Sunday, 23 April 1876

Everything was going well — we left the hotel cheerfully; I was pleasant with Altamura, and Saint-Joseph’s bouquet served as our topic of conversation; but that is my habit — to talk at great length about nothing and sometimes to develop a single word for two hours. Everything was going well, I say, until five minutes before the train’s departure. I was standing on the platform, one foot on the step, dusting the carriage door with Saint-Joseph’s bouquets, when... shudder!

A gentleman limping, supported on the left by a lady in blue and on the right by a gentleman in a light overcoat and a small soft round hat tipped back.

- Who are those people? I asked, stupidly opening my mouth and raising my Saint-Joseph to my eyes.

- It is, said Altamura — he had no need to say: It is Larderel; I had already recognised him, and I had blushed.

- And the one who limps?

- That is the elder brother, Gaston de Larderel,

and the precious Altamura went to meet them and asked the said Gaston what was the matter. A sprain, he replied, in French — and then I could no longer hear what they said to each other.

- Ah, said Altamura, coming back to us — this Gaston de Larderel was the most well-bred¹ and the most chic young man in Italy.

- And now?

- Now he is married.

- And the younger brother?

- I do not know whether Alexandre is married.

- Who is that lady?

I do not know; I do not know her.

Ah! in the name of a hippopotamus! At that moment the bell rings, I get in, the door is shut, we say goodbye to the faithful Altamura, and Larderel goes back after settling his brother in the carriage.

Who said he was ugly? Whoever said it lied like a Galula, like a filthy Saëtone! True, his legs are bowed a little outward, but that comes from riding; true, his back is a little stooped, like Audiffret’s, but that spoils nothing, for he has so much natural chic in everything, even in that soft hat worn in that idiotic way, that it knocks one flat.

The train starts moving, and I cast a last look at Larderel’s pale, dazed face, at the pretty but painted little snout of his cocotte, and at the indifferent Altamura, who joins the two of them.

It was like two thunderbolts at once! I threw myself back onto Dina’s lap and began lamenting and laughing like a madwoman, beating myself with my Saint-Joseph on the knees, the head and the shoulders. And to think that I am being carried off by this brute force, by this locomotive, while they are going to supper — and Galantine² will sup with them, and Altamura will have thirty-six bottles of champagne served, and they will enjoy themselves, and the cocotte will cough, and Larderel will take alarm, and Galantine will say to him: No, but listen, it is nothing, my dear fellow! And I am carried off by this brute force. Mercy of heaven! Lava of Vesuvius! Ruins of Pompeii!!

God, how handsome he is! That is to say, since the Duke of Hamilton I have seen nothing so handsome!

Galantine is a little — let me see, a little what? No matter — Galantine fades out completely, everyone fades out; besides, it is always so, and those who came before serve me only as brooms to sweep the place clean for the latest arrival.

Until one in the morning I could not keep quiet — now weeping over Larderel, now laughing at the sturdiness of the Saint-Joseph, which withstood every trial, even Walitsky’s back, while he grumbled and marvelled at my conduct. But to everything anyone said to me I invariably replied: Larderel — it is enough to kill one here, upon my word of honour!

It is now ten o’clock; I have been in Rome since seven. It is raining; I detest Rome! The houses are uglier than in Naples, and the Corso is wretched after the Toledo.

No, but listen, I hope Larderel will come for the Rome races.

You must get to know Count de Larderel, Danis told me last summer; he is the young man most seen in society, and the most... well.

Yes, but it was a year ago that Danis said that, and by then he had perhaps lost sight of Larderel for two years, so he could not know that this devil of an animal would sink so low with a cocotte as to lose all understanding of the proprieties and all respect for them. Eh! Quite as much as his foundered feet, this contempt for everyone pleases me. It is bizarre, and one must be sure of oneself to defy everything.

That is where my energy goes! Into useless lamentations over a blackguard... Ah! no, Larderel is not a blackguard, he is a gentleman;³ we may call Audiffret or Maurice Gros a blackguard, but not Larderel. One may defy decency of expression, but one must not mistake the meaning of words. No, Larderel is not a blackguard; he is a dissolute young man, and that is all.

