Tuesday, 16 March 1875

To the concert (grey, pale). I come home to study but instead stay with Maman; then I go to the pavilion to fetch something or other from the wardrobe. I open it, and out of that wardrobe escapes a whole flood of scents and memories. The perfumes I loved in Paris, then the shells from Ostend, the lace lappets from Spa, Gericke’s fan, etc., etc. The peasant women’s hat from near Spa, which I lined with pink myself. I seize this hat and the album of actresses and am about to run out when, as I close the wardrobe, I saw myself in the glass, in my white cashmere Empire-style dress, the hat on my head, my face fresh and pink as a rose, my eyes shining and my whole countenance animated.
This stops me; I look at myself again and again, then grow pensive. Why, I think, am I so pretty? Is it to see the ugliest and most vulgar women swimming in amusements of every kind? Is it to regret still more, if that is possible, what I love and desire?
O eternal torment! God alone, who inflicts it on me, knows its extent and its power over me!
But tired of forever weeping, I take heart and, trying to smile, then smiling in earnest, I go out, stay a few moments on the terrace, then walk along the stones being laid for the railings; the simple people of Nice stare at me wide-eyed. Then I go to Maman’s, running up the stairs, and meet Sacha, who gives me a bundle of asparagus and two fresh cucumbers — the best present anyone could give me. With this addition I continue my run and burst like a bomb into the middle of the room, in front of the glass, and stop there, my asparagus on one arm and the cucumbers in the other hand, laughing, in a pose that Théo would not have disowned.
Here I am talking nonsense, for I cannot compare myself with Théo — I looked much better; I compared myself with that actress because everyone knows her and because my pose was of that kind.
I was so enchanted with my pretty little face — which, without flattering myself, was adorable — that I could do nothing but relish the pleasure of seeing myself admired. I do not know why I am so gay today, I said. And with good reason — asparagus, fresh cucumbers, and a new opera!
Count Ory^[Marie’s Italian title: Il conte Ory (Rossini’s opera).] is being given for the first time. We have number four in the dress circle.
Allard does my hair in Empire style, and I put on the white silk dress with the oriental overdress. To feel pretty, elegant, gay — and no one! Dog of dogs!
The house is full, but I am bored sitting alone like a doll, silent, with no one to look at. So by the middle of the evening I am numb, my throat is dry, and it seems to me that something like the devil^[“The devil” is Marie’s nickname for the tall Englishman she has been glimpsing in Nice this winter, so called because he looked like the devil to her the first time she saw him (29 January 1875); not the Duke of Hamilton.] was needed — the man I think of often and will never forget — when one considers that here was a man who came, whom I saw, whom I found attractive, with whom I almost fell in love, who, as if to mock me, pleased me — and greatly — and went away so that I may perhaps never see him again. Oh mockery! Oh human heart, oh woman! I was saying, then, that something like him was needed to rouse me from my stupor and loosen my tongue — which was literally tied. Nothing comes and I leave in quite a different state from that in which I arrived.
In the foyer I watch all Nice parade before me — Nice that I hate and despise through spite, and because it deserves it. Oh, the dismal house! That Prodgers and that Vigier plunging their beaks into the pit like famished birds of prey. That eternal Gros flitting from box to box to bestow on each lady for a moment the happiness of a gentleman escort; that egregious Saëtone sweating and blushing beside the Maccainne who did the same.
Then that pale, yellow, bilious Polish count — seeing that I do not look at him in his box, he descends to the pit and, leaning against a box with his arms crossed, stares at me; when this manoeuvre does not succeed he goes to the grand box and from there persecutes me still.
There was Arnim, but only for a short time. Then this Volkenstein with the red arms, and several other wretched specimens of the same sort.