Friday, 18 February 1876

At the Capitol, this evening there is a grand dress ball — costumed and masked — in aid of someone or something.
At eleven o'clock we go.
Myself, Dina, and her mother. I did not put on a domino. A black silk dress with a long train, fitted bodice; a black gauze tunic trimmed with silver lace, draped at the front [words blacked out: and tucked up] at the back to form the most graceful hood in the world. A mask of black velvet and black lace, pale gloves, and a rose and lily-of-the-valley at the bodice. It was ravishing. [Words blacked out: And so our] entrance produced an immense effect.
I was very frightened and did not dare speak to anyone, but all the men surrounded us, and I ended up taking the arm of one of them I had never seen before. I immediately began telling him a whole story — saying that two hours ago such-and-such a thing had happened to him. I had no idea what I was saying, but evidently the gentleman did, for he was greatly intrigued. From that moment I grew bolder. But imagine my position — at a masked ball for the first time and having
no idea who any of the people one meets might be. I changed partners several times.
— Why, there is Besnard! I said.
— Aha! said Besnard, I recognise you perfectly.
— Really! Then tell me who I am.
— Do you wish me to?
— Yes, but in my ear.
— Hôtel de Londres.
— What does that prove?
— And the voice — so you are still hoarse.
— I am hoarse for this evening only; otherwise I sing instead of speaking.
— I know it well — like a nightingale!
Well, the creature has recognised me — as has most of the room. I ought to have put less coquetry into my dress. Never mind. Three Russians thought they recognised me and were walking behind us, speaking Russian loudly in hopes that we would betray ourselves; but instead I gathered a circle around me and spoke Italian, and they went off telling each other they were fools and that I was an Italian.
Domenica goes to sit down; Dina is swept off by the elderly Prince Mechtchersky, and I no longer concern myself with her.
Duke Cesaro arrives,
— [Word blacked out:] friend of the one I am looking for, I tell him — give me your arm. And abandoning my partner I go off with the magnificent chief of bandits.
— Who are you looking for?
— Antonelli — is he coming?
— Yes; in the meantime stay with me, most elegant woman on earth.
— Oh! There he is!
— Yes, but...
— I am staying with you a little longer; you are charming.
But in a moment we come upon Antonelli.
— My dear, I was looking for you.
— Indeed!
— Only, since this is the first time I am going to hear you speak, mind your pronunciation — you lose a great deal at close quarters; mind your conversation!
It seems this was witty, for Cesaro and two others burst out laughing like men delighted. I could tell they all recognised me.
— One recognises the figure perfectly, people were saying on all sides — why are you not in white?
— I believe, upon my word, that I am playing the role of a candlestick, cried Cesaro, seeing that we had not stopped talking with Antonelli.
— I believe it too, I said; go away.
And taking the arm of the young conceited dandy, I went about all the rooms, no longer paying any mind to the rest of the world [words blacked out: like so many dogs]. Antonelli has a perfectly pretty face — a matte complexion, dark eyes, a long regular nose, pretty ears, a small mouth, quite passable teeth, and the moustache of a twenty-three-year-old. [Words cancelled: But he is short,] shorter than the Surprising One, not as fine as the Surprising One, and resembling him only in his poses at the theatre.
I called him a little madcap, a vain young man, a wretch, a libertine, and he told me with the utmost gravity how at the age of nineteen he ran away from his father's house, how he threw himself neck-deep into a life of debauchery, how jaded he is, that he has never loved, etc.
— How many times have you loved? he asked.
— Twice.
— Oh! Ho!
— Perhaps even more.
— I should very much like to be the more.
— Presumptuous boy!
— How old are you?
— Twenty — and I have been married for two years.
Then he began to laugh, for he recognised me — what makes me think so is what he was saying to me... but listen:
— Tell me, why have all these people taken me for the lady in white?
— But you resemble her; that is why I am with you — I am madly in love with her.
— That is not very kind to say.
— What can I say? That is how it is.
— You ogle her enough, thank God, and she is pleased and she poses.
— No, never — she never poses; one may say anything except that!
— It is clear that you are in love with her.
— I am in love with you — you resemble her.
— Fie, little one — I am considerably better made.
— Never mind, give me a flower.
I gave him a flower and he gave me a sprig of ivy in exchange. His accent and his languishing manner irritate me.
— You look like a priest — is it true you are to be ordained?
He began to laugh.
— I detest priests — I was in the army.
— You! You have been nowhere but the seminary.
— I hate the Jesuits; that is why I am perpetually at odds with my family.
— My dear, you are ambitious, and you will enjoy having your slipper kissed.
— What an adorable little hand! he cried, kissing it — a performance he repeats several times during the evening.
— Why did you begin so badly with me? I asked.
— Because I had taken you at first for a Roman woman, and I detest that woman.
Indeed — when I was with Cesaro, he offered us seats, and Antonelli placed himself to my left, and while I was answering my partner he tried to put his arm around my waist with the most idiotic air in the world.
— If you are not going to get rid of this little madcap, I said to Cesaro, I am going.
And Cesaro drove away the little madcap.
I have seen men only on the promenade, at the theatre, and a little at home. God, how different they are at a masked ball! So grave and reserved in their carriages — so eager, so roguish, and so idiotic here!
Doria alone did not lose his dignity — perhaps because he is too far above the miseries of mankind.
Ten times I left my young entertainment and ten times he found me again.
Domenica was urging us to leave, but the boy kept me back; at last we managed to find two armchairs, and then the conversation changed — we spoke of Saint Augustine and the Abbé Prévost.
I rejoin Cesaro and say a heap of things that make him jump up and go off like Danis — in search of friends to repeat my remarks to.
But I end with Antonelli — I give him a rendezvous at the Piazza Colonna, and we escape without anyone thinking to
follow us, for all those who have seen me in the street have recognised me.
I have been amused and disillusioned. Antonelli does not entirely please me — and yet he has ruined the Surprising One for me.
I spoke to any number of people besides, but I remember nothing — everything is muddled; it is four o'clock; I am going to sleep.
Ah! The vile priest's son has taken my glove and kissed my left hand quite bare.
— You know, he said, I am not saying I shall carry this glove always over my heart — that would be silly — but I tell you it will be a very pleasant memento.
We left Fortuné behind to avert suspicion; he will make his way back alone.

Notes

Saint Augustine (354–430), the Church Father; and the Abbé Prévost (1697–1763), author of Manon Lescaut — a deliberately incongruous pairing of the sacred and the scandalous.
Fils de prêtre: "priest's son" — Marie's ironic term for Antonelli as nephew to Cardinal Antonelli, who of course had no legitimate sons.