Thursday, 27 April 1876

And God got me out of it. Having gone to bed at four o’clock, I woke at half past seven, which made three and a half hours of sleep.
But I rose fresh and well, and at nine o’clock we were at the station with Potechine and Pietro.
On the point of leaving I did not stand on ceremony, and instead of staying with everyone else I began walking up and down the station with the cardinalino.
Without affectation, and partly helped along by him, I said everything I wrote yesterday, with all the elaboration that speaking aloud entails. He answered simply and plainly.
I love you and I shall always love you, to my misfortune perhaps.
And you watch me leave and it is all the same to you.
No, do not say that, it is not all the same to me. I have thought of you seriously.
Ah! yes, you went away without so much as troubling yourself about where I was or what I was doing, and I was very angry, because I thought you did not... love me.
You cannot speak like that, you do not know all that I have suffered; besides, far from not troubling myself, I knew where you were and what you were doing.
Very well, very well.
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I was quite simply very stupid and very foolish.
Besides, you must have known perfectly well that I had thought of you seriously. Since I... saw you I have changed completely. You have always treated me like a scoundrel, and I cannot forget the evening at the Valle when you made that most humiliating supposition! I am not a respectful and reserved man; with you I have always been so to the highest degree, and that ought to have shown you what my intentions were. If I have done foolish things in my life (everyone does), that is no reason to take me for a good-for-nothing, a madcap. For you I broke with the past, for you I endured everything, for you I made this peace with my family.
Not for me, Monsieur; I do not see at all what I have to do with this peace.
Ah! again! It was for you, that is clear, and it was because I had thought of you seriously.
You always want things expressed in detail and mathematically; certain things, for being left unsaid, are none the less very plain to see. But you have made fun of me, you do not love me.
That is not true!
You love me?
Yes, and listen to this: I am not in the habit of saying things twice. I wish to be believed at once. I have never said to any man what I have said to you. I am deeply insulted, because my words, instead of being received as a favour, are received lightly and made the subject of comment. And you dare to doubt when I tell you! Really, Monsieur, you try my patience beyond all bounds.
He was abashed and apologised. Then we explained everything thoroughly, and the hour of departure was coming on fast. By now we were scarcely speaking.
You will write to me? he asked.
No, Monsieur, I cannot, but I permit you to write to me.
Ah! a pretty sort of love! he cried.
Monsieur, I said gravely, do not ask too much. It is a very great favour when a young girl allows someone to write to her. If you do not know it, I am telling you. But we are about to get into the carriage; let us not waste time in idle argument. You will write to me?
Yes! And say what you like, I feel that I love you as I shall never love again. You love me?...
I nodded yes.
You will love me always?
The same sign.
Then goodbye, Monsieur.
Until when?
Until next year.
No!!
Then come to Nice.
I shall come.
Well then, goodbye, Monsieur — and without giving him my hand I got into the railway carriage, where all our party already were except Walitsky, who was embracing Pietro. I opened the side window and took my place at it.
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Heavens, how disagreeable that Pietro seemed to me at that moment! But I turned away so as to keep some illusion. Yes, I was saying all these foolish things, I was compromising myself, and I did not even like him!
You have not shaken my hand, said Antonelli, coming up.
I held out my hand to him.
I love you, he said, very pale.
Goodbye, I said gently.
Think of me sometimes, he said, turning paler still; as for me, I shall think of nothing but you.
Yes, Monsieur, goodbye.
The train began to move, and for a few moments more I could see him looking at me, so moved that he seemed indifferent; then he took a few steps towards the door, but as I was still in sight he stopped again like an automaton, pulled his hat down over his eyes, took one more step forward... then, then we were already too far away to see.
I had no time to grow sad, for everyone was talking and I took an active part in the conversation so as not to sink into myself. All the same, I shall be dreadfully bored.
A woman never shows it when she loves, I told him at the station.
No, he said, you are mistaken. A woman does not say it and does not want to show it, but she lets it be seen in spite of herself.
Well, I said impatiently, I am going away, goodbye; I leave you to your club, to your friends, to Zucchini, to Cesaro — you will be very happy.
Oh! no, I can no longer live that life. It is over for me. Of course, if you do not love me I shall begin again, I shall do mad things, I shall drink myself into a stupor.
That would be wrong.
You know, he broke in, a man can forget more easily, he can lose himself in distractions — I, for instance, have the club, my friends, laughter, a thousand things, in short, that take one’s mind off the one great thought; whereas you, you have none of all that, so you ought to think more, for you have only your love... I am speaking in general.
That is true, you are right; I made that reflection long ago.
But that will not stop me from always thinking of you. You know, I did not sleep at all last night.
And where were you, then?
At home.
Bah!
I assure you, I have always thought about the things you say, and I assure you that I cannot understand you. You have such strange ways.
That is exactly what I think of you.
I should have been sorry to leave Rome, which I have grown so used to, had I not had an idea on seeing the new moon at about four o’clock.
Do you see that crescent? I asked Dina.
Yes, she answered.
Well, that crescent will become a very beautiful moon in ten or twelve days.
No doubt.
Have you seen the Colosseum by moonlight?
Yes.
And I have not.
I know.
But perhaps you do not know that I long to see it.
That is possible.
Yes, which means that in ten or twelve days I shall be back in Rome, as much for the races as for the Colosseum.
Oh!
Yes, I shall go with my aunt. And I shall be so happy without you, without Maman, without Walitsky; just my aunt and I, we shall drive about in a victoria and I shall enjoy myself enormously.
Very well, said Maman, it shall be done. I promise you.
And she kissed me on both cheeks.
At one in the morning we were in Genoa; by two we were asleep.

Notes

Cardinalino — Italian, “little cardinal” (diminutive, mocking); Marie’s nickname for Pietro Antonelli, nephew of Cardinal Giacomo Antonelli. ↩