Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff
CZENUKFR

Thursday, 7 October 1875

Here is one of the letters from that M. Couthon — may the devil take him.
An idea occurred to me the other evening: what if someone is amusing themselves by writing letters in my name? Ah well, too bad — I write letters too.
A third warning has been dispatched to Paris. "Wretch!" etc.
Marie is seventeen today, and we lunch at Nina's. Between ourselves, I suspect she is well on for eighteen — but one admits to seventeen, so seventeen it shall be.
Old and young alike have Girofla on their lips at every moment, and old and young alike dare not pronounce his name — yet that is no reason to suppose anyone spoke of anything else.
Always the Niçois, but never named at all — it was curious.
I was a little listless this morning, but towards five o'clock I feel in the mood to conquer the world — and in walks Fiouloulou with a small book containing the members' names of the Cercle de la Méditerranée. On the first page, and a permanent member: Audiffret, (d') Emile.
But the two that gave me pleasure are the Duke of Hamilton and Sir Frederick Johnstone. Those names come to me like perfumes from a distant and beloved country.
A year and a half ago, reading Duke of Hamilton — [one line cancelled: I would have found myself] — I would have blushed, gone pale, wept, choked; and now I am calm. I remember when I was reading German history with Collignon — I was obliged to keep my hand constantly near my face, for every time the word "duke" appeared I blushed and became flustered like a wretch.
In general I could not hear that title without agitation — and now I am calm.
His address is listed as the Promenade des Anglais, no. 77. I had thought he stayed at a hotel.
The Sapogenikoffs take us to the theatre — La Grande-Duchesse de Gerolstein — it has been a long time since I've seen it, but that doesn't prevent me from leaving after the second act, escorted by Bihovetz, who, together with Barnola whom I encounter in the corridor, helps me into the carriage.
At the Café de la Maison Dorée there were several gentlemen — Danesi, who has a pretty wife, and others — and they looked at me as if I were truly someone of importance.
As for the traitor Enoteas, I encountered him on the way out; he raised his hat and I said good evening.
I have a particular way of saying: Good evening, Monsieur. The voice is full and pleasant and assured. I don't know whether others have noticed it.
Poor little Galula — the pearl of the Nice set — all timid and confused, offered us a box for this evening at the concert, but we could not accept, being engaged with the Sapogenikoffs.
Poor little thing — perhaps he bought that box on purpose to offer it to us! Why the devil do things go so completely awry in this world! This Galula who... while... well! I understand myself.
I pass my days quietly — I thought I would be bored without the treasure, as my aunt calls him
That is me.
I ran into the wall with my two hands outstretched. You must admit it is a most unpleasant accident.
I no longer dare — not only to feel bored, but even to say a word about it — for he will return and will no longer call on us; and that is what my aunt and I tell each other from morning to evening.
In this way, if he returns badly there will be nothing new — no false position, no awkward face to make — and if he returns well, it will be a pleasant surprise.
Faithful Fiouloulou! But why?
[Written across the page: I have just re-read these lines and I pictured to myself the face Girofla would make if they were read to him — his smile and his gesture.]

Notes

The Cercle de la Méditerranée — the most exclusive gentlemen's club in Nice. ↩
La Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein — comic opera by Offenbach (1867), a satire about a powerful noblewoman infatuated with a soldier beneath her station. ↩
Trompe-l'œil (French: "deceives the eye") — a painting technique creating an illusion of depth where there is none. One of Marie's most striking self-analytical images. ↩