Tuesday, 22 September 1874

Maman writes letters that irritate me. They have ruined my pavilion; they have lodged a chambermaid upstairs, Trifon in the room on the staircase, and in my study they dine! But with the help of heaven I shall return and like Christ I shall drive the merchants from the house of the Lord!

Through the efforts of the deacon, who, to be fair to him, is working for me — and I am so grateful to him that I shall speak up so they buy him a sofa he greatly wants — an agent¹ comes this morning and tells us that Mark has a suitable horse.

At two o’clock we go to Mark’s, but they were shoeing the horse; while waiting we go to the Bon Marche for things needed for the house and return.

It is a fine black animal, of Russian breed but coming from England, nine years old: seven thousand five hundred francs, but it has faults — sway-backed² (I do not know how one says this in French) — and too heavy for me.

I want a horse that is tall, slender, golden, spirited, purebred, or Anglo-Arabian. If I found what I desire, I would gladly give ten thousand francs.

Tomorrow at half past four we shall see him at the Bois, ridden. But as we were on the Champs-Elysées, Dina said to me:

“There’s old Moreno and Rémy with him.³” Indeed it was Rémy. We turn, I blush, and when the carriage had stopped quite near them I said:

“Well⁴! Monsieur Rémy Moreno!” He did not understand at first, then recognising us he ran over. He has grown more handsome but not tall enough; I had expected to find a young man and I find a boy.

I am annoyed, for I am ugly today, again because I have a headache. Despite this I looked him in the eye — he is nothing but a child to me.

I should like him to court me when he comes to Nice. And it would be most humiliating if he did not — he, my former admirer!

He is a very nice boy; I like him because he comes from Baden and because he reminds me of so many things, and because our sweetest pleasures lie in our memories.

At my I can boast that this young boy never attracted me; his attentions pleased me because he was the handsomest plobster among the children, and above all because, without having done anything for it, I had stolen him from Berthe.

One always conducts oneself better, and it is much, much better to remain indifferent, for when one is in love one often commits follies, and the coldest, wisest, most reserved minds, once struck by love, are no longer masters of themselves and without realising it commit more follies than simple people.

At the Russian restaurant Renard, we meet Mme Sapogenikoff, the Russian girl who is with her, and the deacon, then Jaka Griff.

We all dine together.

The deacon has made new enquiries, and Bauvais — Bauvais has several stud farms in Russia — proposes some horses. He has one in particular, he says, golden, four and a half years old, spirited, and so beautiful that he wants to offer it to Dagmar, the Grand Duchess and heir⁵. But out of friendship for the deacon he is willing to sell it and asks a thousand roubles. If it is true that this horse is beautiful, and golden, and young, a thousand roubles seems very little to me. But six months are needed to train it and for it to turn five.

I have spoken, and the deacon will ask him for a description of this horse and also its birth certificate, so that I may know what breed it is and who its sire and dam were.

I am happy and proud to have been among the horses, in the stables at Mark’s, and to speak of them.

My aunt and Dina go with Mme Sapogenikoff and the others to the cafe-chantant, and I go home, write, and reread my old diary.

Amen.