Monday, 4 October 1875

My Three Graces are at my house; we go out together without my aunt, in a closed landau, laughing as always and from time to time greeting strangers. Innocent souls! We thought we'd raise the devil.
— Well, I said, something happened yesterday — what? I don't know. But Giroflé admits it... and here's the proof: she no longer wants to be called Giroflé, and there is a subject of conversation that is now forbidden between us.
— That's true — yes, something happened, one doesn't know what, but there is something.
— That's certain. Listen, Olga — lock us up for two hours, we'll talk it out; from collision comes light, perhaps we'll find it. This unknown something weighs on me. When I don't understand, I'm miserable, my head feels heavy. We must clear up the mystery. Giroflé, dear, let's lock ourselves in!
— Very well, but what exactly are we looking for?
— Ah, there's the question — do I know? We've dropped a needle in a sack of flour — let us search for it, dig through the flour, or truly, it's too tedious.
This dialogue faithfully represents the situation.
Something has happened. Yesterday morning we were still talking about the man, all of us, laughing about him — and now his name is no longer spoken, every allusion to the château throws the conversation into confusion; it seems forbidden. Olga and I, who took so many words from Girofla, keep interrupting each other at every turn.
In short, nothing happened, and yet there is something. Giroflé insists it is because we have not been frank with each other — I should have told her everything Girofla said to me, and she everything Saetone said to her. I had nothing to tell at the time; everything was hanging by a thread. And besides, people would look at Girofla a certain way — he who said only a few words in passing — and men don't like that.
I explain all this to the girl. And I think she was wrong to attach so much importance to Mercury's words. Mercury is doubtless a cunning fellow; I myself think he wanted to create an imbroglio with me, Olga, Girofla, and then enjoy it from the sidelines.
My aunt says he has goaded the man many times through Godard.
Ah! All this is terribly tangled — and mi ritrovo per una selva oscura, che la diritta via era smarrita — the devil take it, one must find the key to the riddle. Ah!... But the worst is that the key doesn't exist — there is only the riddle itself.
It's bewildering, and I don't know what to make of it — but I am not myself for nothing: seething on the surface, I am ice at the core. Human miseries touch me little. I judge calmly; I shall not rush, and I shall find the answer.
I stay at Nina's for an hour; she gives me her girls for the whole day. Tonight we are presenting a large bouquet to Marie Petit with two ribbons, one blue and one pink — "Giroflé-Girofla." We take the left stage box that I love so much.
But my aunt saddens me; like a flower doused with boiling water, I arrive at Nina's for my Three Graces to dress for this evening. I sink into an armchair, grieved and ashamed.
— You'll see, my aunt told us, he'll return to Nice and show himself at neither your house nor ours. He's a wretched peasant, a good-for-nothing, a bad man — leave him be, speak of him no more...
If my aunt says this, it is because she foresees his defection — not in the sense of man to woman, but... in short, my eternal torment. It is lamentable!
— Well, I replied calmly to my aunt, I shall have one more enemy; I shall devote to him an eternal hatred, as I do to my dear friend Manara.
My Three Graces and I are delighted with the bouquet, and at Petit's entrance Olga and I try to lift it but it's too heavy; Tiste picks it up and presents it to the actress.
As soon as her performance allows, she comes over and thanks me from behind her fan, and I reply that she deserves far more.
I adore Giroflé-Girofla — the more one sees it, the more amusing it is. And Tiste, who addresses as much as possible directly at our box; at the moment he performed the "Si!" that makes everyone laugh, I imitated it from the back of the box — you should have seen his face then! This box right by the stage, so close to the actors, makes me love the theatre for its own sake, for we exchange smiles with Petit and laugh a più non posso at Tiste's grimaces.
Fiouloulou stayed with us almost the whole evening. It appears I failed to greet Mercury on the famous day of Gioia. Well, I have sent him sufficient explanations — if he is not satisfied, too bad!
When the man's name is spoken, Olga blushes and grows flustered, and Fiouloulou smiles and looks at my aunt, who holds his gaze with great dignity.
We have changed his name — he is now called Fire. Gioia is called that woman. I am called the Torrent; I name Olga the Dew, and Marie the Snow.
Like Mme de Sévigné.
— Have you nothing to say to Girofla? asked Fiouloulou, rising and addressing Olga.
— Will you be seeing him soon? I asked in turn, while the girl blushed and said I don't know what.
— What do you expect her to say to him? I went on.
— I don't know — I may write to him, and I thought perhaps his sister would have something to say to her brother. Besides, he will be here in a few days.
Poor Olga.
— My dear, my aunt said to her as she was going downstairs, my dear, I don't know what's come over you, but Fiouloulou stared at you so, and then he smiled at me. You're blushing — perhaps you were warm — but it's very bad.
— I swear to you, he cried quickly, I swear I heard nothing — I was very warm, that's all.
— There you have it, said my aunt when we were alone. There will be a romance.
— Between Girofla and Olga?
— Yes — oh, not on his side; he is a scoundrel, a rake — but on Olga's side.
— Yes, she is in love.
— And there will be a grand romance.
— Do you think so?
— You'll see.
And I go home in a reverie.
Well, there's a fine pleasure!
I caught a chill, and now my right shoulder hurts every time I breathe or cough or make a wrong movement!

Notes

In Italian in the original. Dante, Inferno, Canto I, lines 2–3: "I found myself in a dark wood, where the straight way was lost."
In Italian in the original. "To the utmost, as much as possible."
Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, Marquise de Sévigné (1626–1696), celebrated for her witty letters full of code names and aristocratic gossip. Marie Bashkirtseff identifies with this literary predecessor.