He has a strange look, exactly as if someone had struck him a blow on the head that made him stoop and bowed his legs. As for that distraught air I noticed yesterday at the races, it is nothing but the stupor produced by keeping improper company, and by this cocotte-ish contact that dulls everything.

Besides, just as he is, he is handsome; there is only one pity in it all, which is that my admiration is completely in vain.

They woke me at the Rome station, and my first word was: Larderel, and my first gesture was to take up the Saint-Joseph, which no longer even looked like a broom.

But now I am serious, and I am thinking of the affront I am going to suffer. There is a man here, a certain Yngami [sic], I believe, who is a friend of the Antonelli brothers and whom I detest because he looks like a sly one, a gossip, a nasty man. He was at the Naples races and came back to Rome on the same train as we did. Well, this animal, this reptile, will warn whoever needs warning of my arrival, and they will send Antonelli away without his knowing why, or else Antonelli will go away of his own accord.

That is the prospect that makes me howl and puts me in a state of anxiety almost equal to the thunderbolt of Larderel. That wretched Larderel, who is never parted from his kept woman — may the plague choke her!

So here I am at the moment when Pietro’s conduct is to be explained. It is raining; we will not go out, but in the evening we must go to the theatre, all the more because they are giving Romeo and Juliet and it will be the last musical evening at the Apollo.

I have just seen Yngami go by. Our windows look onto the Corso, so that without going out I can see everyone. Until this evening.

Well, it did not amount to much this evening. I had a new dress, and the bodice fitted me so well that I have never yet seen anything like it in the way of close-fitting gowns.

The subscriptions being suspended, the club box⁴ had been divided up into separate boxes and was occupied by ladies and people nobody knew. The enormous Pandola, in an orchestra stall, represented the illustrious company all by himself. Proof that there was something extraordinary about my bodice: the aforesaid gentleman trained his opera glass on me, which he almost never does.

Scarcely had the curtain fallen when Rossi arrived in our box. It is enough to make one shudder — Rossi is turning liberal; I know the reason, but it is quite a story. Mgr de Falloux took an interest in a hospital, and to enlarge it he bought a piece of land belonging to the Church without asking the permission of Mgr Freppel, his bishop.⁵ Mgr Freppel, in a fury, excommunicates Mgr de Falloux, the prefect, the sub-prefect and the members of the municipal council. In a word, a war among priests, as a result of which Mgr de Falloux might be inclined to go over to the liberals. This last supposition is my own; I think so because of the character of Rossi’s conversation. As for the affair itself, the newspapers have been making a great noise about it for a month.

Rossi no longer wears the pin with the portrait of Christ. Rossi has new clothes, Rossi is going to turn White!⁶

I have heard some fine things about the Cardinal and about Larderel. As everyone knows, Larderel is of a very great family and immensely rich. Gaston married a Borghese; as for Alexandre — ah! it is really too good! He has squandered so much money that he has been placed under guardianship! It makes him ten times more charming, and were it not for the theatre I would have fallen to the floor and clamoured for Larderel, for whom I have an incomprehensible infatuation.

Rossi is just back from Florence.

- And what has become of Antonelli? he asked.

Why, we know nothing about it, Monsieur; he left ten days before we set out for Naples, so we have not seen him since.

He was at the theatre yesterday.

- Where have they sent him? asked Maman, laughing, and what new folly has he committed?

- I do not know, but, you know, it is always the same old stories; I believe it is — only between ourselves, I beg you, in strictest secrecy — I believe he has run up debts. Eh! you understand, if it were a few thousand francs, the mother would have paid at once, but it is a fairly large sum, fifty thousand francs, and the father...

- Will the father not pay?

- Oh yes, he will, for after all fifty thousand francs is not a fortune — they are so rich! But with this debt he means to keep the young man in check; he will pay, but first he wants to teach him a lesson. And the boy is obliged to... go away, to try every expedient, to manage as best he can with all his bills of exchange.

