Thursday, 20 May 1875

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I bathed in great tranquillity, and being alone in my cabin I admired my hair which, while I was quite naked, covered my shoulders and back all the way to the waist like a lion's mane.
This evening I spent a delicious evening — I laughed so much, so much! They were performing Le Caprice, La Veuve aux Camélias, Le Chapeau de paille d'Italie.
You must see Ravel — he is truly adorable, incomparable.
And then, beyond the plays, there was that monkey Girofla with Galula, Saëtone, and another. I kept myself hidden behind my fan while he stared obstinately through his opera glasses, and whenever I trained my glass on Ravel, he trained his on me.
I am wearing a plain white wool dress, my hair simply dressed, naturally, not in the fashion. I am pleased with myself, and the performance is so droll that I don't know what to do with myself.
And Girofla behaving like a schoolboy.
I call him a monster! A true monster, a scoundrel, a lout.
To spend the evening staring, peering through his glass, whispering with Galula. I thought he would at least be introduced to us.
Nay! Not in the least — we leave, and the beast plants himself in our path; I walk past him, and Galula comes to bid me good evening and to ask after my lady mother, saying that he had the pleasure of seeing her the day before yesterday:
— Yesterday, Monsieur? said I, still walking.
— No, Mademoiselle, the day before yesterday.
— Yes, she did go out, it's true.
And I sweep past, majestic with my train, like a Spanish infanta.
What are you doing there! I hear Terffidua exclaim, and see him seize Galula by the coat.
We get into the carriage — I last, and positioning myself on the theater side — facing the door are the two angels, Galula and the other:
— Good evening, Mademoiselle, says the first, doffing his hat from his head with a smile.
— Good evening, Monsieur.
And that monster Girofla is standing so close to Galula (of whom he is particularly fond this evening) that, despite all my efforts, half of the good evening reaches him too, and he stares a più non posso. But I think about it — what an honour for this wretched peasant, since I shall be a femmina celeberrima! Merely by taking notice of him thus, I already illuminate him with my future rays.
The lucky rogue!
I am wrong to joke and to call him a monster, and so on — people will think I am in love with him.
God forbid! He is handsome and fresh-faced, the most elegant man here, and I am entertained by all his monkey-tricks. Those of this evening! No, it is too droll — the fan and the opera glass the whole time.
I am quite pretty — why the devil doesn't he become infatuated with me. At least it would be amusing.

Notes

a più non posso: Italian — to the utmost, as much as possible. In Italian in the original.
femmina celeberrima: Italian — most famous woman (superlative). In Italian in the original.