Saturday, 3 February 1877

Ricardo came this morning to bring a few songs, so that Soria could sing without having to bring his bundle under his arm.
I went out with Maman, and then I set about going through the drawing rooms to see whether there were flowers and whether everything had the look I wanted.
M. and Mme Zoubaloff, the General, Collignon, Meyssner, Pelikan, Broussais, Zurmüllen, Azantchewsky and ourselves, except Grandpapa: that is the list of those who dined. I saw to it that everything was proper. I must admit that this company amused me very little, and so I slipped away for at least an hour to read in my room.
I had hardly come down again when I saw Gautier arrive, the handsomest of men. It was a relief to me. At once in came Ricardo, Barnola, Diaz de Soria and M. Rabsaet. Soria gave these two gentlemen dinner today, and when we invited him he asked to bring his friend Rabsaet, who is the most celebrated tenor among the amateurs and, it seems, much sought after.
blacked outI wore a dress made with
My dress, chastely revealing, was of a clinging, elastic stuff; and my hair was done like Psyche’s, drawn up and tied on top of my head in a knot of natural curls.
I took possession of Rabsaet, who is ugly, insignificant and Belgian, while Soria chatted with Maman. At the first pretext the gallant wine merchant sat down on the S-shaped sofa, half of which I was occupying, and attacked me: that is the word.
That olive complexion, that black beard, that bald head, those enormous, shining Arab eyes, all of it blazed with the most... natural fire at the sight of my fair hair, my white skin and my figure. I must say I was rather impudent; that is, attacked so briskly, I was not in the least intimidated, but on the contrary laughed at that black beard and said things boldly, in a rather mocking tone, into those enormous eyes that squint so. Which, I think, gave a good idea of me.
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The piano offers a hiding place almost like the one in Rome; I was accompanying a song that Soria was murmuring divinely, more in order to breathe down my back than for anything else.
Soria is too spoilt; he is like Gericke: he takes your hand, he takes the stuff of your dress between two fingers like a pinch of snuff.
Instead of begging.... him to sing and going into raptures, I declared that I never asked for anything, and that if the fancy took him to sing he would sing of his own accord.
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Rabsaet expressed the admiration I inspire in him in terms fit to turn my head, if I did not already think the very best in the world of my own person.
— I am vain, I told him, I think.
Yes, I think so; I am something quite new to them: hair, dress, bearing, figure; a living statue and not a young lady of the kind one sees all too many of in Nice.
As for Soria, I enjoyed watching how that animal (animal is the word) devoured me with his chaste... oh!... eyes.
Until Soria, Barnola and Rabsaet left for the charity ball at the Méditerranée, it was a firework display of witticisms, music and bursts of laughter.
The most flattering things were said. Azantchewsky could not picture me otherwise than appearing in the middle of a double door flung open, at a ball at the Tuileries; the Zoubaloffs compared me to a Vestal, the others to I know not what. Soria to Galatea... come to life.
Fearing I had neglected the ladies too much, I went back to them like a dog wagging its tail, and when only Gautier was left we all settled in the little smoking room to talk and laugh about all sorts of amusing things until half past twelve.
Nice wants [words blacked out] the last impression I take away to be a good one.
Something I forgot. I flirted with Bihovetz and with Gautier in a friendly way, and it was mutual.

Notes

The Tuileries palace in Paris, scene of the court balls of the Second Empire; it was burned during the Commune in 1871. ↩