Wednesday 1 September 1875

H[is] G[race] t[he] D[uke] o[f] Hamilton]
Book 41
from Wednesday 1 September 1875 to Tuesday 7 September 1875
Grand Hotel, no. 281, Paris
My eyes are quite ringed! Ah, my God!
I reply to Berthe:
Dear Berthe,
I received your letter in Paris where I have been for three days — my mother, who remained at Schlangenbad, forwarded it to me. Madame your mother is most kind to think of me, and I am most impatient to make her acquaintance.
I believe we shall remain here some time longer. I am with my aunt, Madame Romanoff — I think you know her.
How I should like to spend some time in the same city as you — we could at least see each other.
It is tiresome to meet barely twice a year, exchange a few words, and then be once again at opposite ends of the world from each other.
Let us always write to each other — ever since the first year of my stay abroad I have encountered you; I was always drawn towards you, and something tells me that one day we shall live more closely bound than we are at present.
We are staying at the Grand Hotel, no. 281.
Goodbye, my dear — think of me as I think of you.
Good day!
Marie Bashkirseff
I am not writing well today — Berthe will have there a sorry specimen of my eloquence.
(Written on headed paper: Grand-Hôtel, Boulevard des Capucines. Paris.)
At three o'clock I go out — we take the carriage as always — with my dark costume, but a sufficiently fresh face.
Downstairs we encounter Gonzales and son. The father launches into his lyrical praises — the son follows at some distance.
After five minutes of this childishness — what charm, what wit, and so on and so forth.
— Do you know, Maria, he says — I have been told you are to marry; and do you know whom? D'Audiffret, he tells me, without giving me time to say anything, answering his own question.
— Oh no, that is not true, I say, as naturally as can be, without blushing and without agitation. I know who told you that — it is Mademoiselle Durand!
— It is a young lady.
— Yes, says my aunt, it is Mademoiselle Durand — she was with us the other day at the Bois.
— It is he I am marrying — he, my friend, I say, pointing to Remy.
— I accept, says the young man, bowing.
— But you know, Maria, he is a charming fellow, d'Audiffret — a charming fellow, says Gonzales, hoping to draw out a confession.
— No doubt, Monsieur — he is very well, but that is no reason. One cannot marry every charming fellow, I add with a laugh, and I find a great many charming.
I no longer wish to think about our failed acquaintance with Madame de Gonzales. I know Monsieur, I know Remy — they are charming to me; as for the ladies, I do not know them.