- Ah! ha!

- Yes, you understand, do you not — while he is away, people buy up these bills for half their value, for he signed them when he was a mere child. I think it cowardly to play games with a child; it is theft.

And Rossi told the story of another young man, which there is no point in telling here.

- But his brothers, said Maman, are they so steady already?

- Oh! his brothers are another matter; they run up debts, but small ones, and besides they do not lead the same life; whereas this one moves in liberal society and...

- Yes, and the father is displeased at it.

- Just so, although at bottom he is a liberal too, said Rossi airily, but appearances must be kept up for the Cardinal, who is getting old, is very ill, and is so immensely rich. You cannot form any idea of his wealth, Madame.

- But the Cardinal has a daughter, has he not?

- Yes, a daughter who is married to a certain Lambertini⁷ — only I beg you, Madame, do not say it was I who told you; I heard it myself in the pit — this Lambertini came to Rome looking for a post at a hundred francs a month, and he petitioned the Vatican for the right to bear a great name, claiming to be descended from Pope Benedict XIV; he was refused, and then this marriage was arranged, so that this beggar is rich, and now, through his wife, who is the daughter of the...

Yes, yes, but in that case the Antonellis have nothing to look forward to; he will give his money to his daughter.

Oh! no, not all of it — he is so rich.

So that poor little Antonelli is...

In difficult circumstances... yes, Madame; at bottom he is not bad, but his father hopes to frighten him, to rein him in, for he really does cause him a great deal of trouble.

And where is he now?

He is in Rome; I saw him here at the theatre yesterday, but tonight the club box is closed. I find that very petty — because the subscriptions are suspended, these gentlemen of the Hunt would not spend a hundred sous more apiece.

You are right, Monsieur, said Maman.

Rossi is becoming a butterfly; Rossi has changed. Ah! by Jove, by Jove!⁸ When he had gone — and he stayed a long time — I withdrew to the back of the box.

Well, you see, said Maman, and we were already making all sorts of suppositions.

Eh, Madame, so you believe what this Monsignor’s son says!

And why not? What he says is as simple as can be. I can well believe that he went to hide from his creditors, even... in a convent.

Perhaps, I said, longing to believe it, perhaps — but you see, I immediately make the nastiest suppositions and...

So do I, but I assure you we are wrong; I make them too, but no, really, there is nothing extraordinary in it. Poor Petruccio, whom we were accusing of every possible villainy — poor sweet Petruccio.

I readily let myself be swayed by this speech, and so I am fairly calm and above all glad to be in Rome. Naples recalls Nice with its tinsel and its dubious society, whereas here it is something else.

No, but listen, I hope Larderel will come for the races. That animal has turned my heart upside down, and everything else besides!

But my dear, Dina said to me, what luck you have, always lighting on such...

Rakes, you mean?

Yes, on rakes, since you like the word. I really do not know how you always manage to choose... rakes!

What would you have? I adore them, especially Larderel. Ah! Larderel!

And here I am in ecstasy again at the mere memory of that divine reprobate!

If only he comes for the races! I hope he will come; I am mad about him, mad, mad!

As for Pietro, that is another matter; Pietro occupies me more, because I know him, because he loves me (who knows?), because, in short, Pietro is a palpable being to me, whereas the other is only a shadow that fires my enthusiasm.

Galantine, that is to say Torlonia... Ah! no, it is not he I want to talk about. I want to talk about Pietro and Larderel. I have a mania for comparisons. Without any doubt Pietro is inferior; I prefer him (and am I even sure I prefer him?) only because he exists, whereas Larderel does not exist, or exists only in the clouds.

My hair is all in curls — proof that my mood is improving. In Rome I have recovered my appetite and I am very hungry now, but it is past one o’clock and everything is shut.

Must I believe as Maman believes?

I do not know, but I have no wish to torment myself tonight. I am in my favourite city for the moment, my hair is curling, and I am going to sleep.