Monday, 31 May 1875

Girofla asked yesterday at the theatre whether we would go to the baths; I said yes — and he is at the baths.
But I am not going.
This evening is Ravel’s last performance and the closing of the theatre. Have mercy!
I dress my hair adorably and put on the white silk dress in which I have, as Caroline said, the look of an English engraving.
I am charming.
These last five or six days I have grown visibly prettier. There is a certain animation in my whole face; my eyes shine, my complexion and lips have never had such brilliance, my hair has never been so golden.
Our box is a sardine tin tonight — or, better said, a basket of roses. Maman, Collignon, my aunt, Marie, Dina, Olga and I.
I am sitting in Gioia’s place, and exactly as she used to. I should like to know whether the little fellow has noticed.
Ravel does his madcap turns; I throw two bouquets, one of them for his wife, the charming Elisa Dechamps. Ravel thanks me with a monkey’s grin, and I nod to him from behind my fan, and to his wife as well.
I laugh like a madwoman.
Girofla is downstairs, in a grey sack coat, and does not come up.
We go out through a living corridor; its left side is formed by Girofla and company.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle.”
“Good evening, Monsieur.”
“Good evening, Mademoiselle,” says Galula, “it is the last evening.”
“Why yes, Monsieur — it is a pity.”

Notes

In Latin in the original: Miserere ! — “Have mercy!”, the opening word of Psalm 51 in the Latin Bible. ↩