Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Monday, 17 May 1875

We see Girofla getting into his carriage near the Place Masséna and following us from a distance; we dash home, quick quick, run, cross the garden, and station ourselves on the little terrace that backs against the iron railing on the right, to watch him pass.
Two minutes later he does indeed pass, in the company of the handsome Enoteas.
Girofla looks at us, looks at the villa, the garden, blushing all the while like a young girl. His carriage was already past Krohn's and still his head was turned towards us.
I love it when a man blushes — and this one blushes so innocently.
In the moonlight we go and throw pebbles into the sea.
May in Nice — so celebrated by the local poets — is truly charming, but only in the evening. This evening, for instance, the moon is almost full, the sea slightly stirred, and in its waves one sees thousands of stars sparkling, or rather sparks, like a burst of fireworks.
On all sides one hears singing, especially from the direction of Pont Magnan and the Rue de France — the good people of Nice returning from the Var festivities (there are such festivities almost every day in May), where they have been dancing, and now they sing, if not well, at least wholeheartedly. Beyond these noisy gentlemen and ladies, everywhere one sees silent couples seated on benches or strolling. There was one not far from our bench — they sat talking in low voices — Victor nearly devoured a passing dog, howled like a wild beast, we screamed, passersby fled; but the two inammorati never stirred, never turned their heads.
I am writing before the open window and, despite my two candles, can admire the moon reflected in the sea and the stars above. The candles, far from spoiling the view, enhance it — they make the trees and the coastline appear blacker, the moon paler, the sea calmer, the whole scene at once more vague and more tender.

Notes

inammorati: Italian — lovers, sweethearts. In Italian in the original. ↩