Tuesday, 17 October 1876 (5 October)

It is almost shameful to say, but I have just spent an hour studying the tints of my neck, which by lamplight is dazzlingly white.
My father seems put out, and my marvellous instinct guesses why. A quarrel with his mistress.
We were playing croquet, Paul, Pacha and I, when Paul said that Hélène had gone out for a drive.
— What an idea, to go driving about like that! Pacha exclaimed irritably.
I leaned towards Paul and asked him in a whisper whether the lady was at the Durocher woman’s; he nodded.
— Do you know what I asked, Pacha?
— No, but I can guess.
— And did I guess right?
— I believe so.
— Ah!
And later, as we went on playing, I said:
— Pacha, what would you do to the person who had offended me, cruelly offended me?
— I would kill that person, he answered simply.
— You have very fine words ready on your tongue.
— A lady once asked me the same thing, and I answered her that if she had been offended, it was because she had deserved it.
— And to me?... your sister...
— To you... I have already said...
— But you are laughing, Pacha!
— And you?
— I swear to you I am not laughing.
— You know, I went on after a moment, I have something to tell you... but later; I want to see whether you are worthy.
I think things are fairly well under way.
A man of business came to me with papers for the affair so close to my heart, and, once the man had gone, the evening was spent in disquisitions and sophistries on Love and his disciples.
Hélène is no fool, and so she began to declare cynically that she had loved ever so many men; she wanted me, carried away by her example, to confide something, to say something that would horrify her son’s open and honest nature.
— Oh! Madame, I said, you are playing the agent provocateur!
I was laughing, so that no one took offence. There is nothing in the world that cannot be said... in a certain way.
Hélène does nothing but remark to her son on his “crushed,” “frantic,” “extraordinary” air.
crossed out[One line blacked out]
On my side it was nothing but comic quarrels, bizarre inventions and endless teasing, which provoked jibes and amusing remarks interspersed with bursts of laughter like rockets bursting in the clouds.
[They called me the dev]il, the demon, the hurricane, the tempest... I have been all of that since yesterday; I grew a little quiet only to put forward opinions on love of every conceivable kind. My cousin has ideally vast thoughts, and Dante might have borrowed from him his divine love for Beatrice.
— I shall no doubt fall in love, he said, but I shall not marry.
— What, green man! Why, people get thrashed for words like that!
— Because, he went on, I would want my love to last for ever, at the very least in the imagination, keeping its divine purity and its violence... marriage extinguishes love precisely because it grants it...
— Oh! ho ho! said I.
— Very good! said Hélène.
— Hm! went the hunchback.
While the fierce orator blushed and shrank into nothing, abashed by his own words.
And in the midst of all this I was looking at myself in the glass and cutting the hair over my forehead, which has grown too long.
— Here, I said to the green man, tossing him a little tuft of reddish-gold threads, I give them to you as a keepsake.
Not only did he take them, but his voice, his face, his eyes, everything about him trembled, and when I wanted to take them back he looked at me so oddly... like a child who has seized a toy that seems a treasure to him and dares you to take it back, all the while smiling at his triumph.
You will readily understand that this interests me, and, with my plan of vengeance to help it along, I rather wanted to be escorted back to my rooms by the fierce young man. I had already found a pretext when the green man forestalled me by asking whether I had a light in my room, something he has never done.
— There is one, I think, thank you.
And without listening he went off in search of a candle.
When I reached the top of the stairs I called to him to ask for my father’s watch: the pretext.
— I was bringing you the candle, he said.
— Thank you, I have lights, but bring me the watch.
Editors’ note
[Bottom of page torn]
I do not know whether I was mistaken, but he seemed to me rather happy at the chance, and I do not know what else; but I showed him my new dresses, it seemed to me I was giving him pleasure by prolonging the visit — I am so kind, and quite in spite of myself.
The devil take it! I do not know how to express myself; I am afraid of seeming ridiculously presumptuous! Well, so much the worse for me.
I gave my almost-brother Corinne to read and held out my hand; he shook it badly, and I gave him a lesson in how to shake hands, after which he left.
Corinne and Lord Nevil crossed the Sant’Angelo bridge on foot... “It was in crossing this bridge,” said Lord Nevil, “on my way back from the Capitol, that for the first time I thought of you at length.” I really do not know what there is in that sentence... but it made me literally swoon last night... as indeed it does each time I come upon it on opening that book.
Editors’ note
[Bottom of page torn]
Has not something of the kind been said to me? There is something magical in those few very simple words... perhaps it is their simplicity? Or else... the association... Horror!
You know, my father had the head of the fairest of the kitchen boys blacked with polish and, once the poor devil had turned dark, he was presented to us: as an Italian.
I like the Italians only because they live in Italy; transplant them and they will perish or change their nature entirely... Populate Italy with other men and she will lose half her charms, but she will end by remaking other Italians.