Saturday, 27 May 1876

Mme de Wykerslooth called on us while I was working on the portrait.
But this morning I wrote to Potechine, asking him to post four letters in which I arrange to meet Torlonia, Zucchini, Belmonte, and Antonelli at the Siemiradzki exhibition on Tuesday between two and three o'clock. All purportedly from women they have loved or who love them: Torlonia's letter speaks of a son, Zucchini's of a blue ribbon, Belmonte's of a bloody explanation, and Antonelli's of a love not quite extinguished. They will all meet there. Potechine is charged with reporting the result to me.
My aunt having persuaded me to go out, I was dressing and passing through the garden on my way to the carriage when the Comte de Laurenti-Roubandi was announced. I informed Maman and we went to the drawing room, then to the smoking room — a darling little room and our favourite.
Mme di Clavesana "was charmed" — we showed her such kindness, and so forth.
This gentleman has remained Italian in spite of the annexation, like most of the nobility, he says. He stayed a very long time and we went out at the same moment.
I was driven along the promenade and through the town, and I saw Galula, Gautier, and five or six others whom I know only by name and by sight.
Maman and my aunt laugh at what I wrote about Laurenti in my letter from Rome, and advise me to fall in love with him to distract myself. I am quite willing to flirt with him — but nothing more.
In the evening I am taken to the Théâtre Français, where they are singing La Traviata in French. We have a box left to us by Barnola when he departed — a small ground-floor box directly opposite the stage, deep, shadowy, with two mirrors facing each other, a comfortable armchair, curtains, and screens.
Though dressed and coiffed in Olympian fashion, I place myself behind my mothers and amuse myself admiring the purity of my neck and nape.
The opera is badly sung, but I listen a little thanks to a tender memory of Larderei.
"Pietro is consumptive," I said.
"What!" cried Maman.
"Yes — he spits blood and often clutches his chest."
"Oh! Then he must be sent away — he would give you his illness. You should advise him to marry the Belotti girl; she is strong enough to cure him, as for you!"
I said nothing, for at that moment I was remembering that pale, exalted face and those ardent eyes which looked at me with such happiness and love the night before my departure. I remembered him and pitied him gently. Why does one feel such a singular pleasure in pitying a sympathetic being? This feeling of pity almost replaces love — it is even sweeter, more Christian. It is not the Duke I should pity. Oh no — he falls upon me like a hurricane, stuns me, troubles me, drives me half mad with his air of superb condescension; he leaves me prostrated before his memory.
[annotation]
If one may so express it! I have only ever seen him five or six times in the street; by this time it was two or three years since I had seen him. It is incredible.
Meanwhile Galula and Co. stir about in the stalls; Laurenti also comes, and then comes to our box. Last year, when Audiffret came, he contented himself with ogling from a distance — he and Danis. Ah! Have you forgotten how Danis looked at me at the beginning of the winter before last, when I returned from Spa? Certainly not — and I, taking him for the Comte de Constantin, was intrigued and was posing.
I knew I was charming in the shadow, and I deployed as much naive coquetry as was needed. And why? Because I cannot live without it.
To go out I put on a bédouin — a genuine one from Tunis, woven like the cloth the village women make, with an openwork knitted silk insertion; one passes one's head through an opening and the bédouin is held in place by a sort of clip at the chest — in fact it is all in one piece, one simply puts one's head through. Then one puts the hood up — a wide, perfectly plain hood, neither gathered nor sewn, which frames my face and lets the neck show in a soft, white shadow.
It suits me as nothing else in the world does, and that is why I bought it. One day when I was trying on cloaks and oriental things in the shop, I was struck by the grace of this bédouin and bought it.
I had planned to show myself thus by moonlight at the Colosseum — not for Antonelli, who loves me quite enough already, but for someone else — and I can only show myself in Nice. But let us not weep about it, for as Maman was leaving the theatre on Laurenti's arm and I was walking ahead of them, a gentleman stopped short and, seizing Dr Giraud by the arm, spoke to him in a low voice while never taking his eyes off me.
Galula comes over to ask where we were sitting. That box does conceal one very well.
Chocolat brings the carriage round. Chocolat has a new chocolate-coloured livery, very well made, so that Chocolat is all chocolate — and very smart indeed with his gold buttons and black epaulette.
Lola writes to me, asking for news of my conquests and begging me to be kind to Bruschetti. She knows only about Bruschetti, and about my fancy for Antonelli, whom she believed quite indifferent to me. She has seen Miloradovitch, a very handsome young man who enquires greatly about my arrival — as do all the others from Poltava — and she advises me to think carefully before deciding. "No doubt," she writes, "Antonelli is charming, but think of Miloradovitch's seven millions."
Good Lord, I think of nothing else!
My aunt says I am wrong not to say yes or no to Antonelli — it leads nowhere, she says, and drives others away. The latter is true; the former is not, for it always leads somewhere.
"If I refuse him, will you find me another?" I asked my aunt.
Do you know what I feel like doing at this moment? Kissing Antonelli. I have felt this way since morning.
[annotation]
1882. It is repugnant.

Notes

Henryk Siemiradzki (1843–1902): Polish-Russian painter celebrated for large-scale academic canvases depicting ancient Rome. His exhibitions attracted fashionable audiences.
Nice was ceded by the Kingdom of Sardinia to France in 1860. Many in the Niçois nobility resisted cultural assimilation and maintained their Italian identity.
La Traviata (Verdi, 1853) — the opera's plot (a kept woman and her doomed love) was distinctly resonant given Marie's situation. It was commonly performed in French translation at provincial theatres.
"Habillée olympiquement": dressed in Olympian/divine fashion — a neoclassical reference suggesting goddess-like elegance.
"Mes mères": Marie's term for her mother and aunt who jointly raised her.
"Poitrinaire": a consumptive — one suffering from tuberculosis of the lungs. Pietro spitting blood was a classic symptom. Marie herself would die of the same disease in 1884.
Spa: the fashionable Belgian resort town, long frequented by European aristocracy.
Bédouin: a loose hooded cloak or burnous of North African origin; a fashionable orientalist accessory in 1870s Europe.
Chocolat: the family's footman or coachman, nicknamed for his complexion. The word-play on his name and his new chocolate-coloured livery is characteristic of Marie's eye for comic detail.
Poltava: a Ukrainian city where part of Marie's extended family had connections — the source of potential Russian suitors.
Seven million rubles — an enormous fortune, mentioned as a sharp contrast to Pietro's modest and dependent circumstances.
Marie's marginal annotation added in 1882, six years later, when she reread this entry.