Saturday, 6 February 1875

I have bought two ringlets of hair, longer than my waist, in the Gioia style, and am going to attach them. On my head I wish to wear only my own hair — but letting false curls fall down the back does no harm.
It is horribly cold; I am frozen.
Today at the Square Masséna there is the charity sale, as last year — but last year the Princesse Souvoroff presided (grey dress and hat — well). There is a crowd, but no one of interest; il facchino is near Somaglia and the Comtesse del Verme.
Bihovetz was with us almost the whole time. It is needless to say that after each of these gatherings I am in despair, and our isolation is killing me.
My God, my God, have pity on me.
I was with my aunt in full dress; the landau being at the carriage-decorator's for Carnival, we return on foot.
Mme Sapogenikoff has rented the house at no. 68, Rue de France — the whole of it with garden. I hope she will be comfortable there, poor woman. After such wealth, to live on a thousand francs a month!
I have not put on the false curls and have done my hair as usual. I have a horror of what is false.
[Crossed out: Sunday, 7 February 1875]
The Durands had beautiful dresses, and Lucie is the most fashionable young woman about. I shall attach to this page the newspaper account.
We spoke with M. and Mme de Camprien, Mme de Mouzay, and Zoé who was selling flowers beside the Howards. Hélène — worse dressed than ever — has become almost plain; both of them have such unfortunate bustles. English people — second quality. And I, who a year ago found them so beautiful as to envy them!
Danis, serving at Mme Prodgers' refreshment booth, offered us tea; we declined; whereupon he placed himself opposite us, separated by a few plants with thin foliage, and remained there while we stood near Mme de Camprien.
Arnim was there; Audiffret too — but he has a bad complexion and ugly skin this time; so he has nothing; he existed only by virtue of his complexion.
When I think that he once struck me as good-looking, I am greatly astonished.
The poor things will miss the beautiful princess; even the tombola was in distress — and toward five o'clock Gros beat the drum, Petit-Paul struck the tambourine, and the Comtesse del Borgo, who was turning the wheel, began to cry in her little voice: — Come, come, gentlemen! After which there was a general hurrah and we went out.
There were beautiful dresses — especially at the Somaglia, del Verme, and facchino pavilion.
Macainne's sheep-like face under a white bonnet with pink ribbons was detestable — and her figure, under a black dress and a vile white apron.
The prettiest was little Denysson.
This year we are more shut in than ever. Before, Maman went to balls, to nearly everything; this time, to nowhere.
Oh, how I rage!
Forgive it me, my God — but I am truly suffering and I am unhappy.

Notes

Il facchino (Italian: "the porter"): Marie's contemptuous nickname for an Italian admirer.
Facchino (Italian: "porter"): Marie's contemptuous nickname for an Italian admirer.