Thursday, 20 July 1876

I was woken with a letter whose handwriting made me tremble. But having opened and read it I fell back on the pillow, disappointed, almost angry at having been mistaken.
It is Bertha Boyd writing to me. How did she know I was in Paris? She says she arrived on Tuesday. I had not shown myself on the Champs-Élysées, so she cannot have seen me. I replied immediately, telling her I would expect her at my rooms at four o’clock. Chocolat, entrusted with the errand, came back to tell me she would come. I waited for her in vain, and at six o’clock we went to dine at the stout Countess’s.
I wore a batiste dress, very long and perfectly plain, with a wide embroidered flounce at the hem. From top to bottom, down the front, bows of white satin ribbon. The end of the train, which is very long, is simply tucked up and fastened with a button at the back of the waist. So that from behind one sees a skirt matching the dress but short — trailing along the floor a mere ten or fifteen centimetres. As yesterday.
All the boarders dined together, but as they are all acquaintances, it has a most respectable air, and the servant comes in to announce: Madame la Baronne, dinner is served!
The Baronne de Mertens must have been supernaturally beautiful — she still is, moreover, and so elegant, so well-bred. It has none of the feel of a hotel or an ordinary boarding house — one is at home, and in a good home.
They had me sing Verdi’s Agnus Dei, the soprano and contralto parts one after the other.
Blanche Armonstrong, the Baronne’s niece, came to speak English with me — I speak English well despite the lack of practice.
As agreed, Rémy came with his carriage to collect us at nine o’clock.
I was sad, but this nocturnal drive through the Bois in fine weather appealed to me well enough.
Rémy exclaimed at everything I said and took my hands — perhaps too often for a mere friend. But what does it matter.
The Bois all in darkness, the starry sky, those dim alleys peopled with carriages whose lanterns in the shadows came and went like enormous glow-worms, the fresh and fragrant night air — all of this did me good; I kept humming airs from Faust and from Ruy Blas. And with Ruy Blas I thought of Antonelli.
I wished he were there, for the most beautiful scenery and weather in the world leave me with a sensation of incomplete pleasure when I do not have some admirer or other beside me or opposite me.
My thoughts were at their most playful this evening, and poor Rémy sitting opposite me — neither man nor woman to me — irritated me while making me laugh inwardly, above all when I thought of what he would think if I pressed his foot!.. Ah! That would be too funny, truly.
Berthe writes again — it was me she was expecting yesterday, for in my letter I had given her the choice of coming or waiting for me. That wretched Chocolat got it mixed up. I wrote to her immediately that tomorrow I would go to her.

Notes

In French in the original: comme il faut — of good breeding, socially correct; a social-register marker of the period. ↩