Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Tuesday, 13 July 1875

I wish so much that my uncle would arrive.
I have absurd fears. I am afraid my Niçois will leave. Then all these people will look at me as a woman abandoned.
I should be furious!
We see each other at the concert; Saëtone asks, on behalf of all his companions, permission to come to our house this evening.
Girofla does not leave the carriage. And then his father passes by alone, with his great air. Where the devil has he acquired that great air? This comme il faut old man takes care of himself, dyes his hair, and there are even assurances that he still has his intrigues to this day. After the separation, it is the first time he has appeared in public. Father and son greet each other very cordially, and the latter blushes to the ears.
— There is your father.
— Yes, that is my papa — he goes up there alone with his great hat.
The father, having spotted his dear boy, immediately turned to look at me, and I did the same; and as I was saying something or other and smiling, the so comme il faut old man received half of my smile, and I blushed.
— How you blushed, Monsieur.
— And you — you too blushed, Mademoiselle. The fact is we were both red.
[One line cancelled: Then I began to laugh]
In exactly the same way at Baden, while we were playing croquet in front of the Stéphanie Baths, Gonzalès's father passed by and his son was near me and blushed, and I said to him: — There is your father. I do not know why the other scene from nearly five years ago comes to place itself in my mind beside today's.
I was eleven, Rémy was fourteen. I have changed a great deal since then.
It is singular all the same to see things repeat themselves like this. I go home and laugh the whole way without saying anything to my aunt.
Yesterday we talked with her about Girofla. I told her everything. Let them say ill of me after that. I told her above all that one must believe nothing serious of it — in a word I told her everything I think about this affair.
I even read a few lines from my journal. That way I am protected on that side, and my aunt is prepared for everything. I told her that he might very well abandon me after making me this sort of declaration. I go so far as to suppose everything so as not to be surprised, and — above all — so as not to be looked upon as a forsaken woman. I said that he has courted everyone, that it is my turn, and that is all.
But my aunt, while being of the same opinion as I, maintains that he has never courted anyone as he has courted me.
In my opinion, he pays me no sort of court at all — he may perhaps love me, but as for courting me, there is nothing of the sort.
[Written across the page: Maman and my aunt had more pride than I, and when I foresaw a failure I would gently prepare them for it.] Often I even wonder whether he knows how to court a woman.
At nine o'clock we were expecting Girofla, Fiouloulou, and Saëtone — but what is my surprise to see Chevalier and Désiré enter, followed by Saëtone and the tall Audiffret!
The Sapogenikoffs are at Monte-Carlo. We are alone — or rather I am alone, for my aunt doesn't count; she puts herself out for nothing and makes no effort of imagination for her guests.
Besides, things go very well. After tea we play parlor games. Godard warms up little by little and is not as stupid as he appears. Saëtone laughs so hard we fear for his life. At each person's turn on the hot seat, something was said about my dimple — Chevalier began it and Saëtone composed for each person a phrase about the aforementioned dimple, with variations.
In the telling it is nothing, but at the time it was very funny. Among other things, Godard was told he was in the hot seat because he would dive headfirst into the sea fully clothed for the aforementioned dimple.
D'Audiffret was collecting the words, and each time I had to lean toward him and speak in his ear. That must have been agreeable for him. As for me, it meant nothing at all.
They stay until one o'clock. My aunt reproaches me laughingly for having exchanged amorous glances with the man. It is true that I exchanged glances — but on my side, nothing amorous; and each time our eyes met I pretended to be searching for a word for the game, and said half to myself while looking at him: — What could I possibly say here? It is difficult — and so on.
I arrange things so as to say goodbye to him last, in order to preserve the impression of the jolt.
I prefer open-air dances to evenings at our house. There one is free, one can get lost and find each other again. Here there is no way to hear anything particular — always general conversation.
Yesterday I discovered a very pretty way of looking, which suits my new hairstyle very well.
It consists of resting one's hands on the table and one's chin on one's hands, and then raising one's eyes toward the person one wishes. This gives an adorable air — especially when one's brow is covered with light little wisps of hair, gently powdered to give them airiness, and when there are not too many of them. And then — it does not hurt to have my face for it.
I looked thus at Audiffret, who was opposite me — we were all around a table and I was in a low armchair. He was looking at me and I returned it in part.
The way he did it pleased me. Without much experience, I believe I know how to read the signs.