Sunday, 30 April 1876

At eleven o'clock I was summoned to Maman's room for a letter that had just been received and which they would only give to me. You can guess my suppositions — I arrive quite out of breath and find a letter from Couthon. You remember this Couthon who writes me letters?
But this one is strange. He speaks to me of my past feelings and says: if you want nothing more to do with me, why continue this correspondence? Then he urgently requests an interview with some member of my family, and sends me a pansy with this motto: A pansy is a remembrance, and remembrance is life. And at the same time a cutting from an illustrated paper containing the story of two people who loved each other so much that they died of it.
My family thinks it is payback for my letters to Audiffret. But no — this Couthon was writing to me already when I was not yet writing.
Well! It is strange and it is beginning to worry me — for here is what I suppose: this man is in good faith, but someone is writing to him in my name.
The weather is bad; Giro spent the morning with me, after which I went to her place and then to the concert, where we saw Galula, who is very glad to see us again and is, as always, witty. There is nobody there — it is desolate. One has no desire to do anything.
Provided Pietro has not taken my kiss for a simple girlish caress. I do not know how others think — as for me, I think that a kiss on the lips is the most complete avowal, the most solemn oath there is in the world.
I am too proud to speak of my love — I said everything through my kiss. I hope he understood all the gravity I attach to it.
And if not? No doubt not. He does not understand the sublime in love. He has a great deal of wit but he does not understand these things as I do.
The thought that the most sacred moment for me passed unnoticed by him distresses me.
[In the margin: The most sacred moment — sacred only as a matter of principle, not with Pietro alone, but with anyone.]
He saw in it a simple kiss which pleased him, and nothing more — yes, no doubt, for the next day he asked me again whether I loved him; he would not have asked had he understood. I do not say that I love him, but I wished him to think it — and he did not understand!
I am beginning to think he no longer loves me. Three days without a word! I should very much like Zucchini and Cesaro to lead him astray again so that his parents may see what they owe me.
He has not written to me yet. My nose has been itching for a week — what if it is the cardinal's death that I am to learn of?

Notes

Pensée — a pansy (in French the word means both "thought" and the flower); here Marie plays on its symbolism.
Russian and French folk superstition: an itching nose presages news or a visitor.