Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Friday, 1 October 1875

Already the 1st of October — it is incredible.
I go out alone — I am pretty. Sabatini joins me at ten o'clock; we resume our Italian conversations. Gone out to observe — I do not forget it — and I seat myself on a bench halfway between Gioia's house and ours. Sabatini reads me Niccolò de' Lapi. I listen little. At half past ten a cab with a white horse passes, followed by a calèche. And ten minutes later the calèche passes again, containing Gioia, her old woman, and her two children. As for the two-seat cab — it goes off by the Rue de France, no doubt, since I do not see it pass.
Him leaving at six o'clock! And what is the use, since he is with her!
My aunt acknowledges everything regarding Girofla running after Gioia, and yet in spite of the evidence embroiders a quantity of things.
— It is extraordinary, says grandfather at luncheon — scarcely has the other left when she takes another, and Audiffret comes running like a schoolboy! It is disgusting! How is it that she was with the other man before his very eyes, and it means nothing to him — as if it were nothing! Truly it is curious; not three days have passed before she gives him a sign and he comes running.
— It is natural, grandfather — do you not know that man is the filthiest of animals when he sets his mind to it?
— No, but, grandfather continues without listening to what is said to him, as is his habit — no, it is extraordinary.
What! Scarcely, scarcely has the other gone — she still stinks of him — and Audiffret comes. He had the air of waiting his turn. But it must be disgusting! Does it not disgust him?
— Truly, if I were young and she called me, I should say to her: Go away — you are still reeking of that Englishman!
— Grandfather, if you were young and she called you, you would go.
— Never! Never. It is filthy and disgusting. One may take a mistress, but like that. Fie! How the devil does it not disgust him?
Here I stop. This conversation goes on for a very long time and one says always the same thing.
I am as astonished as my grandfather. It is done too crudely — there are things that one knows but conceals, that one does not speak of.
It is curious: as a man, Girofla no longer interests me. I miss him as an escort — I have not one.
Ah! if only by a miracle an interesting man would fall from the sky upon us!
Something tells me one is going to fall.
I walked out in pink — in dress and in mood — saw Gioia at her door, went to Nina's, where there was a great debate on the conduct of the gentleman in question. Nina is adorable; we league ourselves against Paris, who despises the young men here. Great heat, immense discussion — I deliver several speeches, in one of which I declare that Girofla has magnificent eyes.
I recount the small straw hat in the landau last night, and this morning's departure at ten-thirty — and no earlier.
Nina declares that he must be driven away. When there was no one, she says, he came — one saw him everywhere; and now everything has changed.
I propose playing a charivari on old Emile — he is called Léon, but I call him old Emile — but Olga observes very judiciously that he would shoot us like rabbits.
— Then at that woman!
— Good!
— Ah! cries Marie — you missed it: this morning was the moment. One would have seen two heads at the window.
— And one of them in a Greek cap! I say.
And each of us describes what scene it would produce in the bedroom.
— For he was in bed with her, says Marie.
— Oh! ho! I am willing to hear that, but I will not say anything of the sort myself — for afterward you would say it was I, my dear Graces.
— Oh, my dear, I say it because it was so, since you saw the straw hat — you know, the small hat in the landau last night.
We say farewell three times and still remain — one always finds something to add on the subject of Girofla. And at last I leave, after having let myself drop to the floor — which is my habit whenever I am very gay.
At dinner a little skirmish with grandfather — very small, merely to keep the conversation from languishing.
And I go upstairs crying out like Archimedes: Eureka!
I have found that I love Girofla as a comrade — a fraternal affection! He has gone. I would gladly write to him, if he and the world were less stupid and took things as they are, simply.
My aunt says she met him at the Avenue de la Gare and spoke to him. He is leaving for a fortnight.
But I do not believe my aunt. For a week past, every morning her first sentence is:
— Mademoiselle, your handsome one has left.
It is all the same to me, since I no longer see him or have him.
