Thursday, 11 February 1875

A bitter wolfish cold. I walk for an hour and a half with the Englishwoman, and on returning I encounter Nadinka who is going out; I go with her and walk for nearly two hours more, making a total of three hours and a quarter.
In the evening I go to the opera — Ruy Blas with Nadinka (blue dress, my own coiffure, well). The singing is poor, and were it not for Gioia across the way I should be bored. Oh, what a beautiful woman!
Everything about her is perfect, as with the Duke — only rounder arms, a fuller bosom, and that other part I dare not name being more prominent would do no harm — on the contrary.
I love Gioia because he loved her, and it is an unspeakable joy to look at her — to look at his woman; she was his woman.
The idea of speaking to her haunts me, and once the gate is made I hope to catch her as she passes in the morning or toward evening. I shall speak to her of him... oh, so much happiness chokes me. My greatest pleasure now is to see her — her whom he touched, to whom he spoke!
Oh! You see, all the foolishness I thought I could feel for others has made me despise all other men. There is only him. This conviction fills me with joy and with unease — oh, but no matter: I am so happy when I feel that I love him.
Going out we pass between two rows of young men of Nice; Audiffret on the right. What a pity he concerns me so little now!
I fall asleep composing a story with Gioia — how I shall speak to her, how she will give me her portrait, how she will guess why she interests me, and so on and so on.
I am so happy, so happy to know, to understand what passes within me, that I could go on repeating it endlessly if I had the time. It is so clear, after all — I love the Duke of Hamilton. Yes, it is clear; but I never understand, never know — I am as if in a fog. And so when a day like today arrives, I am more than enchanted. The bringing together of two electrified bodies, one positively charged, the other negatively, produces a spark.
Gioia and I = a spark, and this spark has illuminated — that is why I see so clearly.

Notes

Ruy Blas: opera by Filippo Marchetti (1869), based on Victor Hugo's play of the same name.