Sunday, 12 December 1875

I forgot to say that two days ago Fiouloulou came to see us, and M. Barbier also. Barbier is a good old gentleman from the Cercle Masséna whom we have known for a long time — he was the friend of the Comte de Barrème, who died last winter.
I went entirely alone to church, and from there to Nina's.
After lunching at her house, I take Giro and we walk home on foot. It was already half past one and we were greatly observed — but I care nothing for that. The weather is superb and there is a mad crowd when we go out. The concert had just played its last note, and so many carriages were there that ours was stopped by this flood of people — right in front of the public gardens.
De Gonzales père, on foot in the crowd, makes me a charming bow and approaches — while the Surprising One, who was with him, bows to me and stays behind. Cad!
But the traffic moves on, and we proceed at a walk through a lane formed by Nice's young men.
They all removed their hats, and it seemed to me that I was "the king's daughter whom they salute as she passes."
We encounter the Surprising One a hundred times — he has alighted from his little carriage and honours me with a second hat-tip. Brute!
I enjoy myself; I laugh like a madwoman.
It appears I have not changed — the Counts Lesser and Dounin-Barkovsky, whom I knew at Ostend, recognise me, and meeting me in a carriage house where I go to order a phaeton for tomorrow, they ask permission to come and pay their respects — permission I grant.
Varpahovsky dines with us, and immediately after dinner I go up to my room and we shut ourselves in with Giro — to laugh for no reason whatsoever, and to gossip about the Surprising One. Olga says at every moment and in every possible way that she is madly in love with him, and when I ask:
"Come then — admit it: you love him?"
"No — I swear I do not!" she answers.
Why did we laugh so much? Delectabile tempus! With what pleasure I shall remember it later.
Everything is arranged for the planting of "You will rot!" on the gate. It will be the eve of my departure.
At nine o'clock, when Giro is preparing to leave, I am given a card: Albert Paul Gautier.
I wrap myself in my furs, go down, and find the immense young man in the anteroom.
The salons are not lit — it is quite a business. But I am not in the least put out and continue my wild gaiety in front of the Nice man, who takes tea with us until eleven o'clock.
Then — like conspirators — softly and with a thousand precautions, Giro and I get into the carriage while my aunt is still in the salon, and go driving about the town laughing and smoking.
We cut out a king of clubs, pinned a large red heart pierced with an arrow to his chest, placed it in an envelope on which Giro writes this address:
To Émile d'Audiffret,
Tour Audiffret,
— and we drop it in a letter-box.
And it seems to us that we have accomplished a very important work.
My aunt, because Audiffret was with de Gonzales, tells me he is courting his daughter. And I am very jealous.
And why? Since I no longer occupy myself with him, since I do not love him! No matter — I am very jealous all the same. I do not want him taken from me!
And my handsome unknown — the one who is truly beautiful. I know who he is! It is Lord Loftus! The other was not Lord Loftus — the other looked like a sack; but this one is Loftus! Now I remember! I remember him at Baden-Baden — he was often with Lady Folkner; he was seven years old then, just a child. I remember him perfectly — oh yes, I am certain: it is he...
I want him — I want to worship him.

Notes

A quotation from an unidentified romantic poem or song expressing Marie's momentary sense of being treated like royalty.
Delectabile tempus (Latin): delightful time; mock-formal nostalgia for the present moment.
Bade: Baden-Baden, the fashionable German spa town frequented by European aristocracy.