After all — I am quite happy, for no particular reason. One thing vexes me. Let us reduce everything to its simplest expression: I counted on my charms, and I have failed. Girofla has not loved me. That is the disagreeable thing.
One must believe that I have a false idea of myself, and that I am ugly and stupid.
My person did not know how to ensnare him. That is the true humiliation.
I adore Nice — I admire it from my window. I am happy and animated. Why? I do not know. Well! Well, what.
Ah! Leave me in peace. I am writing nonsense.
I have painted d'Audiffret in his usual place — it resembles him a little.
I do not know if it is visible, but I feel that I have the manners of the handsome Nicean — it seems to me that I speak, that I move, that I do everything as he does.
Poor little fellow! He was a nice boy. I should adore his memory if he had loved me. But no — he persisted in not loving me. I am very cross about it. That is the true vexation. Well!
Today is the 1st of October — it is exactly one year ago, the 30th of September, that I returned to Nice from Spa, London, etc. I went out in the morning, saw Gioia, admired her and named her the jewel of my soul.
The cards say that Dina will marry. So much the better — provided she is happy! I believe in the cards; those rogues have always told me the truth.
I want to read an amusing book! I am trying to think what new thing I might do. A nasty trick for the jewel of my soul!
Yes — but what trick! I thought of setting fire to her house, but that is difficult.
I need an occupation — I am in a combative mood; I am ready for anything; all I need is an idea. I shall no doubt be cast down tomorrow, for tonight I am on stilts.
The Tour strikes nine o'clock. Dear Tour! Dear Girofla — dear everyone.
Adorable me.
Ah! Hamilton!
I have just made an ugly parody on the tune of the waltz of roses. But it is an occasional piece — it is excusable.
No — Girofla is a man who deserves my every resentment! Have I forgotten the philippine? No — unfortunately I never forget disagreeable things. By means of that philippine he has ensured that I always recall it with a certain feeling of humiliation; every time I recall that philippine [several words cancelled] I let slip either an Ah! or a blimey, or a grimace, depending on where I am.
Before sleeping I write two letters in block capitals — one to M. Emile d'Audiffret in Paris, at the Hôtel Splendide, in case he did not have time to receive the other here: Wretch!! With your dressing gown and your Greek cap, You will rot!!
And another to M. Léon d'Audiffret, Tour Audiffret: Unfortunate father!! Your son, with his dressing gown and his Greek cap, Will rot!!
This dressing gown and Greek cap became famous after Le Procès Veauradieux, in which the gentleman is caught by the police at Césarine's [a line crossed out] at the moment when he is dressed as I have just described and is quietly taking his tea. Then there is the wife, the mother-in-law, the friends, etc., etc. In short, a succession of scenes more amusing than one another. I can do no better than repeat what a Paris paper said of the play.
— Fauvinart, a lawyer, has a charming wife whom he adores, but he pays visits to a little woman with yellow hair, in a little blue drawing room, the most coquettish in the world; one evening then he was quietly there when... To tell the story of Le Procès Veauradieux! We shall certainly not do so — it is impossible. To recount the succession of misadventures that befall Fauvinart is quite impossible; one only laughs and laughs, etc.
The main thing is that the Greek cap and the dressing gown are on everyone's lips upon leaving the theatre — like the conspirators' air from La Fille de Mme Angot.

Notes

Niccolò de' Lapi — historical novel by Massimo d'Azeglio (1841), set during the 1530 siege of Florence; a classic of Italian patriotic literature. ↩
A charivari was a traditional noisy mock serenade used to publicly shame someone for transgressing social norms — originally directed at unsuitable marriages. The participants would gather outside the offender's window and make a raucous din. ↩
In English in the original. ↩
A philippine is a parlor game: two people share a nut with two kernels, and whoever first surprises the other by saying "Philippon" wins a forfeit. Here the forfeit apparently involved some humiliating interaction with Audiffret. ↩
Bigre — a mild French expletive, a euphemism for a stronger oath. ↩
La Fille de Mme Angot — operetta by Charles Lecocq (1872), enormously popular throughout France and Europe; its conspirators' song became a famous earworm, much as the imagery of Le Procès Veauradieux became a cultural catchphrase after 1875. ↩