# Sunday, 11 February 1877

Sunday, 11 February 1877

“Toledo 292, Mme A.T.E.” — these words traced on a sheet painted by Duchad are sent to Larderel with a bouquet of violets.
Still entirely under the spell and turning over a host of new escapades, I dressed and we set out.
written across the page
Coming out of the room I found myself face to face with Larderel and both of us made that movement of surprise which I always find so unnatural when performed by actors in the theatre — and which is, nonetheless, perfectly natural.
in the margin
He watched us leave from the balcony with Melissano — I love Larderel’s type so much!]
But to understand our situation in the midst of the Toledo one must know what it is like on a day when coriandoli (confetti) are thrown with lime or flour. Ah but, ah but, ah but! Anyone who has not seen it cannot imagine those thousands of hands at the end of black and fleshless arms, those rags, those superb floats, those plumes and gilding, those hands above all that wave with fingers of such agility that Liszt himself would burst with envy.
In the midst of this pestilent rain of flour, these cries, this seething mass, we felt ourselves seized by Altamura and almost carried up to his balcony.
But there we find a quantity of ladies who, in the grey linen gowns obligatory for the occasion, struck me as... cooks. I made appointments with three people yesterday, and here I am unable to make myself recognised... And all these people offering me food, drink, smiling at me, being amiable! And Larderel leaving tonight! I went into a half-darkened salon and there, draped in my Bedouin cloak from head to foot, I began to shed tears while admiring the antique folds of the wool. I was grieved — but with a grief that brings pleasure. Do you understand as I do the sweetness in sorrow?
As soon as we were home I returned to my observation post, covering my head with the door-curtain as though for photography, so the other could not see. For two or three days we have done nothing else. I stoop to chattering with my lady’s maid, to listening to what the Count’s coachman has said.
The coachman serves him as valet on his travels and above all as a sort of supervising nurse. Truly my conduct is worthless. The further I go, the more I believe I have been to school, the more I believe myself learned, the more extravagant I become — it is like a madness that takes hold of me and I am no longer mistress of my wits.
This morning I had already encountered Larderel’s nose, and a little later his eye. And this evening I saw the creature in his underdrawers and without a shirt — at first I thought he was in a corset, then I understood it was his underdrawers fastened over the shoulders like a baby’s garment. Those bare, round, white shoulders — it was extraordinarily comical. One is not accustomed to seeing gentlemen in such a costume.
I laughed about it all evening, at San Carlo where they were performing Les Guaranis. One of the most detestable operas I know... Altamura and Pelikan as escorts...
No, you know, I am beginning to feel awkward about these pranks with Larderel.
I sent Rosalie to the festival masked ball with orders to tell Larderel that he is a cheat, and that if he thinks of paying his ten-thousand-franc bill with what he saves on violets, he is mistaken.
He is not leaving tonight; he told me so — that is to say, he told his coachman Charles.

Notes

coriandoli — Italian carnival confetti; in the 1870s these were small pellets of plaster (Italian gesso, gypsum plaster) or flour, thrown by the handful; Marie’s chaux (lime) is her own word for the white powder. Paper coriandoli were marketed only from 1875 (Enrico Mangili, Milan; see it.wikipedia «Coriandoli»). ↩
In French in the original: bédouin — a loose enveloping cloak, a burnous-style wrap fashionable in the 1870s. ↩
Les Guaranis (“The Guaranis”) — Marie’s French name for Il Guarany (1870), the opera by the Brazilian composer Carlos Gomes, then much performed in Italian houses. ↩