Thursday, 24 February 1876

Yesterday Besnard called on us. Last night we went to see the fair at the Piazza Navona, in the carriage and masked. Walitsky was with us. I adore going out masked — I adore carnival; during carnival I forget all my torments and I am happy.
Listen — I dreamed again that Rossi brought me a visiting card:
Georges Bergerault
violinist to the King.
Is that not strange?
And I saw the real Bergerault in a carriage on the Corso with a very pretty woman. Today there were three times as many people as yesterday. Everyone threw bouquets, and no one made himself particularly conspicuous.
— What have you done with my poor friend? You have made him quite mad, said Madame de Lorncourt to me.
— Which friend, Madame?
— Bruschetti — he is quite ill with it, and I doubt he will be able to come. You have made him mad.
— What a misfortune! But rest assured I did it without meaning to.
Bruschetti is in his carriage with his friend — but, busy looking elsewhere, I let him pass. He comes to the balcony only for the Barberi race, along with his friend, who resembles poor Eristoff and whom I shall call Eris for short.
We leave shortly, and he has only time to offer me a charming bonbonnière of red satin with a swallow painted on white satin on the lid. He also showed me yesterday’s camellia, mounted on white card like ordinary jewellery, and enclosed in a box.
— It will always stay like this, he said to me.
— Good evening and many thanks, I said to him, for they were calling me to leave.
In the bonbonnière I find his card: Conte Vincenzo Bruschetti.
I had no time to say a single word to Eris, and there was none of the constant exchange of flowers and sweets there had been yesterday.
Bruschetti has thoroughbred chestnut horses and a fine carriage. I have seen him for some time already at the Borghese and at the Pincio.
He is very agreeable, and I wish someone would introduce us.
The wretch, the villain, the cardinalino, did not appear.
I am still thinking of yesterday. Anyone would have abandoned the bouquet to its fate — besides, it was not about the bouquet; it is not a bouquet that is the point; one receives them, one throws them — but it is the manner of acting. Nobody else would have done that — who would go and fight a peasant for an ordinary carnival bouquet! Antonelli and no one else.
written across the page
Come now!
With all this foolishness, I believe I missed him today, and I returned home almost sad.
I am taking an interest in Bruschetti as well.
I am thinking of Audiffret too. It is “full of interest,” as Galula of Nice would say. By the way, Giorgio and Troili did not throw a single flower today; no doubt they sold them all.
My aunt writes that Audiffret does nothing but call on Prodgers and walk about with the Olive. Maman had written to her that I was coughing, and she says: “It is that scoundrel of a good-for-nothing, that rogue, that… of a Soroka who is the cause of all our misfortunes! Cursed Nice! Confounded Audiffret!” She makes me laugh. Fortunately all that is about to stop; people will talk of Antonelli and say nothing of Audiffret. This Audiffret will always be a living humiliation to me. Pah! People say: She wanted him, and he would not have her.
Pah! pah! Tiger and hyena.
Instead of saying club, Antonelli says cleub; and I repeat cleub, and I pull the cardinalino’s faces, and I laugh and I blush.
One cannot say he is original, but he is handsome, and then he is a little bit of a cardinal, and when people speak of him it gives me great pleasure; in a word, he is not like everyone else. And see! The moment I stop caring a fig for a man, that man is far from indifferent to me. For I am sure that Antonelli is far from indifferent to me.
I said I would never again take a single step for anyone, and every moment I long to take steps for Antonelli. If he wants to see me, I said, let him come and find me. Yes — because it was a Soroka; but the moment it is a man who interests me, I am ready to go and seek him out myself. And what is the use? Is it not absurd? Why trouble oneself over those who look elsewhere? That is the eternal question. Whether one looks at me or not — if one is made so as to interest me, one interests me, and all the maxims, all the reasonings go to the four hundred devils. I do not say this of Antonelli — it has not come to that yet — but in general.
Bruschetti has a Hamilton complexion, grey eyes so clear and so frank that it is a pleasure to see them, fine lips, a fair moustache and fair hair. A fine nose and a rather elegant figure, I think.
I emptied the bonbonnière and put Antonelli’s card and Bruschetti’s in it.
I can hear Walitsky telling stories of home and of the charming Georges — may the devils choke him. Forgive me, my God.

Notes

In French and Italian in the original: violoniste del Re, a court title. ↩
Bonbonnière: a small decorative box for sweets or confectionery, here given as a keepsake. ↩
In Italian in the original: Starà sempre cosi. ↩
In Italian in the original: Buona sera e molte grazie. ↩
Cardinalino: Italian, “little cardinal”; Marie’s ironic nickname for Pietro Antonelli, nephew of Cardinal Giacomo Antonelli. ↩
In Russian in the original: chelme. Russian shelma (шельма): rogue, rascal; the edition glosses it in brackets: [coquin en russe], rogue in Russian. ↩
Soroka (Russian «magpie», short for britaya soroka, «shaved magpie»): the household’s nickname for Émile d’Audiffret (see 053); the aunt blames him for Marie’s cough. ↩