We go with the count -- that eternal count -- to the theater drawing room and stay there nearly the entire evening. I danced twice with a young man from Liege, introduced by Kirsh, and twice with the Pole.
He continued his story again: that the young man had resolved to flee, because from the first moment he saw a barrier. The young girl had not, or appeared not to have, a heart, and the young man too wishes to have none and to show himself indifferent, like her, for the rest of his life.
"But that is stupid, Monsieur. The young girl is naturally indifferent, whereas the young man will be indifferent, but in him the indifference will be forced, false."
I was making my remarks aloud on what he was saying.
"Why does he not try to leap the barrier?"
"Well, if he does not jump, he will break his legs, that is all," I said.
[Written across:] How strange men are! They think one has no heart because one does not love them!
"It is risky."
"Who does not risk, gains nothing." And then he continued, etc., etc., etc., etc.
Once more I caught him staring at me as he sometimes does.
I was listening to him and watching Doria and de Biesme -- the latter I was not watching because I could not see him, but I was thinking that I wanted to see him.
At half past eleven we leave. Three steps before the last columns, the little young man offers me his arm:
"Will you have it?" (I refuse so often.)
"I should think so! I asked you for it myself; you did not offer it to me." I had indeed asked for it when we were leaving.
At the moment I was saying this, Monsieur de Biesme, who never looks at me, raised his eyes to me. I was delighted, and in the corridor I said I was sorry to be leaving, that I wanted to go back. And we go back. I go to the theater drawing room, pretending to look for someone, so that on returning I might see him again.
"Marie, to the right, to the right," Dina says to me.
"He is not there," I say, turning around and looking to the right.
There is only Plobster.
"But yes, he is too."
And I turned around two more times without seeing him, but seeing Doria -- he must be astonished. Three times I turned around, looking as though I were looking at him.
I was on the little one's arm. Only on the way out did I catch sight of my handsome stranger, seated on the first sofa to the right on entering. Since I passed behind the columns, I could see only his back. I went back into the room to see him! That is definite. It is strange -- no, not at all: he pleases me, and I was enchanted that he deigned to cast a glance at me.
He is married, I think; that would be a pity.
But he truly pleases me. From the very first moment I could see he was no cad.
There is the misfortune of being a woman. If I were a man and a woman pleased me, I would have myself introduced and court her. But alas! I am a woman.

Notes

Pour Prendre Conge -- farewell visiting cards left when departing.