Tuesday, 10 August 1875

I wrote on 18 March 1874 that I concern myself with Fedus because there is no one else — he is still better than Émile d'Audiffret — and I cannot live without at least one imaginary foolishness.
But now I learn that Lambertye is to be married, and I begin with Émile: — I wished to see Émile several times — he who imitates the Duke so much, etc. etc. etc. — then further. Through so much imitation he will become something. Everything in him comes from that sublime model, and in truth it does not look bad.
See how it began.
In the morning my new lady's maid comes — Helen Kefe, a small Englishwoman, forty years old, smiling and obliging.
The landau comes and we go into town to all those people who work at making me more beautiful.
A gown of white-yellow, cream, as Laferrière calls it — and an Italian straw hat covered entirely with white feathers arranged in the most gallant fashion imaginable, with a cluster of lily-of-the-valley at the back.
This ravishing hat suits me ravishingly. So we go to the Bois, just in time. There is quite a crowd — mostly men and cocottes — and while I was practising not wearing a stupid expression, surrounded by so much society and so many gowns, I catch sight of two black horses and a well-known livery.
A moi veniva la creatura bella. Di bianco vestita ... But what do I see — from golden her hair has turned dark auburn, that lovely brown shade they have in her portrait at her villa. It suits her very well. She is di bianco vestita as I said — in that cream white, like me. She has the finest carriage and the richest team.
She appears like a star and makes only one circuit.
At the sight of her elegance I am seized by a secret envy, and Stiopa recites lines of Nekrassov most aptly — so that I shiver at the truth and beauty of those verses.
I love this woman. As Hamilton is the only man, she is the only woman for me. Hamilton, she, and I: Nec plus.
Take away her entourage [Crossed out: her chic, as Fiouloulou would say] and half of her would vanish. No one but she and I knows how to wear a dress so well; no one has as much chic, as Fiouloulou would say — a vulgar word, but awfully expressive.
I have an irresistible attraction toward Amélie Gioia. I must speak with her — at the first opportunity I shall speak to her. There will be something between us; my inner sense tells me so.
I was noticed. Rothschild — Adolphe — was there; the one who, two years ago in Nice, would stop short and stare straight at me, when I was still a little girl.
I was very pretty — no one my age dressed as I did, and I drew everyone's gaze on the Promenade des Anglais. Especially in the first year after the war, the winter of 1871–72, when I was twelve or thirteen: I wore a black velvet outfit, a matching hat and boots, golden hair on my shoulders — and another outfit of blue-and-grey cashmere. I was a ravishing child. In black especially I looked like an English engraving.
Danis spoke to me of those outfits and of my coquettishness of that time. I was even more so then than now, and in such a young child it was marvellous.
This Gioia has overwhelmed me — I have a terrible desire to stay; but I have spent everything and must leave, abandoning all these beauties: Gioia, Paris, and everything.
What pleases and reassures me is that Gioia is for me every bit as attractive as Audiffret. I wanted to stay for him; I want to stay for her.
This is most reassuring and proves that the Niçois is not to me what some may have supposed. Elegant men, women like Centifolia, carriages and horses, furnishings — all of this occupies me in the same way.
Only one occupies me as a man.

Notes

Italian: "To me came the beautiful creature. Dressed in white." Dante-inflected phrase.
Latin: short for "nec plus ultra" — nothing beyond, the ultimate.
"Awfully expressive" in English in the original.