Thursday, 31 December 1874

As I said, at half past ten I go riding with Foster; M. de Mauldre joins us near the public garden and we ride out to the Var. I ride Nesky — a charming horse for one hour, but exhausting for three.
This gentleman mentioned no message whatsoever — the wretch, he has none. He is a young man of twenty-eight to thirty, rather lean, almost short, almost dark, with a long thin nose and side-whiskers; he speaks like the Belgians, like Baron Leiss of Ostend. We galloped at quite a pace on the racecourse, but three times my steed refused to take the obstacles. He has a jerky gait and never settles into a walk, but dances perpetually. At a quarter past one I return home, thoroughly shaken by the creature’s incessant dancing.
As my aunt was following in a carriage, she had to be sent back until four o’clock. I walked with my aunt (white dress, fine). I am beginning to love the dress — but Hong for Laferrière, and God knows how she will receive me.
We walked as far as Mortier and from there returned to the Promenade des Anglais, where there was music and a crowd — society, or rather the populace.
About halfway along the Promenade, my aunt told me to cross over. When we were on the other pavement, I saw the reason for this change: Terffidua was approaching on foot. Once he had passed she brought me back to the Promenade.
“Ah! I see why this change of direction — you wanted to avoid that man. But how silly you are, my aunt — what are you afraid of?”
“You really make me laugh — I shall laugh for three days straight; if I don’t laugh for three days, I at least laughed for three quarters of an hour.”
While we were crossing, d’Aspremont and de Constantin passed us. Poor aunt, I believe she was frightened again.
Nonsense! Because a man looked through his opera glasses at the theatre several times, one imagines God knows what! Alas! How stupid.
We were at Rumpelmayer’s, at the Cercle.
Foster has copied my grey dress in heavy blue fabric and velvet. A fool always finds a greater fool to admire him.
In twenty days the races — and still no Paris!

Notes

In English in the original. Marie writes Hong for [sic], kept as she wrote it — probably “longing for,” the first letter mistaken (or mis-formed) in her haste. ↩
In Italian in the original: Sciocchezze ! ↩
In Italian in the original: Ohimè ! ↩
Boileau, L’Art poétique (1674), I: “Un sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui l’admire.” ↩