Friday, 28 January 1876

M. d'Épinay comes, and after a quarter of an hour of innocent conversation we go with him to the Villa Médicis, the French Academy, and he takes us to M. Besnard-Galula's studio — the former studio of Horace Vernet.
On entering, Maman started back — she saw reflected in a mirror a completely naked woman, and was about to ask d'Épinay to warn her away, when she realised it was only a painting. The painter must have been delighted; one could not pay him a finer compliment. Moreover he is an entirely chic Galula, entirely in the movement. He spent two winters in Nice two years ago. After the studio we visit the famous villa itself, the bosco — so dark, so mysterious, so adorable.
To climb the almost sheer staircase leading to the rotunda Maman finds herself too tired, but I climb it — the view is very beautiful from that height, one sees the old walls, the hills. M. Besnard has the air of a man perfectly comme il faut and of the world. He is light chestnut-haired, with a small round beard, a careful dress. In a word, for a Galula he is très magnifique and agreeable.
We return to collect Dina, her mother, and Lola, and find a commissionnaire who must be authorised to collect our parcels from Paris at the customs.
I did not know how to give this authorisation.
Sua Eccelenza non ha che da fare come quel signore — the man says to me, showing me a visiting card on which my astonished eyes read: Michel Paparigopoulos, chargé d'affaires grec. I ask whether he is not married — no; whether he is dark — yes; whether he is young — yes; whether he lives with his mother — yes! It is he — the other one was called Michel, this one too; it is the same man. Maman gives her card to the commissionnaire, telling him to ask M. P. etc. to come and see us tomorrow.
But she has not the patience to wait until tomorrow, and while I was walking with Domenica — Dina and Lola and I searching in vain for Soroka — she went to Paparigopoulos. She tells us all this at dinner. After keeping her waiting ten minutes, during which she could hear the servants running about, the bellows working, the door opened and a young dark-haired, elegant, and rather handsome man appeared.
— M. Michel Paparigopoulos? asked Maman.
— That is I, Madame.
— But no, it is not you! she cried — you are not the one I know! etc.
They explain themselves; but the minister is enchanted, charmed, honoured, and will have the honour of coming tomorrow to pay his respects to Madame. The conversation ensued and lasted more than twenty minutes.
What a bizarre adventure — we laugh greatly over it, and the evening is lively; besides, since the arrival of our travellers we have been laughing a great deal, almost as in the days of my Graces.
I should like to know who Soroka is.
The least thing is an event in our solitude, and I attach myself to the new Soroka as a drowning man clutches at a straw. I could barely recognise him if I saw him in the street.
No — it is not Soroka who matters. Carnival approaches; soon the balls and receptions will cease, and nothing, and nothing, and nothing.
I do not believe it, because I am too discouraged and too unhappy. Everyone asks:
— What, Madame, have you not been presented at the Quirinal?
You can easily imagine the effect these words have on me. I no longer dare to pray; I am ashamed to lament — my complaints fill my own ears. I am broken. I close my eyes as if to detach myself from the whole world, and weep in silence.

Notes

Horace Vernet (1789–1863): celebrated French battle painter, director of the French Academy in Rome 1829–1834.
Bosco: the wooded garden of the Villa Médicis, celebrated for its ancient trees and romantic atmosphere.
Sua Eccelenza non ha che da fare come quel signore: "Your Excellency need only do as that gentleman did."
Mes Gâces: Marie's affectionate nickname for her circle of close female companions.