Thursday, 7 January 1875

I go riding with Zoé — we ride to Villefranche at a fast trot or full gallop almost the whole way.
Nothing more charming than galloping along this climbing road — rocks on one side, and on the other a steep hillside peopled with villas, gardens, and below, the sea: blue, calm, immense. The sun was at our backs and a fresh breeze bathed our faces, sweeping our skirts and our horses' manes behind us.
I wore my blue riding habit from last year — the only one that suits me well.
Maman is ill again. I am worried once more.
Our chambermaid Marie — the first who ever pleased me — tall, beautiful, blonde, always cheerful, laughing and intelligent. She resembles, in an inferior and servant-class way, the Venice painted by Paolo Veronese on the ceiling of the great hall of the Palazzo Ducale in Venice.
This woman married two months ago, driven by I know not what devil — for she loathes the man she married, loathes him as I loathe the Polish count. To escape him she came to us; but her dear husband wants to reclaim her and keeps coming to demand her back, imploring Maman to persuade her to come home. Maman does what she can but does not succeed. Three days ago he came and dealt poor Marie such a violent blow with his fist that she went and struck the bed with her head and fell senseless; he fled, thinking he had killed her.
Then yesterday he came again and begged her to come downstairs. She obeyed — but once at the foot of the stairs he seized her by the throat with one hand and by the waist with the other, and tried thus, choking her, to drag her out of the house. She screams, he chokes her — at her cries Adam came running, luckily, and grabbing him from behind threw him away; during which time the woman escaped.
Adam sent for the gendarmes — all this while we were at church, for yesterday was Christmas for us.
What a scandal, good God! (I am writing with a chemical ink of my own making — it is not excellent.)
When one asks Marie why she took that man for a husband, she answers that she herself does not know how it came about. This Marie has a strange air about her — I talk to her often, and she surprises me more and more.

Notes

Veronese's allegorical figure of Venice in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio of the Doge's Palace — a majestic blonde figure enthroned in the clouds.
Russian Orthodox Christmas falls on 7 January (Gregorian calendar), twelve days after the Western celebration.