Thursday, 15 June 1876

I went out with my aunt — the weather was splendid — but at the band concert there was no one, not even Galula. Hasford gave us the joy of his conversation for half an hour. He is old, ugly, and deaf!
I have taken a new lady's maid. A tall, handsome brunette, very good manners — about thirty. I like her first because she is agreeable, because her name is Amélie, like Gioia, and because she is Italian like Antonelli. I speak to her and she speaks to me that divine language which, when one is even a little in love, makes one dream like beautiful music.
I love Antonelli more than ever. His strange silence surprises me more than ever. I would dearly like to go to Rome — in disguise. It is one o'clock and I cannot sleep. All day I think, and I groan and express my indignation aloud about the boredom. I would give... I would give Victor and Pincio, to see Antonelli again.
It is not my body that loves but my heart — besides, the two go together like husband and wife, only sometimes it is the man who prevails and sometimes the woman.
Ah — never mind. Let us take the thing comically; the tragic bores me. Since we are laughing, let us say we are suffering from love. I do not forgive myself for having spoken so badly on the last day. Besides, I always lacked tact throughout — was that because the measure of tact I was missing was replaced by an equal measure of love? Chi lo sa?
Self-reproaches! Did I not say that was a bad sign? I have not changed my opinion — I do not claim that my manner towards him could have influenced him greatly; I say only that had I remained cold and referred him to my aunt, I could have better ascertained his intentions and would not be in the predicament in which I find myself.
Truly I was very foolish. Another remnant of that faith one has in one's fellow human beings — which goes away little by little, thanks to those very same beings. I thought he loved me as I know how to love — and when one loves thus, one does not deceive, one is stopped by nothing, and one triumphs over everything.
Yes — if I had spoken differently it would have been better... yes, but would they not have made those enquiries all the same... and then!
And so it is the fault of both myself and my parents: upon receiving the proposal I ought to have transmitted it to my mother, to whom the creature would have spoken directly. A social connection would have been established through the Baron Visconti between the Hôtel de la Ville and the Palazzo Antonelli. There would have been neither obscurity nor false position. As to accepting — that would have been another matter entirely. My opinion on that point is well known.
But one would have kept one's dignity, and I would not be exhausting myself here with arguments, explanations, enquiries, and excuses that demean me horribly and truly make one think I am a girl of the streets, the daughter of a hangman or a gambling-house keeper like Blanc — a girl who can be neither acknowledged nor accepted. Enough of this squalidness. My position is false — granted; we appear nowhere — very well. This causes me a grief from which I am dying most gracefully — but, for pity's sake, do not think us quite what I appear to make myself here.
The fact is, this man's conduct is so strange. I say it again every day; I think it every moment.
And I would be in love with this soft, false, and cowardly creature. I do not say this in anger: look at his chin and his eyes. The eyes are too languorous to be frank; the chin too rounded and too long to be honest. His gentle, nonchalant air reveals an entire system of egotism — and the opposite of scruples.
He reminds me of my brother, in the end — which says everything.
Must I inevitably fall either among people I detest or among wretches!
[RSR note: no French text for this paragraph — research note only in source]

Notes

Gioia: a previous Italian acquaintance or servant named Amélie, to whom this maid is compared.
Victor: one of Marie's dogs.
Pincio: another of her dogs, named for the Pincian Hill in Rome.
Chi lo sa?: Italian for "Who knows?" — one of Marie's habitual Italian expressions.