Friday 10 March 1876

We go to the Villa Doria, but too early — it is only as we are leaving that the others are arriving.
And here is Antonelli in a very handsome carriage with someone. It goes without saying the carriage is not his. Antonelli is nothing but a child, entirely dependent on his parents. Hm!
I search in vain for Torlonia. At the Pincio we pick up Walitsky. Maman called on Mme Lwoff to bring her a letter from my dear Princess Galitzine. This Mme Lwoff is the daughter of Mme Skripitine — the woman who brought up all the children of Emperor Nicholas.
No Torlonia. I nickname Torlonia "Prater" — I speak of nothing but Torlonia. And in the evening we go to the Teatro Valle, where "Le Panache" is being performed by a French troupe.
Rossi having come to call on us, we take him along to the Valle. There is almost no one in the boxes; in the barcaccia of the Caccia-club are Pandola, Zucchini, and two others.
As for Zucchini — he makes me laugh more than ever; we joke about him with Pietro, and at every moment and on every subject we say that name.
Wretched Zucchini — he never stops ogling me. An unhappy passion, upon my honour!
I came to the theatre for Torlonia, and Torlonia is not there — Pietro either.
But there is someone better — Bruschetti. That man comes to the box; he called at our apartment and, having been told we were at the Valle, came here. I am heroic — I speak to him.
Zucchini disappears, and after half an hour Pietro comes to the barcaccia (that is what the club boxes are called). I am pleasantly stirred. But the play ends; I rise, Pietro too. He meets us at the exit. I have no opportunity to say a word to him.
Bruschetti is there; Rossi too — the latter we take with us as far as the Palazzo Ruspoli.
I still have an obsession with Pietro. I cannot say that I love him — but I can certainly say that I desire him. "Mad and corrupt!" you will say. "At your age!" you will add. Well — what would you have? I confess it quite simply; think what you will, O all you who will never read this journal. This fancy, being incapable of satisfaction, will perhaps acquire a more serious character.
Why the devil not pool together Bruschetti's love, the little loves of Antonelli, Plowden, and Zucchini, and make of them a single great love from Doria or Torlonia for me?! That way the whole business would be arranged at once. Ah! bigre — I howl over it still. I have acquired charming habits these past days: at the slightest noise, at the slightest contrary word, I stop my ears, I howl, I throw my head back or bury it under the cushions, I moan or throw myself on the floor; then someone says "Antonelli," and I get up and laugh.
During supper Léonie hands me a letter from Bruschetti. There it is. Read it. You have read it? Yes, you have. This letter makes me fall to the floor in disgust and fury.
I — his wife; I — belonging to him; I — touching him; I — in his arms! I — enduring his caresses. Wolf, jackal, jaguar, tiger, leopard, panther, cougar, hyena! I choke and swoon with it, to Maman's, Dina's, and Walitsky's delight. Phew!
Ah! Scoundrel! Ah! Brute!
Let us drop him, let us drop him! I think of Pietro; I want Pietro; I look at his portrait.
It is in his arms that I should like to be; eyes closed, I work myself into such an illusion that I believe he is there, and then… and then I am furious. Well — I am repeating what he said to me.
"Since Bruschetti loves you so much," says Madame my mother, "tell him to marry Dina — you would make two people happy."
"What a woman you will be," she adds, "if you cannot arrange such a thing."
Is it possible? He would have the right to laugh at me.
Pietro… Pietro… Pietro… Pietro! Pietro… Pietro… my heart does not beat — I suffocate. He pleases me.

Notes

Barcaccia — Italian: the boat-shaped ground-floor box in an Italian theatre, reserved for club members; literally "old boat."