Thursday, 6 July 1876

Frightful nothingness, despairing nullity!
Nothing, nothing!
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After calls at Reboux's and Caroline's and other beautifiers, we went to the Bois for some air, for there was truly none in the city. A stifling heat.
I nearly cried out upon entering the Place de la Concorde, so vast and beautiful is it. I have seen Vienna, London, Rome, Florence — I remember Milan and Venice perfectly well too, though I saw them five years ago — and I have never seen anything to compare with, anything approaching, the Place de la Concorde, the Champs-Élysées, and the Bois. Ah! — one who has seen Paris will understand me. It is spacious, it is grand, it is clean, gracious, artistic, picturesque, beautiful — very beautiful, admirable.
Passing near the Arc de Triomphe I felt a twinge of jealousy on Rome's behalf. Something of Paris will endure, and we will owe it to the man whom the French so cowardly betrayed — whom they assassinated by degrees, the wretches that they are. To him who raised them from the bloody mire in which they lay, who conquered the world for them, who elevated them so greatly... too greatly, and the vertigo overtook them, and they abandoned him, tyrannised him, killed him. Shame, eternal shame on this vile and ungrateful nation, which was tolerable only when treated as a slave, as a maddened wretch, as a brute which, scarcely free, flung itself upon everything that was good, burned, broke, and destroyed it all. Nations are like children who imagine their parents forbid them to play with fire or throw themselves into a precipice in pursuit of a butterfly because it pleases the parents to forbid it; and when told to put on a warm coat in cold weather, or not to go out in the rain, they weep and cry tyranny. Just so men complain of government measures, imagining that a king's greatest pleasure and profit consists in oppressing the people...
I had reached that point in my reflections when the carriage stopped before Binder, the celebrated coachmaker.
Our landau and my phaeton are very fine, and Binder did not fail to inform us: "The Duke of Montpensier, who has just left, found this landau superb and ordered one just like it," and then: "Queen Isabella is enchanted with this white phaeton and has demanded one exactly the same for herself."
In summer there is little of fashionable society in Paris, but the animation is great as always.
What a beautiful city — what fine shops, what large, clean, solid houses.
Rome may be compared to a capricious woman of beauty and wit, but Paris is the accomplished woman.
Ah! Pietro has forgotten me! My God, make him still love me — I am so anxious.
Oh! If he loved me, he would write! I shall write to him! Why not? Two words, disguising my handwriting... what good would it do? I dare not... but yes, I dare... but I am too proud.
His letter is with me; it had dispelled all humiliating suppositions — he loved me, he was miserable at not being able to come. And now — now I doubt again. He is forgetting me... My God, yes, my dear. Ah! it is abominable. No, truly, I am offended. Could he not have written? Enough, enough. I have said quite enough on this subject.
My aunt returns from Mme de Mouzay's. That lady naturally inquired at once for news of Antonelli, saying that these Antonellis were millionaires — everything, in short, that Visconti has already said.
And I, immediately inflamed by this, cried: "My aunt! I am going to write to him!"
And then the same pride as at the top of the page held me back.
For nothing in the world would I have him think that I wish to marry him.
All these doubts, all these thoughts, wound me. And who knows whether Antonelli would not have said as much, and more, if he kept a journal? Let us console ourselves with that thought. If I could see him for just one hour I would speak to him so well, say so many things I ought to have said. But I shall not see him again for three months — by then he will perhaps no longer want me, or I shall no longer be interested in him.
That is how it is in this world.
The thing is, you see, I have grown accustomed to the idea of being a quasi-queen... I search and grow impatient, and I am not even... I am nothing!

Notes

Reboux — famous Parisian milliner (hatmaker), who made hats for the Empress Eugénie. Caroline — celebrated Parisian couturière.
Embellisseurs — "beautifiers"; Marie's ironic collective term for dressmakers, milliners, and hairdressers.
Le Bois — the Bois de Boulogne; fashionable Parisian society's promenade destination.
"Him" — Napoleon I; Marie's ardent Bonapartism runs throughout the diary. She regards his downfall as the betrayal of a genius by an unworthy nation.
Landau — a four-wheeled enclosed carriage with a convertible top, named after the German town of Landau.
Panier — a small light carriage; literally "basket."
Duke of Montpensier — Antoine d'Orléans, son of King Louis-Philippe; with Spanish royal connections through his wife.
Queen Isabella — Isabella II, deposed Queen of Spain (1868), living in Parisian exile.