# Tuesday, 6 December 1876

Tuesday, 6 December 1876

I have begun the portrait of Olga Anitchkoff, a ravishing creature of six, but horribly badly brought up. Still, she listens to me.
All day I felt as I did the day I went to Wartel’s. I was preparing myself for this evening — the opera — a first performance of A Masked Ball.
I have not been out since my return and no one has seen me. There are days when everything goes right. My hair arranged itself as if of its own accord into a ravishing antique head such as one sees on Greek statues — abundant hair held by a gold fillet, the nape bare, veiled only by a few small natural curls. A pearl necklace, and a dress with no seam and yet clinging and draped like a statue — which embarrassed me a little, given my figure, so perfect and so firm that no dress can conceal it. Needless to say the dress has no trimming, not even a hem; it is simply frayed at the edge, like a beggar’s.
My face had been so kind as not to be ugly; on the contrary, it appeared in full gala.
My aunt, Dina, and I — directly opposite Emile with Belle-de-jour and two other fops.
I was pleased with myself this evening — and so, I think, was the house. I wanted to look superb for Emile. I have changed considerably in a year and a half. I have grown taller, I have become more of a woman. House full; as friends, Princess Souvoroff and Mme de Wykersloovth; as visitors, Bibi, Galula, and our banker Gilly, who greet me from their stalls below our box (on the ground tier).
As for the lions — I did not look at them...
Note the act in A Masked Ball where the Governor and Amelia meet in the forest. Renato, the husband, appears and, not recognising his wife, begs the Governor to flee, for bandits may arrive at any moment.
Amelia, still veiled, joins in Renato’s entreaties. Well, the music at this point paints the situation so well that I, who know the story and the opera, am always afraid, as though the bandits were threatening me myself. There is something frightening and touching in those hurried notes that seem filled with terror... in a word, I am afraid.
Audiffret is, all the same, the handsomest and most elegant lord of the good town of Nice. He is so handsome that, were I to remain here, I might well take an interest in him again. For the moment I pay no attention to him; it is my aunt who watches him and takes pleasure in noting paleness or blushing... this good soul is persuaded that the fiery lord of the manor nurses a hidden passion for me. But why should he hide it?
At the exit, while the General was looking for our carriage, I several times turned my back on Belle-de-jour, who, no doubt wishing to honour me with a greeting, was trying to catch my face. When I had definitively shown him my behind — which, by the way, is quite as handsome as my front — while I looked at the wall, he greeted my aunt and came to speak to me; at that moment Bihovetz arrived and I had the satisfaction of abruptly leaving the dogs’-inspector and Galula.
How did I find the courage to show myself in a town where our name is so tarnished and where so many affronts have been done to us?
Decidedly only Emile can inspire me; when I see him I laugh, and when I laugh at him I compose... king tomorrow.
Going home I sang refrains from last year.
— How gay we were then! said the General.
— Ah! yes, I replied.
[Note: article on Cardinal Antonelli — see pp. 222–224]

Notes

Opera by Giuseppe Verdi (1859); the plot turns on a masked ball, political conspiracy, and a love triangle. ↩
Belle-de-jour — lit. “day flower,” a convolvulus that blooms only in daylight and wilts by evening; Marie uses it as a contemptuous nickname for an ephemeral, vain man. ↩
In French in the original: châtelain. ↩